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

“Is everyone packed?” Frodo asked, staring directly at Pippin, who suddenly was very attentive to buttering his scone.

The four hobbits were enjoying a leisurely second breakfast in the kitchen of the guesthouse. Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli were already out and about, and they had the house to themselves. And since they would all be leaving Minas Tirith on the morrow, Merry and Pippin had a day free of duty.

Pippin rolled his eyes. “Merry, you’ve been packed for two weeks, and have been living out of your travelling cases ever since.”

“Well,” said Merry, unruffled, “I know where everything is. And it’s far less trouble than rushing around.”

Frodo chuckled, and even Sam smirked. It was perfectly true. Merry certainly did not believe in waiting until the last minute.

Pippin flushed. “I’ll have you know the *important* things *are* packed. It’s only clothes and things like that left. I’ll throw them on top this evening.”

“I daresay,” replied Frodo. “Well, as you are fond of reminding us these days, you are all grown up. So we’ll say no more about it.”

“But if you forget something important, you’re not borrowing anything from me,” put in Merry firmly.

Sam, who knew just how well-packed he and Mr. Frodo were, decided to intervene. The squabble could go on all day, if the cousins were bored. There was no real rancor in it, and they found it amusing enough, but it could get tedious to listen to.

Three pairs of eyes turned his way immediately. Frodo raised a brow in amusement, but Merry and Pippin both had avid gleams in their own eyes.

“Well, Mr. Frodo, seeing as how all the Big Folk seemed to like them gingersnaps I made for my birthday,* I thought as how I’d like to make some going-away gifts for them as has been so nice to us, up at the Citadel.”

“Why, that’s a wonderful idea, Sam!” exclaimed Frodo. He grinned. “Do you suppose they might like some of my cheese tarts?”

“Yes! My currant scones are pretty good! Everyone always says so!” Merry’s face lit up with enthusiasm. Each of the hobbits had done his share of cooking since they had been living in the house, but for hobbits, a day of baking was a real treat. “We haven’t had a real baking-day since before we left home!”

Soon the large kitchen was bustling with activity. While Sam did the washing up from breakfast, Pippin took the rolling step ladder, and began to fetch mixing bowls and other items from the tall cupboards, and Frodo and Merry went into the larder to bring out ingredients.

“Sam!” Merry called. “There are only about a dozen and a half eggs! Is that enough?”

“It should be enough, Mr. Merry! I know Mr. Frodo needs some for the cheese tarts. But ‘t won’t leave none for tomorrow’s breakfast!”

“That’s all right, Sam,” Frodo said, “We can do without eggs at first breakfast. We’ll be gone before it’s time for second. Do you want brown flour or white?”

“Whichever we’ve the most of, Mr. Frodo! Don’t forget to bring the molasses--Mr. Pippin! Hand me down that crockery, sir! You can’t climb down with that big stack in your hands!”

Merry and Pippin stood on step stools and worked at the counters, while Frodo and Sam began to work at the small table where the hobbits ate.

Soon lovely smells began to make themselves noticed, as the hobbits chattered while they worked.

“Here’s the whisk, Frodo,” said Merry, “so what shall we do first when we get home, do you think?”

“I’d like to spend a few days at Crickhollow just resting up. But I think we are going to have to get Pippin home to Tuckborough as soon as we can.”

Pippin made a face. “No need to hurry on my account,” he said. “Here’s the buttermilk, Merry.”

Merry laughed. “You’re just hoping to avoid an encounter with Uncle Paladin.”

Frodo looked at Pippin. “You won’t avoid him, Pip, and neither shall I. I will have to go with you to explain what happened. It wouldn’t be fair for you to have trouble over coming with me.”

“I don’t know,” Frodo replied. “Aragorn’s messenger had several places besides the Shire to go. And they were to be sent on from Bree. Your guess is as good as mine as to whether old Butterbur ever sent them on.”

He turned a critical eye on the little tart shells he was making. “I’ve made too much pastry, I think. What do you say to us putting together a savory pie for luncheon?”

“I like the sound of that!” said Pippin. “Here, Merry, here’s the dry ingredients ready to put in! I’ll go check the larder--maybe find some sausages and onions to go in it.”

“I can’t wait to see the look on Fatty’s face when we get back. He was so set against our going into the Old Forest!”

“Yes. Well.” Merry stopped a moment and turned out the dough onto the counter for kneading. “At any rate, we came through everything all right, and we’re going to be home. And he didn’t expect to see any of us return, I don’t think.”

The talk stopped for a moment, as all of them briefly recalled how close that had come to being true, and then Sam said “Now! This first batch of gingersnaps Is ready to go in the oven.”

“The cheese tarts and the savory pie can go in when they come out,” said Frodo absently. “Oh, thanks, Pip.” He took the onions and sausages his cousin handed him.

They had elevenses nibbling on a few of the treats from the first batch of baking, and paused for a while in their work while the second batch was in the oven. The large savory pie stood in the center of the large table where the Big Folk ate, to cool.

“It’s going to be fun to tell them all we’ve seen oliphaunts!” said Pippin. “And you didn’t believe in oliphaunts, Merry!”

Frodo looked at Merry with a raised eyebrow. “Well, I never said that,” Merry mumbled.

His older cousin shook his head. “You could believe in dragons and Elves and such, but not oliphaunts?”

“I just had a hard time believing that a creature could have a tooth long enough to carve a flute from!”

The rest laughed at him. Frodo said, “Well, we shall have a party when we get back, and Folco can play his ivory flute, and Pip can play his fiddle!”

“We’re going to want one more batch of scones!” Merry had needed to smack Pippin’s hand away from eating too many of them.

“And I think I’ll make one more batch of gingersnaps,” said Sam. “I think I’ll have to go back to Hobbiton. The Gaffer is going to be ever so worrited. Marigold too, I expect.”

“And Miss Rose Cotton,” teased Pippin. “I am sure you’ll want to talk to her.”

The last batch of gingersnaps were in the oven, when Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli entered, drawn by the luscious smells wafting throughout the house.

“We could smell the baking halfway down the street. I told them you hobbits had been busy!”

Merry smacked Gimli’s creeping hand with the back of a wooden spoon. “There’s plenty for us all, on that platter on the large table, *and* a savory pie for lunch! But don’t touch these, they’re gifts.”

Gimli’s eyes went wide and innocent as he sucked the back of his knuckles. Legolas laughed. “I think that you have been taking lessons from Pippin, Master Dwarf!”

After the plates were served, and the larger folk were seated at their table, and the hobbits at theirs, Gandalf turned an eagle eye upon Pippin.

½ cup butter
½ cup sugar
2 eggs
½ cup molasses
½ TBSP. ginger
½ tsp. baking soda
3 cups flour

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
In a large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar; add eggs, then molasses, beating well. In another bowl sift together the dry ingredients, then slowly stir into the wet. Mix until the dough forms a ball. Roll out very thin on a floured surface, and cut into shapes.
Bake on greased cookie sheets for 10 to 12 minutes.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story takes place in my “Eucatastrophe AU” in S.R. 1451. In this AU, the Three Elven Rings did not fade after the destruction of the One, but instead were freed, and gained even more power. Frodo was able to find healing and remain in Middle-earth, and Gandalf and the Elves were allowed to make return journeys to Middle-earth. (I know, I know…if only…)*

Frodo: 83 (about 52 ½ in Man-years)
Fam (Faramir) Took: 21 (13 ½ in Man-years)
Perry (Peridoc) Brandybuck: 26 (16 ½ in Man-years)
Merry-lad Gamgee: 23, almost 24 (15 in Man-years)
Pippin-lad Gamgee: 22 (14 in Man-years)]

Frodo brushed off his fine jacket, and put it on. “Certainly, lads, do come in. Let me see you.”

Perry, Fam, Merry-lad and Pippin-lad all came into the room, looking a bit embarrassed in their finery.

Fam was looking apprehensive. “Uncle Faramir said that the people will want to see us, too. I don’t know why. We weren’t even born then.”

“Because you are your fathers’ sons, my lads, and since your fathers cannot be here, then you shall have to represent them.” Frodo took up his Elven cloak, still as fine and new-looking now, thirty-three years after, as it had that day in Lothlórien when it had been gifted to him. He pinned his brooch there in its accustomed place.

Perry’s breath caught in his throat, as he looked at his older cousin, standing there, his dark curls frosted with sliver, his fair face limned with laughter lines, and his blue eyes looking back at the lads proudly. “You look magnificent, Uncle Frodo!” he breathed.

Frodo laughed, a rich and throaty sound. “Not at all! ‘Magnificent’ is your father, Sir Meriadoc, Master of Buckland! I’m just a Baggins.”

Merry-lad shook his head. “You know what our dad would say to that, Uncle Frodo. ‘There’s no being *just* a Baggins’, he’d say.”

Pippin-lad stepped up, and Frodo adjusted the collar on his shirt, and brushed down his jacket. “You too, Faramir Took!”

Fam obediently suffered Frodo to brush through his curls with his fingers, and then Frodo looked at all their feet.

“Well, I suppose there is no brushing up of your toes at this late hour! Come along then, lads, let’s not keep the King and Gandalf waiting!”

“We would wait as long as we needed to, Frodo Baggins! There will be no starting without you!” said a gruff voice from the doorway.

“Ah, Gandalf! Is everyone ready? I should rather like to get this over with, and get to the feasting.”

The hobbits followed the wizard out of the anteroom, and out into the Courtyard of the White Tree. There King Elessar and Queen Arwen, Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn, and all their children awaited. Gandalf led the hobbits to a dais which had been placed near the edge of the seventh circle. They would be visible to the throngs of people who filled the courtyard, and even barely visible to the masses gathered in the streets below.

“My people! On this day, thirty-three years ago today, the Ringbearer Frodo Baggins put an end to Sauron’s Ring, and brought down the Tower of Barad-dûr, and put an end forever to the threat of the Dark Lord. Because of him, the White City could regain its ancient name of Minas Anor; because of him we no longer dwell in the presence of the Shadow.

Because of him, a New Age was ushered in, and so today we celebrate the New Year. For the first time, the Ringbearer is here among us on the New Year. For the first time we may honor him, as he deserves to be honored.”

There must have been a signal, although the hobbits did not see it. Suddenly, thousands of voices rang out, in a song that had once been heard at the Field of Cormallen:

“Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!
Cuio I Pheriain anann! Aglar’ni Pheriannath!
Praise them with great praise, Frodo and Samwise!
Daur a Berhael, Conin en Annûn! Eglerio!
Praise them!
Eglerio!
A laita te, laita te! Andave laituvalmet!
Praise them!
Cormacolindor, a laita tá rienna!
Praise them, the Ring-bearers, praise them with great praise!”

And then, to the amazement of the five who stood there, King Elessar went down before them on one knee. And like a giant wave, every other person there did the same, and all through the City great bells began to sound.

Frodo stood with tears in his eyes, and glanced proudly at the young hobbits standing with him tall and straight. He wished that their fathers could be there to see this.

He looked up, and caught Gandalf’s eye, and was surprised to see tears there as well. He smiled at the wizard through his tears, and noticed the flash of fire on Gandalf’s hand, as Narya paid tribute to the one who had freed it from dominion.

The four younger hobbits looked about them in wide-eyed astonishment. They had known, they had *always* known, that their Uncle Frodo was considered a hero, there had never been a time for them when their fathers had not made sure the story was told. But Frodo Baggins--he’d always been their gentle and funny Uncle Frodo, who read to them and played games and endured their pranks and squabbles and wiped their tears. Never before had they realized just what his story had meant, and how deeply he was honored and beloved in all the world.

And as they watched the King rise to embrace his smaller friend, and everyone else rose as well, with a great and resounding cheer, they could only think--this is how it *should* be!

Bilbo and Saradoc were enjoying an after tea pipe on the bench by Bag End’s front door, occasionally talking, but mostly watching Frodo and Merry playing at Stones on the front step.* Esmeralda was taking a turn about the garden.

“You know,” said Bilbo, “I was not bad at that myself, at one time.” He gestured towards the lads. Merry was concentrating hard on catching every one of his stones, and Frodo was watching Merry proudly.

“Do you want to try eight?” asked Frodo. “I think you are good enough now.”

Just then, everyone’s attention was caught by the sound of pony hooves, pounding up the road, and coming to a halt at Bag End’s front gate.

It was a Quick Post rider. He swung down from his pony, as Bilbo and Saradoc stood; Esmeralda turned from her contemplation of the tulips, and Merry and Frodo lost interest in their game.

The rider came up the path, and handed Saradoc an envelope. “I’m to take a reply back if there is one,” he said.

Saradoc looked at the envelope in surprise. It was addressed in his brother-in-law Paladin’s hand—why, he and Esmeralda were headed to Whitwell on the morrow, after having delivered Merry for his spring visit to Frodo—what could be so urgent that it would not await their arrival?

I know that you are on your way here to spend the time until Eglantine’s confinement, but I must let you know that she has gone early into labour.

Mistress Poppy is doing all she can to delay things, yet we do fear that the child will be coming into the world a month and a half early. You know what that could mean. I know that you wished to visit Bilbo a few days first, but I ask that you please hurry along, just in case things take a turn for the worse. Please, let Bilbo know that his presence will be welcome as well.

Esmeralda made a little sound of distress, and turned into her husband’s embrace.

Saradoc handed him the letter. He gave it a quick perusal, and then turned to Frodo, who stood apprehensively, Merry’s small hand gripped tightly in his own.

“Frodo, my lad, take Merry with you. Go down to Number Three, and tell the Gaffer that we have to leave suddenly on unexpected family business. Take him the key that hangs by the front door, and ask him to go to the stable and hitch up Mr. Brandybuck’s carriage. Then come back and help Merry to pack up his travelling case, and pack your own as well. We are *all* going to Whitwell.”

Bilbo nodded. “It looks like your new little cousin is a bit impatient to come into the world.”

While Frodo did Bilbo’s bidding, accompanied by an anxious young Merry, and Bilbo saw to his own packing, Esmeralda quickly fixed a hamper, so that they could eat supper as they rode. If they left immediately and took the post road, they could be at Whitwell before midnight.

It was beginning to get dark as they left, pounding along the post road, the carriage swaying. Merry was tucked tightly into Frodo’s side, Frodo’s arm around his little cousin, hugging him to him. The child was uncharacteristically solemn, worried by the tense atmosphere surrounding the adults, and though he had many questions, he knew better than to ask them now. He would wait until he was alone with Frodo.

Frodo, for his part, was worried as well. He was very fond of Cousin Paladin and Cousin Tina, and their trio of merry lasses. There had been much rejoicing at the news that a fourth child was due in Whitwell this spring—speculation that it might well be a longed-for lad was high.

The Took’s home at Whitwell was a rambling place, half smial, half house, just up a lane from the post road, and as they approached shortly before the middle of the night, Frodo noticed that many of the lights were on.

“Tina’s still in labour. Mistress Poppy does not think that she will be able to delay the birth for more than a few hours at most. Primrose is with Poppy helping Tina, and Peridot is staying with the lasses in their room.** Esme, you know where the guest rooms are—do you think—“

His sister interrupted “Of course I’ll see to our rooms—you don’t need to be worried by guests at a time like this.” She glanced at Frodo, who carried the sleeping Merry in his arms. “Frodo, would you and Merry be all right on a pallet in the sitting room?” For there were only two guest rooms at Whitwell.

Frodo carried Merry into the sitting room—there were no lamps lit there, and the hearth was banked. He put Merry down on the settee, but when he did so, the child stirred and wakened, reaching for him. Frodo sat down next to him.

“You should go back to sleep, sprout,” he said, gently tucking a sandy curl behind one ear.

“I’m awake now, Frodo. Will everything be all right?” His grey eyes were anxious and distressed.

Frodo pulled him close. “I don’t know, Merry-love. Sometimes—“ he bit his lip, and drew a deep breath, “sometimes things *aren’t* all right. Sometimes things go wrong, and there is nothing anyone can do. I can’t make you a promise that things will be all right. But I do promise you that whether they go right or wrong, I will be here by your side.”

Merry looked up at him solemnly. “Me, too. I mean, I promise the same thing to you. I love you, Frodo.” He reached around and, though he was getting a bit big for it, clambered into Frodo’s lap. Frodo held him tightly.

When Esmeralda entered the room a short time later, her arms laden with blankets, she found them both asleep. Gently she lifted Frodo’s feet, and swung them up to the seat, and settling both lads into a slightly more comfortable position, she covered them up and gave them each a kiss on the brow.

Then she went to see if she could be of some use to her sister-in-law.
_________________________________

Dawn; and the Sun was peeking into the window of the sitting room, when both lads wakened with full bladders. Frodo pushed the blankets away, and Merry slid down and stood up. Frodo sat up more slowly. His arm had gone to sleep from holding Merry all night. He shook it, and felt the pins and needles in it as it came back to life.

Together, they crept through the kitchen and out the back door to the privy. When they finished they had a quick wash at the well, and slipped back into the kitchen. Buttercup Tunnelly, the Took’s cook already was there, making first breakfast.

“Good morning, Master Frodo and Master Merry. Sit down, have some toast and porridge. There’s some stewed fruit, as well.”

The two of them sat down gratefully. “Is there any news, Buttercup?” Frodo asked hesitantly.

“Not yet, Master Frodo. Miss Primrose spoke to me earlier. They don’t expect it to be much longer, though.”

“It has not been,” came a soft voice. It was Paladin’s older sister Peridot. “The child has been born. It’s a little lad.”

The two lads looked at her apprehensively. “Is Cousin Tina all right?” Frodo asked.

“He lives,” she said, “and he is breathing. But he is very tiny. And he is very weak from his long struggle to be born. We must wait and see.”

A moment later, Pearl, Pimmie and Vinca came into the kitchen. They all looked tired, and rather disheveled. Pearl was carrying Pervinca who was clinging to her neck and whining. “I want Mama.”

Vinca was only barely out of her faunthood, having turned five only a couple of weeks before, and it was clear that she was cranky and out of sorts.

“ ‘Mother’ “, Pearl corrected automatically. Pervinca was old enough now to say ‘mother’, as was customary among the Tooks.

Pervinca squirmed out of her sister’s embrace. “Mama!” she shouted. “Mama! Mama! Mama!” Her face was red, and screwed up to start crying.

Peridot took her firmly up, and sat her on the table. “Pervinca Took! You must stop this at once. You may see your mother in a little while. But not until you eat breakfast. And if you are behaving like this you will have to wait even longer, for your mother is not feeling well. You do not want to make her feel worse, do you?” Peridot asked this last gently.

Pervinca sniffed, and hung her head. “No, Auntie. I’m sorry.” And then burst into tears anyway.

Frodo looked at Merry, who was watching in horrified fascination. The lads had finished eating, so Frodo got up quietly, and drew Merry out of the kitchen.

Merry nodded, and the two walked out towards the little orchard that grew to the north of the smial.

“It’s very sad when someone dies, isn’t it?” Merry was trying to think. Sometimes the older relatives at Brandy Hall had died, but Merry was considered still a bit too young for funerals, and he had not had much direct contact with grief, except for Frodo’s own.

Frodo halted briefly, and bit his lip, before they walked on. “Yes, Merry, it’s very sad, because we know that we will never see them any more. Ever.”

Merry was quiet, and the two sat down beneath a cherry tree. A few of the buds had begun to blossom.

“If the little baby dies, will Uncle Paladin and Aunt Tina and Pearl and Pimmie and Vinca be sad forever?”

Frodo put his arm around the child’s shoulders and pulled him close. “I am quite sure that they will. But they will also be happy sometimes as well. Even though I miss my parents and I’m sad to think of them, I am happy when I think how much you love me. And I am glad that I can do things with you. And I like learning new things and spending time with Uncle Bilbo—I am always sad about them being gone, but I do not always *feel* sad. Can you understand that?”

“I think so. I miss you awfully when I’m home and you’re in Bag End, and it makes me sad a lot. But I still have fun with Berilac and some of the other cousins. And I like having lessons with Mum, and riding my pony with Da. But at least I can see you sometimes. If you died, I would never see you. It’s not fair.”

Frodo buried his face in the curly head, to hide his own distress. “It’s not fair, no, Merry. It isn’t fair at all. But many things happen that aren’t fair.”

He was surprised at Merry sitting up suddenly, indignant. “Well, they *ought* to be fair! If I was in charge, I would make things be fair, and just as they ought!”

Frodo chuckled at this change in mood. “Yes. Well. I wish that you *were* in charge, then, sprout. So, you would make things be ‘just as they ought’?”

“Yes! First, I would make Bag End be much closer to Buckland! And there would be lots more mushrooms, too! And no one could cook cabbages.”

At this Frodo had to laugh aloud. While Merry loved slaws and raw cabbage, he detested it cooked.

The two spent a companionable time playing in the orchard, and shortly afterward were sought out by Pearl and Pimpernel. Auntie Peridot was keeping Pervinca close.

They went in for elevenses, and afterward the lasses were called away, to meet their new baby brother.

Bilbo had come out, and they went back into the sitting room, where they passed the time listening to him telling tales of his Adventure. At one point, he asked Frodo to go to the kitchen, and fetch them a snack and something to drink.

As he did so, he passed his Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme in the passageway. They didn’t notice him at first, being intent on their conversation.

“I don’t know, Esme,” Sara was saying. “If he never sees the babe at all, then if the worst happens, at least he will not grieve so, for a child he’s never met.”

“He *deserves* the chance to know his cousin, even if it is only for a short while. We cannot shield him from grief forever, dear. Please, it’s only right that he see my brother’s child, gets to at least meet little Peregrin.” She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of Frodo’s presence.

Esmeralda shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, lad. You know Merry. Maybe better than we do, in some ways. Would it be better for him if he never sees his little cousin, just in case…” Her voice trailed off sadly.

Frodo bit his lip, and remembered his earlier conversation with Merry. “I think, Aunt Esme, that if the baby dies, and Merry never even sees him, that he will find it very unfair. I think he might even be angry. And he will be sad and grieve anyway, just from knowing how everyone else is grieving. It won’t keep him from it, just not seeing the baby. You said they named him ‘Peregrin’?”

Esmeralda and Saradoc exchanged glances, and then Sara nodded. “After luncheon then,” he said. “And—thank you, Frodo.”

So it was, after luncheon, Merry, along with Frodo and Bilbo, were summoned to Aunt Tina’s room. Together they came close to the bed. There was a tiny, blanket wrapped bundle in her arms. Uncle Paladin sat with her on the other side of the bed. The three of them came forward, and Aunt Tina moved away the edge of the blanket.

Merry’s eyes grew wide. While he’d had much experience of baby cousins at Brandy Hall, he had never seen one so very tiny or so very red and wrinkled, like an apple at the end of winter.

Merry gave a tiny gasp, and took a step forward, put forth a hesitant finger, but stopped short of touching the baby. “He’s very new.”

Frodo stepped up and put his hand on Merry’s shoulder. Merry leaned into Frodo’s side, without taking his eyes off the baby.

“You are welcome, Merry,” said Eglantine, watching her nephew’s face carefully.

“He’s going to be all right,” Merry said confidently. “He is.” He looked once more at the baby, and said “You get stronger, Peregrin, and I will be a good older cousin to you.”

Then they went out of the room, and Merry held his arms out, for Frodo to pick him up. Frodo took him up and held him tightly.

Frodo squeezed him tightly. “You are already as good a cousin as ever was, sprout, and I am sure that you will get along famously with little Peregrin.”

* “Stones” is a hobbity game played in my Shire. Each player has between half a dozen to ten small pebbles, which they toss into the air and then catch. Small children begin by catching them in their palm, but then graduate to catching them on the back of the hand, or to doing tricks such as leaving one on the ground to pick up before catching the rest.

**Primrose and Peridot Took are Paladin’s two older sisters (They are two of the three unnamed sisters on the Family Tree.)

This story came from a bunny of Shirebound's. Sometime last year, she had posted a little starter, that she said anyone was free to use if they wished. It consisted of a bit of dialogue between Bilbo and Frodo right after Frodo had come to live at Bag End. I really loved it, and saved it, until I could come up with the right something to complete it. The part in bold is by Shirebound.

Although Merry does not actually make a personal appearance in the story, it is very *much* *about* Merry, and I hope everyone will get a kick out of it.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: Frodo is 20, Sam is 9 and Merry is 7 (13, 6 and 5 in Man-years).]

"I'm surprised at how you've taken to young Samwise," Bilbo said over tea. "Hal and Ham are so much closer to your age, I would have thought--"

"I know," Frodo admitted, "but Sam's so much closer to Merry's age. I really like having him around."

"Ah," Bilbo nodded. "I hadn't thought of that. Well, the lad certainly worships the ground you walk on."

"He responds to kindness and respect," Bilbo mused, "and feeling that he's not just another face in a crowd." He responds to the same things you do, my lad "Some of the gentry don't give the working class the time of day."

"I can't imagine treating anyone that way," Frodo frowned. "Uncle Rory always said that the only difference between the working hobbits and the gentry is that the gentry have more responsibilities and have to wear more uncomfortable clothes."

"Your Uncle Rory is an uncommonly sensible hobbit. Unfortunately, things are a bit more hidebound here in Hobbiton, lad. But I’ve not let that worry me overmuch, and I am pleased that you don’t seem inclined to either. I am very glad that you get on so famously with little Sam."

"He reminds me a lot of Merry. He’s such a happy child, yet he’s also very practical for his age--I’m glad they got on so well when Merry was here earlier this year. I hope they will be good friends."

Bilbo shook his head. "I hope they may be playmates when Merry visits--there really aren’t any other lads his age nearby--but don’t expect Sam’s father to approve of a friendship with the grandson of the Master of Buckland."

Frodo frowned, briefly. But he had known Gaffer Gamgee long enough to realize his older cousin was correct.

"Speaking of Merry, Uncle Bilbo--did I see a letter for me from him in the post?"

Bilbo hesitated for an instant. "No, no, my lad!" he said hastily. "All the post was for me today."

Frodo’s face fell. He had been sure he had seen the familiar large envelope among the stack of mail his cousin had taken from the post hobbit.

"Would you mind seeing to the washing up on your own, Frodo? I’ve a few things to do in my study?"

Bilbo shut the door to his study, sat down at his desk, and picked up the stack of letters. The one on the bottom was indeed from young Merry. It was addressed in the large and careful letters of a young child:

The next morning, Frodo, as he sometimes did, slept through first breakfast, and wakened to the smell of second breakfast cooking--he could tell it must be second breakfast from the angle of the sun in his window. He washed and dressed quickly, and running his fingers through his curls instead of a comb, he wandered into the kitchen.

"Ah!" Bilbo grinned. "Glad to see you awake! I was down at the market early this morning, and bought some new sausages." He dished up a plate for Frodo: sausages, eggs scrambled with cheese, fried potatoes, toast, and a small bowl of strawberries and cream.

Frodo looked at the sausages, and sniffed. He took a bite. "Oh, these are lovely! I liked the other sausages, Uncle Bilbo, but they had so much pepper that sometimes they made my throat itch. I like these much better--and they have plenty of sage in them!"

"Well, I just thought that I’d try something a bit different. What are your plans for today?"

His ward grinned up at him, as he dug into the bowl of strawberries with relish. "I thought that if I buckled down to it, I could finish my essay on Arthedain before elevenses, and then I could work on that Sindarin grammar for a while. And I thought I might try to read that book of Elven lays you translated after luncheon…"

Bilbo laughed. "Frodo, really! It’s a lovely summer day, far too nice to spend sitting about the smial doing lessons all day. I’ve an idea. Why don’t I pack up a picnic. You take young Samwise with you--I’ll make it right with the Gaffer--and take a stroll down to the Water. You could have a swim, and perhaps coax little Sammy into wading in the shallows. Take the Elven book with you, if you wish. I know I can trust you to be careful of it. You can read to him a bit if you like."

Frodo sprang up with a glad cry, and gave Bilbo an enthusiastic hug, which the older hobbit returned with a bit more fervor than was his usual wont.

Bilbo gave him another quick squeeze. "I just don’t want you to be sorry you came to live with me, Frodo. It’s far different than just coming to visit for a couple of months, to be here with an old bachelor like me all the time, and few young people about."

"Oh, Uncle! I’d never be sorry! I *do* miss Merry, and the others sometimes, but it’s just wonderful to be here with you."

"Yes. Well." The older hobbit blinked, and sniffed. "I’m pleased to hear you say it, but still, you run along and have some fun with little Sam today."

No further coaxing was needed, and soon Frodo was headed out of the smial, carrying a small, but well-filled hamper, and calling for Sam.

Bilbo watched the two head down the path to the road, and then reached into his jacket and pulled out the letter. Unfolding it, he chuckled and shook his head.

Do not let him look at books and do lessons all day long. ~~Mum says he needs xersiz~~ He needs to go for walks and go swimming. And clime trees too, but don’t let him clime too high and fall and brake his leg or something or I will be angry with you.

He likes strawberries. And mushroom soup. And cheese on his eggs sometimes. And too much peper makes his nose itch. And his eyes and he ~~snizzes~~ sneezes.

Sometimes he gets very sad. If he does then you must hug him a lot and tell him you love him and tell him stories to chir him up.

If this is too much ~~trubbel~~ trouble for you then you can give him back to me.

Bilbo shook his head, chuckling. "Well, Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, I have done my best to carry out your orders."

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: In which Sam and his oldest lad have a bit of father/son time…
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Marigold’s prompt included earth, air, fire and water, and time for a task.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Sam glanced over at his tiny lad, watching intently, his brown eyes huge. Sam dug in the earth with his trowel, and then carefully placed the transplanted violas in their new home.

Frodo-lad took his little watering can, and upended the spout, giving the little flowers a long drink of water, and then glanced up at his father questioningly.

Sam grinned at him, and nodded approvingly. “You did that just right, my laddie.”

The child grinned back. Sam stood up, and Frodo-lad reached up with his arms to be picked up. Sam swooped him from the ground and spun him around in the air, eliciting a peel of delighted giggles. The breeze wafted over their sweaty skins, the gentle air cooling them off. Sam pulled his child close, hugging him tightly. Now that Frodo-lad was no longer a faunt he had taken to following his father about the garden, and Sam had been thrilled to discover that plants and dirt and growing things seemed to hold as much fascination for his oldest lad as it had for him.

And today, as Rose had taken the lasses and wee Merry-lad to her parents’ farm for a visit, it was just the two of them.

“No, your old dad is all dizzy now. You’ve quite wore me out. What do you say we go up to the smial, and put the kettle on the fire, and have some elevenses?”

And Frodo-lad put his hand in his father’s, and skipped alongside, up to the kitchen door.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story takes place when Pippin is 15 (10 in Man-years). In my Shire, Ferumbras had abdicated as Thain that year, and Paladin and Eglantine had sent the children to stay with relatives until they could get settled in the Great Smials, as they did not wish to expose the children to the gossip and unpleasantness there, until Paladin had managed to get the Tooks used to the idea of him as Thain.]

Pippin sighed noisily out of his nostrils, and jiggled his foot. Then he began to twirl his quill between his fingers as he looked longingly out the round window, and the sounds of laughter and shouting coming in from outdoors. He could hear Merry’s voice. The lads were playing kick-the-ball. He put the quill down, and picked it up again. Then he tried to balance it on one finger. He avoided looking down at the pristine piece of parchment in front of him, not a single mark on it.

He jumped, dropping the quill on the table. He looked up with a guilty, yet winsome expression, widening his green eyes to their most appealing expression.

There was a chuckle. “No, Peregrin. That will not work on me. I am not so soft-hearted as Frodo nor as busy as your father nor as eager for your company as Meriadoc. One page. One full page--and I have given you a good deal of leeway as to your topic. I am quite prepared to keep you here until teatime if I must. And if you do not complete it by teatime today, you will have to come to me tomorrow.”

Pippin swallowed. Merry’s Great-Uncle Dinodas was *hard*. Tears sprang to his eyes, quite genuine tears of frustration. He’d never had to write an essay before.

Dinodas shook his head ruefully, and placed a gentle hand on Pippin’s unruly curls. “I am not being cruel, Peregrin. When you return to your family, and are living in the Great Smials, you will most likely be taking your lessons from your Cousin Isembrand, or perhaps from your Cousin Fortinbard, and your lessons will be of the sort that will be helping you to learn how to be Thain someday. It is high time you began to do essays. You are far beyond the childish lessons you have had up until now, and you are more than intelligent enough to do the work.”

“But I don’t like to write things out. My thoughts get all tangled up when I try to write them down.” Pippin much preferred talking to writing.

“This is the first one for you, lad, and I’ll not be too hard on you. But you must put yourself to the discipline of actually doing the writing. Now, the topic is ‘family’--of which you have plenty. If you will actually put ink to parchment, I think that you can easily write about it.” He patted the disconsolate teen on the shoulder. “Now, I am going to go over there and check Ilberic’s lessons,” he gestured to his armchair by the hearth, “and when I look up, I expect to see you actually *writing*.”

Dinodas went over and sat. Pippin chewed the tip of his quill for a moment, and then dipped it into the ink.

I have a lot of family. I have my father and mother and three sisters. My father is Paladin Took, and my mother is Eglantine Took, who used to be a Banks before she married my father. My sisters are Pearl, Pimpernel and Pervinca. We call Pimpernel ‘Pimmie’ and Pervinca we call ‘Vinca’, but we just call Pearl ‘Pearl’.”

The ink ran out. Pippin dipped his quill, and when he drew it from the inkpot a drop spilled on the table. He looked about for the small bit of blotting paper used for such things, and spotted it on the floor by his chair. Rather than bend over to pick it up, he began to try and grasp it with his toes. He almost had it, when he heard a throat clearing. He sighed, bent over, picked it up, and wiped up the ink from the table. Then he had to dip the quill again.

We used to live on a farm at Whitwell. But now my father has to go be Thain and live at the Great Smials. So right now I am living here at Brandy Hall, and so is Pervinca. But Pearl and Pimpernel went to stay with our Aunt Dee and Uncle Longo. They are not really our aunt and uncle. But Aunt Dee is Dianthus that used to be a Banks and she is my mother’s second cousin twice removed on the Banks side. So she is really my second cousin three times removed. I wonder why they say cousins are removed? Why do they remove them? They are still cousins. They could say something else besides removed couldn’t they? Removed means taken away. I think it rather silly to say it that way.”

He looked at the last few sentences and frowned. They didn’t seem to fit somehow. Oh well, they were taking up space on the page.

“Anyway I have lots of real aunts and uncles and cousins. But my two best cousins are Meriadoc Brandybuck, who is my first cousin, as my father and his mum are brother and sister, as well as my third cousin from great-great-grandfather Gerontius, and Frodo Baggins who is my third cousin once removed on Frodo’s Baggins side and my second cousin once removed on Frodo’s Brandybuck side. Best cousins are good to have.”

Once more he had to dip the pen. He looked at the paper and squinted. He had to say more things about Merry and Frodo, and he had used up more than half the parchment. He started writing smaller.

“They are better than friends because they are family. But they are also better than brothers because brothers fight all the time. I have noticed that. My Banks cousins Cado and Clovis who are not best cousins at all because they are mean to me fight all the time and they are brothers. One time I saw them have a real fight with hitting and everything. So do Doderic and Iberic. So do Mosco and Moro Burrows. Fight I mean. But not with hitting.”

Pippin shook his head. He did not like to think about Cado and Clovis. He didn’t like them much, which made him feel bad. They *were* his cousins after all, and it wasn’t their fault that they were not as good as Merry or Frodo. He looked at the parchment, and began to make his letters much smaller.

“Merry and me never fight. Merry only has ever been angry with me twice. He only gets angry at me if I am acting like a fool and get myself in real trouble so I try not to do that much though it is hard because I am a Took. But sometimes he does get annoyed at me. I get annoyed at him because he always worries about me all the time. But I don’t think I could ever be angry with him. I love to be with Merry because he always knows how I feel and sometimes he even knows what I am thinking before I say it. I am always safe when I am with my Merry.”

“Merry is very clever. He knows almost everything there is to know about how to do things. And he always shows me how.”

Pippin stopped for a moment. Perhaps it would be best not to go into too much detail about some of the things Merry had taught him, such as the best way to raid the larder, or how to make an apple pie bed, or that time they had switched the sugar for the salt at second breakfast once. No, he really didn’t think Merry’s Uncle Dinodas needed to know those things. Perhaps he had better get on with Frodo. There really was not a lot of room left.

“My cousin Frodo is very old for a best cousin, but it doesn’t matter because he is the best hobbit in the Shire. I am not the only one who thinks that. Cousin Bilbo used to say that, and it would make Frodo go all red. And Merry says anyone who really knows Frodo knows that and Sam Gamgee agrees. Sam is not a cousin he is a friend. And a gardener. But he agrees with Merry and so do I.”

Hmm. Pippin looked at what he’d written, and pursed his lips. There was only about a inch of parchment left at the bottom, but he had more to say about Frodo. He really did not think he could write any smaller. He continued all the way down, until some of the letters were in danger of finishing on the table at the bottom; then he turned the parchment sideways, and began to write up the long edge, as small as he could.

“Anyway Frodo is very wise. He knows all kinds of things like two kinds of Elf languages and what happened in the First Age and how to make the best noodles and cheese. And stuffed mushrooms. But the best thing is that Frodo always likes to be with me and he doesn’t mind that he is grown up and I am not. I do not think Frodo has ever been angry with me but sometimes I make him sad if I do things without thinking first and that is worse than angry.”

Pippin stopped and carefully put his thumb on the ink. Still wet. He turned the parchment completely upside down, and continued.

“Anyway that is why I love my best cousins. I guess other people have best cousins too but mine really are the best and --” he turned the parchment once more and continued down the other edge, “so I feel sorry for them to not have Merry and Frodo. And now I have to stop as there is--” He bit his lip. There is no more room. He sighed. He hoped Uncle Dinodas would not be upset that he didn’t finish the sentence. But, and his face lit up at the thought, at least he had written one full page.

He grinned. He’d never done that before. It wasn’t nearly as hard as he thought it would be.

But he would still rather talk about it. You never run out of room when you are talking.

At the sound of laughter, I glance out the window. Rose and Elanor have joined Sam in the front garden. Rose has taken him a cool drink, which I watch him drink thirstily.

He’s been busy in the perennial bed, transplanting bulbs, laying mulch, preparing for cooler weather. I hear him telling Rose of the display he’s planning for spring, for my enjoyment.

Today I’ll let him know I will be with Bilbo on The Birthday. I know it’s deceitful to make him think I am only going to Rivendell, but I can’t bear to tell him that I will be sailing West, leaving forever.

It’s going to break his heart--yet if I stay, still I will not be here come spring. The next anniversary will finish me, if I stay, and that will *surely* break his heart.

I watch him take Elanor in his arms. She puts her tiny hands up and entangles them in his hair. I hear him exclaim as she pulls, and Rose comes to his aid. They both laugh as she lends her fingers to the task of untangling him.

This was written for the LiveJournal Community wee!hobbits for the crawling baby challenge, as well as to commemorate the birth of a son to "Pippin" (Billy Boyd).

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Merry-lad Gamgee is 3, Pippin-lad is 1 (about 18 months and 8 months in Man-years) and Pippin's daughters Primrose, Pansy and Petunia are 2 and 1 (about 13 months and 8 months in Man-years) Faramir and Goldilocks have yet to be born. The older Gamgee children and Merry's daughter and son do not come into this story.

“Sam, why did we agree to this?” asked Merry, snatching his namesake Merry-lad Gamgee away from the edge of the teatable, where the dishes rattled as the child had been reaching up to try and snatch the bread that was just out of his reach.

“Because it was your mother’s idea?” asked Sam, bouncing his youngest, little Pippin-lad on his hip. He had to speak rather loudly to be heard over the screaming of the baby, who was teething. He and Rose had brought their brood to Crickhollow for a visit.

“Primmie!” shouted Pippin, as he noticed his oldest daughter crawling as fast as she could for the open kitchen door. He managed to snag her before she could reach and closed it with one foot in the same motion.

“Oh no,” said Pippin. “The twins are awake! Why in the world did I let Diamond talk me into having children so close together?” He plumped little Primrose down next to Merry and raced into the other room, emerging with a screaming baby in each arm.

“You know,” said Sam, who had quieted little Pippin-lad with a rusk of bread, “the two of you ain’t going to catch up with me and Rose nohow.”
he said with a smirk.

“We weren’t counting on twins, you know!” Pippin objected, handing little Pansy to a bemused Merry, while he lay Petunia down on the table. “I just hope it’s a lad this time. I don’t think I *want* to catch you up, Sam!”

“Hoy!” said Merry. “You aren’t going to change her nappy on the kitchen table are you? Diamond would skin you! And Estella wouldn’t be too happy either.”

“Well,” said Pippin around the pins in his mouth, “they aren’t here, are they?” There was a slight note of resentment in his voice. There the wives were, off to a party at Brandy Hall--”for lasses only!” Esmeralda had said emphatically, and here the husbands were with all of the youngest babies.

“Merry-lad!” cried Sam, “that’s enough of that!” The faunt had found a large wooden spoon, and had begun to amuse himself by banging it on the floor, adding to the racket. He looked up at his father crossly, before giving one more defiant bang, and throwing the spoon down. Then he stuck his thumb in his mouth and glared at his father.

Fortunately the older children had gone with their mothers: Merry’s daughter Wyn and son Perry, and Sam’s older children Elanor, Frodo-lad and Rosie-lass had gone along so that they could play with the other children at the Hall, while Esmeralda was throwing a special party for Rose and Diamond, who both were expecting again. Diamond and Pippin would be expecting their fourth child sometime in Foreyule, while the sixth little Gamgee was due in Rethe, near Elanor’s birthday.

“I don’t know where your mother got an idea like that in the first place,” grumbled Pippin.

Merry sensibly kept quiet. He had read his mother part of a letter from Éowyn, in which she recounted the party thrown for her brother’s wife Queen Lothiriel--a Gondorian custom, to shower the new mother with gifts. There was no way he was going to let Sam and Pippin know this was *his* fault.

Pippin looked around for someplace to put the wet nappy, and finally settled on just opening the door, and chucking it on the back step. Then he turned around to give little Pet to Merry so he could change Pansy.

“Where *is* she?” shouted Pippin, thrusting Pet at Merry, who suddenly found himself holding *two* babies, and looking around wildly. Merry and Sam exchanged anxious glances and began to look around as well.

Merry-lad took his thumb out of his mouth. “Ova dere!” he said, pointing with one chubby finger.

Little Primrose was sitting happily next to the box in which the cold ashes from the stove were emptied, to be saved for use in the garden or for soap-making. She had pulled it over on its side, and was cheerfully playing in the spilled ashes, covered from head to toe, and watching them float about in the air, drifting like dirty grey snowflakes.
_______________________________________________

Three hours later, three tired fathers collapsed in the sitting room, each holding a tankard of well-deserved ale. The babies had all been fed, changed and bathed, and now all of them save Merry-lad were sleeping. And the faunt was snuggled contentedly in his Uncle Pippin’s lap.

The hobbits were looking a bit newly-scrubbed themselves, and the kitchen was as clean as a pin. There was nothing to show of the near disaster of earlier in the day, and they were congratulating themselves that their wives would never know how hard they had found it.

They heard the sound of the waggon from the Hall, which Esmeralda had sent to take her guests back to the cottage, and soon there were the sounds of children running, and the door opened. Estella came in, followed by Rose and the older children.

“Oh, she had a basket full of leftover food from the party. She went straight to the kitchen,” said Estella, coming in, and dropping a kiss on Merry’s head. Rose reached down to take little Merry-lad from Pippin, before doing the same to Sam.

Rating: G
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
AN: While this is as canon-consistent as I can make it, it is AU to my other stories.
Summary: Hurt/Comfort. It is Coronation time in Minas Tirith and Frodo reluctantly accepts the help of his friends.
(Written for Febobe, for the Spring 2006 Frodo Fic Exchange)

OLD SORROWS
It was during the celebratory feast, the evening of the Coronation, when it dawned on Frodo. He overheard Faramir answer Pippin’s questions about Gondorian dates, and he suddenly realized what he had forgotten.

For the first time in thirty-eight years, it had completely slipped his mind. It had not even occurred to him once, the whole of yesterday. The enormity of it hit him like a wave, and he felt the blood drain from his face, felt his stomach give a lurch. How could he forget?

Merry and Sam noticed the change in his demeanor immediately. Simultaneously, Merry said “Frodo, what’s wrong?” as Sam asked “Mr. Frodo! Are you all right?” Pippin turned in concern, from his conversation with Faramir.

Frodo could feel Aragorn’s eyes on him, saw Gandalf give him a shrewd look beneath his bushy brows, noticed the concern as Legolas and Gimli turned in his direction. The other feasters, however, noticed nothing.

He tried to force a bit of normalcy in his voice. “Nothing is wrong,” he said with dignity. “I just find the room a bit close; and there are a good many people--more than I am used to recently. I believe I shall go ahead and retire.” He made to clamber down from the chair. Four had been prepared for the hobbits, with extra rungs across the two front legs, to assist in climbing up and down, and cushions, secured by ties to the back of the chair, to raise them up to table height.

“I’ll come with you Mr. Frodo.” Sam started to get down from his own perch.

“No, Sam, you stay here and enjoy the feast. I’ll get a bit of fresh air, and then go to the chamber they’ve prepared for me.” Frodo had been a bit nervous about sleeping alone in a room in a strange place, but now he began to think that it might be a good idea. At least he wouldn’t be keeping the other hobbits awake. He felt certain that he was in for a more than usually restless night.

Merry and Sam followed him with their eyes, and then looked at one another. Sam gave a shrug, and Merry a brief nod, acknowledging that either of them trying to follow him now would only create an embarrassing scene for everyone. Pippin still made as if to get down, but Merry stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Leave it, Pip. We will check on him before we turn in for the night.”

Aragorn had also watched him leave. He had a feeling it was more than just weariness of the day. He was all too aware of how far Frodo had come in his recovery, and how much further he had yet to go. He looked up and met Gandalf’s eyes, and saw there his own fear mirrored--that Frodo would never completely recover. He wished that he could go after Frodo, but that was impossible; this was his coronation feast, and if he left now, this early, it would cause a good deal of unpleasant speculation about the new High King. He allowed Éomer to distract him with a question, and did his best to put his small friend from his mind for the time being. He would check on him later.

Frodo managed to walk carefully and slowly, upright and without obviously showing his distress. He knew he wasn’t fooling his cousins or Sam, but they couldn’t come after him right away without making a scene. He exited the feasthall onto a wide terrace, where he stopped to take some deep breaths. It still amazed him to be able to breathe air that was not foul with the poisons of the Dark Land. Hopefully the fresh air would still the turmoil in his belly, and allow the whirl of thoughts to calm.

He needed to think. He had said he would retire. Yet where in this great maze of stone, were the chambers set aside for the hobbits? How would he find them? He needed to lie down soon.

How could he have forgotten? He felt the tears threatening to overwhelm him once more, and his stomach began to rebel again. Hoping against hope that there were no stragglers from the feast to observe his distress, he lurched to the nearest potted plant, and began to retch, bringing up all he had consumed at the feast.

But as he continued to heave, he gave a start when a large and comforting arm was placed around him. “Frodo,” said a gentle voice, and he found his face being wiped by a clean handkerchief.

Embarrassed beyond belief to have been found this way, he turned tear-filled eyes on his rescuer. “M-my Lord Elrohir?” he guessed. He saw the other brother standing behind, a concerned look on his fair face. Frodo thought it might be Lord Elrohir next to him, for he seemed to remember that Lord Elladan was the one clad in blue, and the twin who knelt beside him was clad in grey.

Elrohir nodded. Elladan stepped forward. “Frodo, I shall go and fetch Estel--”

“No!” Frodo cried sharply, earning an identical look of shock from both the twins. “No, please, do not fetch anyone. It will cause too much notice. Please.” He whispered, “All I would like to do is go to my chambers and try to sleep…”

Gently, Elrohir picked him up. “Please forgive my presumption, Frodo,” he said quietly, “but I do not believe you are strong enough to walk the distance to your chambers. I am sorry.” He spoke quietly and though Frodo should have felt humiliated at being carried like a faunt, he could not feel angry in the face of such humble practicality.

For an instant, he felt another wave of nausea. He bit his lip, and forced it away.

Elladan spoke to his brother. “I believe I know where the chambers assigned to the hobbits are.”

The sensation of being carried was not one Frodo thought he could get used to, but it was not unpleasant to be enfolded by strong and safe arms. He could feel as they went up stairs--several landings of stairs. On what floor had they been placed? Hobbits certainly were not used to sleeping so high up. But, he told himself, it was not so perilous a height as the Endless Stair to Cirith Ungol.

He heard Elladan’s voice, apparently speaking to some servant or guard placed on the floor, asking which of the chambers belonged to the Lord Frodo. He could not summon enough strength even to be indignant at this use of his unwanted title.

His stomach empty, he began now to feel an increasing throbbing behind his temples. He would soon have a headache, a raging one, he feared. He hoped that Elrohir would leave him in the dark, where he could be alone in his misery.

The servant went before them with a candle, and Elladan turned down the bed. Frodo found himself being placed there in the wide expanse of linen and blankets. At first, he thought that he would be granted his wish of being left alone. He felt the covers pulled up over him gently, and the candle was blown out, and he heard steps going away and the door shut. But then he heard the sound of water being poured, and he felt the bed give, as someone sat next to him. His head had begun to pound.

But a large and gentle hand brushed across his brow, and then he felt a cool wet cloth placed over his brow.

He heard the brothers hold a brief whispered conversation in Sindarin. His head hurt too much for him to be able to translate, though he caught one or two words, they conveyed nothing to him in his miserable state. He heard the door close once more, and then Elrohir began to sing to him softly.

The feast had begun to break up, guests were leaving, and at last those who had watched with worried eyes Frodo leave the feasthall were free to speak of their fears.

“Strider,” said Merry, “we need to go see if Frodo is all right. He was pretending, I know he was.”

In spite of being worried himself, Aragorn found himself amused at the hobbits. When it came to Frodo, they had no compunction whatsoever in issuing orders to the High King. He certainly was in no danger of becoming over-comfortable in his power as long as he had hobbits around.

Gandalf had been having a few words with Faramir, and turned back to the little group. “I, too, noticed something more in his demeanor. Something upset him.”

Just then, Legolas and Gimli came up, with Elladan at their side. The Dwarf and Elf had gone to the terrace, where Gimli was having a pipe, when Elladan found them.

“Estel--” he began, and all of them turned to him, “Elrohir and I found Frodo being sick. Elrohir is with him now in the hobbit’s chamber. But he has no herbs or anything with him. And something seems to be distressing the Ringbearer a good deal.”

“Take us there,” said Merry. He was not going to stand on any ceremony if Frodo was sick.

When they all arrived at Frodo’s door, they halted. Aragorn looked at all of the rest of them, and shook his head. “We do not all need to go crowding in there at once.” He glanced at the hobbits.

The three of them exchanged a look, and then Merry nodded. “You go, Sam. We’ll wait out here for our turn.”

Aragorn turned to Pippin. “Pippin, please go to the Houses of Healing.” He reached in his pouch and pulled out a small leaf of parchment and a silverpoint stylus, and wrote quickly. “Take this to the herb-master, and bring these back to me.”

Pippin took it with a tiny bow, and then flew down the passage as though he had wings to his feet.

Aragorn and Sam entered the room quietly, where Elrohir still sat, holding Frodo’s hand and singing softly in Sindarin.

“He seems very melancholy and distressed, Estel. He has a headache, and earlier his stomach rebelled and he lost his meal.” Elrohir stood up, and surrendered his place to Aragorn.

“Frodo,” Aragorn said gently, smoothing back the dark curls from his sweaty brow. “Please won’t you tell us what is wrong?”

Sam took hold of Frodo’s hand as he sat with him on the edge of the bed. He gave it a squeeze. “Mr. Frodo, can’t you tell me?”

“It’s not the Ring,” was the unexpected response. “It has nothing to do with the Ring.”

Pippin raced through the halls of the Houses of Healing, until he came to the herb-master’s chambers. He had been here once or twice before. He pounded on the door.

“Just a moment! Just a moment!” came a querulous voice. Pippin heard a bolt draw back and the door opened suddenly.

Pippin took out the scrap of parchment. “King Elessar asks that I bring him these, immediately! My cousin, Lord Frodo the Ringbearer, is ill!”

The herb-master took the small scrap, and looked at the items listed there--”Hmm…hmm…let us see.” He moved over to the array of shelves and bottles and jars that stood to one side of the large room. “Lemon balm, valerian, hops--” He took down some of the jars, and then moved to another portion of the shelf “--chamomile, passion flower, athelas.”

Quickly he measured out the asked for herbs, into small bags of waxed linen, and handed them to Pippin.

“Thank you,” said Pippin with the briefest of bows. He turned and ran off, slamming the large door behind him.

Sam and Elrohir between them had kindled a small fire on the hearth and heated some water. When Pippin tapped on the door, Elrohir cracked it open and took the herbs from him.

Soon the soothing scent of athelas filled the air, and Aragorn brewed a draught which would calm Frodo’s stomach, ease his headache and help him to sleep. Frodo at first turned away, but finally he accepted it. Perhaps if he drank the draught, they would all just go away.

Aragorn took the empty tumbler from him, and replaced it next to the water pitcher on the nightstand. “Frodo, can you not tell us what it is distressing you?”

Frodo turned his head away, and gave a shrug. But his lips were set in a tight line. “I would just like to be left alone.” He scooted slightly further away. “Please, just leave me. Go.”

“I have given him something to settle his stomach, and to help him sleep. I do not understand--he seemed to be enjoying the festivities, and I know how pleased he was to take part in the coronation. He seemed to be faring well--this came on very suddenly.”

“He says it’s not the Ring,” said Sam, shaking his head. “But I don’t know what else it could be? There have been no reminders of our journey today, and the day has been as fine a spring day as a body could wish…”

Merry looked at Sam with a start. “Spring…what is the Shire date?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, I know,” said Pippin. “Faramir was explaining the calendar to me at the feast--it’s the first day of Thrimidge back home.”

“I know what it is.” Merry bit his lip, and wondered that he had not understood sooner. For as long as he could remember, for Frodo spring had been a season of sorrow. When he had moved from Buckland, it was not so bad, but it was there nevertheless. “Yesterday was the anniversary of the date his parents drowned--and he probably did not realize it until he heard you talking.”

Sam and Pippin looked at one another. “Oh,” they said simultaneously, immediately nodding. Gandalf nodded sagely. Of course.

Aragorn cast a look back at Frodo’s door, and for a moment thought of going back in. This was a sorrow he could somewhat understand as an orphan himself. But he had been too young to remember the circumstances of his father’s death, and he had been an adult before he lost Gilraen. How much worse must it have been for a young child to lose both parents in such a sudden and tragic way? Certainly that sorrow would have continued to haunt Frodo.

Aragorn gave Merry a look of surprise, as the hobbit started to open the door and go into the room. Frodo had been firm that he wished no one in there.

But as he started to object, Gandalf shook his head. Gandalf knew hobbits and their ways better than any save other hobbits, so Aragorn subsided.

Merry entered the dark chamber, illuminated only by a shaft of cold moonlight through the large window. He could see Frodo’s form in the middle of the huge bed, the dark head turned away, the shoulders hitching.

“Not a chance,” said Merry gently. He clambered up to the bed, and lay down alongside his cousin, and put an arm around his shaking shoulders. “I know, Frodo, I know,” he murmured.

After a while, he felt Frodo relax, and as his older cousin finally gave in to the sleeping draught and drifted off, Merry also slipped into sleep.

Outside the door in the wide stone corridor, the others waited to see if Merry would come out. When he did not, Pippin and Sam exchanged a brief look.

“I wish I would’ve realized what it was bothering Mr. Frodo,” said Sam sadly.

Pippin shook his head. “No, Sam. That particular grief of Frodo’s has always been Merry’s job to handle, you know. I’ve heard it told often enough, that it was his job even when he was a baby.”

Now assured that the crisis was handled, Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I think that we may all safely seek our beds. If Frodo needs anything in the night, Merry will let us know.”

As the others all turned to leave, Pippin and Sam slid down to sit on the floor next to the door.

Aragorn looked at them in surprise. “I think that you both should get some rest as well.”

Gandalf reached up and scratched his nose to hide a smile. Legolas, Gimli, Faramir and the twins all halted to turn and watch.

“Begging your pardon, Strider, but I ain’t one of your guards.” Sam looked up with a determined glint in his eye. “You can’t order me.”

Pippin looked up now with a very cheeky grin. “If you are telling me to go to sleep, then I am off duty. If I am off duty, then I can sleep where I like. And I like it just fine here--though a cushion or two to take the chill off my bottom would not come amiss.”

Aragorn laughed. “Hobbits! Very well, stay where you are, and I shall have some cushions sent to you. But I hope that your rebellion is rewarded by stiff necks in the morning.”

“You really should get some rest, Strider. You’ve had a long day, you know, and you have to do a lot of king things in the morning.” And with that, Sam leaned back and closed his eyes.

Aragorn shook his head. “Please let me know as soon as Frodo wakens,” was all he said.

Frodo lay in a half doze, feeling the familiar form of his cousin Merry snuggled against his side. For the briefest of instants, he thought he was back in Brandy Hall, and then it came to him. Merry stirred, and looked at him.

“Shush, Frodo, don’t apologize to me. I wish I had realized the date sooner.”

“And what good would that have done?” Frodo asked softly, the bleakness on his face almost a comfort to Merry--it was an old bleakness, an old sorrow from long before the Ring ever came to trouble Frodo’s life. It was a familiar and not unwelcome sorrow, and one rooted in their kinship. It was a sorrow Merry knew how to deal with. “I cannot believe that I, myself, had forgotten. What kind of son forgets the day his parents died?”

Frodo stared at his cousin in astonishment. “Of course I did! I did not remember a thing about it until I heard Faramir explain to Pippin what the date was in the Shire--I have been quite out of my reckoning, ever since I awakened in Cormallen.”

Merry chuckled, and shook his head. “And there you have it, cousin. You did not forget--you simply did not know.” Merry sat up and swung his feet over the side of the huge bed.

“But--” Frodo shook his head in confusion; even now Merry’s words, while they made sense, did not comfort him.

“Frodo Baggins,” Merry said firmly, “there are any number of things of which you might be guilty. Trying to keep your troubles to yourself being the first and foremost of your faults, and keeping secrets from your kin and friends another--but being an undutiful son is not one of them. You have always loved the memory of your parents.” He stood up on the floor, and then leaned across the bed, and placed a little kiss on Frodo’s brow, tip-toeing as he did so. “Now, since you so cleverly got rid of the fine supper you had last night, I do think that you might be hungry for first breakfast this morning.”

“We shall see about that!” Merry went to the door and opened it, gesturing to Pippin and Sam, who were waiting outside. “Sam, I think that Frodo might want a bit of help right now. Pip, Strider wanted to know right away when Frodo woke up, didn’t he?”

Pippin nodded. “Yes, I have orders to inform him as soon as Frodo wakened.” He peered into the room with a cocky grin and waggled his fingers at his oldest cousin. “Good morning, Frodo!” he said cheerily, “I am off to fetch the King--ah, ah, ah! Don’t shake your head at me! I’m under orders, you see!”

He and Merry went out, leaving Sam to help Frodo wash his face and hands and use the chamber pot. Frodo still felt very shaky.

“Here, now, Mr. Frodo, let’s get you tucked back up, nice and cozy. It may be spring, but these stone walls and floors make a room chill.” Sam spoke briskly and lightly, as he smoothed the covers up and then turned them back. He turned Frodo’s pillow over and plumped it up, before assisting Frodo to climb back into the bed, where he helped him sit back against the pillows, and pulled up the sheet and coverlet.

While Pippin went to find Aragorn in the Royal Chambers, Merry went to inform the servant stationed at the head of the stairs that the Ringbearer was awake, and would he please send to the kitchen for the Lord Frodo’s breakfast?

Sam had just finished getting Frodo settled back in the bed when Pippin returned with Aragorn.

Frodo looked at him and blushed. “You are king now. You have better things to do with your time than to attend on me. I am so sorry to be such a trouble--”

“Nonsense,” Aragorn replied, as he sat down on the bed next to Frodo and felt his brow gently. “Is your headache gone?”

“Then,” came Merry’s voice from the doorway, “this is perfect timing.” He was followed into the room by a liveried servant bearing a large tray.

The tray was perfectly huge to hobbit eyes, and had short legs on either side, so that it could be placed across the lap and make a comfortable table. Frodo’s eyes grew large at the sight of the bounty: there was toast, made of bread baked with cinnamon and raisins, lightly buttered, and with more cinnamon sprinkled atop it; there was a coddled egg, with some sort of creamy sauce, fragrant with herbs; there was a small bowl of oatmeal, swirled with honey, and drizzled with melted butter and cream; there were two rashers of bacon, crisp and brown; on a small plate were slices of cold melon and some grapes and strawberries. In addition there was a tumbler of juice, orange in color, and very cold. A candied cherry floated atop the juice. To one side of the tray was another plate, stacked with several more slices of the lovely toast.

A second servant entered, with another smaller tray, bearing a teapot and several cups. He placed the tray on the night table, and with a deep bow to the King, and a nod to the pheriannath, the two servants withdrew.

“Oh my!” exclaimed Frodo softly. “I don’t know if I could possibly eat all this by myself!”

Pippin grinned. “Eat what you will, cousin! We’ll help!” He ducked and laughed as Merry aimed a swat at the back of his head. “Shall I pour?” he said, moving over to the table where the teapot stood.

Merry smiled. “Anyway, that’s what the extra toast’s for.” He reached over and took a slice.

Aragorn shook his head amused. He had learned early on that hobbits considered it very poor manners to allow someone to eat alone, and would always nibble on something to “keep them company”, so he did not refuse when Pippin passed him a cup of tea, nor when Sam offered him a slice of the toast. It would be more than enough of a breakfast for himself, and he knew the other three hobbits would go down soon enough to a “proper breakfast” for themselves, as soon as they were assured that Frodo was properly nourished.

At first Frodo merely picked at the food, but after a few bites he began to eat more enthusiastically, occasionally offering a bit of fruit to one of the others, who nibbled at their toast, and talked lightly of what they would do when they went home. Frodo said little, but listened, and smiled just a little, and soon had finished nearly every bite.

There was a slight rap on the edge of the open door, and all looked up to see Gandalf standing there, smiling, a twinkle in his dark eyes. But he said gruffly, “My Lord King Elessar, your Steward awaits your presence. You have too much to do today to waste time lollygagging about with this lot.” He turned a stern eye on Merry, Pippin and Sam. “And you three had better make your way to the kitchen if you want your own breakfasts! The cooks have better things to do than to be awaiting the whims of a lot of hobbits!”

Pippin hopped down at once from his perch at the edge of Frodo’s bed, and Sam did so a bit more slowly, but Merry just gave Gandalf a cool look from under a raised brow.

Aragorn stood and said, “Mustn’t keep my Steward waiting. I will check on you after luncheon Frodo. But I expect you to rest today!” He turned to look at Pippin. “Sir Peregrin, you had best make haste if you intend to have another breakfast, for I expect you to attend on me in one hour; and Sir Meriadoc, I am quite certain that Éomer King will be expecting you as well.” He strode from the room and Merry and Pippin scrambled to follow him.

Sam followed a bit more slowly, and looking back at Frodo said, “You keep warm now, Mr. Frodo. And have another cup of tea!” As he passed Gandalf, he whispered loudly “You keep an eye on him, now, sir.”

The wizard chuckled. “Of course, Samwise! Now move along with you or that Took will have left nothing for you!”

After Sam left, Gandalf shut the door. He crossed the room to the nightstand, and poured out a cup of tea for himself, and then turning, he removed the tray from the bed, and poured another cup for Frodo. “The stars forbid that I should not follow the orders of Lord Samwise the Brave!” he said as he handed it to Frodo, before sitting down in the chair that Aragorn had vacated.

Frodo took a sip, sighed, and leaned his head back against the pillows. “I do wish that everyone would not make such a fuss over me. I am so sorry for what happened last night. I did not wish to spoil the coronation feast.”

Gandalf placed his large and gentle hand atop Frodo’s head. “My dear Frodo! You have not been long recovered from your ordeal--” privately, as he studied the pale face, he thought that perhaps the Ringbearer had not recovered at all. That hint of translucence he had noted once in Rivendell seemed even more pronounced now. “--and yesterday was a long and busy one for you. And then to remember your own long-ago grief on top of that, well, it is only to be expected you should react so!”

Gandalf had begun to gently smooth the dark curls. “Have I ever told you the tale of how I first encountered hobbits?” Without waiting for an answer, he began to talk, in a soft and soothing tone, of those long days past, and his discovery of the Shirefolk, and their gentle and simple way of life. Slowly, Frodo drifted into a deep and untroubled dream of his home.

“Rest well, my friend,” murmured Gandalf. “Your parents would have been exceedingly proud of you…”

BIRTHDAY PRESENT

Frodo opened his eyes slowly, still snuggled into his bed--well, his guest bed. Yes, it had been a good decision to come visit Crickhollow. As much as he would have preferred to have burrowed in at Bag End and never venture forth, he knew that he owed his cousins this visit. Merry, especially, would have been hurt, if he had not shown up for his birthday.

And this visit would give Sam and Rose a bit more time to themselves, before their child was born the following month.

He sat up, feeling well rested. He had slept far better than he expected to. He glanced out the little round window. While the day looked a bit dreary and overcast, that was normal for Solmath, and it didn’t look like there was snow or rain in the grey clouds above. It boded well to be a fairly pleasant day, something he had far too few of nowadays.

He threw back the covers, and shivered a bit, but the small rug by the bed kept the chill of the stone floor off his feet. He used the chamber pot, and washed up quickly, for the water in the ewer, while fresh, was cold. He decided to dress, rather than go to breakfast in his dressing gown--he’d rather got out of that bachelor’s habit since Rose had moved into Bag End. If he slacked off now, he might forget when he got back home.

He could smell breakfast cooking--sausages, mushrooms, and the yeasty smell of fresh bread, for Pippin had put dough out to rise before bed last night.

His nose led him straight to the kitchen, where Merry and Pippin, in a scene of cozy domesticity, were bustling about the business of first breakfast. They had no compunctions about dressing gowns, and Pippin’s was rather tatty-looking and a good deal too small for him. His youngest cousin’s curls had not seen a comb yet that morning either, but that appeared to be the last thing on his mind as he tended the skillet. Merry was taking a fresh loaf from the oven, and though his back was to Frodo, he said, “Good morning, Frodo! I’m surprised you are up so early. Would you mind setting the table? You know where the crockery is.”

Frodo went to the sideboard to get the plates, as Pippin took up the skillet and scraped the mushrooms and potatoes he’d been frying into a dish. He put the skillet back on the fire, and took up a bowl of beaten eggs, which he poured in with a flourish.

“Why thank you so much, cousin,” he replied wryly. “Didn’t Uncle Bilbo teach you never to insult the cook?”

Frodo grinned and gave him a cousinly swat to the back of his head. “I know you--you could never bring yourself to spoil good food, whatever the provocation!”

“Did you hear that, Merry? He thinks he can provoke me with impunity!” Pippin’s attempt to sound indignant was rather spoiled by the twitch of his lips.

“Well, of course he can,” was the response, as Merry turned out the new-baked loaf onto a tea towel. “He’s right you know.”

Amid much amiable wrangling, the three finally sat down to first breakfast, and Frodo found himself eating with a better appetite than he had for a good long while. True, he still could not eat so much as he once would have, but it was more than he’d eaten at one meal for weeks. And he did not feel as though his stomach were going to rebel.

After a while, the meal wound to a close. “As you lads cooked breakfast, why don’t I do the washing-up?”

“No,” said Merry. “We have our routine. It’s my day to do the washing up for breakfast. And Pippin has to gather up the weekly laundry for Mistress Bluebell to take back up to the Hall. But you could go out front and wait for the post-hobbit, if you would.”

He raised a brow at this, for it was clear his cousins were set on pampering him--Merry was not so enamored of washing up as all that. But he did not argue, and instead put on his jacket and took his pipe and went to sit on the front step.

The air was just a little damp and nippy, but not unpleasantly so. He closed his eyes, and savored the taste of Old Toby. He did not smoke so often as he used to, but this seemed like a good day for it. As he breathed out, he felt a little bump at his side, and looked down.

“Well, hello Dumpling.” It was Pippin’s ginger cat. He smiled at her, and she flopped over for her belly to be rubbed. He looked at her closely. “It looks as though you’ve been feeding kittens, my lass!” And just as he spoke, he heard a high-pitched mew, and looked to see four kittens approaching him, curious to see who was this new person who had claimed their mother’s attention.

One of the little white ones began to claw at his knee, and he was thankful for the heavy wool of his winter breeches. Not to be outdone the other white kitten also began to scramble up his leg, while the little ginger one was content to go to Dumpling’s side and attempt to nurse. Dumpling, however, had other ideas--clearly she had decided they were old enough to begin weaning, and she rolled over to put her teats out of reach. The ginger kitten cried piteously, but her mother ignored her pleas and began to wash one paw, unconcerned.

The fourth kitten stopped about a foot away, watching her brothers climb about in Frodo’s lap. She was mostly white, with a few ginger markings--most especially a charming little mark in the middle of her forehead.

“Well, little one, are you coming as well?” Frodo held his hand out to her to sniff. She must have approved of his smell, for she sandpapered his hand briefly with her little pink tongue, and then, in the universal language of cats, bumped against it in a demand to be stroked. He was obliging her, taken with her ladylike ways, and rather ignoring the other two who were now climbing up his jacket. One of them perched on his shoulder, and began to tickle his ear with its whiskers.

Unfortunately, the other one kept climbing, right on up into Frodo’s hair!
Its little claws were sharp.

“Oi!” Frodo cried, reaching up one hand. “Leave off you! I’m not a tree!”

However, his efforts were useless, as the kitten had thoroughly entangled itself in Frodo’s dark curls. He tugged with both hands causing it to yowl. This also unbalanced the other white kitten, which grabbed the sleeve of his forearm with its claws and hung on--yowling also in its turn.

Frodo felt ridiculous, and not a little alarmed. He wondered if his hair would be pulled out from his scalp. He was thoroughly annoyed then to hear both his cousins laughing at him. They had come out to see what the commotion was.

“You great lumps,” Frodo cried, torn between laughter and vexation, “don’t just stand there laughing--get this cat off my head!”

Amid much hilarity, Merry took the kitten that was dangling from Frodo’s jacket, while Pippin carefully disentangled the kitten from Frodo’s hair. “Goodness! This is worse than getting Boromir out of the bramble-bush,” Pippin chuckled. “Be still, Elladan! I’m not going to hurt you!”

Merry bent down and scooped up the other two kittens. “And these are Toffee--” he indicated the ginger kitten, “--and Strawberry.”

“They are very charming, I am sure,” said Frodo dryly, examining his scalp with one hand.

“I’m glad you think so, as one of them is to be your birthday present from me--or one of your presents, anyway.”

Frodo gaped. “Merry, you can’t be serious!” But the resolute twinkle in his Brandybuck cousin’s grey eyes gave him to know that it was no jest. He looked at the kittens, two squirming and mewing in Pippin’s hands, and two in Merry’s. They *were* rather darling. He bit his lip. “Which one?” he asked cautiously.

Merry chuckled at his older cousin’s sudden capitulation. “I thought I’d let you choose.”

Frodo grinned. “Well, then, I choose--” he reached up and took the little female with the mark on her forehead “--Strawberry. For she, at least, seems to have some manners.”

Frodo cuddled Strawberry, and buried his nose in her warm fur. “What Rosie will say to my coming home with a kitten, I daren’t guess.”

But, truly, he knew Rose and Sam would love this furry little lass as much as he already did.

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Bilbo encounters a mysterious stranger in Rivendell.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: [1] Marigold gave a list of four categories of elements for each writer to choose from. I chose the following:
Category one: a dangerous or dangerous seeming stranger
Category two: a strange occurrence
Category three: a place of healing
Category four: a writer
[2] This story takes place in S.R. 1402, just slightly over a year after Bilbo left the Shire.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Bilbo took up his pack and his old walking stick, and looked about his cozy lodgings. He had been here in Rivendell, in the Last Homely House, for nearly three months now.

And it was delightful--he could not imagine a better place to retire to, and he still marveled at Master Elrond’s generosity in inviting him to make his home here. He had spent days wandering the grounds and the halls, taking his meals sometimes with the Elves, and sometimes in his own lovely little room. He worked on his writing, and on improving his skills in Sindarin and even Quenyan. And the evenings were spent in the Hall of Fire, where he could listen to his heart’s content to the sound of Elven song.

But Imladris, Rivendell, was more than just the Last Homely House. It was an entire valley, and the vistas of waterfalls and trees also spoke to him. He wanted to know more of his new home than just this house, as large and magnificent as it was. So, shyly, he had approached the Lord of Imladris about the idea of his taking a small walking trip within the valley. The weather was perfect--it was late autumn, right after his birthday. He was still fit. He had after all, just returned from the Lonely Mountain before coming here.

“Most certainly, Bilbo. There is no reason that you should not do so. No evil thing can come into this valley to trouble you, and the weather should hold mild for at least two more weeks. Please feel free to explore all you like.”

And so, as he had often done in the Shire, he was going walking for pleasure. A pack, well filled with provisions to last him at least two weeks, his old cloak, still sturdy and warm, and a bedroll. He left his room and made his way from the House, the Elves bidding him farewell, reminding him not to stray out of the valley, lest he lose his way returning, and he turned his face to the west and a lovely waterfall which he could espy in the distance, and which had caught his attention. It was the very waterfall which was framed by the window in his room, and he had often thought how wonderful it would be to see its magnificence close up.

The valley was a far different countryside than the fields and copses of the Shire. The trees were taller, there were no farms and croplands--not in this direction, anyway. The land seemed older, and yet fresher--untouched, unspoiled. But the rhythm of walking, of stopping to eat when hungry, of foraging for mushrooms and nuts, and sleeping beneath the stars, was still the same gentle pleasure it had always been.

At one point, he paused to silently observe a magnificent stag, drinking from the pool of a spring. He watched a young fox, stalking and pouncing at a wily old hare--and missing. He found a bounty of mushrooms, and had quite a feast of them. It took him five days to reach the waterfall, and it was worth the walk: the water roared down with a sound like giants, and even from a safe distance, the spray dampened him, and felt pleasant on his face. He watched the play of a rainbow within the mist, and gazed to the west, as the sun went down.

He supped on a nice little trout, caught from a pool at the foot of the fall, supplemented by some of the mushrooms, and a bit of journeybread, and wrapped in his blanket, lay beneath the stars, composing a poem to the waterfall in his head.

The next day, he turned and began to follow the course of the river. The Bruinen was wide and wild. He thought that he would go south along it, and see if he could find the ford through which he had entered the Valley this time. If he remembered aright, it would not be more than a day’s tramp at a hobbit’s pace from there to return to the Last Homely House. He should get back well before his supplies ran out.

Four days he wandered down the river, occasionally wetting his toes in its icy waters, and more than once stopping to try his luck with the fish. The countryside along the water was a bit more open, and he could look up to see the high walls of the Valley, and the occasional large bird--perhaps even an Eagle, soaring overhead. On the fourth day he started early, just after sunrise. Things began to look somewhat familiar, and he thought he might be approaching the ford--indeed, it seemed that he was, as he could discern the path leading away and back up towards the Last Homely House.

He knew, of course, that the ways into the Valley were hidden, and only those who had legitimate business there were even supposed to be able to find their way in.

He was astonished, therefore, to see on the other side of the ford a campfire, a large horse, and a lump of blankets that could only be a person. He quickly hid behind a rather large boulder to observe. It was as well he did so, for only a few moments after, the blankets stirred, and the being sat up.

It was definitely not an Elf. It was a Man. A scruffier and more dangerous looking specimen of the race Bilbo had never seen. Tall and long-limbed, he was dressed in worn and faded leathers. His dark hair was lank and unkempt, and his beard was short and uneven--completely unlike the lush and well-cultivated facial hair of Dwarves, or even that of Gandalf.

As he watched, the Man first crawled to the edge of the water, and scooped some of it up, first to drink, and then to splash upon his face. Then he moved back to his pack which lay upon the ground near the blanket. He rummaged in it, and took something out. Then he drew a wicked-looking knife from a scabbard at his waist. It was a deadly looking thing, very nearly as long as Bilbo’s Sting! The Man used it on the chunk, which Bilbo realized must be dried meat, and cut off a strip and began to chew, as he put away the knife. The campfire, which was small, and burnt to embers, he doused by rather awkwardly kicking dirt over it. He gathered and rolled the blanket, and moved stiffly to the horse, where he secured it behind the saddle.

The Man took the horse’s reins, and began to lead it towards the Ford. Bilbo noticed that both Man and horse were limping.

Bilbo was shocked to see him lead his horse right into the water. Elrond had said that no evil could enter that Valley, yet this was obviously a dangerous brigand. It was a strange occurrence that he should be attempting to cross the Ford. Perhaps, thought Bilbo, the water would rise up and wash him away. He held his breath and bit his lip--it would be horrid, but only to be expected.

No. The Man made it across. He stumbled wearily as he splashed out of the river, and led his horse to the bank. He paused, and leaned against the animal tiredly, patting its neck. And then both horse and Man began to limp their way up the path that would lead towards the Last Homely House.

Bilbo swallowed, and watched, as the stranger vanished slowly around a curve in the path behind a copse of trees. Perhaps one Man, clearly injured, was not much of a threat to the Elves of Rivendell--but Bilbo remembered the dangerous look of him, and that long and glittering knife. He should try at least, to warn the Elves of the intruder into their midst. Normally, he would have stood no chance of doing so--the long-shanked Man would have easily outdistanced a small elderly hobbit. But Bilbo was fit and rested, and the Man was obviously injured and tired. If Bilbo proceeded at a trot, parallel to the path, he might be able to overtake him at least enough to offer a small warning.

He removed his pack and left it behind the boulder, lest it slow him down, and began to jog along, keeping to the north of the path, and far enough out, so that he might not be seen by this unsavory character. He was surprised when, glancing through the trees towards the path only a few moments later, he realized he had already drawn near the intruder. For a while, they kept pace with one another, all unknowing for the Man’s part--and then, Bilbo had passed him. Perhaps this Man was no danger after all, being so weak and slow. But Bilbo would take no chances, and trotted on as quickly as he could. It would be a poor repayment to Master Elrond for his kindness to fail of warning him that a trespasser had entered his domain!

Still, after a while, he felt a stitch beginning in his side, and was forced to slow down. But he did not stop, and when he caught his breath once more, he increased his pace.

Finally, it was his stomach that did him in. He felt quite famished, and realized he had missed not only second breakfast, but elevenses, and from the look of the Sun overhead, possibly luncheon as well. He had begun to feel quite wobbly, when he heard the sound of bells, and realized he was hearing a party of Elves on horseback. Quickly, he regained his resolve, and with a second wind, he moved in that direction to encounter them.

He burst out of the undergrowth near the path almost directly in front of the Elves--fortunately Elven steeds are not easily startled, and these shied only enough to avoid trampling him.

Bilbo was still puffing a bit, and looked quite disheveled after his efforts. He looked up to see Lord Glorfindel, who had spoken, and behind him were Elladan and Elrohir, Elrond’s sons, and a few other Elves whom he had not come to know well yet.

“Lord Glorfindel, there is a trespasser in the Valley! I saw a Man crossing the Ford! He looks quite wicked and dangerous!”

Bilbo nodded. “He seemed to be injured--he was limping and moving slowly, else I would never have been able to overtake him and give warning. A scruffy, dark-haired fellow with a knife as long as my arm…”

The twins gave one another alarmed looks, and then nodding to one another, instantly set off down the path toward the Ford.

Glorfindel dismounted. “Master Baggins, if you would, please ride back with me to deliver this news?” Without really waiting for Bilbo’s answer, he lifted the startled hobbit up onto his horse’s back, and quickly mounted behind him. There was no saddle, though the horse wore a beautifully tooled belled bridle, and Bilbo felt quite insecure at first. But as they headed back up the path, he soon realized he was as safe as could be in front of the mighty Elf, though they raced along at a gallop.

Before Bilbo could answer, Glorfindel replied in a spate of Sindarin too rapid for Bilbo to follow, although he caught his own name and the words “ford”, “hope” and “injured” and “twins“. Then the Elf dismounted, and helped Bilbo down.

Elrond looked at the hobbit gravely. “Bilbo, I am most grateful to you for this news!”

Before Bilbo could reply, Elladan and Elrohir clattered up. One of them--Elladan, Bilbo thought, bore the intruder, unconscious, before him, while the other, who must be Elrohir, was leading the injured horse. Elladan gave his burden over to his father, who held the Man in his arms as easily as he would have a child.

“We shall take him to the infirmary immediately!” said Elrond, and they moved off rapidly.

Bilbo watched with wide eyes, and then turned to Glorfindel. “It is so very kind of Master Elrond to treat this stranger’s injuries!”

Glorfindel looked down at Bilbo in amusement. “It is no stranger, Master Baggins. That is Master Elrond’s foster son, Estel.”

“Estel!” Bilbo gasped. “Hope” indeed! And suddenly Bilbo remembered another day long ago, on his return through Rivendell from his Adventure with the Dwarves, walking with Elrond, and espying a young child in the garden, playing at ball with one of the twins while a woman, clearly not an Elf, watched fondly. To Bilbo’s curious question, Elrond had replied “That is Estel. I took him and his mother in when his father was killed. His father was a good Man and a friend.” Elrond had not explained further, and Bilbo did not see the child again during his visit. Bilbo felt very foolish now.

“And here I thought he was a trespasser! I suppose my warning was very silly and unnecessary,” he said with a crestfallen air.

“Oh no, my small friend,” replied Glorfindel. “Without your news, poor Estel might have lain upon the path for hours, with none to know or tend his wounds. You did us a great favor, though not quite for the reason you originally supposed. And it was a brave deed to try and warn us of one you thought might be dangerous!”

Bilbo felt much better at this news, though still a bit foolish. He should have realized that the Man could not have entered the Valley without the blessing of the Elves. Just then his stomach rumbled loudly, and he blushed.

Glorfindel chuckled. “It sounds as though you have missed some meals today, Master Hobbit! Shall we pay a visit to the kitchens?”

Some hours later, Bilbo was back in his rooms, seated at his little desk, and writing up an account of his trip. He remembered his abandoned pack, and wondered if he could persuade one of the Elves to take him down to retrieve it. And he thought of Estel, and wondered how he fared.

Just then, there was a rap upon his door. He looked up, and called out “Come in!”

Bilbo blushed. “I am afraid that I thought I was letting you know something quite different,” he chuckled ruefully.

Elrond gave him a kindly smile. “Well, of course you did. I am afraid my son’s appearance would not have inspired confidence. But he has been long wandering in the Wild.”

“Yes, he is going to be fine after he has had some rest, and he must stay off his feet for a few days. Would you like to meet him? He is most curious about you, for we told him of what you did.”

“I certainly would like to meet him. I must say I am quite as curious about him. He must have an amazing story to tell!”

“I will leave it to him as to how much of his tale he cares to relate, my friend. But I think that you will like one another very well. He is fond of hobbits.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose in surprise at this pronouncement, for in his experience most of those who dwelt outside the Shire had no notion even of what a hobbit *was*, much less know enough of them to feel fond of them. But he said nothing, and merely followed his host.

Elrond led his small friend not to the infirmary, but towards the wing of the house where he and his immediate family dwelt. Bilbo was let into a light and airy room with wide windows facing south. In the bed lay the Man, propped up against pillows, and looking a bit pale. On a tray next to the bed were the remains of a meal.

He looked quite different and less dangerous than he had by the river. His beard was clean and trimmed, as was his hair, and he was wearing a fine linen nightshirt. He turned to his visitors with a smile, which lit his grim face up and made him look kindly, wise and warm.

Elrond quirked a smile. “Good afternoon, my son. I am glad to see you looking so much better. I would like you to meet Master Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire, who has retired here to Rivendell and is now a treasured member of the household.”

Bilbo gave a courteous bow. “At your service, and your family’s” he said politely.

The Man gave a nod in return. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn, at your service and your family’s, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo could not suppress an expression of shock, for he was well-versed in the history of the North, and he knew what those particular names must signify. He shot a look at Elrond, who nodded gravely.

Elrond moved into the room, and after placing a cushion on the chair that stood by the bed, he picked up the tray. “I shall leave the two of you to get acquainted, then. I hope that you will enjoy one another’s company.”

Bilbo clambered up to the seat provided, and studied the Man for a moment. “You are one of the Dúnadain,” he said finally.

“I encountered a pack of Wargs on my way here. There were too many for me to slay, and in fleeing them, my horse and I took a tumble down a steep embankment. My injury was only slight to begin with, but as my horse was injured as well, I was forced to walk, which of course made my own injury worse. I am most grateful that your timely warning enabled my brothers to find me when I collapsed.”

“I am sorry to say, I had no idea who or what you were. I thought--” Bilbo bit his lip, but then continued on with the painful truth--”I thought you were a brigand, you see.”

The Man gave a hearty laugh. “I daresay I looked much like a brigand!“ he grinned. “You are a most intrepid hobbit, Master Baggins! But then I know of the famous Bilbo and his deeds! I was very upset when I was a lad, and was not allowed to meet you. I was very vexed with Gandalf--Mithrandir, as I called him then.”

“Indeed! I have been doing an errand for him, in fact, and was on my way here in hopes of sending a message to him. But I may not say more of that.”

Bilbo nodded. One did not discuss a wizard’s business when he was not present. Instead, he said, “Tell me about yourself, then. How did it come that one of the Men of the West should be raised in Rivendell, and call its lord ‘Father’?”

The two were soon chatting companionably. Bilbo heard with interest much of Aragorn’s story, and the Man encouraged him to speak of his home. As a Ranger he had spent much time guarding and observing the Shire. Bilbo found himself speaking with fondness of Frodo, whom he still sorely missed, and passing along bits of old Shire gossip that the Man seemed to have an interest in.

So well were they getting on that Bilbo was surprised to be interrupted by the entrance of Elrond. “I see that you are enjoying one another’s company every bit as much as I thought you might. However, it has been a long day for you, Estel, and you need to take this draught. And Bilbo, it is very nearly time to dine.”

Bilbo slid from the chair with alacrity, and bowing to his host and his new acquaintance, he bid them farewell.

That night, Bilbo did not go to the Hall of Fire. Instead, he returned to his own chambers, to write of his meeting with this amazing Man. And as he wrote, words seemed to come to him of their own, words that described one who hid his true and noble nature beneath the guise of a wandering vagabond. He dipped his quill, and began:

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all that wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows will spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”*
_________________________________________

Proper Beginnings by Dreamflower
Sam and Marigold have a business proposition for Lily Cotton...

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Sam and Marigold have a business proposition for Lily Cotton.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: [1] Marigold gave a list of four categories of elements for each writer to choose from. I chose the following:
Category one: A sibling
Category two: A business venture
Category three: A farm
Category four: A baker
[2] This story takes place in S.R. 1411. Sam and Tom are 31, Marigold is 28, Rose is 27, and the Gaffer will be 85. (20, 18, 17 and about 64 in Man-years)
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

STORY #2

PROPER BEGINNINGS

“Sam?” Marigold asked her brother hesitantly, as they walked the road from Hobbiton to nearby Bywater, “do you think Missus Lily will go along with our idea?”

Sam shrugged. “There’s naught we can do but ask, Mari. But she’s a good sort, and I think she’s fond of the Gaffer. And it only makes sense to try.”

Marigold nodded. The Gaffer would soon be eighty-five--not especially elderly for a hobbit, but a good respectable age nonetheless.

Their father wasn’t one to make a fuss over his birthday like some folk were; he’d have a few presents to give away, but he’d not be expecting anything for himself. Yet most years he was used to at least having some of his older children with him, and a nice family dinner with the grandchildren on his knee. Halfred of course could not come--he had moved to the Northfarthing to be near his wife‘s family last summer, and it meant he would be doing well to visit once every two or three years now. The Gaffer had not said much about it, but when Sam read him the letter from Hamson, saying that there was an important and especially large order for rope and they could not get away from Tighfield this year, his father’s face had fallen briefly, before he said gruffly “Just as well; t’ old hole gets crowded, what with all them noisy younglings here.”

May and her husband Tam Tunnelly were in Overhill, and expecting their first child--she was too close to her time to venture even as near as Hobbiton. Daisy, who still lived in Hobbiton, stopped by to say she would be going to stay with her sister until the baby was delivered, and her husband Finch was taking their daughter with him to visit his family in Michel Delving, and so they could not be at home for the Gaffer’s birthday either.

The Gaffer was clearly disappointed. He said nothing, but there was no spring in his step, and he avoided even talking about the upcoming day. Usually he was busy making or finding the small gifts he gave, but this year there was no sign of that usual activity--one in which his youngest two children often conspired with him.

So Sam and Marigold had discussed it, and decided that it was up to the two of them to make the day memorable for their father.

“Since we can’t have family, we’ll have friends instead. We’ll throw a regular party for our old Dad,” said Sam. “I’ll speak to Mr. Frodo, about having it in the Party Field, and we’ll invite the Twofoots, and Widow Rumble and the Longholes and the Cottons…”

Marigold grinned. “The Cottons! Sam, why don’t we ask Missus Lily to make him a birthday cake?”

Sam bit his lip, he hated to dash his sister’s hopes. “I don’t know, Mari-lass. Missus Lily gets a nice penny for making them sorts of cakes. I don’t know as we could pay her what it would be worth. And it wouldn’t be right to expect her to make it out of friendship--she might offer, but it just wouldn’t be proper.” Lily Cotton was a skilled baker of fancy cakes; she had worked for her uncle who was a baker in Michel Delving as a lass, and might even have apprenticed to him if she had been a lad. But she had chosen to wed Tom Cotton instead, and used her baking skills from time to time to earn a bit of extra coin for the family.

“Well, mayhap we can think of something we could do in exchange, Sam. I’m sure *that* would be proper!” Marigold laughed delightedly. “It will be a splendid party, Sam! Just like Mr. Bilbo’s!”

Now Sam laughed. “Glory and trumpets, Marigold! I hope not--we don’t need our Gaffer vanishing in a puff of smoke! And he wouldn’t think it proper to have a party that grand anyway--we’re not gentry, nor anything like it. But for once in his life he can have a party that’s just right for him!”

So they were making their way to the Cotton farm, in hopes of laying their idea before Mrs. Cotton. They were on the outskirts of Bywater now, and they turned south onto the lane that led to the Cotton’s farm.

They passed Farmer Cotton and his sons working in the fields, and waved, receiving a greeting in return, and soon came to the rambling farmhouse that served the family instead of a smial.

Mrs. Cotton was sitting on her front step shelling peas, and gave a cheery welcome to the Gamgees. “Sam! Marigold! Whatever brings you to Bywater?” She stood up and brushed her skirts, shifting the basket of peas under her arm. “Do come in and have somewhat to drink--and eat--it’s nigh time for elevenses!” She led the way to the sunny kitchen, and put the basket on the table.

“So--you haven’t told me yet why the pleasure of a visit!” she said, sitting down at the table with them, after setting out a pitcher of apple juice and a plate of biscuits. Marigold looked at Sam. It had been her idea, but now it came to it, she was almost afraid to ask.

Sam took a deep breath. “Missus Lily, we were wondering if mayhap there was somewhat we could do for you, in exchange for you making our old Gaffer a birthday cake? Seeing as none of the others can come home for his birthday this year, Mari and me hope to have a party for him. And your family’s invited, of course.”

“Why Sam! I’d make the cake for him anyway, you know that!”

“Well, but Missus Lily, we want it to be a gift from us. And it wouldn’t sit well with him if he thought you were put out any on his account. You know that.”

Lily nodded. She did indeed know Hamfast’s stubborn pride. She pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “Sam, my herb bed is a right mess this year--I had little time at the beginning of spring to keep it up, what with that wedding cake I had to make for the Boffins. And now it’s clean got away from me. My mint’s running wild, and my savory and my sage aren’t looking too good. The parsley’s yellow. And my rosemary needs *something*--it’s looking all grey and dry, in spite of getting water. Do you think you could set it in order for me, one day soon?”

Sam nodded. “I could. Mr. Frodo gives me the whole of Highday off twice a month. I can come down this Highday next and spend the day working on it for you. I’ll take a look at it today, and see what it needs.”

Marigold felt a bit less shy now that Sam had put their idea forward. “Is there anything *I* can do, Missus Lily?”

Lily nodded. “There’s a bumper crop of brambleberries this year. If you could come with Sam on Highday, Rose and me would welcome your help putting up the jam.”

“I can do that!” Marigold grinned. Rose was her best friend, and it would be a lot of fun to help her and her mother in the kitchen.

Just then the kitchen door opened, and a familiar voice sang out “I’ve taken all the sheets down, Ma, but the towels have yet to be dry enough!”

Sam and Marigold looked toward the back door. Marigold jumped up to take the laundry basket from Rose, and give her friend a hug.

Sam stared as though pole-axed. He had expected to see little Rosie Cotton, his friend Tom’s baby sister, who had teased him and been teased by him ever since she was a faunt. Instead, he found himself gazing at a lovely lass who seemed to glow with the sunlight. She was a bit flushed and sweaty, and her hair, which had been piled atop her head to keep it off her neck in the heat, had escaped in tendrils that hung about her face. She was smiling and laughing with joy at seeing Marigold, which was good, for Sam could not have spoken if his life depended on it.

When had she grown up? The last time he had seen her, sometime early in the year, she had still that coltish and awkward look of a young tween.

No longer.

He heard a throat clear next to him, and jumped, looking to see Lily Cotton gazing at him with unfathomable amusement. He blushed to the tips of his ears.

“Will you and Marigold stay to lunch, Sam?” she asked, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

Sam gulped. Had she noticed him gawking at her daughter? “Er--no, thanks, Missus Lily. We ought to get ourselves home, thank you!”

He rather hustled Marigold away, and she was cross. “Sam, whatever’s got into you? We could’ve stayed to lunch! I wanted to visit a bit with Rosie!”

“I just remembered some things as I need to get done, that’s all,” he said, rather unconvincingly. “ ‘Sides, you’ll be here all day on Highday! You can visit then!”

He stopped briefly to inspect Mrs. Cotton’s herb bed. She was right, it really was a mess, and it would be a job of work. That made Sam feel better, knowing as she wasn’t just finding any old job for him to do, just so she could make the Gaffer’s cake. Looked like the poor rosemary had died--it was potted, and had gone all root-bound. He’d bring her a couple of nice plants from home--they had more rosemary than they knew what to do with anyway. And the mint needed to be moved to a bed of its own. Yes, it was a real job, and it would be worth the price of the cake.

Marigold tapped her foot impatiently. If she could not stay and visit Rose, she wanted to go on home.

Rose.

Sam sighed. Rose.
_______________________________________

They had been to the Cottons on Monday. On Trewsday, when Sam joined Frodo in the Bag End kitchen for second breakfast, he brought up the subject.

“Why, Sam! Of course you may use the Party Field! We could make it a splendid party! I could--”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo,” Sam hated to interrupt when his master looked so happy and enthusiastic, but it wouldn’t do to let him get all carried away. He could be quite as Tookish as old Mr. Bilbo had been, sometimes. “--but we just want a small party. The Gaffer wouldn’t like no one to think he’s putting on airs. It’ll be just our good neighbors here on the Hill, and the Cottons from Bywater, and mayhap a few of my dad’s friends from The Ivy Bush. We just don’t want him to feel forgot, since my brothers and older sisters can’t be here.”

Frodo sighed, but nodded. Sam was right, Hamfast Gamgee would be appalled at a spectacle of a party such as Bilbo had been fond of. Then he brightened up. He’d thought of something. “When *is* his birthday, then, Sam?”

“It’s Sunday week. It gives us whole week and a half to get everything done.”

“Very well, then, I shall leave it all up to you. But you must promise to tell me if there is anything I can do!”

“I will, Mr. Frodo. The best as you can do, though is to just come to the party and have a good time.”

“Thank you, Sam! I most certainly will!” But there were some letters he needed to write. A week and a half--it should be enough time.
__________________________________________

On Highday, Till Twofoot, Daddy Twofoot’s grandson, had to go to market in Bywater, so he gave Sam and Marigold a lift in the waggon. Till’s grandfather and the Gaffer were already ensconced at The Ivy Bush, where they’d spend the day playing draughts and gossiping and smoking.

Sam had with him a small crate, containing a couple of new rosemary plants, and some new starts of parsley, sage, savory, tarragon and a few other plants as he had noticed Missus Lily either did not have or that were not in the sort of condition he thought proper. This would be an interesting job of work, he thought. He smiled. It was a shame that Mr. Merry wasn’t here. He and Master Pippin had finished their visit at the end of Thrimidge, but Mr. Merry was fond of herbs--he’d’ve had a lot of interest in this. Though, of course, it wouldn’t be proper to let him help with the work, he’d have enjoyed talking the planning of it out with Sam.

Till let the two of them out at the beginning of the lane, and then Sam and Marigold made their way to the farmhouse.

Lily was pleased to see them. There were baskets and buckets of brambleberries all over the kitchen, which was already warm from the heat of the stove. She gave Marigold a kiss on the cheek, and gave her an apron, and sent her over by Rose to help in the cleaning of the berries.

Sam stood for a moment, staring at Rose, but her back was to the door, and she did not seem to notice he was there.

“Sam!” Lily said.

He gave a start. Had she been speaking to him?

“I’m sorry Missus Lily,” he said, blushing. “My mind was a-wandering.”

“I noticed.” She shook her head, smiling in a way that made Sam blush even more. “I just wanted to let you know that I told Tom off to help you today. His dad’s at market, and he’s not needed in the fields today, so he can give you a hand with whatever’s needed. Just tell him what you want done.”

Sam grinned. “Thanks, Missus Lily!” It would be grand to have Tom’s help--not that he really needed help for the job, but because now that they were very nearly of age, the two of them had all too little time for visiting or talking.

He picked up the little crate, which he had put down by the step, and headed to the herb garden. Tom was already there, sitting on top of one of the logs that bordered the bed. Several tools--spades, rakes, hoes and a barrow--were ranged nearby. He gave Sam a broad grin, and stood up.

“I’m that glad to see you, Sam! It’s been a long while!”

Sam grinned back, and said, “Well, it’ll be good to have a body to talk to while I’m working, anyhow!” He sat the crate down, and took a look once more at the bed. “We need to dig out the plants. We can save the betony, the bee balm, the dill and the chives. I think the chamomile looks all right, and the thyme is looking just fine. The lavender is thriving. The mint is thriving all too well. We’ll need to root all of it out, and give it a bed of its own.” He looked about him, and then pointed to a small nearby tree. “We’ll put the good plants over there in the shade, till their new home’s ready for ‘em. We need to be sure they keep plenty of soil around their roots when we take them out. Then we’ll dig in the old mulch, and add a small barrow load of compost--shouldn’t need much; herbs don’t generally take to rich soil, but this bed needs *some* at any rate. And after we get the plants back in and well watered, we’ll spread some clean hay mulch around them.”

Tom nodded, and they quickly got to work.

There was no stinting, but they worked at a leisurely pace, enjoying the chance for a bit of gossip. Tom wanted to hear all about what Mr. Frodo had been up to, and about Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin’s spring visit. He’d met them a few times, and when they were much younger, they both had come out to the farm with Sam a few times to play with the Cotton lads. Of course, now they were too old for such, but Tom remembered them fondly.

“Has Master Pippin slowed down any since he’s been a tween?” Tom asked, grinning.

“Not so’s I could notice,” replied Sam wryly. “He fair wears Mr. Frodo out sometimes, though he don’t make a body dizzy just to watch him so much anymore.” Sam stopped briefly to wipe his brow with a kerchief. The day was drawing on toward elevenses, and getting a bit warm. “Master Pippin was asking about your cousin Rusty--but I’d not heard anything of her lately!”

Tom laughed. “That lass! Uncle Wil and Aunt Aster are about at their wit’s end with her. Aunt Aster’s decided that since she’s a tween now, it’s time to put away the lad’s clothes altogether. She got so mad, she took Rusty’s breeches out and burned them. The next day, Rufus woke up to find that his everyday trousers was gone, and Rusty had took off. Uncle Wil caught her before she’d got too far, and now the plan is to send her to Great-Aunt Jasper in Gamwich!”

“Gamwich!” Sam exclaimed. “That’s clear to the edge of the Shire almost! It‘s the other side of Tighfield!”

“I know,” said Tom. They stopped talking for a few moments, as Sam checked the state of the bed. It really was quite warm, and by mutual consent the two lads shed their shirts, before they began the task of raking in the compost.

Both of them jumped a few minutes later, however, at the sound of giggles. Turning, they saw Rose and Marigold standing there staring at them. The lads blushed, and first Sam, and then Tom, grabbed their shirts and put them back on hastily.

Marigold had a pitcher, and Rose had a basket. “Ma sent us out with your elevenses!” Rose said.

“Th-thanks!” stuttered Sam, gaping, as the two lasses went back to the house, their heads together, giggling.

Tom said nothing; he just stared.

Sam stared himself, until the lasses entered the back door, and then he turned to look at the basket, and more importantly, to check the pitcher, for he suddenly realized he was very thirsty. “Small beer!”* Sam exclaimed. “There are mugs in the basket, Tom. Do you want a ham sandwich or a stuffed egg first?” he asked.

Tom didn’t answer. He was still staring at the house.

“Tom!” exclaimed Sam, perplexed.

Tom gave a start. “I’m sorry Sam! What did you say?”

“I think the heat’s gone to your brain, you daft goose! Elevenses!”

Tom grinned suddenly and turned to look at the basket as well, and soon the two lads were seated on the ground, eating and drinking. As is the way of hobbits, they at first talked about the food as they ate--the ham was honey-cured and quite excellent--but they both fell into a distracted silence soon enough.

“Sam?” Tom’s voice broke in the middle of saying Sam’s name--something it had not done in many a year. He cleared his throat. “Sam? How old is Marigold?”

Sam was surprised he asked. “You know that--she’s eight months older’n Jolly and--” Sam’s own voice faltered. “Rosie,” he continued in a quieter tone. He looked at Tom again, struck by an amazing possibility. Had he himself looked this daft the other day to Missus Lily? If he had, no wonder she’d been giving him funny looks. His eyes turned again to the farmhouse’s back door. He wet his lips and cleared his throat to continue. “She’ll be having of her own birthday after Lithe.”

“Oh.”

A silence fell once more, and then Sam gathered up all his courage. “Tom?”

“Yes, Sam?”

Sam bit his lip and then blurted out “Would you mind a lot if I was to step out wi’ your sister?”

Now it was Tom’s turn to gawk. “Rosie?” he asked incredulously.

Sam nodded. “You’ve only the one sister so far’s I know, Tom.” He kept his eyes down, and avoided looking at his friend. He didn’t think it would be so, but it could be very awkward if Tom did say he minded.

There was another silence, this one not so comfortable as usual, before Tom said quietly, “I don’t guess I’d mind much if you didn’t mind me asking to step out wi’ *your* sister.”

The joy that lifted Sam’s heart was sharp and sudden, and he felt like leaping up and laughing aloud. Instead, he said mischievously “Which sister? Their husbands might object, you know!” he chuckled.

Tom laughed and punched him in the shoulder. “You ninnyhammer! I mean Marigold of course!”

Sam looked at his friend in delight. “I think it would be downright splendid, Tom, if you was to be courting my sister. I’m not sure what the Gaffer’d say, though” he added honestly.

Tom sobered. “No more am I sure of what my dad’d say to you seeing Rose. I think Ma would be glad of it, though. She likes you, Sam.”

Remembering Missus Lily’s secretive smiles, Sam felt quite confident that Tom was right. And he was glad to realize that if she were on his side, then the old farmer was unlikely to make very many objections. He was less certain of the Gaffer. He had to be honest, and admit that if it had been any other lad than Tom asking to court his little sister--the baby of his family and the darling of the Gamgee clan--he himself would have bristled mightily at the thought of some lad walking about with his sister hand-in-hand.

Perhaps he could do his own persuading of their father. Marigold *was* getting to the age when courting often began--though it would be a good five years before she came of age--and perhaps Sam could make the Gaffer see that it would be a good thing if she formed an attachment now to a good hobbit like Tom. It would keep the other, not so suitable, lads away.

“Thing is--” Tom’s voice broke into Sam’s thoughts, “whatever our parents say, what do you think Rosie and Mari will say?”

There *was* that. Both lads stared at the back door again for a moment, and then in unspoken agreement, cleaned up the crumbs of their meal, downed the last of the small beer, and returned to their work.

They didn’t talk so much this time, but Sam soon raised his voice in jolly song:

“A hobbit of habit was Nob o’ the Lea;
A hobbit of habit was he, was he…”**

And Tom quickly joined in.

By the time they were summoned in for lunch, the main herb bed had been neatly re-planted, with the new plants and old tucked in amidst clean hay mulch. Sam had marked out a small area in which they would plant the mint. “What we’re going to do is break the bottom out of this crate I brought. We’ll sink it in the ground, and leave the top board out as an edging. Then it will keep the mint contained, keep it from taking over the garden, as it were.”

Tom thought it a rather clever plan, and it would not take them much more of the afternoon to finish, after lunch was over. The two lads stopped at the well, and drew up a bucket to wash their faces and hands before going in to eat.

Lily had put out a cold luncheon. Aside from the weather being hot, she and Rose and Marigold had a good deal too much work with putting up the berries to be worrying about cooking a hot meal. This did not mean, however, that she had not laid a lavish table: there was more of the honey-cured ham; cold roasted chicken; bread rolls; more stuffed eggs; mushroom pasties; two kinds of cheese--a hard, aged sharp yellow cheese, and a soft and creamy white fresh cheese; summer sausage; pickles; a salad of young greens, dressed with a tart-sweet dressing, and to drink, there were pitchers of small beer, apple juice, and cold milk. The only thing that was warm was a brambleberry cobbler, made from some of the berries being put up--fresh and fragrant from the oven.

While old Tom and Jolly were still absent, young Nick and Nibs were there, along with the Cotton’s hired hobbit, Mat Brownlock. Mat had been supervising the younger Cotton lads in the task of cleaning the barn. The two were regaling the older hobbits with an account of how the litter of spring kittens was making life miserable for the Cotton’s old terrier.

“Poor Spotty lays down to take a bit of a nap, and suddenly she has half a dozen of them climbing all over her,” Nick chuckled.

Nibs laughed aloud. “And she daren’t wag her tail, for they try to catch it!”

Rose and Marigold sat together at one end of the table, whispering and giggling together. Sam and Tom applied themselves to their meal, and studiously avoided looking at the lasses at all.

Until, at one point the giggling stopped, and Sam happened to look up, just in time to catch Rose’s eyes with his own. He heard his heart pounding in his chest, and time seemed to stop. Her eyes grew wide. She made a little “o” of surprise with her mouth, and unaccountably blushed, before suddenly looking down again.

Suddenly, Sam felt very happy indeed. He could feel himself grinning foolishly, and he, too, looked down at his plate, and suddenly found great interest in its contents.

When lunch was ended, Sam and Tom returned to the mint bed, taking only an hour to get it finished. Lily came out to see the work, and was most impressed.

“Sam, this is beautiful! This old mess of herbs never looked this good before--why this is as good as a picture!”

Sam blushed at the praise, and felt gratified. In spite of the hard work, he’d enjoyed himself very much.

“Well, it’s most certainly worth the price of a cake, lad! And Rose and I could never have finished with putting up all that jam without Marigold’s help--why we’d *still* be at it!” She patted Sam on the back in a motherly fashion. “I look forward to seeing your Gaffer’s face when we surprise him. We’ll see you in the Party Field a week from tomorrow, and I will bring the cake with me then.”
___________________________________________

On the following Highday, after supper, Sam and Marigold presented their father with his gifts. Marigold gave him a jar of the brambleberry jam which she had helped to put up, and Sam presented him with a small pouch of leaf--Old Toby, in fact, a far dearer pipe-weed than the Gaffer’s usual Southfarthing blend.

He seemed pleased with their gifts, though he was heard to mutter darkly “At least there’s *some* as don’t forget their old dad on his birthday…” Neither Sam nor Marigold saw fit to notice. They knew that he didn’t really mean it, and that he knew his older children would have been there if they could.

He seemed in a much better mood the following morning. Marigold dished up a nice first breakfast of porridge, scones and tea. The Gaffer opened his new jar of jam, and shared it out with his youngest children, before passing them his gifts to them.

For Marigold, there was a new hair-ribbon, in a lovely golden yellow color, and for Sam he had whittled a new dibble. There on the old sideboard stood a few bottles of the Gaffer’s home-brew, and a basket of some of his finest cabbages and cucumbers, meant as gifts for various friends.

Just then, there was a rap on the door. Sam and Marigold looked at one another--who could it be? The guests knew they were to go straight to the Party Field, though Sam was still wondering what excuse they would give to the Gaffer to get him over there.

Sam answered the door.

“Mr. Frodo!” he exclaimed. “And--Mr. Merry? Master Pippin?” Sam was puzzled. Those two had gone to the Great Smials only a few weeks before--what were they doing back in Hobbiton so soon? But he stepped aside, and they entered Number Three.

“Good morning, Sam! We came to wish your father joy of the day.”

“Why, good day to ye, Mr. Frodo,” said the Gaffer coming forward. “I thank ‘ee!”

Frodo had a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. “I know I’ve left it rather late, but I am afraid the packages did not arrive until this morning. I have a birthday gift for you, and I hope, as it is not yet noon, you will take no offense!”

“O’ course not, Mr. Frodo!” Old Hamfast was mightily puzzled, especially as Mr. Frodo did not seem to be carrying anything.

Frodo looked down at Pippin. “Pip? Would you mind fetching the Gaffer’s gifts along for me?”

Pippin grinned widely. “I don’t mind at all,” he said, and went back out, only to open the door almost immediately, ushering in two small lads of about seven and nine years of age.

The Gaffer’s jaw dropped, and Sam and Marigold stared, before the two little ones ran over and hugged the old byrding soundly. “Happy Birthday, Gaffer!” squealed the older child.

“Andred? Erling?” He gathered them up in his arms, and then looked up at Frodo. “How, Mr. Frodo?”

“When Sam told me that Hamson couldn’t bring the family home this year, I wrote, and asked if we provided a proper escort could not at least the two younger lads come to visit their grandfather. Merry, Pippin and my cousin Pearl went to Tighfield to get them, and then Merry and Pippin brought them from Tuckborough to here. Their father has written to say if they behave themselves they may stay a month. He was sorry he could not spare Holman, but he does need his help with the work. He sent this letter.”

Frodo proffered the letter, and Sam took it and opened it, scanning it quickly. He’d read it aloud later, when the family had more privacy. “Dad, Hamson says that he expects to finish up this large order in a month, and then he and Violet and Holman will come along to visit a bit, and fetch the lads home. And he says ‘Happy Birthday‘!”

A great smile lit the old hobbit’s usually gruff face, and he invited Frodo and his cousins in. They shared a cup of tea with the family, and nibbled on scones, as the two children sat by their grandfather and regaled him with an account of their journey.

“Mithter Merry and Mith Pearl and Mithter Pippin brought us in a *coach*!” lisped little Andred, who was missing a number of baby teeth.

“And we stayed the night at Mr. Pippin and Miss Pearl’s smial, Gaffer!” exclaimed Erling. “Did you know their dad is the *Thain*?”

Hamfast looked up quite sharply at Mr. Frodo at this, for it was hardly proper for his grandsons to be staying the night at Great Smials. But Frodo just gave him back an amused smile, and lifted an eyebrow, just daring him to object. Somehow he couldn’t find it in his heart to do so. He gave both the little lads a squeeze, and said, “That sounds mighty interesting. And I hope you minded your manners!”

After a few more minutes, Frodo and his cousins left to return to Bag End, and Marigold set to preparing second breakfast--this time with enough for two hungry little ones.

Meanwhile, Sam had been wracking his brain, trying to think of something, and finally he had it. “Gaffer, I noticed t’other day that some nettles has taken root out in the Party Field. I know they are right useful plants, but I don’t think as that’s the best place for them to be growing, not with so many young ones playing there and such. Could you walk out there with me before elevenses, mayhap give me some idea as to what to do about ‘em?”

“O’ course, Sam. We can walk over there right after we eat, and mayhap the little lads would like to come along.” He looked at his grandsons dotingly. He did well to see them two or three times a year. He sighed. Tighfield was far enough away, and now Halfred was even further off in the Northfarthing. Ah well, this was better than he had begun to hope for this year--his little grandsons on his knee! And thanks to Mr. Frodo, who in many ways was an even more considerate and thoughtful Master than Mr. Bilbo had been, and that was going some. Though really--them staying the night in the Great Smials was hardly proper!

As the little group of Gamgees headed toward the Party Tree, Hamfast could not help but notice a number of folk were there already. He puzzled over it--he’d not heard of anything planned there for today--no weddings or such, that he knew of--

Why there was his old gossip, Daddy Twofoot, with his son and daughter-in-law, and his grandson young Till. And wasn’t that the Widow Rumble and her niece? And there was Mr. Frodo and his cousins--and what in the world were the Cottons doing there. Then he noticed the table, which had been half-hidden by the Party Tree, and a sneaking suspicion entered his mind.

He cast an indignant look at Sam, who was trying real hard to look innocent.

Sure enough, as soon as he began to get closer, the hobbits came together, and shouted “Happy Birthday!”

He stopped in his tracks and glared at Sam. “What’s all this, then?”

Sam at least had the decency to blush, but he stood his ground. “Mari and me thought you deserved to have a proper birthday party for once! And you can see all your friends agree.”

Hamfast tried to suppress the smile that was threatening to break out. “Aye,” he said in a grudging tone, “I suppose it won’t hurt none if you don’t make a habit of it.”

He was soon the target of back-slapping well wishers. “Now this ain’t right! Sam--all them presents are back at Number Three!”

Sam laughed. He was relieved that his father was taking it well. Truth be told, he hadn’t been any too sure which way the wind would blow. But having the little lads there had mellowed his old Dad considerable. “That’s all right, Dad,” he said. “Tom! Come and help me fetch the presents he wants to give out.”

“I’ll give you a hand as well, Sam,” said Merry.

The Gaffer frowned slightly at that. Frodo’s Brandybuck cousin was the heir to Buckland, and hadn’t ought to be fetching things for the likes of Hamfast Gamgee, but he didn’t say anything, and the three young hobbits trotted back to the Gamgee smial.

Naturally, he went over to get a look at the table with the food, and when he saw what had pride of place, his eyes went wide. “Lily Cotton!” he exclaimed sternly. “Are you wasting a cake on me now?”

“ ‘T was not a waste at all, Hamfast Gamgee!” she shot back firmly, “And before you say more about it, Sam and Marigold paid for it fair and square with a day’s hard labor from each of them. And it were *real* work, too, you stubborn old fool, so don’t you go thinking they took advantage of friendship.”

“Well, I would hope I taught them better than that,” he mumbled, abashed. Lily was a sensible sort, and truthful as well, so he’d no call not to believe her.

Soon Sam, Merry and Tom had returned, and the Gaffer noticed that there were a few more bottles and a few more vegetables in the basket than what he’d set out that morn. Just as well--he’d not planned on gifting so many folk.

A few hobbits took advantage of the fact that it was not yet noon to present the Gaffer with a few last minute gifts, and then the movement began to the food table for elevenses. The cake would not be touched until after lunch, however.

The guest of honor found himself seated on a blanket with the older Cottons, Mr. Frodo, and Mr. Merry. Master Pippin and Dandelion Rumble, the Widow’s niece, both had fiddles, young Nibs had a flute, and Till Twofoot had a tambour--soon they had struck up a lively tune, and hobbits rushed to form sets and dance. Hamfast was enjoying watching them. A lively circle dance gave way to Happy Hob, which was danced by couples.

“Well, well, well,” said Frodo.

Merry grinned. “Would you look at that?”

The Gaffer’s eyebrows climbed as he watched Sam claim young Rosie, and as they skipped joyfully along to the measure of the dance, their eyes never left one another’s for an instant. It was as though there were no other hobbits there. Hamfast was reminded sharply of his Bell.

Lily laughed. “Sam and Rosie’s not the only ones. Look!” she gestured with her chin, and he spotted young Tom and Marigold--his baby Marigold!--with their heads close together as they swung the turns of the dance. Why, his little lass was only--twenty-eight? He looked again. When had she grown up? Well, she was a long way from getting wed. Daisy had talked him into letting her wed before she was of age, but he’d made his mind up none of his other daughters were going to do that. But still--Marigold could do a lot worse than young Tom, who looked thoroughly besotted.

His eyes were caught once more by Sam and Rose. Those two were beyond besotted--it was as though they were meant for each other.

Suddenly a happy thought occurred to him. “Double cousins,” he said.

Old Tom pursed his lips. “Not for a few years yet,” he said grimly.

“O’ course not!” replied the Gaffer. “I brought mine up to have good hobbit sense!”

Lily elbowed her husband. “And ours are very sensible as well. But if it falls out the way it looks, that can’t be but a good thing.”

No, thought Hamfast, it looked to be a very good thing indeed. And, as he watched his little grandsons run about with some of the other children, he couldn’t help but feel he’d had a very good birthday after all.
___________________________________________

*”Small beer” was a popular drink in the Middle Ages. It had a very low alcohol content, and was a good thirst quencher. It was often the beverage served to women and children, and was given to workers, who needed to finish their work and keep a clear head.

** “Nob O’ the Lea” talechallenge09

Fifteen Years After by Dreamflower
Thain Peregrin visits with his old friend Menelcar...

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Thain Peregrin visits with his old friend Menelcar.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: [1] Marigold gave a list of four categories of elements for each writer to choose from. I chose the following:
Category one: A leader
Category two: A celebration
Category three: A palace
Category four: A minstrel
[2] This story takes place in S.R. 1436, during the visit of King Elessar to his Northern Realm. Peregrin has been Thain for two years.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

STORY #4

FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER

Thain Peregrin stood upon the high walls overlooking Lake Evendim, amazed at the vistas open before him. Below, the celebration of the King’s return to his Northern Realm was still going on.

The palace was amazing. The Dúnadain had begun building it not quite ten years ago, the same year as the King’s Edict for the Shire had been made permanent. There was an almost Elven grace to the building. It was as strong as the Citadel, which Pippin remembered so well, yet it did not so obviously resemble a fortress. He glanced to his right, where a low wing of the building extended toward the southwest. From a distance, its architecture did not seem any different than that of the rest of the palace, and yet, up close it could clearly be seen that that portion of the building had been built with hobbits in mind. The low roof, the round doors and windows, the profusion of flowers and other plants growing beneath the windows and round the doors, all showed great care for the sensibilities of any visiting hobbits. He smiled at the memory of Diamond’s amazement at how homey it all was, when the party of hobbits had been shown to their quarters. He, Merry and Sam had all given a good deal of advice to the wing’s construction, though he thought perhaps the help of Berilac Brandybuck, who had gone there several times during its construction, and of Rollin Banks, who had actually stayed there and assisted in the work for three years, had more to do with it.

Pippin turned then and looked up, to the pinnacle of the palace, where the King’s great standard blew proudly. It was the very standard which Queen Arwen had wrought with her own hands, back before anyone in Gondor knew that Strider the Ranger was the King Returned. For a moment, Pippin remembered the siege of Minas Tirith, his own despair, and how his heart had lifted when he *knew*--just *knew*--that Strider and Legolas and Gimli were sailing up the Anduin bringing much needed help to the beleaguered White City. No one, of course, heeded him, so convinced were they that more enemies had come. Perhaps, if he had been able to convince Lord Denethor--but no, the palantír had already ensnared the Steward by then, and he was too far gone in madness to heed anyone, much less one that he scorned so much as a *halfling*. Yet it was a moment Pippin would never forget, his joy at knowing his friends were coming to his aid.

“Pippin?”

Pippin whirled, a grin of joy lighting his face, and he sprang forward. “Menelcar!” he cried, giving the Man an exuberant hug.

“Now,” said the minstrel, returning his embrace, “that is scarcely the dignified behavior of a Thain!”

“Dignity be blowed!” Pippin exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you Menelcar!”

Menelcar laughed. “I know you saw me already. You were among the audience when I was singing before the feast.”

“That’s hardly the same as seeing you to talk to!” Pippin retorted.

“Which is why I sought you out! What do you think of this northern palace, and the new city of Annúminas?”

“It’s beautiful!” said Pippin. “And the best part is that Strider says he will stay here for at least two years! I’ve missed him so! And you shall be here too!”

“I know I am speaking to the Ernil i Pheriannath when I hear my Lord King Elessar referred to as ‘Strider’!” chortled the minstrel.

“Ah, now, Merry and Sam call him that, too! We have his leave, nay, his command to do so, unless it is a formal occasion!”

“This is true, very true! But it is good to hear it once more!” The minstrel came and leaned against the balustrade next to Pippin, the wind blowing in his hair. Pippin noticed that his old friend had a great many more grey strands amidst the ginger since last he had seen him. “You have been busy! A wife, three daughters, a son--and Thain! A far cry from the lad I met so many years ago, determined to remained unfettered by responsibility!”

“I wonder what my life would have been like if I *had* gone with you, Menelcar?” Pippin sighed. It was easy to remember sometimes the many reasons why he had not wished to be Thain.

Menelcar looked at his small friend thoughtfully. “I do not think it would have been possible, Pippin. You had a destiny. Think how things might have fallen out, had you not gone with your cousins.”

“That’s rather an uncomfortable thought, Menelcar, as if I’d had no choice.”

“Of course you had a choice. You could not have abandoned them, though. Even then I could see how dearly you loved them--you would have been miserable without them, and, I think would have made me bring you home.”

Pippin was quiet for a moment, thinking about it. “You are probably right.”

The two gazed out once more over the view of the lake, and Pippin was softly humming.

Menelcar glanced over at his companion. “That’s a new tune. Is it one of yours?”

“No, it’s one of Cousin Bilbo’s.” Pippin looked very pensive.

The minstrel’s face lit up. “A song by Bilbo Baggins! I thought you had already taught me all of his songs!”

“Not this one, Menelcar.” Pippin was silent for a moment, and then said, “It was the last song he wrote. Made it up on the way to--to the Havens. Sam remembered it, and wrote it down later, taught me the tune.” He sighed.

“That must have been difficult, saying farewell to Frodo, and to Master Bilbo.”

“You’ve no idea, Menelcar. It’s been fifteen years now, and it still hurts. Sometimes, it’s just a pleasant ache, and other times it’s as sharp and fresh as if it had just happened. But it had to be. We would have lost him anyway, had he stayed. He just kept getting worse instead of better.”

Menelcar sighed, and blinked away the tears that had gathered at Pippin’s mournful admission. “I am the most fortunate of Men, Pippin, even moreso than our King.”

Pippin glanced up in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

The minstrel smiled softly. “Because, alone of all my race, I was lucky enough to meet and get to know Frodo Baggins before the burden of his task. Even your ‘Strider’ did not meet him until he had taken on the responsibility of removing the Ring from the Shire. When I met him, he was still carefree and happy there. He enjoyed his life in Bag End, and I can remember how much he cared about you and Merry and Sam. I shall never forget standing in the kitchen and watching Frodo, Sam and you prepare ‘elevenses’ as you hobbits call it--you all seemed to take such delight in what you did, and in one another.”

Pippin blushed. “If I remember correctly, I was rather in disgrace with Frodo at the time. He was not happy with my intent to run away and become a bard.”

Menelcar laughed. “This is true; but it didn’t seem to make any difference to him. He delighted in you just the same.” He shook his head, and his expression became more sorrowful. “When I met him again in Minas Tirith after the War, I was struck by how changed he was. He was still very proud of you three, but he seemed grimmer, less open, less curious. I worried about him then.” He stopped and cleared his throat, and let out a deep breath. “So, will you teach me Master Bilbo’s last song?”

Pippin gave a wistful smile, and then, casting his gaze as far to the West as he could see, began to sing:

“Day is ended, dim my eyes,
But journey long before me lies.
Farewell, friends! I hear the call,
The ship’s beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey;
Beyond the sunset leads my way.
Foam is salt, the wind is free;
I hear the rising of the sea.”

Tears had gathered in the green eyes, and began to roll unheeded down his cheeks.

“Farewell, friends! The sails are set,
The wind is east, the moorings fret.
Shadows long before me lie,
Beneath the ever-bending sky.
But islands lie behind the sun
That I shall raise ere all is done;
Lands there are to west of west,
Where night is sweet and sleep is rest.”

As Pippin began the next verse, another voice joined in. Menelcar turned to see Sam and Merry standing in the doorway leading out to the wall. Sam had begun to sing as well…

“Guided by the lonely star,
Beyond the utmost harbour-bar,
I’ll find the havens fair and free,
And beaches of the starlit sea.”

Sam moved up and put his hand on Pippin’s shoulder, and Merry came to his other side, joining his own, slightly deeper voice to theirs.

“Ship my ship! I seek the west,
And fields and mountains ever blest.
Farewell to Middle-earth at last.
I see the star above my mast!”*

As the three hobbit-voices faded away, Menelcar realized that the King was also standing behind them and gazing silently to the West. There was a silence that seemed to stretch between them all, as they recalled those they loved, gone forever out of reach.
__________________________________________
*Bilbo’s Last Song by J.R.R. Tolkien

Dwalin stood hesitantly on the doorstep, carefully examining the bright green door in front of him for any signs. The door looked to be freshly painted, it did, and no sign of scratches that he could see. Yet he’d followed Gandalf’s directions to the letter.

Dwalin turned to see his brother Balin had come up. “There are no signs,” he replied.

The two of them started to turn away, when they saw Fili and Kili start up the path. “Never mind!” said Balin. “The dratted wizard’s given us the wrong address!” The four started back down the path, and waited at the gate, where they headed off Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin and Gloin.

The nine dwarves headed back down the road, when they ran into Bifur, Bofur, Bombur and Thorin Oakenshield, followed by Gandalf himself.

“You made a mistake, Gandalf!” exclaimed Balin. “There’s no mark on the door!”

“No mark?” said Gandalf. He narrowed his eyes. Obviously Mr. Baggins was cannier than he let on, and had painted over the marks. Well, if he was not game for adventure, there were always Tooks to be found over the Water. Perhaps Flambard or Sigismund would do as well, though really, it was a shame that Belladonna’s son was so timid. Gandalf had been quite fond of her, and thought her son had showed some spirit.

Inside Bag End, Bilbo finished up his tea, and was in the kitchen washing up. There was a knock at the back door.

“Come in, come in,” he said distractedly. All through tea, he kept thinking he had forgotten something. And he simply couldn’t bring it to mind.

“Yes, Mr. Bilbo, I come to tell you--someone had scratched up your lovely green door, so I had young Hamfast paint over it. We still had some green paint in the garden shed.”

“Well, bless my buttons!” exclaimed Bilbo. “I can’t imagine who would do a thing like that! Thank you very much for seeing to it, Master Holman.”

“Now,” thought Bilbo, “I should give a bit of thought to supper. I still have some seedcake…”

“Aunt Dora’s idea. She has badgered Cousin Bilbo into hosting it. We *will* be expected to attend.”

Both of them glanced across the room at their son Folco, who with his best friend little Fatty Bolger, was busily engaged in a game of Miggle. Folco was, as usual, losing badly. He didn’t seem to mind--he was chattering aimlessly to Fatty, who was paying a bit more attention to the game board than to his friend’s rambling monologue.

Griffo nodded, resigned. It was always so awkward taking him anywhere, as one never knew what the child was going to say. He would never forget his embarrassment last year at the wedding of Betony Proudfoot to Togo Banks. It was not as though everyone did not already realize that the young couple had put the dessert before the main course, and as a result had to put the wedding forward, even though Cousin Betony was still two years short of her majority. But it was certainly not something to be spoken of.

But they had not reckoned with Folco, who did not seem to have outgrown the outspokenness of the youngest of children. In ringing tones heard by everyone, he had asked his father why Cousin Betony was “so fat, like Freddy’s mum before he got a baby sister?”

Griffo had hoped the earth would open up and swallow him, but he had no such luck, and his son’s proclamation had set every tongue there loose.

And of course, old Uncle Blanco Chubb-Baggins still carried a bit of a grudge from the time Folco had rather loudly noticed his unfortunate and unhobbity tendency to baldness. Fortunately, Uncle Blanco became a recluse soon after, and would not be expected at the Family Reunion. But Folco at any social gathering was a chancy thing.

“Well,” said Daisy, looking once more at the two lads at their game, “at least Fatty will be there.” She and Griffo had rather come to rely on their son’s friend to keep Folco’s foot out of his mouth, or, barring that, smoothing over the resulting awkwardness. It was a lot of responsibility for a nine-year-old, but Fatty didn’t seem to mind.

The Boffins left a few days early from their home in the Yale to go to Hobbiton. They would spend a little time before the Reunion with Daisy’s father Dudo, who was an invalid, and with Aunt Dora, who kept house for her brother.

Dudo was pleased to see his grandson, and was actually rather gratified by his grandson’s observation that he looked dreadful, for Dudo was one of those people who make the most of their ill-health, and he had an attentive young audience for his recital of all his aches and pains.

The morning of the event, Daisy came into the dining room for second breakfast, to find Aunt Dora perusing her usual huge stack of letters. She was a tireless correspondent, and often received letters asking her for advice on some domestic problem or another. She picked up one, and opened it.

“Apparently little Fredegar got into some giant hogweed and is laid up with blisters and a rash. The Bolgers will not be able to attend the picnic. They are still at home in Budgeford.”

“Oh dear!” Daisy’s dismay was not entirely due to sympathy for poor little Fatty’s plight--if he were not there the chances of Folco putting his furry little foot in his mouth rose drastically. Well, it could not be helped now, and she hoped the lad would soon recover.

After elevenses the Boffins and Dora Baggins made their way to the Party Field. Bilbo was already there, with his newly-adopted heir, young Frodo Baggins. Frodo stood proudly at Bilbo’s side, with Bilbo’s arm about his shoulders. It was clear that his new status had done the lad good. Daisy did not think she’d ever seen him looking so confident. She, as well as most of the Baggins relatives, had been very glad of Bilbo’s decision. She had often worried about the lad, doubtless running wild in Buckland, for everyone knew how those Brandybucks were. And too, it was nice to know that Bilbo had put paid to Otho’s hopes of someday becoming the Family Head. *”Baggins-Sackville-Baggins”* indeed! What an absurd idea!

Speaking of the Sackville-Baggins--there they were, having arrived in a pony-trap, when it was only a short walk from their smial. Lobelia, of course, wore a face that could curdle milk, and Otho his usual oily smile.

Lobelia was dressed of course, in the latest fashion, which did not at all suit her matronly appearance--especially her hat, a straw affair which seemed to be covered with an abundance of artificial fruit and colorful ribbons. She was distributing haughty nods left and right as she advanced. Daisy decided to make herself scarce. She looked about, and saw her friend Posey Grubb, and hastily headed in that direction.

Posey nodded. “He’s with my Herveus and some of the other children over there.”

Daisy looked in that direction, and then sighed with relief. The children were engaged in a noisy game of chase. Folco would hopefully be too out of breath to say anything unfortunate. She cast her eye over the Party Field. There was Griffo, talking to Olo Proudfoot. She returned her attention to Posey, and they were soon joined by Peony Burrows, as they discussed some of the latest fashions.

“I know,” Peony was saying, “that purple is supposed to be a popular color this year, but it is so seldom flattering to the complexion…”

Suddenly a voice cut across the Field and caught her attention immediately. It was Folco.

“She has a fruit basket on her head!” followed by a peal of childish laughter. Daisy slowly closed her eyes, and as the color rose to her cheeks she put her palm over her face, and shook her head. Peony, a very good friend, for they were the same age, put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

Daisy was almost afraid to ask who her child had insulted now. But she didn’t need to ask. A shrill voice that nearly every hobbit there had learned to dread, was raised in ire.

Sure enough he repeated himself. “You have a fruit basket on your head,” he replied cheerfully, completely oblivious to the storm that was about to descend.

“What cheek!” shrieked Lobelia. She reached out and caught the tip of Folco’s ear between two sharp fingers. “Haven’t your parents taught you not to be insolent to adults? I have *never* heard such cheek! I ought to…”

Daisy had begun to head in that direction to rescue her hapless child, but Griffo had already reached their son.

“I’ll take over from here, Cousin Lobelia,” he said tightly. It was hard to retain a civil tone when addressing an angry Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

“You be certain to thrash him!” she shouted. “Hmmph! The cheek! To make such *personal* remarks!”

“I’m sorry,” Folco was saying, in that forlorn little voice he had, when he knew he’d said something wrong, but not quite why. Daisy had reached him now, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Why Lobelia? she thought. Of *all* the people at the picnic, why did he have to pick Lobelia to offend this time?

“You *ought* to be!” She was winding herself up into another tirade. Just then Aunt Dora reached her side.

“Lobelia,” she said, “the lad’s parents will handle this. Why don’t you come over here now, and give me your opinion of the fruitcake?”

Bilbo appeared just then, at Griffo’s side. “Whatever was Lobelia on about this time?”

Bilbo grinned. “Did he now? What an observant and intelligent lad!” He bent down to Folco, who was staring, wide-eyed and fearful at the retreating Lobelia. “You were quite right, you know!”

Daisy and Griffo exchanged a look of resignation. But Folco’s face lit up at the praise. It was so seldom anyone ever told him he was right after he had made someone angry.

Things settled down a bit after that; Griffo and Daisy were careful to keep Folco out of Lobelia’s line of sight, and after a while, things seemed to have settled back down. The Boffins made for the refreshment table, and once Folco had a plate filled with food, they thought it safe to once more mingle with the adults. Herveus Grubb and Angelica Baggins came along, and took Folco off with them for a game of Stones.

Lotho Sackville-Baggins had been amused at the little encounter with his mother. He’d not thought much of her new hat himself when he had seen it the first time that morning. The brat was right. It *did* look like a fruit basket. But of course, it didn’t do to say so. Lotho had made a point in fact of telling her how lovely it looked on her, when all it had really made him want to do was pluck one of the cherries off, and taste it. He shook his head, and tried to distract himself. There was Lavender Longhole, the Apprentice Healer. She was an attractive bit of goods. He did not see her Mistress Salvia around anywhere--perhaps he’d try his luck with Lavender. He began to stare at her with an expression he thought of as dashing. It was rather more a frightening leer. However, she seemed completely oblivious to his gaze.

It was that brat! The one that had insulted his mother! With an angry snarl, Lotho lunged in Folco’s direction.

For once, Folco did not stop to wonder what he’d said wrong. He ran, hotly pursued by the furious young Lotho. Folco ran blindly, until suddenly he felt his arm grabbed. He looked up in panic, to see the fruit-basket person staring down at him with gimlet eyes.

Lobelia looked up at Lotho. “What did he say?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Lobelia rounded on Folco. With a jerk, the child pulled his arm away and ran again, this time pursued by both Lotho *and* his mother. Where to go? He didn’t see his parents anywhere.

There was Cousin Bilbo! Cousin Bilbo had said he was right this morning! He dashed over to the old hobbit, and hid behind Bilbo’s legs, peering out fearfully at his furious pursuers.

They both came up, Lobelia brandishing her umbrella. “Let me have that ill-mannered chit!” she screamed, “and I will teach him his manners!”

“No, Lobelia, you will not!” said Bilbo firmly, staring at her through cold blue eyes. “Be off! You cannot punish a lad for speaking the truth!”

Just then Otho came up. He glared at Bilbo, who returned the glare with interest.

“Come, Lobelia! Lotho! We do not have to stay here and be insulted.” In a huff, he marched his wife and son over to their pony-trap.

Bilbo drew the trembling Folco out from behind him gently. He patted him on the head. “Thank you, my lad!”

“Why, I just think my picnic will be much more fun, now they’ve gone, don’t you?”

Bilbo patted his pockets, and then reaching in, drew out a paper wrapped toffee, which he presented with a flourish.

Folco gave him a confused smile, and unwrapping the toffee, popped it into his mouth. It was nice to think he’d done something right for a change.

Bilbo took his hand. “I was about to go tell the Tale of how I outwitted the Dragon Smaug,” he said. “Would you like to come along and listen?”

“When Folco was nine, he had drawn the ire of the Sackville-Bagginses at a family picnic, when first he had said Cousin Lobelia’s new hat looked like a fruit basket, and then when he had said that Lotho’s face looked like a pig’s. Both of those statements had drawn tirades from Lobelia, who would have used her umbrella on the frightened lad if he had not had the sudden presence of mind to hide behind Cousin Bilbo’s legs. Cousin Bilbo just gave Cousin Lobelia a Look, and told her “Be off! You cannot punish a lad for speaking the truth!” Lobelia, Otho and Lotho had all left in a huff, and Cousin Bilbo had patted him on the head and given him a sweet. Nevertheless, his parents were not pleased.” From my story “Road to Edoras” Chapter 6

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place in my Eucatastrophe AU, in which the Three Rings do not fade, but are freed instead, by the destruction of the One, and in which Saruman was killed by Quickbeam in the destruction of Isengard--so that Sharkey never came to the Shire. Elves are, for the first time, free to return to Middle-earth from Valinor, and--most important of all, Frodo was healed, and lived on in the Shire…

In the Inn at Michel Delving, Sam nervously fidgeted as Rose and Frodo patted and pulled him into what they thought of as presentable shape. Rose was tugging down the back of his jacket, and Frodo was fussing with his cravat. The new suit, a gift from Frodo, felt far too fine, as did the weskit, with its beautiful embroidery, a gift from Strider--King Elessar, as he was now--and Queen Arwen. Frodo had confidently proclaimed that the embroidery was clearly from the Queen’s own hand, and it had nearly put Sam off of even wearing it.

But though he might be called Samwise the Stout-hearted in them fool songs from away South, it took a braver hobbit than he was to gainsay *both* his wife and his best friend when they were determined on something “for his own good”.

Still enough was enough, and he finally said so. “No more poking and prodding!” he exclaimed, stepping sideways away from the helpful hands. “It won’t make me a lick prettier to look at than I was a minute ago. My hair’s combed and my toes are brushed, and that should be good enough for anyone!”

Frodo chuckled, and nodded ruefully, but Rose reached up one more time to straighten the back of his collar before she too desisted, giving him a peck on the cheek before stepping back. Then she turned her eye on Frodo himself, and gave a tug to his lapels.

She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Sam, me dear! I do think I’m more nervous than you!”

Sam smiled, and kissed the top of her head. “Well, Rosie, it’s not every day you become the Mayor’s wife.”

“Ah, no, Sam. It *is* too late. I never intended to be Mayor more than just the one term--you know that you are the one I always intended to have the job.”

“I know, Mr.--” he stopped and blushed. It was rare any more for him to slip and say “Mr. Frodo”, but once in a while it still happened. “I know, Frodo, and I’ve never understood why.”

“Because, Sam, you will be good at it. As my Deputy for the last seven years, you’ve already been doing most of the job--especially in the past year. I’ve always craved a peaceful life, such as Bilbo used to live, free to write and translate my books, or take a ramble if I like, without having official duties in my way. Being the Head of the Bagginses is enough of a job, though few enough of us are left anyway.”

“Well, you deserve such a rest, and no mistake, Frodo. But you was a lot better at this than I’ll ever be.”

“We’ll see,” said Frodo, not wishing to get into one of those interminable arguments about Sam’s worth and his own. It had been several years since the Ring-induced feelings of worthlessness he once carried had been banished, but he was also wise enough to recognize his own talents and limitations. While the Shire was still getting over the damage caused by Lotho’s foolishness, he was needed. But now her healing was complete, and Sam would be the best person for the job. And, selfishly, Frodo wished to be free to travel once more--to spend a month or two in Buckland with his cousins and perhaps visit Bree, to take a short jaunt to Rivendell, or even, perhaps make a visit to Minas Anor to see Strider once more.

“At any rate,” Frodo continued, “the Family Heads have agreed in Convocation, and you’ve been duly elected. You don’t want to offend every family in the Shire, do you?”

There was a rap at the door, and Frodo reached to open it. Merry and Pippin, resplendent in their livery, stood there grinning.

Pippin said “We’re here to escort the Mayor and the Mayor-Elect to the ceremony.”

Sam took a deep breath and biting his lip, he gave a nod. Rose gave his hand a squeeze, and Frodo gave him a reassuring smile.

The little group moved out of the inn, and headed for the fair grounds.
__________________________________

On the dais stood all the worthies of the Shire: the Thain, the Master of Buckland, the Mayor, and the Mayor-Elect, and all were flanked by Sir Meriadoc, Knight of the Mark, and Sir Peregrin, Knight of the City.

Ranged in the front of the crowd of hobbits who had come to attend this year’s Free Fair, were all the Family Heads, as well as Rose, who stood between Estella Brandybuck, and Pippin’s bride Diamond. Near the edge of the crowd were some taller figures: Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli, son of Gloín, and Haldad, the King’s Messenger. And then another tall figure approached the rest.

Frodo’s face broke into a delighted grin, and he elbowed Sam, and gave a nod in that direction. Merry and Pippin noticed as well, and their faces, too, lit up.

The figure in his snowy white robes gave a nod, as he realized they had seen him. He raised a hand in greeting, but did not interrupt, and suddenly Sam realized that the Thain was speaking. Seeing old Gandalf had quite made him forget where he was!

“…and so,” proclaimed Paladin, “a consensus has been reached by the Family Heads of both the Greater and Lesser Houses, that the Office of Mayor of Michel Delving and thus the Shire, will be turned over to Master Samwise Gamgee, who has, for the last seven years, served admirably as Deputy. I now call upon Mayor Frodo Baggins to perform his last action as Mayor.”

Frodo stepped forward confidently, his face flushed with pleasure. He drew a paper from his inside jacket pocket, and opened it.

“My fellow hobbits, I actually have *two* last duties to perform. Before I turn my Office over to my very capable successor, it is my pleasure to proclaim before you an Edict from our King, Elessar Telcontar, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the High King of Gondor and Arnor, Lord and Captain of the West.

“Unto the Worthies of the Shire, Thain Paladin Took, Master Saradoc Brandybuck, Mayor Frodo Baggins, and all of the Heads of the Families of the Four Farthings and Buckland, We, Elessar Telcontar, High King of Gondor and Arnor, are pleased to Proclaim Our Land of the Shire a Free State, under the Protection of the Kingdom of Arnor, to belong to the Hobbits of the Shire so long as the Heirs of Our Body shall Occupy the Thrones of the Two Kingdoms.

May all know these words: We shall Protect the Shire from all Enemies Without. Howsoever, all that takes place Within shall be the Affair of the Leaders of the Shire without recourse to Arnor. And no Lands belonging to the Shire shall ever be ceded to the Race of Man.

Frodo paused a moment for the cheering to die down, and then he raised a hand for silence. When all had quieted, he said “This means that the Shire will belong to hobbits, and hobbits only, from now on. Our King had consulted us when he was considering this Edict, and at one point he contemplated banning Men from our Shire forever, including even himself. But we believed that this was unnecessary, that hobbits can hold their place in the world without such inhospitality. It is, in fact, my fond hope that one day our beloved King himself *will* visit us, and see our beautiful Shire for himself!”

There was another eruption of cheering, and once more Frodo waited it out. Then he continued. “For almost seven years I have held this Office, and during that time I have had at my side a hobbit of unshakeable loyalty and of incredible bravery. Most of you have heard by now how the Dark was defeated--and none of that would have been possible if I had not had Samwise Gamgee at my side.

But that is not what will make him a great Mayor. What will make him a great Mayor is his unquenchable hope and his steady hobbit-sense. There is no hobbit better suited to guide the Shire for the next seven years--and my fond hope, for many more terms after, than Samwise Gamgee.

And so, it is with great pride that I turn this Office over to the greatest friend and wisest hobbit I know.”

Tears of pride stood in Frodo’s eyes, as he took from around his neck the blue ribbon from which the large Key, symbolizing the Mayor’s Office, hung. Turning, he placed it around Sam’s neck.

Sam’s own brown eyes were also tear-filled, as he met his friend’s fond gaze. Frodo clasped his shoulder, and Pippin stood forth and exclaimed:

And Sam looked out over all the assembled hobbitry, and for a moment he thought back to the Field of Cormallen, and all the cheering then, and he realized with a sudden clarity, that this moment was sweeter still, for it was Home, and these hobbits *knew* him, and they loved him and they loved Frodo.

This was written for the Anniversary Challenge for the PippinHealers e-list, in which each paragraph was to begin with the letters in HAPPY ANNIVERSARY PIPPINHEALERS.

His ribs were aching abominably, and his knee was throbbing. Not fair, he thought--he had done everything Strider had told him to yesterday, staying off his feet as much as possible, in between serving at the feast to honor Frodo and Sam, and he had not objected to any of the other limitations. So why should he be so uncomfortable this morning?

As he sat up, he glanced across the tent to Frodo’s and Sam’s cots. It was such a relief to see them sleeping naturally, Frodo curled to one side, and Sam with one arm thrown over his head and snoring softly. The deep healing sleep they had been in before had been frightening, and Pippin had occasionally wondered if they would ever wake. He turned and looked at Merry in his own cot. He would have preferred that Merry be curled up next to him, but Aragorn had said Merry was not getting enough rest that way.

Perhaps he was right. Merry seemed to start at Pippin’s slightest movement before. Now, though, he lay so that he was facing Pippin, but there was no interruption of his gentle rhythmic breathing. Pippin sighed, and turned to stand up. He really needed to find the chamber pot. He slid carefully off the edge of the cot, trying to be careful not to put too much weight on his bad knee. He winced, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Pippin!” Frodo’s voice was sharp but soft. “What are you doing? I can tell you are hurting--you should get back in the bed!”

“Yes. Well. I have something else I need to do that is rather urgent!” He bent over and pulled out the large white vessel from under his cot.

And Frodo’s face flamed, as he realized what Pippin was up to. “I’m sorry, Pip. But after hearing what Gimli said about you last night, I was worried.”

“Never mind, cousin,” said Pippin amiably, as he finished his task and carefully slid the chamber pot back under the cot. He dropped his nightshirt, and went over to Frodo’s bed, limping only slightly. Frodo scooted over, and Pippin climbed up to snuggle next to his eldest cousin.

Now that Pippin had his arms around Frodo, he found himself worrying at the thinness of the slight frame. He could actually feel Frodo’s ribs. He frowned. “I suppose it’s only to be expected that each of us will be worrying about all the rest of us for a good long time to come,” he sighed.

“I guess you are right, Pip. But it hurts me to realize all that you went through on my account.”

“Very likely, Frodo, you goose, as you always were one to blame yourself for things over which you have no control. Besides, though Merry and I left the Shire on your account, we had other reasons as well for the things we’ve done.” Pippin put one hand up, and smoothed the dark curls away from Frodo’s face. “You need a haircut.”

Eyes that had a moment before threatened to spill tears were suddenly sparked with amusement, and Frodo had to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud and waking Sam and Merry.

Realizing to his joy, that in all the ways that truly mattered, his young cousin had not changed, Frodo returned Pippin’s gesture.

“Silly Took! That is what I am supposed to tell *you*!” he hissed, chuckling as softly as he could.

“And you might as well say it,” said another voice, “for it is perfectly true.” Merry was also now standing by Frodo’s bed. Sam, however was still sleeping soundly.

“Really,” chuckled Merry, “logs have nothing on Samwise Gamgee. I don’t think I’ve ever known such a sound sleeper.”

“Yet there were days and nights, Merry, when he did not sleep at all, watching over me.” said Frodo fondly. They all looked over at Sam, and Merry and Pippin exchanged a look that showed how grateful both of them felt to the gardener.

Pippin’s stomach, however, chose that moment to make a statement, and prevent them from becoming too maudlin.

“I do believe I should go and fetch us all some breakfast.” said Merry. “I am afraid, Frodo that it will just be breakfast, not first nor second--we are still on war rations at the moment. Though that may change. I hear a new supply wain is due perhaps as soon as this afternoon.” He went over by his cot, and slipped into a shirt and breeches. He would not be needed to attend on É omer for a few more hours, so he did not put on his livery or armor. Then, with a cheery wave, he ducked out of the tent.

Pippin remained with Frodo for just a moment longer, just glad to have the knowledge that his dear cousin was alive and well. However when Frodo’s stomach rumbled as well, Pippin chuckled. “I don’t know about you, cousin, but I don’t want to break my fast in my nightshirt. I am going to get dressed.” He sat up and swung his legs over the edge, and forgetting himself, stood up a bit more quickly than he had when he first wakened. It was a mistake. His knee buckled beneath him, and with a cry of agony, he found himself abruptly on the ground.

“Pippin!” Frodo cried out loudly and quickly jumped down from the cot to his younger cousin’s side.

In a flash, Sam was there as well, awakened by his master’s cry of distress. “I’ll get some help, Mr. Frodo!” and he darted from the tent, nightshirt and all. All Pippin could do was sit there and bite his lip and try not to cry. His knee felt as though it had been stabbed with a knife.

Now Frodo held onto Pippin tightly, rubbing his back. “It‘s all right, Pip,” he murmured. “Sam will get Strider! He’ll be here soon.”

He was right--in only a few moments, Aragorn entered, Sam trotting by his side. He was followed by an anxious Merry, breakfast tray in hand. Merry put his burden down on the nearest surface, which happened to be his own cot, and rushed past Aragorn to Pippin’s side. “Oh, Pip! What have you done?”

“Easy, Pippin,” Aragorn said, as he knelt next to Pippin. He took the left leg in both hands, and then reached up to probe the knee. Pippin bit off a cry of pain, and Aragorn shook his head. “You jarred it, Pippin. What did you do? Put your weight fully on it when you stepped down from the cot?” Pippin nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Aragorn stood up, picking Pippin up carefully in one graceful movement, and carried the injured hobbit to his own cot. He laid him down carefully. As Pippin, biting his lip nodded, Aragorn propped his leg atop one of the large pillows. “It is swelling again. I think that you will be spending the rest of the day in your cot--and perhaps tomorrow. Do you still have some of the salve you were putting on it?” Pippin shook his head.

Leaving Pippin’s side for a moment, Aragorn stepped out of the tent and hailed a passing Guardsmen, whom he sent to the Healer’s tent. Soon the Man returned with the salve, and some other items Aragorn had sent for; in the meanwhile, Merry had lit the brazier and begun to boil some water, so that they could brew some willow-bark tea for Pippin’s pain.

Embarrassed at all the attention, Pippin tried to apologize. “I’m so sorry! Please forgive me--I didn’t mean to cause all this fuss.”

“Really, Pippin,” said Frodo, stepping over to put his hand on his youngest cousin’s head, “It’s quite all right. If you have to stay put in here today, you won’t be running all about at Aragorn’s beck and call. We shall have an excellent chance to catch up. I don’t believe that you and Merry have told Sam and me everything yet, and I want to know the full story.”

Soon the cousins and Sam were arrayed all around Pippin on the oversized cot, sharing out the breakfast on the tray. The pain in Pippin’s knee faded to a dull throb, as they all talked and ate. He was going to have to remember about that knee from now on…

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Pippin is 5, and Sam is 15. (or 3 and 9 in Man-years.)
SUMMARY: Wee Pippin visits Cousin Bilbo.

Bilbo had just seated himself in the kitchen for a bit of elevenses: a pot
of tea, a radish and butter sandwich, and the last piece of seedcake, when
there was a rap at the front door.

With a sigh, and a regretful look at his plate, he got up to go answer it.
At least he knew it would *not* be the Sackville-Bagginses. Otho had taken
his family with him last week, to attend some business in the Southfarthing.
He opened the door.

Pippin, who had only recently crossed the border from faunthood to
childhood, peered from behind his father's leg. For the briefest of instants
he looked shy, and then he launched himself at Bilbo's knees.

Charmed, Bilbo patted the curly head, said "Peregrin! How you've grown! Soon
you'll pass the Bullroarer!" and unobtrusively slipped a peppermint from his
pocket into a tiny hand.

His smile blossoming into a full-blown grin, Pippin hastily popped the treat
into his mouth before his father could notice.

"Come right in," repeated Bilbo, "and join me for some elevenses!" Not
waiting for a reply, he led the way to the kitchen.

Bilbo found the small box he kept in a corner, just for the very purpose of
boosting small relatives up to the table, and placed it on a chair, nodding
at Paladin, who lifted Pippin up to sit at the table.

With only a mild regret for his last bit of seedcake, Bilbo placed his own
untouched plate in front of the child. The delight on the lad's face more
than made up for it. He got two more plates, and began to cut more
sandwiches for himself and Paladin. While he was doing that, Paladin took
cups from the sideboard, and poured a little tea and a good deal of milk
into one of them for Pippin.

"Ah," said Paladin, after a few bites. "Lovely radishes! Crisp and sweet,
with a nice bite to them."

There wasn't much more one could say about a radish sandwich, so Bilbo took
a sip of his own tea, and said "To what do I owe the honor of this
unexpected visit?"

Paladin sighed, and gave his son half of his second sandwich, along with a
look of reproof. Pippin looked only slightly abashed, and lit into the
sandwich with glee.

"I am on my way to Underhill to pick up Tina and the lasses." Underhill was
the small village just the other side of Overhill, where Eglantine's mother
and brother lived. "Knowing that Merry's still visiting you I thought--" he
stopped abruptly. "Where *are* Merry and Frodo?"

Bilbo shook his head. "Folco Boffin and Fatty Bolger are visiting Folco's
aunt in Bywater. Frodo and Merry went down there to see them. They should be
home slightly after luncheon."

Pippin looked dejected. "No Merry? No Frodo?" He gave his father a
reproachful look. "Father! You *said*!"

"That's enough, Peregrin!" Paladin lowered his brows, and Pippin subsided,
pouting a bit.

"I had hoped," said Paladin to Bilbo, "to allow Pippin to visit with Merry
while I fetched his mother and sisters. He doesn't get on well with his
Banks cousins." The last time Clovis and Cado had visited Whitwell, they had
reduced Pippin to a storm of tears by snatching away one of his favorite
toys, and throwing it back and forth between them, just out of his reach,
faster and faster, until it fell to the ground and broke. They had thought
it immensely funny.

"They're mean," Pippin muttered, too low for his father to hear, but Bilbo
did. He had heard about the incident at great length from Merry, who was
there at the time and had only been prevented from tackling Clovis to the
ground by Pearl's firm hand on his collar. His indignation at the Banks
brothers on Pippin's behalf seemed well-placed.

Bilbo flapped a hand at him. "I know, I know. You don't wish to speak ill of
your wife's nephews. Do not think I don't understand. All of us are
afflicted with unpleasant relations from time to time." He took a sip of
tea. "At any rate, I don't see the problem. Surely Pippin could stay and
keep me company until Frodo and Merry return--it's only three or four hours
before they come back, after all."

"Why of course! You go on to Underhill and get Cousin Tina and the little
lasses, and when you return, all of you may take supper with us, and stay
the night if you wish before heading back to Whitwell in the morning."

Pippin's grin decided his father, and it was with much gratitude that he
agreed to Bilbo's plan. After many admonishments to Pippin to be good for
his Cousin Bilbo, he took his leave, and Bilbo and Pippin saw him down to
the lane, where his pony-trap awaited.

Bilbo lifted Pippin up, and the lad placed a kiss on his father's cheek. "
'Bye, Papa--I mean, Father!"

Pippin stood on his tiptoes, and waved frantically, until the pony-trap
vanished around a curve in the road, and then he turned to Bilbo with an
engaging smile. "What are we going to do, Cousin Bilbo? Are you going to
play with me?"

Bilbo chuckled, and gazed fondly at the bright little face, with its mop of
chestnut curls, pointed Took nose and huge green eyes. He'd not spent very
much time with this little one yet, but he found himself quite taken with
the lad. While there was very little physical resemblance, save a little bit
round the mouth and chin, for some reason Pippin put Bilbo in mind of Frodo
at that same age. Perhaps it was his openly affectionate nature and his
obvious curiosity.

He took the small hand in his own, and led Pippin back up to Bag End, only
half listening to the child's stream of questions.

"I have something I need to do, right now Pippin," Bilbo told him, leading
him into the study. It was important that he do his accounts. Tomorrow was
the last Highday of the month, and he had wages to pay to the Gamgees and
also to Widow Rumble for his laundry. And he had several bills to settle
with the local merchants. He lifted Pippin up onto the settee, and going to
the bookcase, pulled a large book with a blue leather cover from the bottom
shelf. It had been a favorite picture book of his own as a child, and had
amused countless young cousins. Little Frodo had learned to sound out some
of the words, and Merry used to spend ages poring over the complex
illustrations with various things cleverly hidden in them.

"Here, Pippin-lad, you look at this, while I work at my desk for a little
while."

The child's face fell, but he took the book, and said "Thank you, Cousin
Bilbo," in a dejected tone. He would much rather be outside playing.

Bilbo felt a twinge of guilt, as he looked at Pippin's crestfallen
expression, but he hardened his resolve and went to his desk and opened his
ledger.

He was beginning to feel rather pleased with his progress, when he began to
hear a sound: thump! thump! thump! thump! Turning with a scowl, he saw
Pippin, upside down on the settee, his furry little feet kicking
rhythmically against the back of the seat, and the book on the floor.

"I did. I'm finished. It was a very *nice* book," he said politely, "but can
we go *outside* now?" His face was alarmingly red from hanging upside down,
but he did not seem to mind.

He had just begun to figure a rather tricky sum to do with an amount owed to
the butcher, when a young voice piped up.

"Worms, worms, worms, worms, worms." sang the little voice, attaching the
words to a catchy melody Bilbo had never heard before.

"Don't you like that song, Cousin Bilbo? I made it myself. I made another
one, but it's not about worms." Pippin tipped his head back, and closing his
eyes began to warble "I like toffee. I like it fine. I like toffee. It's all
mine."

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo closed his ledger. "Come along, Pippin. We'll go
outside now. You can play in the front garden." Perhaps a smoke on the bench
by the doorstep while he watched the lad play. He would finish his accounts
after Frodo and Merry got back.

He had barely closed his mouth before Pippin had shot like an arrow to the
front door, and stood impatiently hopping from one foot to the other. Bilbo
shook his head, and opened the door.

Bilbo stepped to the side, and sat down on the bench, taking out his pipe.
Pippin pelted headlong out the door, and halfway down the path, when he came
to a halt at the sight of a small rump sticking out of the herbaceous
border. Bilbo grinned, wondering if little Pippin would remember young Sam,
whom he had met a few times as a faunt.

Sam sat up startled, from his task of weeding. It had only been recently
that the Gaffer had allowed him to do it unsupervised, and he had been
concentrating very hard.

Pippin stared for just a moment, and then crowed "You're Sam! You're Merry's
and Frodo's Sam! I remember you!"

Bilbo nearly laughed aloud at the comical expression Sam's face held on
being addressed that way. But it was clear that Sam's status as Merry's and
Frodo's friend held much more significance to Pippin than his more proper
identification as "the gardener's son". He could hardly contradict the
smaller child.

Sam settled for blushing furiously, and saying "Er, yes, Master Pippin, I
suppose I am."

"I'm weeding the flowerbed, Master Pippin--pulling out the weeds, like, so
they won't choke the flowers."

Sam chuckled. "No, Master Pippin, it's not. That's why I have to take them
out."

"No!" said Sam in alarm. "That's not a weed! That's a pink, that is. This,
see, this is a weed--it's common ragwort, and it don't belong there." And
Sam gave the small invader a yank, to prove his point.

Pippin giggled. "It doesn't *look* like buttons! See?" and he pointed to the
little buttons on his shirt.

"Well," said Sam patiently, "when the flowers come out, they do, just a bit,
look like blue buttons."

"Oh no, Master Pippin! That wouldn't be proper!" said Sam, horrified. The
Gaffer was at the south end of the property, turning the compost, but if he
came along and saw this tiny gentlehobbit trying to help him, his father
would have some very hard words for him.

Sam cast a pleading look up to the front of the smial, where Bilbo had been
watching the exchange with amusement. Bilbo decided to put the little
gardener out of his misery.

Pippin backed up, and looked at Sam longingly for a moment, and then trotted
back up to where Bilbo sat. He clambered onto the bench and sat swinging his
feet. "You said 'Samwise'."

"Like I'm 'Pippin' sometimes and 'Pip' sometimes and 'Peregrin' sometimes?
And sometimes Merry is 'Meriadoc'?"

Bilbo chuckled. "I don't know; perhaps because his name is short enough
already. And he was 'Fro' for a while, when Merry was a faunt."

He sat kicking his heels for another moment, and then suddenly he exclaimed
"Watch this!" He hopped off the bench, and ran to the lawn, where he did a
spectacular series of cartwheels, finally landing on his back. Then he
sprang up, and ran back to Bilbo.

Bilbo, who had goggled a bit at the energetic display, said "I most
certainly did!"

"Vinca and Pimmie taught me how to do that! See what else I can do?" And
once more he ran down the lawn, and launched into several somersaults. He
finished up under the ash tree near the gate, and lay on his back for a
moment, before jumping up to reach for its lowest branch. He hung by his
arms, swinging back and forth for a while, and then started to pull himself
up.

The lad dropped to the ground and ran back up to Bilbo. "I'm sorry! I almost
forgot Frodo made me promise not to climb trees by myself!"

Bilbo was a bit taken aback by this. Had Frodo been teaching this little one
to climb trees? He'd have to have words with his ward about that. The child
was far too young for that sort of dangerous undertaking!

"You could come climb it with me, Cousin Bilbo! I know you can climb trees,
'cause Frodo told me when you climbed up high when you were lost in the
forest with the Dwarves and so you could climb up with me and maybe there
would be some butterflies here too and wouldn't you like to climb up with me
and see them?"

Bemused by this breathless recital, Bilbo shook his head. "I am afraid not,
Pippin. I am far too old to be climbing trees now."

"I am one-hundred-and-five." This was said with a certain amount of
smugness--he was rather proud of his fitness at his age.

Pippin's mouth dropped open in astonishment. He stared for a moment, and
then began to look at his fingers, holding them up one at a time--then he
began to tick off his toes. He stopped and looked at Bilbo. "That's too many
for me to count."

Bilbo laughed aloud, and gave the child a hug, which Pippin returned. Then
the lad hopped off the bench once more, and began to run about the garden
again, this time singing a nursery song.

He smiled to hear after a few moments Sam's voice joining the song, though
the gardener's lad did not stop his work. This really was quite pleasant,
out here in the late spring sunshine, watching the children and listening to
them sing. He had never met a child quite so energetic as Pippin, and the
lad did not show any signs of slowing down. Now Pippin was hopping on one
foot, down the path, trying to land exactly in the middle of each paving
stone, and avoid stepping upon the cracks. Bilbo could remember doing just
such a thing himself as a child.

Next Pippin picked up a small stick, and began to poke along the hedge with
it, occasionally stopping to stick his small face in the flowers.

Bilbo smiled and relaxed, placing his pipe upon the bench, his head began to
nod. He told himself he really should not drowse off.

Suddenly, the peace was broken by a blood-curdling shriek. His eyes flew
open. Pippin sat at the bottom of the garden by the hedge screaming. Sam
flew down to him, and Bilbo followed as fast as his feet could take him.

By the time Bilbo arrived on the spot, Sam was seated on the ground, trying
to comfort the crying child in his lap.

Sam pulled the hand away gently, as Bilbo hovered over them both-- he'd
never hear the end of it from Paladin and Eglantine if their dear baby had
come to harm.

"Tell me what it was, Master Pippin?" Sam said, as he looked at the swelling
on the little face.

Sam pulled out a handkerchief from one pocket and a water flask from
another, with which he soaked the handkerchief. "Mr. Bilbo, do you have some
pipe-weed?"

Bilbo, astonished at young Sam's presence of mind, handed him his
leaf-pouch. Sam put a large pinch onto the wet cloth, and applied it to the
swelling.

"It's not a bite, Master Pippin, it's a sting. He stuck his stinger into
you." Pippin had calmed a bit and was just sniffling now.

"The wet pipe-weed will pull the stinger out, and make it feel better,"*
said Sam soothingly. "He's probably very sorry he stung you, Master Pippin.
He'll die now he's got no stinger."

For the first time since Pippin screamed, Sam looked taken aback, and gave a
puzzled look to Bilbo.

Bilbo knelt down and gathered Pippin into a hug, careful not to let the
handkerchief get loose. "It's all right, Pippin, that's just the way of
things for bees."

"There are so many bees in his family, and as I am afraid bees are not at
all clever about such things, they will not really notice."

"Oh." Pippin's sobs began to subside, and he relaxed into Bilbo's embrace,
his little thumb finding its way into his mouth. "It feels better, Sam," he
murmured.

"Yes," said Bilbo, "and I am most thankful to young Samwise here, for his
use of the wet pipe-weed! I had no idea that is what one does for
bee-stings! He's a very clever lad!"

Sam blushed at the praise, and the Gaffer looked gratified. "Well, seems as
if that's summat a gardener needs to know, Mr. Bilbo. I've had to do the
very same for Sam myself a time or two. Is the little Master feeling
better?" he added to Pippin.

Pippin turned his gaze up to the Gaffer's face. "Uh-huh," he nodded. He
ducked his face shyly into Bilbo's weskit, and burrowed further into his
cousin's embrace.

"I think," said Bilbo, "that it is time to go back inside and prepare lunch.
Won't you and Sam join us in the kitchen, Master Hamfast?" Bilbo asked more
out of habit than of expecting an affirmative answer.

"No, and thank you, Mr. Bilbo," the gardener answered as he always did. "The
Missus'll have summat fixed for us at Number Three. Come along, Sam. You can
finish weeding the border later."

Pippin pulled his thumb from his mouth, and turned his tear-ravaged face up.
"Please, Mr. Gaffer? Mayn't Sam stay? I like him. I could play with him
'till Merry and Frodo get here!"

Hamfast Gamgee gazed at the little Took as if mesmerized, and then, shaking
himself out of his daze, said, "All right. Go along wi' ye, Sam, and do just
as Mr. Bilbo says, and keep Master Pippin out'n any more trouble."

After a splendid luncheon, Pippin went back out in the front garden with
Sam, who obligingly chased him, squealing, about the garden. Sam had just
caught Pippin and was swinging him high overhead, when they heard familiar
voices calling from the lane.

And scarcely waiting for Sam to set his feet to the ground, he pelted
through the gate and barreled into his most-beloved and best cousins.

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: According to The Hobbit, Bilbo and Gandalf spent the winter with Beorn, before heading home in the spring...
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

“…by mid-winter Gandalf and Bilbo had come all the way back, along both edges of the Forest, to the doors of Beorn’s house; and there for a while they both stayed. Yule-tide was warm and merry there; and men came from far and wide to feast at Beorn’s bidding.”*

Bilbo sat on the bench in the veranda, swinging his legs, as he smoked his pipe thoughtfully. It was the dead of winter, of course, and no time to be wandering in the Wild, but in spite of being as well-fed and comfortable as he had ever been before on this journey, he *did* wish he was home today.

A shadow loomed over him, and a deep rumbly voice said, “And what is the matter today, Master Hobbit? You seem sad.”

Bilbo glanced briefly at his host, and then shrugged. “It is of no importance, Beorn, and nothing to be done about it if it were.”

“Still, I would like to know why one of my guests has such a long face? Is there something you are lacking?” In spite of himself, Beorn had grown quite fond of this unassuming and humble little creature, who seemed to have no idea that he was a true hero. Since the hobbit and Gandalf were staying with him through the winter, he had come to know Bilbo fairly well, and was used to seeing the cheerful round face, as the hobbit enjoyed every moment of the day.

“It’s just--at home, today would be what we call first Yule--the turning of the year!” Bilbo sighed once more. “I suppose I am simply homesick. If I were in my cozy little hole of Bag End, well, I should have spent the morning hanging a bit of greenery about the hall, and then I should have been busy cooking in my own little kitchen, getting ready for my guests to arrive. My cousins on the Baggins side, you see--Cousin Polo and his wife Verbena--she was a Boffin, and their children Posco and Prisca. And Posco’s pretty little bride Rosella, who was a Bunce. And my cousin Fosco and his children Dora, Drogo and Dudo. I’m very fond of Drogo, really a very bright and promising young hobbit. With luck, my Uncle Longo would have taken his family off to see his wife Camillia’s Sackville relations--I have to say that Uncle Longo and I have never seen eye to eye about things--still he’s Family, all said…” Bilbo’s voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment longer, before continuing. “But I do miss cooking. I would have made roast goose, and we would have had bashed neeps and roasted carrots and potatoes. And perhaps there would have been some cabbage still, in the cold cellar, to put with some apples and make a slaw. And I could have used some of the dried mushrooms to make a lovely soup, all fragrant with onions and rosemary. I would have roasted the goose to a turn, you see, all nice and golden-brown, and made a figgy pudding for afters, and perhaps a seedcake as well, and there would have been some nice hard cheese from Pincup or Michel Delving to aid in filling up the corners, and some Old Winyards…”

Beorn was not quite sure what to say to this wistful recital. He had listened to the hobbit enough by now to know that Bilbo could rhapsodize over food for hours. He spoke no word of remonstrance at the mention of roast goose--though he served no meat at his own table, he would not criticize his guest-- and interrupted the flow of words.

“It is Yule here as well, Master Hobbit, and we shall be entertaining guests tonight I do believe. I’ve much baking yet to do. Would you care to join me in my kitchen?”

The look of sheer delight on the hobbit’s face was reward enough, and Beorn found himself regretting that he had not invited his guest into his kitchen sooner, if he could be rewarded with such a smile.

Only a short while later, Bilbo found himself in Beorn’s immense kitchen, looking about in curiosity. There were two dogs there, who seemed to help their master fetch and carry. Bilbo tied a dishtowel about his waist like an apron, and Beorn pulled up a chair to a large wooden table.

Bilbo felt as though he had been taken back in time, to when he was a faunt in his parents’ kitchen, and his Mother or Father allowed him to help in the cooking and baking.

His mouth watered at the lovely smells wafting about the room--a stew thick with vegetables and mushrooms simmered on the hearth. The yeasty smell of rising bread and cakes teased his nose, and he grinned up at his host.

Beorn took out a large crockery bowl filled with the finest of flour, and began to scoop some of it into another smaller wooden bowl. One of the large grey dogs placed a basket of brown eggs upon the table, and another brought a crock of honey.

“Well, my friend, I am going to make honeycakes. Do you wish to help?” asked Beorn.

“They start out much the same, but those are twice-baked, in order to keep. These are much softer.”

Bilbo nodded, and began to follow his host’s directions. Soon he found himself kneading the dough, preparing it to rest and rise. “Who will be coming, then, as you say you are expecting guests?”

“My sons and their families will be here, as well as other Men from some of the outlying settlements.”

Bilbo’s brows rose at this. He had somehow not thought of his host as being one who normally welcomed many guests at a time. Perhaps it was only Dwarves that had made him suspicious. And he was quite astonished at the revelation that Beorn had a family.

What a surprise it was to discover that there were seven sons, all with wives and sons and daughters of their own, who would be visiting! But an incautious question as to their mother caused his host to give a quite terrifying growl.

“Goblins!” was all that he would say, and Beorn turned away, his eyes suspiciously moist, to remove a tray of new loaves from the huge stone oven.

That afternoon the guests began to arrive: Beorn’s sons, all tall men, big and sturdy, with black bushy beards much like their father’s, though none of them were nearly so tall or so wide as their father. They brought with them their wives, merry young women some dark and some with flaxen hair, and a good many children, far too many for Bilbo to even begin to keep track of. Some of the children indeed, at first thought that Bilbo himself was another child, and wanted him to be their playmate.

He soon disabused them of that, but found himself seated by the hearth and surrounded by them, clamoring for him to tell them stories. He looked across the room, to see Gandalf watching him--the wizard’s eyes were merry and twinkling as he enjoyed seeing Bilbo in his predicament.

However, though these children were as large as he was, they were children nonetheless, and soon Bilbo had enthralled them, as he told of the Dwarves coming to his home, and of their encounter with the trolls. He might have gone on to recount more of his journey, but suddenly, there was a baa-ing, and all of them scrambled up to watch Beorn’s marvelous sheep coming in to lay the tables, as the ponies rolled in the logs to sit upon, and then the food was brought in.

Bilbo could not quite help a feeling of pride as one of the dogs bore in a great dish of mashed turnips and carrots, well seasoned with butter and cinnamon and honey, which he had himself prepared, as a thanks to his host. And he also felt a glow of accomplishment, as a platter of steaming honeycakes was brought in. He had helped with those--and he knew that he would make them again in his own kitchen at Bag End someday.

The company was merry, and ate and ate--not so much, of course, as hobbits would have on such an occasion--but still it was a lovely spread, and all the guests did justice to it.

And afterwards, there was singing. One of Beorn’s sons had brought a harp, another had brought a flute, and still another had brought a great drum. They began to play, and the tables were moved back for dancing.

Bilbo did not know any of these dances, but some of the children pulled him in anyway, and he capered among them, feeling quite jolly, and as happy as he had ever felt since leaving his own home.

Gradually the younger children began to tire, and soon some were sleeping on the floor by the hearth, and the very youngest slept in their mother’s arms.

Tired, but feeling very content, Bilbo wished his host good night, and found his own little sleeping chamber.

But as he drifted off, he could not help but wonder what kind of Yule they were having in the Shire…

__________________________________________________
* From The Hobbit, Chapter VII, “Queer Lodgings”

The further they walked into the trees, the more closely they drew together, until they were walking arm in arm. They’d spoken lightly enough about what had happened to them, but they’d avoided speaking of their actual capture. It was far too painful to remember their last sight of Boromir. And even worse was wondering what had happened to the others.

“We failed,” said Pippin suddenly, a sharp and unaccustomed note of worry in his voice. “We failed, didn’t we, Merry?”

Merry stopped walking abruptly. “Whatever do you mean, Pippin? I am hoping very much that we have got clean away from those Orcs!”

Pippin shook his head. “No, I mean, we’ve failed Frodo. We said we’d stick with him, but now he’s off somewhere without us. And we are who knows how many leagues away in the wrong direction.”

They came to an area filled with tangled roots, and clambered over, their ears straining at the sounds behind them. They could still hear the clangor of battle.

On the other side, they halted briefly. Pippin started to lean back, and then stopped, remembering the last time he’d leaned against a tree.

“I don’t think we did fail, Pip,” Merry said, after Pippin had thought he was not going to reply at all. “I think we helped him.”

“Well, it’s pretty clear that those Uruks were sent to capture ‘halflings’. What do you suppose they’d have done if they hadn’t caught *us*?”

“That’s right. They would have kept on looking until they laid hands on Frodo and Sam. But once they had us, they quit looking.”

“They did, didn’t they?” Pippin sighed, and then smiled. “Well, that’s a relief. I guess it’s up to Sam to look after Frodo now. Do you think the others went with him?” He didn’t speak of his vision of Strider following them--it felt selfish to hope that was so, when Frodo needed the help more.

Merry shook his head. “I think Frodo did just what Sam said, and tried to slip off without anyone. But since the Orcs didn’t capture Sam, I hope and believe that at least he’s with Frodo.”

“I usually am,” Merry said with a smile, and an attempt to lighten the mood once more. “I would think you’d know that by now.”

“Cheeky Took!” He flung his arm around Pippin’s shoulders, and on they wandered, into the Wood.

“Yes,” said Sam, “it’s a troll all right; a bit bigger than the one in Moria.”

Thain Peregrin nodded, leaning casually on the hilt of Trollsbane, and added “It’s smaller than my troll was.”

“At least this one won’t fall on you. How do you suppose it came here?” asked the Master of Buckland, in a tone of light curiosity.

“Well,” Pippin said, “I suppose it might have been driven out of the Far Mountains into the Southfarthing. But how it came to be *here* in this particular spot, I’ve no idea. There’ve been no reports come to me of missing livestock or the like.”

Merry walked over and smacked the creature lightly in the shin. “He’s as ugly a troll as I’ve ever seen--he looks really miserable.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” said Pippin. “He actually looks sick. Look how he’s clutching his belly.”

“P’rhaps he was starving,” said Sam. “He looks a bit puny for a troll.”

“Thing is,” said Pippin, “what are we to do with him? We can’t just leave him here to frighten the children.”

“It’s not a problem,” said Sam. “we just plant a bit o’ ivy here by his feet, and he’ll be all covered up in next to no time.”

Merry and Pippin grinned at Sam. “You see,” said Merry, “why this clever lad is Mayor?”

“Trust a gardener to think up a solution like that!” Pippin exclaimed admiringly. He looked up at the troll once more, and shook his head. “I never in my life thought I could feel sorry for a troll, but I think it’s probably just as well the Sun put this one out of his misery. How long do you suppose it will be before he has a bird’s nest behind his ear?”

“After supper, it was starting to get dark, and I asked her had she brought the wash in off the line. I didn’t tell her to do it, she just grabbed the basket and flounced out of the house.”

Ludo sighed. His sister’s arrival to live with them several years ago after she had been banished from the Great Smials had been nothing but one long trial after another. Hyacinth and Euphorbia had never got on very well, and it had only become worse as the years went by. Hyacinth was still very bitter over her loss of wealth and position, and Euphorbia had been perhaps a bit too pleased at the chance to see her sister-in-law taken down a peg.

And now it seemed his sister had simply vanished without a trace. “I suppose I shall have to go over to the Shirriff house, and ask them to send out a search party.”

“Yes, I do. She is my sister after all.” Still, he found it hard to quiet the little voice that seemed to say “maybe she’ll never turn up.”

His wife however, seemed not to have the same inhibitions. “If she doesn’t turn up, I suppose we shall have to let Reginard Took know he needn’t send us the money for her upkeep.”

“Yes, we shall.” And once more the little voice whispered “it will be worth it not to put up with her anymore.”

“Well,” said Euphorbia in a tone that bordered on smug, “it’s a small price to pay not to have to put up with her anymore.”

North of Hardbottle, on the outskirts of the village of Longneedle, in an abandoned storage hole lay the bones of the troll’s last snack, before the pains in his belly had driven him out, only to be caught by the Sun.

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY : On the Quest, Frodo and Merry tell Gimli a family story…
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The elements for the Challenge this month were a mother and/or a sibling; in addition I had to include: a surly cow, Buckland, Paladin and Gimli.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Gimli glanced up as Frodo approached. Aragorn had them taking the watch in pairs now. He thought that they would be in danger from both sides of the River. In a short while they would awaken Boromir and Merry for their watch.

Frodo came over and stood next to the Dwarf. “It’s all as quiet as can be. I hope that Aragorn is wrong about the danger.”

Gimli shrugged. “It’s as well to listen to what he says. He’s a Ranger, after all. But somehow I feel in my bones that the danger will lie much further along the Anduin. That the danger is there is not in doubt.”

Frodo sighed. “I know,” he said sadly. “I wish it were otherwise. I already miss Lothlórien.” He turned his glance over to where the other hobbits were sleeping; Sam and Merry had Pippin between them. As he watched, Merry stirred, and moving carefully, managed to extricate himself without waking the others. He got up slowly, cast a wry smile at Frodo and Gimli, and vanished briefly behind a tree. After a moment, he emerged, and moved silently to stand behind the other two.

“You would do better to get as much rest as you can, young hobbit,” added Gimli.

Merry shrugged. “When I’m up, I’m up, Frodo. You know that--when it’s this close to time for me to be awake, I’d never get back to sleep.”

Frodo gave his cousin a fond grin. “You and Aunt Esme! You get that from your Took side, you know.”

“Well, I get it from Mum, anyway, cousin, and definitely *not* Da. And it’s not as though I’m like Pippin.”

“Well, I should *hope* not!” said Frodo. “Sometimes I think it’s amazing that Pippin ever sleeps at all. Remember that day we were all going to walk to Tuckborough from Bag End? I think he’d prowled around Bag End all night long.”

Gimli shook his head, amused. “I *have* noticed that Pippin does often seem to have an excess of energy.”

Frodo snorted indelicately, and Merry put his hand to his mouth to silence his own bark of laughter. The two hobbits cast a guilty look at the sleepers--but it did not appear they had awakened anyone.

“Do you remember the story your father tells on your mother and Paladin?” Frodo chuckled.

“Yes--that one.” Frodo turned to Gimli, “you see, Gimli among hobbits it’s the older of the couple who’s considered to be doing the courting, male or female. The vast majority of the time, it’s the lad who’s older, but sometimes it’s the lass. Aunt Esme is four years older than Uncle Sara, so she’s the one who did the courting.”

Gimli nodded. “Among my people, it is the female who does the courting, whatever the age--there are so few, they have their pick.”

“Well, Aunt Esme had put her mind on Saradoc Brandybuck before he was anywhere near of age. In fact it was shortly before *she* came of age. There had always been a lot of visits between the Tooks and Brandybucks, so she’d grown up knowing Uncle Sara. The year she was thirty-two, she decided that it was as well to stake her claim--and she had the perfect excuse for a visit to Buckland: me.”

“She came, accompanied by Uncle Paladin, supposedly to be with her friend Primula when she had her baby.” Merry said, “I gathered her mother had not much wanted her to visit but her father thought it would be perfectly proper if she had her older brother with her.”

“Normally,” Frodo took up the story, “her older sisters would have come, as they were my mother’s closest friends, but they could not at the time, as Cousin Peridot was also expecting, and Primrose needed to be with *her*.”

Frodo was silent for a moment, remembering his mother, and then before Merry could have a chance to become alarmed, continued. “At any rate, it was the first time since Paladin had come of age that his parents had put him in charge of his younger sister, and he was taking it very seriously. Paladin stuck to her like a burr, whenever she was out and about, and making certain that she never had the chance to be alone with Uncle Sara.”

“They’d been there a few days, and Aunt Esme was beginning to get rather peeved at her brother’s constant attendance. Now, according to her, she woke up very early because that was what she was used to on the farm, and she decided to get dressed and go out without saying anything to anyone. Uncle Sara says it was probably because she had not slept to begin with!”

Merry interrupted, “and Uncle Paladin says it was just to spite him! But he woke up early as well, and getting up, he looked out the guest room window and spotted his sister outside ’at the crack of dawn’ as he put it, walking towards the barns.”

Now Frodo took up the tale. “Of course, he immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was sneaking out to meet Saradoc! He threw his clothes on, and dashed out of the Hall--didn’t even bother to pass through the kitchens.”

Suddenly Merry and Frodo exchanged a grin, and put their hands to their mouths to stifle their laughter.

“So,” continued Frodo “Paladin rushed over to the barn, and he heard his sister crooning ‘Oh, now! Aren’t you sweet? Come here and let’s have a cuddle.’ So he went in, all filled with fury, and he didn’t see her at first. Then he realized the voice was coming from a stall where one of the Hall‘s dairy cows was kept. ”

“Paladin bursts into the stall, only to see his sister sitting in the hay with a tabby cat on her lap. But before he can say anything, he slipped on--” Frodo snickered, “--a bit of manure and reached out to steady himself from falling, he grabbed at the cow. The cow, rather surly anyway, at the rude interruption, brought one of her forefeet down right on top of Paladin’s foot!”

Merry and Frodo goggled at the Dwarf, seemingly surprised that he even needed to ask.

“Of course,” Frodo replied. “His foot was broken. They ended up having to extend their visit to Buckland by a few weeks. I came along a few days later, but for Aunt Esme the important thing was, that with Paladin laid up, she had plenty of time to come to an understanding with Uncle Sara.”

Merry giggled. “The funny thing is, Da was sound asleep the whole time! He was never an early riser. In fact he said, fond as he was of Mum, he would never be out in the barn keeping a tryst at that hour!”

Gimli enjoyed a stifled laugh, and then said, “Speaking of the hour, Merry, I think it is time your cousin and I get some sleep, and we need to waken Boromir to share your watch.”

The two hobbits nodded, and Merry gave Frodo’s arm a squeeze. “Get some rest, Frodo.”

He saw Gimli go over and rouse Boromir, and watched as Frodo carefully slipped next to Pippin and Sam. Then he turned his eyes upon the mist-shrouded River to keep his watch.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Bilbo and Sigismond are five, Adalgrim is fifteen (or 3 and 9 in Man-years).

The little hobbit sobbed in his mother’s arms as she sat on the edge of his little bed and rocked him back and forth.

“I know, Bilbo, my lamb,” Belladonna dropped a kiss on her son’s feverish forehead, and wondered if Bungo had found the healer at home.

She felt tears prick her own eyes, even as she was tempted to chuckle. “Why Bilbo, dearest, you will still be five!”

“It won’t count if I can’t have a birthday like Siggy’s.” He sniffled again. Then he gave another little cry. “Oh, Mama, it *really* hurts!” He clamped a hand to his ear.

Just then the door to her son’s room opened, and Mistress Rose entered, followed by Bungo. The healer carried her satchel, and crossed briskly over to Bilbo’s bed.

“Why, Master Bilbo,” she said, “your papa tells me that you’re not feeling well.”

He looked up at her and nodded. He liked Mistress Rose. “My ear hurts! It hurts bad!” The tears ran down his chubby little cheeks.

Belladonna reluctantly handed her son over to the healer, and stood, giving her husband a questioning look. She thought he would have brought old Mistress Cowslip. Rose Greenhand* was rather young; she had only come of age and finished her apprenticeship a few months ago.

Bungo just shrugged. Mistress Cowslip and her new apprentice had been out delivering a babe.

“It hurts a lot all the time. And then it hurts *worse* sometimes, like someone stuck a *knife* in it.”

The healer turned and looked at Bilbo’s parents. “Mr. Baggins, if you’d bring the lamp a mite closer, sir? I need to look in his ear.”

Bungo crossed the room, and took up the small night lamp, holding it near. It was difficult getting just the right angle to avoid casting shadows, but after a moment, they found a way, and Mistress Rose peered into Bilbo’s left ear.

Carefully, she laid the lad back in his bed, and drew her pendulum--a disk of amber on a silk cord--over her head, and suspended it over him, watching the patterns it made. Finally, she placed it back around her neck, and took a small boiled sweet from her pocket, which she placed in Bilbo’s mouth. He looked surprised, and his sorrowful little face brightened at the unexpected treat.

“It’s what I feared. He’s an infection in his ear. He probably got some water in his ears while bathing--that’s the usual cause.”

She stood up. “I have some witch-hazel oil. If you would warm it just a bit for me, please Mistress Baggins, I will put three drops in his ear. Then he should lie on his right side for a quarter of an hour, and let it work. Then we’ll turn him to his left side, and put a clean, folded flannel beneath the ear, and let him sleep that way until morning. I’ll give him a bit of willow-bark tea, laced with chamomile and honey, as well.”

Bilbo was watching and listening with wide eyes. He made a face at the mention of willow-bark.

Opening her satchel, she handed Belladonna a small bottle of the witch-hazel oil. “If you would, ma‘am? It shouldn’t be hot--just warm. And I’ll need hot water for the tea if it‘s not too much trouble?”

“Certainly, Mistress Rose.” Bella was feeling a good deal better about things--Mistress Rose seemed to be very confident, and competent. She took the witch-hazel oil, and turned to go to the kitchen.

As she padded down the passageway, the door to the best guest bedroom opened, and she looked up startled.

“Father! I am sorry--did we wake you?” She did not think that Bilbo’s crying was loud enough to disturb the guests. Bungo’s sister Belba and her husband Rudigar had also come to stay.

Gerontius stepped out into the hallway with her. “No, my dear. At one hundred and five, sleep comes a good deal more lightly than when one is younger. I’ve been awake for a while. Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid little Bilbo woke up with a terrible earache. The healer is with him now,” she gestured apologetically with the witch-hazel bottle.

He fell into step beside her, and she sighed. “Father, I forget how many times you must have gone through similar experiences!”

“Yes. Well.” Gerontius chuckled. “Twelve children do give a hobbit a bit of experience!”

She sighed as they entered the kitchen. “I am afraid I’ll never know. I fear that Bilbo is destined to be our only little chick. But at times like this, I am rather glad--it would be so hard to have to go through over and over. Not only is he in pain, but his little heart is broken, for he fears that his birthday is spoiled.” She searched in the cabinet for a small saucepan in which to warm the oil. The fire in the stove had been banked for the night, and it took a few minutes to coax it to life. In the meantime, she filled the teakettle with water, and put it on as well.

“A fifth birthday is a momentous occasion, Bella. He’s leaving his faunthood behind, after all. But his birthday is not until the day after tomorrow. Surely he will feel better in time.”

“But tomorrow is just as important to him. He remembers Siggy’s birthday last month. He was to get his gifts in the morning, and then in the afternoon help me with preparing the gifts *he* would be giving at his party. And Siggy and his parents were to arrive tomorrow as well--he’ll be upset not to be able to greet them.” She checked the temperature of the oil. “I need to take the oil to Mistress Rose; perhaps by the time I return the kettle will be a-boil, for she wishes to prepare Bilbo some tea as well.”

Gerontius made a face. “Willow-bark, no doubt.” He smiled and kissed his daughter on top of the head. “Take the oil; I will bring the water when it is ready. And then perhaps you will join me for a cup of chamomile tea and perhaps a little bite to eat?”

It was after midnight when the family saw the healer out. Mistress Rose left instructions to repeat the warm oil treatment again after first breakfast, and she left another dose of the willow-bark tea. “He should be able to be up and around after luncheon, but he should play quietly, and avoid overexcitement. If his ear gives him anymore stabbing pain or if his fever comes back, please call me again.”

Bella and Bungo exchanged a glance. It was going to be very hard to avoid overexcitement with guests in the hole.
___________________________________________

Bilbo was feeling a bit better in the morning, and not particularly happy to have the warm oil treatment repeated, for it meant he had to lie still for it to do its work. He was fretting, as well, about the guests who were due to arrive. Bell finally got him to drift off to sleep after he turned on his other side, another clean flannel beneath his ear to catch the drainage. She sang softly, as she worked on her mending, and soon his eyes drifted shut.

Her respite was short-lived. He had not been asleep five minutes, when she heard knocking at the door, and voices in the front hall.

She bit her lip in vexation, as Bilbo’s eyes popped open. “Siggy!” he exclaimed, starting to sit up.

“Lie back down, son,” she said firmly. “If your cousin is here, Papa will come and tell us soon.”

Bilbo subsided, though he grumbled about “not fair”, but Bella let it pass. A bit of crossness was to be expected from the lad under these circumstances.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the door opened, and Bungo ushered in Bilbo’s Uncle Hildibrand, his little son Sigismond clinging to his hand.

Bilbo looked at his cousin sadly. “Hullo, Siggy. I’m sorry I can’t play with you.”

Siggy walked over to the bed. “I’m sorry your ear hurts. Does it hurt dreadfully?”

Bilbo shook his head. “It did last night--ever so dreadfully. But it just hurts a little bit today.”

“We brought you a present. Uncle Bungo says we may give it to you after luncheon.”

“That’s nice.” Bilbo heaved a sigh. Presents would not be much fun if he was stuck in bed.

Uncle Hildibrand held out his hand. “Come along, Siggy. Let’s let Bilbo get some rest so he can feel better.”
____________________________________________

Bilbo was cranky and restless, and Bella was glad to give over the watching of him to his father after elevenses. She had not had the chance yet to greet her brother and sister-in-law, nor check on her other guests, and she needed to prepare luncheon, although she would have some help with that--the Widow Cottar often came in to help the Bagginses for special occasions.

She found that her in-laws had arrived. Bungo’s parents, Mungo and Laura, lived on the opposite side of the hill, with Bungo’s younger sister Linda, who had only just come of age, and his youngest brother Bingo, who was still two years short of his majority. Belba and Rudigar, who lived in Budgeford, had already arrived the day before. But Bungo’s brother Longo was away in the Southfarthing with his Sackville wife, Camellia. Bella was just as glad. Bungo and Longo did not get on well, and Bella thought that Camellia was an insufferable prig.

Laura embraced her daughter-in-law. “So, Bella, I hear our dear little byrding is laid up?”

Belladonna sighed. “Yes. He had a horrid earache last night, and he’s not quite over it yet. The healer wished him to have a quiet day, and not to get overexcited.” Her tone was dryly rueful, and her mother-in-law gave a chuckle.

“Rather a difficult task with his fifth birthday, of all things, and a hole full of company, my dear!”

Between the help of her in-laws and the Widow Cottar, luncheon was soon on the table in the big dining room, though Bungo took his on a tray with his son in the lad’s room.

Bilbo was still downcast, for this day was not going at all the way he had thought it would.

“Siggy got to have his presents after second breakfast.” he told his father. He was at least eating, his father thought, watching as his son took a large bite of his potatoes.

“Well, I think that you will have your presents after luncheon,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Really and truly. We shall put on your dressing gown, and we shall go into the front room, and you shall have your five presents.”

“That’s right. But you must be very good--the healer said you must be quiet today, understand?”

When Bilbo had finished his lunch, Bungo used a flannel and washed his son’s face, and helped him into his dressing gown. He was going to carry Bilbo, but the lad gave him a stern look. “I can walk, Papa! I’m going to be *five*!” So his father took his hand and led him into the front room. Bella sat in her chair by the hearth, and she took Bilbo into her lap. He looked about the room.

He gave a grin to Siggy, who sat on his mother Coriander’s lap on one of the settees. His Grandfather Gerontius sat on one side of her, and his Uncle Hildibrand on the other. Grandpapa Mungo and Grandmama Laura sat on the other settee with Aunt Linda. Someone had brought extra chairs in from the study, and Aunt Belba and Uncle Rudigar sat in those, while Uncle Bingo stood by the window. His Papa stood by the hearth, beside Mama’s chair.

Bungo handed his son the first package, flat and rectangular, wrapped in yellow fabric, and tied with a green bow. Bella helped the lad to open it: it was a book, and Bilbo’s eyes grew wide, for he *did* love stories. He opened it and looked at the first page, with its marvelous pictures.

Then Gerontius stood up, and brought to him a round box. It was of red and yellow striped pasteboard. Bilbo took off the lid, and looked within.

Inside were several tiny carved figures and little buildings, cunningly painted--it was a toy farm.

Bilbo took out a cunningly carved brown cow, and looked at it in delight. “Thank you, Grandfather!” He reached up his arms and gave Gerontius a hug.

Mungo and Laura leaned forward. “Bilbo, we have something for you as well,” said Laura. And Mungo turned to his youngest son. “Bingo, if you would, please.”

Bilbo shut his eyes tightly, and then put his little hands over them. He could hear someone approach, and he heard a little thump. He bit his lip. “Can I open them now?”

He heard a chorus of voices, saying “Yes!” so he took his hands down and looked--

It was a rocking pony! Just the right size for a lad of his age, painted dapple grey, with a mane and tail of black yarn, and a painted on saddle of red. His eyes grew large, and a huge grin split his face.

Mungo grinned back at his grandson. “Your Uncle Bingo and I built him, and your Grandmama and Aunt Linda painted him, and put on the mane and tail. Do you like him?”

Belladonna laughed and bent to her son’s ear. “What is the proper thing to say, son?”

He turned back to look at her, stricken that he had forgotten his “big lad” manners. Quickly he turned to his grandparents. “I like him ever so much, Thank you!” He turned to his mother. “Can I play with him?”

She smiled. “But Bilbo, that is only three presents. Don’t you want your other two?”

Bungo reached over and ruffled his son’s unruly brown curls, and then nodded to his sister Belba. She came over and handed Bilbo a soft parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. “Happy Birthday, Bilbo-lad.”

With his mother’s help, Bilbo pulled loose the string and pulled the paper away. It was a stuffed puppy, made of blue gingham, with eyes of black buttons. Bilbo gave it a hug. “Thank you, Auntie!” he said.

And now Coriander pushed Siggy off her lap, and gave him a push in Bilbo’s direction. He had a muslin bag in his hands, and he went over to Bilbo, giving a rueful look at the pony, and the other items next to the chair. He held the bag out reluctantly. “Here, Bilbo. I hope you still like it.” It was obvious that he felt his present was not good enough.

“Thank you, Siggy,” Bilbo took the bag and looked inside, and then smiling, reached in and pulled out a leather ball. “Oh, this is splendid, Siggy! It’s just like the big lads have!”

Reassured, Siggy grinned back at his cousin, blushing bright red. “I’m glad you like it!”

“Not inside the smial, Bilbo. And you are not dressed for going outdoors. Playing ball will have to wait for another day. Perhaps you and Siggy may play with your new farm on the carpet. Or you might take turns on the pony--as long as you do not gallop him--for remember that Mistress Rose said you were to be quiet and rest today.”

For a moment, Bilbo’s face grew stormy, but then he thought better of it. If he grew angry, his parents might send him back to bed, and that would be dreadful. “All right, Mama,” he said sadly.

Soon Siggy and Bilbo were spread out on the hearth-rug, joined by Uncle Bingo, and having a splendid time setting up the little farm. It had ponies, cows, sheep, pigs--even tiny chickens and ducks. There was a small dog and cat. There was a little barn, and a small cottage, and carved figures of a farmer and his wife and three children. There were clever notched sticks that could be joined to make a fence, and even a little oval mirror to represent a pond. A little wagon with wheels that rolled could be attached to one of the ponies. It was all very cunning, and the two lads and the tweenager played happily until nearly teatime.

Bilbo was to take tea in his room, and Siggy was allowed to join him, with Aunt Linda to keep them company. But when tea was finished, Bilbo’s mother summoned him.

“Bilbo, would you like to see the gifts you will be giving on your birthday tomorrow?” Belladonna had already chosen most of the items from the mathom room, but it would scarcely be right to distribute them without the byrding having some inkling of what he was giving.

Bilbo gave a squeal of delight, and followed his mother to the mathom room. There was a large array of items, set out on a small table, and Bella explained for whom each gift was intended.

Bella pointed to the box of building blocks, which Bilbo had lost interest in lately. He looked at it, and his brow furrowed. “Mama, could I give him something else?”

Bella looked at him in surprise. That was one of his favorite toys. “But Bilbo, you like that toy. Are you sure?”

She grinned at him and hugged him tightly. “Yes, dearest, you most certainly may. I am very proud of you.”

She smiled. “You will have to talk to your Papa about that. I am sure he will find something. It must be a surprise, you know. We’ll find Papa now, and he can show you.”
His mother turned him over to Bungo, who gave his son a conspiratorial wink, and led him into the master bedroom. Reaching up to the top of the wardrobe, he took down a small box, and handed it to his son.

Curiously Bilbo lifted the lid. “Oh Papa! It’s so pretty! Mama will like that, I think!”

The two of them inspected it for a moment, and then Bungo returned it to the top of the wardrobe. “Until tomorrow, then, right, my lad?”

Bilbo nodded vigorously. He was sure that his mama would love that present.
________________________________________

After supper, also eaten in his room, Bilbo was checked over by his anxious parents.

“My ear doesn’t hurt much at all any more,” he said anxiously. He was eager to be better, for tomorrow would be so exciting, and he did not want to miss it.

But his cheeks were a bit flushed, so his parents gave him a cup of willow-bark tea, though not so much as the night before, and he was tucked up in the bed, and his father read a story to him from his new picture book.
__________________________________________

“Yes, my chick, you are! Suppose we get you dressed, and you may come and have first breakfast, and then we will greet your guests as they arrive?”

“Oh yes, Mama!” And he suffered himself to be dressed in his brand-new snowy white shirt with leaves embroidered on the yoke, and in his best dark green velvet breeches that buttoned at the knees, and his yellow weskit and his little jacket that matched the breeches.

He looked at himself doubtfully. He was sure Mama would tell him not to get dirty in his good clothes, but she did not say any such thing, leading him instead to the dining room. With so many guests, breakfast was being served there rather than the kitchen.

She fixed him a plate from the sideboard, of eggs and fried potatoes and sausages and bacon and toast, and she poured his little mug with fruit juice. A smaller table had been placed in the corner, and Siggy was already there, and eating, when Bilbo joined him.

They had barely finished when the knocking on the door let them know the first of the guests had arrived. As they jumped up from the table, a lad appeared in the dining room door. He was about fifteen years old, with the coppery hair of the Tooks, and a mischievous glint in his green eyes.

Belladonna came over and dropped a kiss of greeting on his head. “Adalgrim,” she said to her nephew, “I am sure that Bilbo and Siggy would love to show you Bilbo’s new ball.”

“Aunt Bella!” he grinned, and gave her a look which showed her that he knew quite well that he had been put to child-minding, and that he didn’t really mind.

And so with a small cousin tugging him by either hand, he allowed himself to be dragged off to Bilbo’s room, where he admired the pony and the farm and the book and the stuffed puppy, and they retrieved the ball and went outside.

They began a game of catch on the front lawn, and were soon joined by some of the other guests, including a few more Tooks and some Goodbody cousins from Bilbo’s Baggins side. And after awhile Bilbo’s Uncle Bingo and Cousin Fosco also joined them.

As the front garden grew crowded, tables were brought out, and food set out to serve for second breakfast and elevenses.

After elevenses, the gifts were brought out a placed upon the table, and Bilbo’s parents stood beside him, as he passed them out. Siggy was very happy with the spinning top, and Belladonna was speechless at the beautiful silver necklace with a sapphire pendant. Finally, she bent down and hugged Bilbo, while looking up with shining eyes at her husband.

And then with luncheon, the party truly began! Even more food and drink was brought out, and a magnificent cake.

Bilbo was allowed to shed his jacket and weskit after the presents had been passed out, and soon was running about with the other children again. Bingo and Fosco offered to serve as “ponies” and race with the younger children upon their shoulders.

Laura came up to her daughter-in-law. “I am glad that Bilbo seems to be over his earache,” she said.

The food flowed most of the day, and after what would probably have been considered teatime, the children began to slow down a bit. Grandfather Gerontius was ensconced on the bench by the front step, and he soon had gathered a small crowd of young hobbits for story-telling.

“Have I ever told you of the birthday present I had of my friend Gandalf the Wizard? He gave me these diamond shirt studs--they are magic, for they will not come undone unless I say so!” He shot out a sleeve, to show a pair glittering at the cuff. “Here, Bilbo-lad, as you are the byrding, see if you can unfasten this.”

Bilbo immediately set to. Although young, he was as nimble-fingered as most hobbits, yet the studs stayed determinedly fastened. He gave a scowl of frustration. “I can’t, Grandfather!”

Gerontius grinned, and drew his wrist up before his face. He whispered a few words, and then held his arm out once more. “Now try.”

Bilbo gave him a skeptical look, and then tried again. They popped open easily. The children’s eyes all grew very wide. The Old Took replaced them, and fastened them once more, whispering again, and none of the children could hear or understand.

Bungo was watching with an amazed expression. Hildibrand, who stood next to him shook his head. “I’ve seen Father do that trick many times since Gandalf gave them to him, and I can’t explain it any other way than magic.”

“Well, it’s uncanny, that’s all I’ll say. Although it must be handy not to worry about losing them.”

It wasn’t much later after this, as his grandfather told another story, this one about his Great-Uncle, the Bullroarer, that Bilbo drifted off to sleep in his grandfather’s arms.

His father took him into the smial, to tuck him up, and soon his son was joined by his cousin Siggy, who had also succumbed to sleep. With so many guests, there would be sharing of beds this night. Bungo and Hildibrand turned, to see young Adalgrim in the doorway.

And so, the when the Moon rose, he could peek in the window, and see three young hobbits all snugly a-slumber.

I wake up to the Sun shining in my window. She’s well above the horizon. I can smell second breakfast cooking, and I hear the sounds coming from the guest rooms--Gandalf’s low singing, and the Dwarves moving about in their room. Only Dori and Nuri are staying with us. The other four are at The Ivy Bush. They’ll all make themselves scarce tonight, and Uncle Bilbo will be meeting them at the edge of the village after he pulls his little prank.

I feel once more the pangs of grief, and tell myself firmly to stop it! It is not as though Bilbo will be--dead. Not--not like my parents. And he needs this. I can tell from his manner all is not well with him: he cannot settle to his translations; he is not eating well; he is not sleeping well; and he is suffering from ill dreams. More than once I’ve been awakened by his soft cries. He is dreaming of the dragon, the spiders, and most often of the Gollum-creature. “I’m no thief,” he whimpers, “no, thief!” I do not know how to comfort him, and he is embarrassed that I know of them.

Fortunately, he has had no more of them since Gandalf arrived. But Gandalf cannot stay forever, and if Bilbo thinks this distress of his can be assuaged by leaving once more, then I owe him to much to stand in his way.

It’s with a heavy heart that I arise and make my toilet. This should be a joyous day for us. I am coming of age, though it is hard for me to feel that is real. And Bilbo is one hundred and eleven. He has passed his one hundred and tenth year, and that is a remarkable occasion. But our coming parting weighs on me, and it is going to be very hard to present a smiling face to the world today.

In the kitchen, I hear Bilbo and Gandalf speaking seriously. I cannot hear what they say, and when I enter, the conversation dies. The Dwarves have apparently finished their meal and gone out.

“Good morning, Frodo,” says Gandalf, taking a pull on his pipe. He too has finished eating. I have noticed that he eats only one serving to a
meal for the most part.

“Good morning, Gandalf,” I say. I turn to Bilbo, dropping a kiss of greeting on his cheek. He feels a bit warm to me, as though he might be feverish, but I put that down to the warmth of the kitchen, for he’s been cooking after all. “Good morning, Uncle.”

Gandalf rises carefully. The ceiling in the kitchen is not so high as in the rest of the smial, and so he watches his head very carefully there. “I have some things to see too. Fireworks take a deal of preparation.” He leaves, bending nearly double to get out the kitchen door.

I sit down to my breakfast, and notice a small package beside my plate. I smile, and reach into my breast pocket for the package which I have. I place it on the table near his chair, as he helps himself to another serving of most everything before he sits down to keep me company. We have always exchanged our gifts to one another privately before the party.

We give lip service to the meal. The food’s good, of course, but we don’t want to waste time talking about it today, though I am sure that would appall Aunt Dora. So we eat quickly, and when we are not quite finished, I give him a sideways look, and smile. “It’s your year to go first.”

I watch him carefully. I ordered this gift for him last year, before I knew his plans. I had thought only of our tramps about the Shire--yet now, it seemed a much more useful and significant gift.

The paper falls away, and there it is: a small case of chased silver, engraved with his initials. It is only about the size of the palm of his hand. He opens it, and his face slowly breaks out into a smile of glee. “Oh, Frodo, my lad! This is remarkable.”

I am rather pleased with myself. In separate little compartments are a flint striker, a small comb, a tiny penknife, a small silverpoint stylus, and another smaller case. He flips it open and then grins at me.

“Yes, Uncle. It’s a compass. There is a bit of a lodestone in it, which will point always to the north.”

“Frodo, this is perfect.” His voice is husky. “Thank you so much. You know me all too well.” He clears his throat, and pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose. “Now, it’s your turn.”

I draw the package towards me, and open it carefully. It is far heavier than I expect, and it makes a bit of a chink.

It is the most beautiful pocketwatch I’ve ever seen. It’s of silver, and I recognize the inlay--truesilver,mithril. I open it, and inside the front is a small miniature painting, a tiny copy of a painting Cousin Calla had done once, of the two of us, when I was only about nineteen. But that is not all. The watch is attached to a fob. And on the fob, in addition to the watch, is a keyring. And I recognize the keys to Bag End. I look at him, puzzled, for he gave me my own key to the smial years ago.

He reads my look at a glance. “Those are not copies of the keys, Frodo, those are *my* keys, now yours.”

“Oh, Uncle!” I cry, overcome with emotion. I feel anew the grief of losing him, and yet also, I feel pride that he is entrusting me this way, and so much love for him--he’s given me a home, a place to be, himself.

“Now, now, Frodo,” he pulls out a second handkerchief and passes it over to me, and I cannot help but chuckle at this. He clearly knows me very well, also.

“Now, I need to talk to you seriously, before the guests begin to arrive, and we’ve not a moment to ourselves. Today is going to be far too busy for us, and I am not sure I will have another chance.”

For a brief and wild second, I think he is going to relent, and allow me to come with him. But no, I know better.

“I want to apologize to you in advance for something, Frodo. Today *is* your coming of age. By all rights you should be getting just as much attention as I--perhaps even more.”

I shake my head. The one thing he has never understood about me is that I am not nearly so fond of the limelight as he. In that regard, I am far more Brandybuck than Took. But he goes on.

“I am sure that it has not escaped your notice that most of the talk has been of *my* birthday--which, while eleventy-one is remarkable, it is not as important as all that. But I have my reasons. I have been deliberately playing down your coming of age.”

“You know as well as I do, Frodo, that the least suspicion of a whiff of what I plan would be enough to set Otho and Lobelia on our tails like hounds. I have taken the precaution of having Mr. Grubb go over all the documents once more--my will, and your adoption papers--to make sure they are airtight. I am making certain that the people who signed that document will be in attendance at the supper tonight. When I make my speech, there will be a key phrase in it, to assure that you will receive all your due. I will bury it among other things in the hope that the S.-B.s will miss it.”

I nod. I do understand his concerns. If the S.-B.s are not taken by surprise, they might be able to cause troubles for us--for me, I should say, since hopefully Uncle Bilbo will be far away from any such unpleasantness. I suppose I made an expression of distaste.

“I know, my boy. It really is disgusting, but they’ve no right to any claim on me, and I don’t wish them to give you the same sorts of trouble they gave me.”

Again I nod. But privately I am of the opinion that the S.-B.s will be cold and in the grave before they stop making trouble. I shudder. Otho and Lobelia are bad enough, but Lotho is far worse.

He is looking at me with concern. I have been silent too long. I look at him desperately. “Uncle, are you sure--”

“Frodo, it is not the right time for you to follow me. I am counting on you to take good care of Bag End, and the people who rely on it.”

“I love Bag End, Uncle Bilbo. But I love you more. I would give it all up for you--you know that.”

The look on his face is one of quiet determination. “Frodo, don’t you see--that is precisely the *reason* I want you to have it all. Because you *don’t* want it; because people are more important to you than things.”

I subside. This opinion of me is very flattering, and I am glad he thinks that of me, but it is not especially comforting.

“I have been a selfish old hobbit almost all my life--no, no, don’t protest that. I know myself. I can be generous with what I have--that doesn’t mean a lot to me either. But I have cherished my solitude and my peace and quiet far too much. I nearly let you slip through my fingers, nearly gave in to Gilda and Esme, because I knew the disruption you’d cause me--the way you would plant yourself in my heart and life. I didn’t. Having you here with me was the best thing I’ve ever done--including facing Smaug. But I want you to know I love you just as much as if you were my own son.”

This is not the first time he has told me this. But I am keenly aware that it will be the last time I will hear it, and I am nearly undone. “Uncle Bilbo, I’m going to miss you so much.” I hear a childish note of begging in my voice, and am reminded of how Merry sounds when I finish a visit at Brandy Hall.

“There, there, my lad,” he pats me on the back, and he is sniffling as well, and then both of us blow our noses at the same time, and end up breaking out in laughter.

“Well,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I think I’ve had as much breakfast as I care for. I’ve a few things to deal with before the guests begin to arrive.”

I stand up. I feel exhausted, as if I have been running a mile. “You go and do that, Uncle. I’ll see to the washing up.”

He smiles, pats me on the back again, and taking his tea with him, leaves the kitchen. I gather up the plates and forks, and go over to the dishpan. I still feel weighed down. But as I pump water into the kettle to heat, I look out the window.

I see Sam, directing the hanging of paper lanterns in the front garden. And then I see a pony trap pull up by the gate, and two small familiar forms leap out--it’s Merry, and Pippin with him.

And my heart feels lighter. For there will still be a few who love me in the Shire.

“I am sorry, Merry and Pippin,” said Bilbo. “But Master Elrond does not wish us to disturb Frodo’s rest this afternoon. We shall see him this evening, at the feast to celebrate his recovery. Really, it is for his own good.”

“Meriadoc.” Bilbo’s voice was firm, and Merry blushed. “Now, why don’t you lads come and visit with me a bit this afternoon. I don’t believe you’ve seen my little apartments yet. I really have a most cozy little place, almost as good as a smial.”

The cousins looked at one another. They’d like to argue their way into Frodo’s room, but it didn’t look like it would do them any good.

“Come on, Merry,” said Pippin. “I’m curious to see how Cousin Bilbo has been living all these years.” He gave Merry one of his wheedling looks, and Merry gave in, though with ill grace.

Near the end of the corridor, Bilbo opened a door with a flourish. It led into a sunny room, furnished with a mix of furniture--much of it was sized for hobbits: a few chairs and a settee, a low table, a desk and a cupboard, as well as a number of bookshelves. But there were also a number of chairs sized for Big Folk as well. “Over there is my little kitchen, and beyond that door--” he pointed to a small round door such as would have been found in the Shire “is my bedchamber, as well as a very convenient water-closet.”

Merry looked around, and then said “Speaking of convenient, Cousin Bilbo, I think I will make use of that water-closet.”

“Certainly, Merry. And I think I’ll make us a spot of tea, and I believe I have some biscuits handy.” As Merry disappeared beyond the round door, and Bilbo into the kitchen, Pippin was left to wander around Bilbo’s sitting room. Although all the furnishings were clearly of Elven make, he soon spotted a number of smaller, familiar items.

On the mantle over the small fireplace were some framed pictures. Pippin went over to look at them. There was a portrait of Bilbo and Frodo together, which had been painted by Frodo’s cousin, Calla Brandybuck. And there were also small portraits of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, that once had hung in Bag End. Another was a small oval painting of a young hobbit Pippin did not recognize, though he was very clearly a Took--no mistaking that pointed nose and green eyes, though he had the darker hair that showed up less commonly than the copper chestnut hair.

There was a small drawing of Bag End, that Pippin recognized as Frodo’s work. Next to it was another drawing, done in colors, and far more childish, of the same subject. That too, was by Frodo, according to the childish signature.

He turned his attention to the bookshelves. They were not so full as the shelves Bilbo had at Bag End, and there were other odds and ends there--suddenly he started--no! it couldn’t be! “Thunder!” he said under his breath. “I can’t *believe* Bilbo brought that all the way to Rivendell!”

Merry burst out into a bark of laughter. “Lawks, Pippin! I never would have expected to see *that* here!”

In the center of the shelf, filled with an attractive arrangement of autumn leaves, was a large white vessel. It had been colorfully painted. A large round yellow sun sported two huge eyes surmounted by improbable eyelashes and a big, rather crooked, smile. Blobs of light blue--perhaps meant to be clouds, surrounded it. Below, sticks of brown were surmounted by very round, very bright, green circles--meant to be trees, while next to them, on sticks of green, were equally large flowers in many colors, also bearing smiling faces in their center. Five grinning stick figures, all equal in size, stood between the trees and flowers. The one in the center had a squiggle of grey curls across the top of its head and on its feet. On its left side the stick figure had black curls, and on its right was a figure with red curls. The figures on each end had yellow curls, and the one on the far left held a stick with some sort of square at one end. Below each figure--with each letter painted in a different color was lettered: “SaM” “FoRdO” “bLBo” “mE” and “mERy”. There was no disguising the fact that the vessel had originally been a chamber pot.

Merry was howling now, completely overcome with mirth. “Oh, Pip! That’s priceless! I completely forgot about that!”

Pippin’s face was red, as he stared at the object in astonishment. He remembered how proud he had been, giving Bilbo this “vase”--scrounged from Bilbo’s *own* mathom, room, and then carefully painted by him. It had been his eighth birthday, the first year he had been allowed to spend it at Bag End, without his parents.

Pippin jumped, and tried to hide the strange assortment of mathoms behind him on his bed.

Bilbo’s lips twitched. He suddenly realized the lad’s birthday was in only a couple of weeks. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your birthday would it?”

Pippin blushed bright red. “I want to pick Merry’s and Frodo’s gifts myself this year. I’m not a faunt anymore. But Father won’t give me any money unless someone goes with me to spend it.”

“Did I do wrong, Cousin Bilbo? I mean, at home or the Great Smials no one cares what I take out of the mathom room. I guess I should have asked.”

Bilbo smiled. “That would have been polite, and I trust you’ll remember it in future, but no I do not mind. That is, after all what a mathom room is for.” Bilbo did not mention that his own such rooms were crammed with junk, as he usually gave out new presents, unlike most hobbits.

Pippin nodded. He smiled shyly, and pointed to two items rather isolated on the bed. One was a garish and gaudily decorated pottery jar in the shape of a fish. It was mostly yellow, and had a lid which was slightly chipped. Bilbo could not remember exactly which elderly female relative had stuck him with that, though he vaguely thought she was a Boffin. It was meant to be a biscuit jar.

“That’s for Merry. The fish is for the River, and I like that it’s all yellow and sunny, like Merry. And,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “in case you didn’t know, yellow is his favorite color. I thought he could keep his handkerchiefs in it or something.”

“Ah,” The old hobbit smiled. “So, the other is meant for Frodo, then?” He tried to keep his voice level, as he looked at the--whatever it was. It was some sort of rather loosely woven fabric--thing. It was several shades of blue, and had some rather uneven tassels. It looked to him like some young lass’s first attempt at needlework. He had no idea of where it had come from.

“Well, not exactly. I thought if I cut off this piece here, with the tassel on both ends, that it would make a splendid bookmark.”

Bilbo was impressed. “So it would! Well, you just carry on my lad. I’m sure your cousins will appreciate their gifts very much. I will see you at teatime.” He went out and shut the door behind him.

Pippin breathed a sigh of relief. Bilbo had not noticed his own gift there. Pippin was not sure if it was proper to give someone a gift from their own mathom room, but after all, after he was through painting it, and adding some decoration to it, Bilbo would not even recognize his new flower pot as a former chamber pot.

Bilbo had professed great delight in the thing, and had exclaimed over it, while Merry and Frodo had difficulty disguising their mirth.

Bilbo came in just at that moment, bearing a tea tray. “I found some savory cheese tarts, as well, lads…ah--I see you have found one of my treasures.”

Bilbo placed the tray on the low table in front of the settee. “Yes, Peregrin.” He put his arm around Pippin’s shoulders. “I brought a few things away from the Shire with me, more precious than Rings or dragon’s gold.” He gave the thin shoulders a squeeze. “That’s one of them.”

Pippin bit his lip, and turned his eyes to Bilbo. They were glistening with tears, and Merry was no longer laughing, but looking thoughtful. “We missed you, Bilbo.” he said, simply.

Suddenly Pippin found himself dissolving into tears. He had tried so hard to be brave since Weathertop, but oh! it was so good to see Bilbo again, and to know that Frodo was all right, and--and--he found himself wrapped in Bilbo’s arms, and his tears were falling on Bilbo’s jacket. He could feel Merry’s familiar hand stroking his back, and he knew that Merry was sniffling as well.

After a moment or two, they were all pulling out handkerchiefs and blowing noses.

“That’s quite all right, my lad.” He looked at Merry who, seemed to have pulled himself together as well. “Did you see the memento I have of yours, Meriadoc?”

Bilbo reached up to another shelf, and took down what appeared to be a blob of dried mud with a hole in the top. It held a single flower, sticking of bravely out of the hole. “I don’t believe you ever saw this, Pippin. This is the vase *Merry* made for me, when he was about eight.”

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: In which Faramir Took comes of age, and makes a momentous decision…
AUTHOR’S NOTES: (1) My elements were: a gold mine, Orcs, and a burned hand. (2)In the flashback, Perry is 16 and Fam is 10, (or 10 and 6 ½ in Man-years.)
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Faramir Took looked about the mathom room with satisfaction. This place was a gold mine of assorted items, it truly was. Unlike the rather dusty and cluttered mathom rooms of Brandy Hall, the ones at the Great Smials were well-maintained, and items were grouped in the various rooms by type and value. There were about a dozen such rooms of differing sizes scattered about the Great Smials, some large ones containing only old furniture, smaller ones containing linens and clothing and such, and rooms filled with shelves of odds and ends.

There would be one hundred and thirty-three guests at his Coming of Age Party, and it was from this particular room, containing items of value, that he would choose his most special presents to give. There were, of course, some items that were not actually mathoms at all, but had been placed here for safekeeping. In many ways it was more like a strongroom than a storeroom.

He and Perry had sometimes played in this room--it seemed a fitting setting for Smaug’s hoard, or a castle to defend from Orcs, or a ship filled with treasure to protect from Corsairs. The room was kept locked, but Fam had known where his father kept the key. He shook his head at the memory of his folly. Their use of this particular room had come to an abrupt end one blustery winter day.

One of the items kept here at the time, in a long black box embossed with the Tree and Stars of Gondor, was his father’s sword Trollsbane. The Thain would take it out from time to time to practice with, or to wear when he had to wear his livery. But he always put it away again, sharpened, cleaned, and in its scabbard. He had, at one time, kept it out, but when children started to arrive in the family, Diamond had persuaded him that it was better off out of sight.

Perry had been about sixteen, and Fam had been ten when they had got the notion of re-enacting the Battle at the Black Gate. More specifically, the fight between Peregrin Took and the Troll. It only made sense, that Perry being the larger, should be the Troll, while Fam would take his father’s role.

And then Perry had the notion to look at the sword. Fam had protested at first. They could not use it in their play--it was too large for them to wield. They had, after all, the wooden swords that had been their Yule gifts from Fam’s namesake, Uncle Faramir of Ithilien and his Lady Éowyn. But it really would be inspiring to get a good look at the real thing--at least that had been Perry’s reasoning, and Fam had seen no need of arguing.

So they opened the box. Trollsbane was in the scabbard, which didn’t give them much of a look at it. Perry reached in, and drew it forth. It was a little heavy for him, but he could lift it without too much trouble.

He began to swing it about experimentally. Since receiving the wooden sword at Yule, Uncle Merry had decided that Perry was old enough to have a bit of instruction in the proper use of a sword, and had shown him a few exercises. He stood as his father had shown him and swung it back and forth.

“It’s probably too heavy,” Perry said doubtfully, but he amiably passed it over.

When Fam closed his right hand around the hilt, the tip drooped immediately to the floor. He looked disappointed.

Fam placed both hands on the sword, and discovered that it was much easier to handle two-handedly. He tried to swish it as his cousin had, but it didn’t go very far or very fast. He tried again, very hard and very fast. It swung him all the way around, and he almost toppled. Gritting his teeth he tried once more, swinging with all his might--

“Ahh!” screamed Perry, as his upper arm stopped the swing of the sharp blade.

Perry was holding his left arm with his right, blood dripping copiously through his fingers. Pale, he sank to his knees, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“Oh, Perry!” Fam cried, “will you be all right?” He felt very peculiar himself at the sight of all that blood.

“I have to get help! Please be all right until I come back, Perry!” Fam was weeping, not even noticing his tears. He turned, threw open the door and pelted out. Luckily, they were not far from the Thain’s study, and he bolted in search of his father--

Who was at that time, busy discussing important matters with Uncle Merry and Uncle Sam. Fam burst into the room, screaming “I’ve killed Perry! Or cut his arm off!”

As they raced back to the mathom room, Fam tried to explain what had happened. Uncle Merry had rushed to Perry’s side, and had pulled out a handkerchief to bind up the cut. Pippin had walked over and grimly picked up the sword. Uncle Sam had taken the sight in briefly, and then gone to fetch Diamond, who was, after all, a healer.

Perry had needed several stitches, and had to stay in bed for three days, drinking beef broth and red wine and eating liver. Fam had stood beneath his father’s furious eye, and scrubbed the blood from the floor. Then he was banished to his own room until Perry was able to be up. The two of them then spent a month scrubbing pots in the main kitchen. Perry still had a scar, and when Fam would see it even now, he sometimes felt very guilty for causing his cousin such hurt.

Trollsbane was moved from the box to a place high above the mantelpiece, where Pippin could keep an eye on it, and only he could reach. The key to that mathom room no longer resided in the right-hand top drawer of the Thain’s desk, but was placed on a fob, and kept on the Thain’s person.

Before the two miscreants had begun their toil in the kitchen, his father and Uncle Merry had called them both in for a grim lecture on the danger of playing with weapons. Frightened by what they had done, both of them listened with wide eyes and white faces.

Fam’s father and Uncle Merry had exchanged looks, and then Pippin had said, “I don’t think we need to worry on that score with these two any longer. As Gandalf once told me, after a bit of my own foolishness, ‘The burned hand teaches best. After that, advice about fire goes to the heart.’* And I think Perry and Fam understand now.”

But from that day to this, Fam had never again set foot in this particular room unless accompanied by one of his parents. But today, he had their permission to be here. The majority of his gifts had already been selected; most of them were either new or from other mathom rooms.

His parents’ gift was new--and he smiled to himself at the thought of their pleasure and surprise when they would see the painting he’d commissioned from Aunt Angelica --it was a portrait of the two of them, done from a sketch she had made a few summers ago, when the family had been visiting in Buckland. His mother and father, and Uncle Merry and Aunt Stella had all gone with them to spend a few days at Crickhollow, and she had captured Pippin and Diamond, seated on the little bench beneath the rose arbor, looking very much in love. She had given the sketch to Fam at the time, but he had sought her out nearly a year ago, and asked her if she could make a painting from it.

He’d asked her to make the painting right after his return from Minas Anor. He’d brought some rather special gifts back from there, as well, which had been carefully stowed in his room. For Uncle Merry, Uncle Sam and Uncle Freddy he had bottles of real Dorwinion wine, obtained for him from Uncle Legolas. They had been laid down the year Fam was born, and he’d been assured by the Elf that it was an especially fine vintage. For his aunts--both his father’s and mother’s sisters, and his honorary ones, Aunt Estella, Aunt Rose, Aunt Angelica--Uncle Gimli had helped him to obtain lovely silver music boxes, of true Dwarven make. He’d brought scarves of silk that came from Far Harad for his sisters.

But there were two gifts he would select here, and nowhere else. His father had been very pleased to grant his permission. The first of the two would be for Perry--his dearest friend all his life.

When he had asked his father about a gift for Perry, one that would show the special kinship between the Tooks and the Brandybucks, Pippin had pursed his mouth and furrowed his brow, and then smiled widely. “I know the perfect thing, son. I had thought from time to time of giving it to your Uncle Merry, but, well, the two of us were rather beyond that sort of thing by then.” Fam knew what his father meant--he and Uncle Merry were so close that their gifts usually were small and simple, and more often of a jesting nature than a sentimental one. They needed no such gestures between them at this time in their lives.

And so now Fam took the key his father had given him, and approached the shelf at the far end of the room, where small boxes stored the most valuable of items. The box, as had been described to him, was about three inches square, of dark polished wood, carved with a design of intricate knots. It was locked with a small brass lock.

Fam opened it: inside was a heavy ring, silver, and set with a beryl. The band was etched with a design of oak leaves. This was the ring that had been given by Gorhendad Oldbuck to Isumbras Took the First. Not the signet of the Thainship--which indeed, stayed with the Thain and was never locked away--but a simple ring of friendship, a reminder of their youth. It seemed only fitting that it now go back to the Brandybucks, as symbol of his and Perry’s friendship, and of the close ties between the two clans. He smiled to think of Perry’s reaction when he opened this, and realized what it was.

And now for the last gift. This one was in a case of crystal--a necklace of twisted gold, yellow, white and red, with a pendant of a perfectly shaped ruby, set in golden petals. It once had graced the neck of Berylla Boffin Baggins, Fam’s four times great-grandmother, and the common ancestress of himself, Perry, and Cousin Frodo Baggins. It had passed down to the Tooks through Rosa Baggins, who had wed Hildigrim Took, fourth son of the Old Took, Gerontius.

And if all went right, it would be not only a birthday gift, but a betrothal gift.

When they had been small children, they had been playmates, and had gamboled about at Bag End or Crickhollow or the Great Smials or Brandy Hall--whenever their visits had brought them together. And then they had each reached that stage most children go through, when lads think lasses are only an annoyance, and lasses think lads are disgusting. He and Perry spent far more time with her older brothers, Merry-lad and Pippin-lad, and had no time for her.

Perhaps they would have overcome such a stage in their tweens, but Goldie had gone to spend time with her sister Elanor in the Westmarch, and she had not yet returned when Fam had gone to Minas Anor for three years.

And then he had come home to find that the annoying lass had bloomed into a stunning beauty. *Perhaps* she was not so fair as her sister Elanor was reputed to be--Fam had not laid eyes on Elanor in several years either--though she was to be at his party this year. But *he’d* never seen a lass so lovely in all his days. He’d found himself stammering and tongue-tied in her presence, and all the courtly manners he’d learned in the South at the feet of the King deserted him altogether.

They’d met again from time to time in recent months, and Fam had regained much of his composure. They seemed to have a pleasant time in one another’s company, and sometimes, Fam thought he’d surprised a look on her face that made him think his regard might be returned. But he was not altogether certain.

Perry, who had yet to find a lass that he would settle down with, was puzzled that Fam should doubt it. “I am sure she’s taken with you! Every time you look away, she’s staring at you! But what’s the hurry? You are only just coming of age, and she’s *not* of age for a year yet! Besides, just imagine what Uncle Sam would say!”

And that was another thing. Fam *couldn’t* imagine it. He dearly loved Sam Gamgee, whom he had called “uncle” all his life--but, well, he knew the former gardener had some very odd opinions about things, especially gentlehobbits. And he also knew that Uncle Sam, as well as Goldi’s oldest brother, Frodo Gardner, were very protective of all the lasses in the large family. Fam knew he was loved as the son of Sam’s old friend Pippin--but would he be considered a “proper” suitor for the Mayor’s daughter?

When he had spoken to his father about it, the Thain had laughed, and told him that he’d handle “good old Sam”. Pippin seemed to find the idea of a Took and Gamgee (or Gardner) alliance delightful.

Fam nodded to himself, and the case with the necklace joined the box with the ring in his pocket.

The next day, his birthday, dawned fair and clear. He presented his gifts to his immediate family at second breakfast.

It was only his parents, Aunt Pearl, his sisters--and Perry, who had arrived a few days early with his own gift *to* the byrding: a magnificent white pony, a stallion, whose bloodlines were purely Rohirric. Fam was delighted with Argent, as he’d been told the pony’s name was. His own beloved Dapple was beginning to feel his years. He’d been thinking of a new pony for a while now.

Fam watched anxiously as his offerings were opened. He grinned at his parents’ reaction to the painting--both of them had tears in their eyes, and came over to embrace him warmly. His sisters and aunt seemed delighted with their gifts as well. But Fam watched closely as Perry opened his gift, his grey Brandybuck eyes filled with curious anticipation.

Perry’s jaw dropped, and he lifted the ring from the box. “Is this what I think it is?”

Fam nodded. “I thought perhaps it was time for that to be returned to your branch of the family. Just a reminder of how much the Tooks and Brandybucks are bound together.”

Fam noticed his oldest sister Primrose’s reaction to the gift. She was watching Perry intently, and when she saw her brother notice, she blushed and looked away. Fam smiled to himself. Perry might not have found the lass he’d settle down with yet, but if Fam was not mistaken, the lass had found Perry. And that suited Fam just fine. It was great being Perry’s cousin, but it would be even better to be his brother.

He bit his lip, and fretted just a little. Because he knew he’d found the lass *he* wanted. But would she want him?
___________________________________

The Gamgee-Gardner clan arrived right after elevenses, along with numerous other guests: Uncle Merry and Aunt Stella, with Perry’s sisters Wyn and Dilly; Uncle Freddy and Aunt Angelica, with Cousins Folco, Filibert and Bella; his mother’s sisters, Aunt Sapphire and Aunt Ruby, and a number of other cousins and friends in varying degrees of connections.

The Thain’s reception room was filling up rapidly. In one corner was a large table, with the gifts which Faramir would be distributing after the luncheon. He eyed the room, seeking Goldilocks. There she was, talking to Cousin Dilly and Cousin Flora. He went to the gift table, and unobtrusively slipped the package containing Goldie’s gift into his pocket.

Now, if he could only manage to get her to come away with him for a short while.

“Do you need some help, little brother?” He turned to find his sister Primmie at his elbow.

“I was just trying to figure out how to get Goldie away from here for a few minutes.”

Primrose grinned, and followed him as he approached the three lasses. They were discussing Elanor and Fastred’s family, for they were not expected to arrive until much later in the afternoon. Skillfully, Primrose inserted herself into the conversation, and soon had turned the talk.

Fam swallowed hard. “Goldie? It’s a bit close in here, don’t you think? Would you care to come for a turn in the garden with me?”

Goldie nodded, and placed her hand on his arm. He led her out the open doors which led into the West Garden.

Rose and Diamond deep in conversation with Fam’s aunts Pearl and Pimpernel broke off as they watched the two leave.

Rose shook her head ruefully. Diamond looked at her, and said, “Do you want to follow them, or shall I?”

Rose giggled as they watched Pearl slip out the door. “With Mistress Pearl doing the following, they won’t even know she’s there.” For Rose well remembered her visit to the Great Smials the spring she was betrothed to Sam, and her bemusement at Mistress Eglantine’s insistence that she and Sam always be watched when they were together. Working class hobbits did not much bother with that sort of thing. Pearl Took had always been very discreet.

Diamond looked at Rose. “Faramir’s very anxious; I am not sure he knows whether Goldie returns his feelings.”

In another part of the room where he stood in conversation with Pippin, Sam had caught sight of the two leaving as well. Pippin reached over, and putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder, said, “Sam, my old friend, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about…”
_______________________________________

Faramir and Goldilocks had wandered aimlessly along the paths between the flowerbeds. At first, Goldie had tried to keep a conversation going, but Fam seemed rather distracted. She wondered what was on his mind--he clearly wanted to talk to her about something.

They stopped near the fountain at the center of the garden, and Fam turned to look at her. “Goldie, I wanted to give you your birthday present now. I didn’t want to wait until everyone else was opening theirs.”

He reached into his pocket, and took out a small slim package, wrapped in white lawn, and tied with a yellow ribbon.

He blushed. “The ribbon’s for you, too.” A yellow hair ribbon was an old-fashioned courtship gift from a lad to a lass.

Now she blushed, and bit her lip. She untied the bow, and slid the ribbon off, and the wrapping fell away. Her eyes grew huge, as she saw the necklace beneath its crystal cover. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

Fam’s hand trembled, but he reached down and lifted off the cover, and drew the chain forth. “I suppose you know this is more than just a birthday present. Goldilocks? Would you--could you--do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

She caught her breath. “Oh! Oh my!” For an instant that seemed like an eternity, she stared up at him, as if trying to be certain he meant the words, and then, putting her hand up to his cheek, she said, “Oh, yes!”

From her vantage point about twenty feet away, Pearl watched indulgently, as the two young people shared an embrace, and a kiss, and then she coughed, cleared her throat, and stepped forward.

They jumped apart, and then turned to face her. Fam was grinning foolishly, and Goldie had tears in her eyes, which were sparkling with joy.

In the main dining hall of the Great Smials, one hundred and thirty three hobbits had sat down to a very fine birthday feast. There had been much gossip over the last few hours. Almost no one had missed the significance of the fact that the Thain’s son and the Mayor’s daughter had been arm in arm all afternoon, nor that she was sporting a very magnificent necklace. Nor could they miss the joy in her eyes and the exaltation on his face.

A goodly number of lasses who had come to the party in the hopes of getting the attention of the byrding realized their dreams were dashed, and so turned their attention to the food--and other lads.

As the Birthday Cake was brought in, Thain Peregrin rose, his goblet of rather fine wine in his hand.

“My friends--A toast! To my son, Faramir Took, who has this day Come of Age, and has become betrothed to Goldilocks Gamgee!”

And Mayor Sam was the first to raise his own glass in return!
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AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY:
AUTHOR’S NOTES: (1) Marigold’s prompts were: someone being taken unawares; a raging fire; a lawn party; a stand of mushrooms. (2) Frodo is 19 ( 12 ½ in Man-years)
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Frodo clung to the trunk of the elm above the branch where he sat, too desperately winded to climb higher. He panted, the fear in his belly like a raging fire. His feet hung down, perilously close to the snapping and snarling jaws. The dogs had him well and truly treed, and there was no escaping them.

If only he had not been so entranced by that stand of lovely mushrooms: the wonderfully flavorful ones often known as Penny Buns.

If only he had not been so eager to prove his daring that he had come so far onto Farmer Maggots’ property--further indeed than any of the other lads who had come on this particular raid. It smacked of recklessness, and he knew he would be in serious trouble once Uncle Sara and Uncle Rory found out. This was his worst idea ever--worse than climbing up the chimney in the dining hall two years ago.

The older tweens had been monopolizing the quoits, and somehow some of the pins had been lost for the lawn bowling, and Frodo and his friends felt themselves too old for the games of chase the younger children were playing. The Bracegirdle lads in attendance had started up a game of kick-the-ball, but after a while of putting up with those spoilsports, most of the other lads had left in disgust. Frodo was just thankful that Lotho was not there. Not much chance of that, though. Aunt Gilda could not abide the Sackville-Bagginses. So even though this party was in celebration of Cousin Seredic’s betrothal to Hilda Bracegirdle, one of Lobelia’s nieces, the S.-B.’s were nowhere in evidence.

Frodo had slipped away from the party, along with his Brandybuck cousins Marroc and Gundamac, known as Gunny; and the visitors--his Bolger cousin Wiligar and two of his Took cousins, Isembras and Isembrand, who were brothers and the great-grandsons of the Old Took. Marroc was only a month older than Frodo, and Gunny was a year older. Wil and Brass were two years older, and Brand was the youngest in the group, only eighteen.

Marroc shook his head. “In that crowd? I don’t think anyone will notice at all.”

“The question is,” said Frodo, “what are we going to do? The kitchens are all going to be very busy.” He’d put his mind to it, and a larder raid, while it would be fun, would not stand much chance of success with all the busy cooks and servers. The servants had already cleared away the refreshment tables for luncheon, and had not yet laid out the things for tea.

Gunny responded with a wolfish grin of his own. “Let’s go to Bamfurlong. Old Maggot always has the best vegetables! And we might even find some of his famous mushrooms!”

The rest all looked to Frodo, who hesitated only briefly. He’d made his peace with boats, more or less, in the years since his parents drowned--it wasn’t like this would be the first time they’d done this, after all. But there was always that stomach-turning moment when they first shoved off…if he suggested a farm this side of the Brandywine, the others would fall in line. Still, he hated his weakness, and he didn‘t want the others to know it still bothered him. And it was the mention of mushrooms that made his mind up. It was true, the best mushrooms *did* come from Bamfurlong.

“Why not?” he said, after pondering briefly. “Only--will Margulas mind?” He looked at Marroc. They’d never be allowed to cross over on their own on the ferry. They usually used the rowboat belonging to Marroc’s older brother Margulas, who was twenty-five. And Margulas and some of the other older tweens usually accompanied them when they raided across the river. But Margulas was busy with the quoits.

Marroc shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll care. Besides, we’ll be back before he ever even knows we’re gone.”

Wil, Brass and Brand had been silent while the Brandybucks had discussed the options, but now that the decision had been made, they fell in line with the plans immediately. This was going to be a good deal more fun than any old lawn party!

They made their way to the boathouse, which was some distance downriver from the ferry landing, luckily encountering no one along the way.

Marroc quickly found the rowboat belonging to his older brother, and they looked it over. “Will all six of us fit?” asked Frodo doubtfully. If Marroc said “no”, he’d have the perfect excuse to bow out, and they’d think he was being generous.

But Marroc nodded. “Oh, no doubt,” he said. “After all Brass and Brand don’t take up as much room as Margulas does.” The Tooks just grinned. It was true that they were a bit smaller than the average hobbits of their age. Tooks often were, unless they took after the Bullroarer.

Now Wil was hesitating. Bolgers in general were less fond of boats than other hobbits. But he looked over at Frodo, who gave him a smile and an encouraging nod. Soon all six of them were in the boat, and it was a bit of a tight squeeze. Still, they were not uncomfortably crowded, and there was still plenty of elbow room for Marroc and Gunny to do the rowing.

Frodo swallowed his bile as they cast off, and concentrated on keeping a calm demeanor. If any of the others noticed his pallor, or his knuckles tightly gripping the seat on either side, they kindly pretended otherwise. Frodo closed his eyes, and managed to relax, as he listened to the chatter of the others, as Gunny and Marroc regaled the three visitors with tales of past raids, and of the tastiness of Farmer Maggot’s produce.

The riverbank was a bit high on the other side--they could not beach the boat. As the prow bumped the bank, Gunny stood up and jumped up to the shore, with the end of the rope in his hand. With a practiced move, he tied the boat to an alder growing there, and then the other lads got out. Marroc and Frodo leaped ashore nimbly, while Wil, Brass and Brand clambered out a bit more awkwardly.

It was about a mile’s walk west to the lane that led to Farmer Maggot’s property. Bamfurlong was the largest and most prosperous farm in the Marish. They reached the lane, and continued south for just a while, and then Gunny said, “Time to split up. We’ll meet back at the boat at teatime.” No one inquired about pocket watches--they all had stomachs, after all!

A rail fence ran along the lane, and hedges divided some of the fields. It was easy enough to see what crops were growing--there were rows of lettuces and cabbages and cucumbers and tomatoes and carrots and radishes and onions and…it was enough to set a hungry hobbit lad’s mouth to watering.

Frodo nodded. “The Marish has wonderful mushrooms. Look for shady copses and soft ground.”

Bard and Brand exchanged a doubtful look. “The only trees I see,” said Bard, “are pretty far in.” For it was rather an unwritten rule--farmers did not get overly excited about scrumping as long as it was within reason, and as long as the raiders kept their depredations to the edges of the property. But to trespass far inside a farm’s boundaries was to court both anger and danger.

“Well,” said Frodo, “you don’t expect to just see the mushrooms growing by the lane.” For mushrooms were not often cultivated--they grew wild, and they were prized by those who were fortunate enough to have them growing so on their property. And suddenly, Frodo decided that *mushrooms* were exactly what he wanted to find. Let the others waste their time on carrots and cabbages--it was mushrooms for him.

With a grin, he said “I’ll see you back at the boat!” and he put one hand on the top rail, and nimbly leaped the fence, darting off down the field of turnips, in the direction of a likely looking copse of trees.

As though Frodo’s act were a signal, the other lads quickly split apart and began their search for the perfect vegetables.

Frodo cast a glance behind him. Gunny was inspecting the tomatoes, and Frodo knew he’d find one or two that were just right. Each of the other lads would find something different, and then they would share their bounty.

Frodo had often been to Bamfurlong, not only scrumping about the edges of the property, where he had once before been spotted by one of Farmer Maggot’s grown sons, and been sent off with a warning, but also accompanying his Uncle Rory or his Uncle Sara when they had gone to conduct business with the canny old farmer. He recalled this particular copse of trees well--in their last raid of Maggot’s farm, he and Margulas had made the wonderful find of some Summer Truffles beneath a rotting log--

No, no such luck today. But Frodo was not minded to turn back. He looked behind him, and spotted Brass among the lettuces. Grinning in anticipation he trudged forward. Mushrooms would be a far better contribution than lettuce…

He found a Wood Blewitt, a perfectly huge one, but it was only one, nonetheless, and would not go far among six lads. He picked it anyway, and kept searching, moving further and further into the property. There was a small pasture, inhabited by a single brown and white cow, who looked up briefly as Frodo crossed. On the other side was another copse, and there--oh my! Penny Buns, enough and more for all of them to share. He regretted not having a bag. He took off his shirt to use, and totally entranced by the wonderful mushrooms, began to pick them…

Maggot was busy in the barn, when he began to hear the whimpering and growling of his dogs. He walked out to the dog run, and realized that all three of them were agitated.

“Ho, now, my lads! Do you hear something?” The dogs were large and powerful, nearly as big as ponies to a hobbit, but Maggot had no fear of them. His family had kept the huge dogs for generations, ever since the Fell Winter. His dogs were friendly as kittens to the family, but they were fierce protectors, and were quick to defend their territory from intruders.

Maggot went to the gate. “Snap! Bull! Blackie! Go find it!” He loosed them, and they took off at a loping run. He noticed that they headed east, and he suspected that youngsters were out scrumping again. A fox wouldn’t be out in the day. And if they were close enough for the dogs to detect, they must be trespassing deep into his property. Muttering and mumbling about greedy youngsters, he followed his dogs at a lope.
_______________________________________

Absorbed in his find, it took a moment for the sound of the dogs to penetrate Frodo’s mind. He was completely taken unawares as they burst through the underbrush.

Terrified, he dropped the shirt and the mushrooms and took to his heels, running as fast as he could. Looking back, he could see the monsters, their sharp teeth gleaming, and their red tongues hanging from their mouths, from which came the sounds of snarling and baying. They were gaining on him, and the only thing he could think to do was to climb a tree…

If only the farmer doesn’t recognize me, Frodo thought desperately. But he really did not believe that he would be that lucky. He closed his eyes and clung even harder to the tree.
_________________________________________

Maggot had paused briefly to pick up the discarded shirt, with its bounty of mushrooms, and was taken by a wave of anger. His mushrooms were highly prized, and brought good coin to his family. But they weren’t like the crops he grew in the fields--he could easily calculate how many tomatoes or turnips he could afford to lose to mischief. But the mushrooms were not something he could predict from season to season, and all of them were valuable.

Then he picked up his pace. He was not going to allow this particular trespasser escape. He listened to the dogs’ baying--they had clearly cornered or treed their prey, for the sounds had stopped retreating and were coming from one place.

Clinging to the tree, his face buried against the trunk against the horrid sight of the dogs snapping and snarling only inches away from his feet, Frodo wondered if he would ever get out of the tree. And then he heard a voice, bellowing.

The snarling and baying changed now to excited yips and whimpering, as the animals greeted their master.
“Well, well, well. If it’s not young Master Frodo Baggins.” The farmer’s voice held a note of both surprise and disapproval. “Come down right now, lad!”

Frodo did not look at him, but shook his head. There was no way he would come down with those beasts still sniffing about below. He gulped, and hunched up, and clung even more tightly to the tree.

Frodo licked his lips. “It’s not that,” he said, on the verge of tears “it’s--it’s--*them*!”

“ ‘Them’ ?” the Farmer repeated, puzzled, as he absently rubbed Blackie’s ears. Then the light dawned. “The dogs?”

With a curt word, he sent the dogs away. They obediently went several feet away from the tree, and sat, alert for any other commands.

Trembling, Frodo slipped down from the tree, and stood before the angry farmer, his head hung in shame. He knew he had broken the unwritten rule--not to trespass so far on someone’s property, not to take that which is dear, but only that which could easily be replaced. His eyes were filled with tears, but he blinked them away.

Farmer Maggot studied the miscreant silently, allowing the lad to squirm. Finally he said, “I hope that the Master will give you a good thrashing for this!”

And at this, Frodo’s heart dropped clear to his stomach. No, Uncle Rory would not be thrashing him. “I wish--” he stopped and bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Frodo gulped, and nodded. “Uncle Rory won’t thrash me. But a thrashing’s soon over.”

“He’ll put me to mucking out stables. And I won’t go anywhere for at least a month.” And that was the rub. If he were being punished, he would probably not be allowed to go to Hobbiton for his and Uncle Bilbo’s birthday--last year Uncle Bilbo had come to Buckland, so that meant that this year Frodo was to go to Hobbiton. But if he were being disciplined, he’d miss out on that.

Farmer Maggot was not proof against those blue eyes, and his anger was abated now. But he couldn’t let the little rapscallion off lightly.

Maggot reached up, and broke off a thin green limb, and then gestured. Although Frodo himself had never been thrashed in his life, some of his friends had, and he was familiar with the procedure. He gulped, and turned around, and bent over, grabbing his knees.

The farmer lashed out with several well-placed blows, and Frodo bit his lip, and closed his eyes tightly, yet still the tears came.

“Be off wi’ ye now!” the farmer said. He turned and gave a whistle to the dogs, who stood as one, alert and eager. Frodo felt a horrible moment of apprehension.

“See, lads! The next time this young varmint sets foot on my land, you can eat him. Now see him off!”*

Frodo did not hesitate, but took off as fast as his heels would take him, the dogs snapping after him.

Maggot followed, at a leisurely pace, as they ran across the fields. He watched the lad vault the fence, and run down the road in the direction of the ferry. As he came to the fence himself, he noted the signs--as he thought, young Master Frodo had not been the only one pilfering. But apparently the others had confined themselves to vegetables at the edge of the fields. He could see Frodo and all three dogs racing down the road in a cloud of dust.

Turning his sharp eyes to the hedge at the other side of the road, he said loudly: “I hope this is a lesson to any what thinks they can steal from me!”

Marroc, who had hidden there in the hopes of finding out what had happened to Frodo when he did not turn up at the boat, gave a shudder, and backing out of the hedge, ran for the boat. It was obvious Frodo was headed for the ferry.

By the time Farmer Maggot reached the ferry, Frodo had been delivered to the Buckland side of the river, and the ferry was on the way back. His dogs were sitting across the lane leading to the landing, waiting for him.

The ferry bumped up against the dock, and the rope was being tied off. “Hullo there, Mr. Maggot,” said the ferry hobbit.

“Hullo yourself, Diccon. I’ve a message for the Master. You tell him I said that Master Frodo’s already *had* his punishment for stealing my mushrooms. I’ll send his shirt back, soon as the missus washes and mends it.”

The ferry hobbit gave him a nod. “Lads’ll be lads,” he said laconically, “but mushrooms is another thing.”
______________________________________________

Frodo had to suffer his Uncle’s rebukes, and the embarrassment of having the bruises and welts on his backside treated with an infusion of arnica, witch-hazel, comfrey root, goat weed and black willow-bark**, which was supposed to work wonders for bruises. But the farmer’s message stood him in good stead, for Uncle Rory told him he’d had punishment enough as it was.

This did not help the other lads, who had confessed to their raid in their fear for Frodo. They were all punished with mucking out the stables--not for the scrumping, but for taking Margulas’ boat without permission, and for going across the Brandywine alone and unsupervised.

The experience left Frodo with a terror of large dogs, as well as a healthy fear of the good Farmer Maggot. It was very nearly over thirty years before he ever again set foot on Farmer Maggot’s land. In fact, he avoided the Marish as much as possible after that, to the extent that he forgot much of the geography of it.

But he still loved mushrooms.
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*From The Fellowship of the Ring Chapter IV, “A Shortcut to Mushrooms”

**This is a concoction called "bruise juice" often used in the SCA by fighters who have bruises after a tournament or battle. "Goat weed" is another name for St. John's wort.
http://www.florilegium.org/files/PLANTS/herb-uses-msg.html

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: In which the Fellowship pauses in Moria, and Aragorn cheers them with his tale of an unusual encounter...
AUTHOR’S NOTES: (1) Quotations in italics are from The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 2, Chapter IV, "A Journey in the Dark". (2) Written for Marigold's Challenge #35, my elements were a mythical creature, a dark tunnel, a knife and a potion or tonic.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

ENCHANTMENT

“Let us sit and rest and have something to eat, here on the landing, since we can’t find a dining-room!” said Frodo. He had begun to shake off the terror of the clutching arm, and suddenly he felt extremely hungry.

The proposal was welcomed by all; and they sat down on the upper steps, dim figures in the gloom.

Sam found one of the packs into which they had placed the food supplies, after unloading poor Bill. He gave a shaky sigh, and dashed a tear from his eye at the thought of having left the pony to the mercy of wolves and monsters. Still, when it came to his Master, really there’d been no other choice. And now here they were in these darksome tunnels.

He felt a sympathetic hand on his arm, and saw Pippin looking at him with sad eyes. “I’ll miss good old Bill, too, Sam. Do you need a hand with anything?”

Sam shook his head, “No, and thank you very much, Mr. Pippin,” and he knew that the younger hobbit would understand his thanks to be for more than just the offer of assistance. “I’m just going to get out some of the journeybread and some of the dried fruit.”

As the company sat companionably in the dark, munching on their meager rations, Merry said “What on earth was that monstrous creature?”

Gandalf shook his head. “There are many creatures, ancient and foul, from as far back as before the First Age, when Sauron’s Master, of whom even the Dark Lord is but a dim copy, first marred the making of the world. Some there are that have no name, for they are alone of their kind, and their malice is deep and unspeakable.”

The hobbits shuddered at this gloomy pronouncement, and Pippin said “Let’s not speak of them then, if they are unspeakable. There surely must be more pleasant things to talk of!”

Aragorn leaned forward, and used his knife to cut through a strip of dried fruit. “Not all ancient creatures are evil. There are creatures of light as well as of darkness, though more rare to be found. Some are little more than tales and legends, and yet they nonetheless exist.”

Frodo’s curiosity was piqued. He leaned forward, and thoughtfully swallowed his bite of bread. “What sorts of creatures do you mean? I’ve never heard of any save the evil ones--like orcs and goblins and trolls.”

Boromir also spoke, saying, “Indeed, I would be most curious to know of what you speak.”

“At one time, my journeys took me deep into the Ered Mithrin--the Grey Mountains--long a stronghold of the Enemy. I had need to spy out some rumors of orcs gathering in great numbers. It soon was revealed the numbers were none so great as we had feared, and I finally turned back to the south, skirting the edges of the Withered Heath, and headed towards the northern reaches of Mirkwood.”

Legolas caught his eye and gave a lift of his own brow in surprise, but said nothing.

“I was running low on water, yet I knew of the enchantment on the Forest River, and that it would be unsafe to drink. The Northern parts of the Forest at that time were not so infested with spiders and other such creatures, and there were a few ordinary animals living in that part of the wood. I knew they must have some safe source of water, so when I came across the signs of a stag, I decided to track him, in the hopes that he would lead me to a spring or other such safe place to drink.”

Legolas now gave a tiny smile, as though he knew what was coming, and Aragorn nodded at him.

“I came upon him suddenly, at night. Imagine my amazement when I realized he was heading for the very enchanted river I had hoped to avoid. I found myself at the edge of a clearing--the canopy of the trees was opened, and the starlight shone down.”

He sighed, and the expression on his face was one of wonder. “I was stunned at the sight that met my eyes: creatures of the forest--deer, rabbits, badgers and others, including even such predators as foxes and a wolf--all were gathered near the enchanted river. But none of them were drinking.”

“As I wondered what was going on, I suddenly saw something white and luminous appear from the other side of the clearing. Never have I seen such a creature, before or since.

She looked much like a horse, yet far more delicate and graceful. Certainly she was smaller. She was white, and I could see a light about her. She had a small tuft of hair beneath her chin, and her tail was straight and tufted, unlike that of a horse. But the most amazing thing was--she had a single spiraled horn, nearly as long as my forearm, that sprang from the center of her forehead. It gleamed like the Moon above.” He fell silent as he remembered that long ago night.

Aragorn shook himself, and then smiled. “She walked over to the river, and she dipped her horn into the water. It seemed that the light of her horn began to spread over the water, so that it nearly glowed. Then she began to drink for a moment, before backing up. The other animals now began to crowd forward, and they drank of the water safely. None of them showed any signs of falling into enchanted sleep. I began to wonder if I too, dared to drink of that water, yet still I feared that her grace would not extend to me, a Man.

But she turned her head, and met my eyes, hidden as I thought I was, she saw me, and giving a nod, she whickered softly. Slowly, I stood, and walked to the edge of the water. The animals backed away from me, yet they showed no fear. I stooped and drank. It was the cleanest and purest water ever I have tasted. I filled my waterskins, and stood back.

I looked at her once more, and said ‘I thank you, my lady,’ and it seemed to me that she bowed slightly, as if to acknowledge my words.

I moved back away, and watched as the other animals went and began once more to drink. Finally, all had quenched their thirst, and the grey light of morning was beginning to appear over the clearing.

The creature gave a whinny, and turned, running gracefully back into the trees, and then the animals also began to leave. I looked at the water--the glow faded, and it began to run sluggish and black once more.

I have no doubt that she was an ancient creature of as noble an origin, as that in the water tonight was of foul. But I’ve not ever heard anything about her or any of her kind, before or since.”

“She was a unicorn,” said Legolas. “My father knew of her presence, though I do not believe he ever saw her. You are most wonderfully graced, Aragorn, to have done so.”

Boromir said “There are tales in Dol Amroth of such creatures, but they are considered legendary.” He glanced at the hobbits. “Of course, I have come to realize that legends sometimes have a basis in fact.”

“Of course they do,” said Gandalf. “And it is good to remember that there are creatures of light as well as of darkness. But we must be on our way once more.” He reached into his robes. “Before we go, here--we shall each have another sip of miruvor.

“We shall have to be careful of it. It will not last much longer, I am afraid, but I think we need it after the horror of the Gate. And unless we have great luck, we shall need all that is left before we see the other side! Go carefully with the water, too! There are many streams and wells in the Mines, but they should not be touched. We may not have a chance of filling our skins and bottles again till we come down to the Dimrill Dale.” He paused as he passed the small bottle of cordial--as good as any tonic--around. “Unfortunately there are no unicorns in Moria.”

And soon the company was moving on once more, through the dim and dank passages.

But the miruvor and Aragorn’s tale had put some heart back into the hobbits.

(This was written for Febobe, who won a ficlet from me by stumping me on a challenge.)

Poor Mr. Frodo. He looks dreadful--Mam sits by him, putting cool cloths on his brow. My dad hovers over, looking ever so worried. “I’m thinking mayhap we ought to send for Sam.”

I’m thinking the same thing. My Sam would want to know that Mr. Frodo was so ill. But Sam’s all the way to the Woody End, getting some saplings as he’s wanting to plant, to take the place of some of the trees them Ruffians cut down. It would take ever so long to find him and bring him back.

“No!” Mr. Frodo’s voice is stronger than I’d thought it could be, though it has a horrid rasp to it. He reaches up, and takes my dad’s arm. “Don’t--don’t say anything to Sam. Promise me you won’t worry him over this!”

I step back a bit, wondering what my dad will say. But it hurts my heart to think what Sam would think, if he thought we were keeping aught from him if it were to do with Mr. Frodo’s well-being. Whatever my dad says, I’m making no such promises. I look at Mam, and she shakes her head, and I know she agrees with me.

But Dad, he says “Be at ease, Mr. Frodo. I won’t say nothing you don’t want me to.” Still, Dad looks awful worried. I’m thinking he’d know that Sam would have hard words for him, for making such promise.

I move to the ewer on the dressing table, and pour out a cup, and take it over to Mam. She helps him sit up just a bit, and he winces, but she holds the cup for him, and he takes a few sips. Just the effort of drinking makes him break out in a sweat. He falls back heavily against his pillows, and as he closes his eyes, there is a deep furrow of pain on his brow. I feel tears come to my own eyes, just thinking how much he must be hurting.

Dad bites his lower lip, and twists his cap in his hands, and looks at Mam. “It didn’t feel right to make that promise, but I couldn’t deny him, could I, Lily?”

“Don’t worry, Tom,” Mam says. “You did what you thought right. We’ll let you know if he gets much worse.” She pursed her lips, and said softly, so as not to let Mr. Frodo hear. “He gets much worse, we’ll send for a healer, whether he likes it or no.”

Dad looks troubled at that as well. It goes hard with him to think he’d be going against Mr. Frodo’s wishes, but he sees the sense in it. He goes out, giving me a pat on the shoulder as he passes me by.

Mam stood up. “I think he’ll sleep a bit, Rosie-lass. You watch by him, and call me if need be. I’m going to see if I can’t fix him somewhat that he can eat when he wakes up.”

I sit down alongside him, in the chair Mam left. He’s so white. He’d always been fair--fairer than most hobbits, but this is more than that. He’s almost like glass. I can see the blue veins beneath the skin of his hands, which pick restlessly at the covers, twitching even in his sleep. I see his right hand, and my eyes go straight to the place where his finger’s no more. Sam had told me what happened to it, swore me to secrecy, for he’d said there’d be no secrets betwixt the two of us. He’d wept to tell of what that evil creature had done to our Mr. Frodo.

But Mr. Frodo, he didn’t like anyone to notice about his finger, so we all pretended not to.

I remembered something else my Sam had told me. I looked at that jewel around Mr. Frodo’s neck--it just peeked out from his nightshirt. He’d told me the new Queen, who was an Elf, had given that to Mr. Frodo for his comfort.

Feeling a bit embarrassed to be so bold, even though he’s asleep and won’t know, I take his hand and put it up to that jewel. He clutches at it, and it seems the pain on his face eases a bit. I stare: the jewel--it must have some sort of Elf-magic in it--it starts a-shining, glowing from behind his hand and between his fingers, like he’s holding a star in his hand. His face eases some more, and his other hand stops its picking, and he seems to be rightly asleep finally. I pull up the blankets a bit, and sit back to watch.

After a while, he stirs and wakens, just a little flutter of his eyelashes, and then he looks at me, kind of confused, as if he don’t know me at first. But that passes in only a minute, and he says “Rose?” His voice is still all raspy.

I don’t wait for him to ask, but I get up and pour him another cup of water, and I’m helping him sip at it when Mam comes in with a tray.

“It’s not a lot, Mr. Frodo,” she says, “just a bit of chicken broth, and some toast with strawberry preserves, and some chamomile tea with honey.”

She puts the tray down, and gets a flannel, and she wipes his face and hands like he’s a faunt. I’m thinking this must be awful embarrassing for him, to be cared for like this, for his pale face turns red for just an instant. But he looks at Mam, and whispers “Thank you, Mistress Lily.”

She shakes her head. “We’re all right fond of you here, Mr. Frodo, and ever so glad to have you back. We’ll do what we can for you. Will you try and eat a bit for me?”

I get up, and let Mam have the chair by his bed, and she slowly coaxes some supper into him. He doesn’t seem hungry at first, but he eats anyway--about half the broth, a couple of bites of the toast and jam, and he took all the tea, just a few sips at a time. “You--you are so kind, Mistress Lily,” he whispers.

He lays back again, and gives a shudder. Like as not he’s chilled. Mam seems to think so, too. She motions for me to bring over an extra blanket.

“You go and get yourself some supper, Rose, and rest a bit. I’ll fetch you to watch him again when I get too tired.”

I nod, realizing for the first time that I’m hungry. “Mam,” I say, “if--if he looks to be having bad dreams or somewhat, put his hand to that jewel around his neck--it seems to help him.”

I take my supper by myself in the kitchen--everyone else had finished and gone out. Then I go and lay down upon my bed, atop the coverlet, still dressed. I might be needed after all.

But Mam never does call for me, and it’s morning when I wake up, to the Sun in my window. I get up, and go to the room where Mr. Frodo’s staying. Mam’s awake, and she smiles at me.

He does look better. His face is no longer all tight with pain, and there’s just a touch of color in it.

She shakes her head, says “Would you see to breakfast this morning, lass? And if you would, bring him a bit after all are done. You can sit with him then.”

So I go to the kitchen, and make breakfast. It’s just Dad and Tom and Nibs. Jolly and Nick went with Sam. Dad cuts the bread for toast while Tom lays the table, and I fry up some sausages and taters and eggs. When they are finished eating, I cut some more bread, and boil an egg, and make some tea. Then I make up a tray, and take it to Mr. Frodo’s room.

He’s sitting up, now, and talking to Mam, and he looks ever so much better than he did the day before. Mam stands up, and says “I’ll leave Rose to get some breakfast into you, Mr. Frodo. I’m glad you are feeling better.”

She doesn’t look at him, but she says “Don’t you worry, Mr. Frodo,” and she pats his hand.

I place the tray for him, and sit down beside him, and watch as he eats most everything. It’s not much, but at least he didn’t leave anything but a few crusts of the bread.

He keeps giving me a look, like he wants to say something. Finally, he says, “I’m glad Sam wasn’t here to be worried over this. He’s worried over me enough already.”

I don’t say anything. I haven’t made any promises yet, and I don’t mean to. ‘Tisn’t right to keep such things from folk as love you.

I take Mr. Frodo’s tray. “Why don’t you try and get some more rest, Mr. Frodo?”

“Thank you, Rose, I think I will.” He looks at me. “Sam’s a very lucky hobbit.”

I blush, and go out. Luck’s got naught to do with it. There’s not a steadier nor more loyal hobbit in the Shire than my Sam.

Merimac found himself nearly tumbling from his bed, startled to wakefulness by the Horn-call! Something dire must be happening! He reached quickly for his breeches which hung at the foot of the bed. His wife Linda had sat bolt upright, clutching the covers, and her eyes wide with fear glittered in the moonlight through the window.

“I don’t know yet, dear. Stay here until I find out.” He bolted from the room, nearly colliding with his son, who was coming hurriedly from his own room.

He grabbed Berilac by the shoulder, and they rushed into the corridor, where any number of other hobbits were doing likewise. There was a hubbub of exclamations and speculations--was it a fire? was the Old Forest attacking the hedge again? what could it be?

They clustered about Merimac and his son, as they made their way down a level to the Master’s apartment. Saradoc was already being besieged by hobbits with questions. “What’s going on?” seemed to be the main question.

Saradoc raised his hand and with a word, silenced the panicked hobbits. “I do not yet know why the Horn-call has been blown, but all know what to do. All males between the ages of twenty-five and sixty, please be prepared to assist in the emergency. Dress yourselves and gather in the front hall within a quarter of an hour. The rest of you return to your own rooms. Mac, you and Beri come with me.”

The Horn-call could still be heard blowing every few moments. It would not be silenced until an order from the Master, and Merimac could hear it echoing in the distance as other outposts took up the call. He followed Sara down through the nearest exit and into the courtyard, where one of the stablehobbits was still blowing the call.

Tip looked at him gratefully. “It sounded first from the direction of Crickhollow, sir,” he said, “but we’ve not had word yet of why.”

Saradoc nodded, and gazed down the lane, pulling his dressing gown closer. Merimac shivered; he was clad only in his breeches and braces, and the night air was crisp. Only Berilac was mostly dressed.

“I don’t know, lad. But it troubles me that it’s come from the direction of Crickhollow.”

Merimac looked at his brother. Something had been bothering Saradoc all day, and for some reason, he thought it might have to do with Frodo moving back to Buckland, though he was not sure *why* he thought that. Just then, there was the sound of pony hooves, and a hobbit, riding hard, pounded towards them. When he saw them standing there, he pulled up short. Merimac realized it was young Finch Boffin, who lived closest to Crickhollow--a little over a mile from the small house that Frodo had purchased.

“Mr. Saradoc!” He was breathing hard. “One of Mr. Merry’s friends come to the house, a-running for his life! He says there’s Big Folk in Buckland all dressed in black on big black horses--and he said something about the Old Forest, too! He’s all done in--but he said it was danger, so me da blew the Horn.”

Saradoc turned to Tip. “Go, saddle the ponies! Mr. Merimac and I will ride back with this lad. Berilac--go back in and tell the others we need them to spread out and give warning. Send Seredic up to the bridge, with about six others to see to what’s happening. Send Cousins Marmadas and Merimas south towards Haysend, and then head over to the Ferry and make sure all is secure there. Send the Ferry across to the west bank--if there are enemies in Buckland we don’t want to give them an easy way into the Shire proper. And ask Cousin Dody to be ready, in case his healer’s skills are needed.”

He glanced down at himself, and then at his brother. “We’d better go get dressed while Tip saddles the ponies.”

When they returned to the front of the Hall a few moments later, Merimac could not help but notice how pale his brother was. He had to be horribly worried--the hobbit who had come to the Boffins’ place must have been Fredegar Bolger--Finch knew Frodo and Pippin well enough by sight. But it was clear that Saradoc knew or suspected *something*.

Soon they were trotting alongside the Boffin lad, and Mac took the chance to speak to his brother. “Sara, what is going on? You have been upset all day, and now this?”

Saradoc looked over at him. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, when I had found out more about it. I discovered a note today--from Merry--hidden in the ledger in my study.”

“It seems that Frodo was--or is--in some sort of danger, and felt he had to leave the Shire. Merry and Pippin were going with him. I had only just told Esme about it tonight when we heard the Horn-call. I can’t begin to believe this does not have something to do with Frodo’s danger, whatever it might be.”

Merimac found himself struck speechless. Frodo? In danger? He wondered how his wife would take this news--she was a Proudfoot, but related to Frodo through her Baggins grandmother, after whom she had been named. What could Frodo be in danger from? His mind immediately went to Lotho Sackville-Baggins. He’d often thought that there was nothing *that* hobbit would stick at--and all the Brandybucks had thought it very odd that Frodo had sold Bag End to the S.-B.s of all people.

The Boffin cottage was ablaze with light, and Finch’s father was waiting at the door.

“Mr. Saradoc!” he exclaimed. “I’m that glad to see you.” He led the way to a small bedroom, where Fatty Bolger was huddled in the middle of the bed.

But Fredegar turned abruptly, with a cry of fear. “No! No, I don’t have it! I never saw it! I won’t say! I won’t say!” he shouted. His eyes were wild. He turned once more back into the bed, shuddering and moaning.

Merimac and his brother exchanged a look of shock. But before they could say anything, they heard the Horn-call again, this time from the North. Saradoc turned to Beri. “Berilac, go back to Brandy Hall and fetch Cousin Dody. Tell him what sort of state Fatty’s in. And bring back a wagon or a trap, to take him back up to the Hall. Your father and I are going to see what this new threat is.”

Mounting their ponies once more, they raced up the road, hearing the Horn-call echoing through Buckland. At Newbury, they came across the hobbit who was relaying the call--it had come from further north, he said.
But they’d gone only a little further when pounding hooves approached, and two hobbits on lathered ponies came their way.

It was Seredic and one of the hobbits from the Hall who had ridden with him. Seredic looked at his cousin with an expression of horror.

“There were Big Folk, horrid creatures--they didn’t seem to be Men--mounted on huge black horses--two or three came tearing across the Bridge, and were met by two more who came up from the south road to meet them, and they raced eastward on the Road like a storm! Sara, I found old Denham Banks mourning his nephew--they…” Seredic paused and looked sick. “They rode him down, just trampled him over, when he called them to stop. They--it was dreadful--”

Merimac felt the blood drain from his face. Ned Banks--why he was still a tween, though he had nearly reached his majority--he’d only been on the Bridge a few months…he glanced at Saradoc, who was breathing hard.

Saradoc took a deep breath. “Away from the Shire then. Very well. We will ride up to the Bridge and question poor Den. And then, I think, back to the Hall to see what sort of sense we can get out of Fredegar Bolger.”

In the cold light of late morning, the two exhausted brothers rode back to Brandy Hall. They were too weary and grief-stricken to talk. The Banks family had been bridge tenders at the Stonebow Bridge for several generations, living in a small cottage not far from the eastern bank of the River. They yet had no idea of what the strange invasion was, nor of what had happened to Merry, Frodo or Pippin. Both of them were trying to imagine breaking the news to their wives.

Saradoc looked over at Merimac. “I know you have to be just as tired as I, Mac. But after you’ve had a chance to speak to Beri and Linda, I’d like you to join me in talking to young Fredegar.”

Cousin Dodinas the Younger, the Hall’s healer, kept a small bedroom behind the study he used to see patients. There he would sometimes put a patient who was too injured or ill to be far from his supervision. When Saradoc and Merimac found him, he was in that study putting away some herbs. He looked up at the two as they entered. “He’s in the next room. Miss Thorn is with him.” Thorn was Dody’s apprentice.

Dody nodded. “He was hysterical last night. I gave him a calming draught and a sleeping potion. He awakened a few moments ago. He’s very subdued, but he has already told me that he needed to speak with you.”

Saradoc went over and sat on the chair beside the bed, while Merimac leaned against the wall near the door.

Fredegar was sitting up in the bed, rather pale, but he favored them with a weak smile. “Good morning. I am sorry to have made such a fool of myself last night. I am afraid my nerve rather deserted me.” He gave a shudder in spite of his light words.

He looked at Saradoc’s expectant gaze, and then averted his eyes. “I suppose you want to know what happened.” He sighed. “I was to have tried to keep the secret longer, but…” his voice trailed off.

“I just hope that you are going to believe me,” he said. “It’s all to do with Bilbo’s old Adventure, and a small item he brought back with him…”
_____________________________________________

It took a good long while for Freddy to tell the whole story. It was time for luncheon when the brothers came out, thoughtful expressions on their faces.

Merimac looked at Saradoc. “How true do you think all that is?” Just from Freddy’s demeanor, he feared it was all too true.

“It explains a lot,” Saradoc said thoughtfully. “I always wondered *how* old Bilbo was able to do so much that he did. A magic Ring. I only hope that the Elves in Rivendell will know what to do about it. And that they felt so threatened that they had to go into the Old Forest.” He bit his lip. “Oh, Mac! Think of them!”

And Merimac couldn’t help but think about it--all four of them, though he only knew three--but Frodo, Merry and Pippin were dear to all of Buckland. Come home, lads, he thought, come home safely.

Saradoc broke into his thoughts. “We can speak of this to no one. And Mac, I’d like Berilac to ride for Tuckborough by way of Hobbiton. Someone needs to break the news to Samwise Gamgee’s family. And I’ll send a letter to Paladin.”

“Nor am I. But I have a feeling this is just the beginning, Mac. We are going to have to tighten the Bounds and redouble the watch. I think we may be in for more trouble.”

And somehow Merimac knew his brother was right. And all he could do was stand at his shoulder and provide whatever help he could.

Rating G:
Summary: A tiny sequel to "Waiting for Frodo and Merry"; Pippin's 5, Merry's 13, Sam's 15 and Frodo is 26--3,8,9 and 16 in human years.)

Frodo and Merry, walking amiably up the road to Bag End, and wondering what Bilbo might have for tea, looked up in surprise to see the tiny figure coming at them like an arrow straight to the target, and braced themselves. Pippin slammed into them, hugging them both, and talking a mile a minute.

“Merry! Frodo! I’ve been waiting for you ever so long! Papa--I mean Father--said I could stay with Cousin Bilbo till you came and I got to play with Sam and I got stinged by a bee and Sam fixed it with pipe-weed and Cousin Bilbo is making seedcake for tea and--”

Merry grabbed his tiny cousin and swung him about, and then pretending to throw him, held him up to Frodo, who, with one smooth move, plopped him atop his shoulders. Pippin squealed in glee, and tangled his fingers in Frodo’s dark curls.

“I thought you would *never* get here! Cousin Bilbo said you went to visit Cousin Fatty but he said you’d be home in time for tea and--”

The cousins came through the gate to Bag End, which Pippin had left swinging open, and Merry shut it carefully behind him.

“Cousin Bilbo wouldn’t climb the tree with me he said he is too old Frodo so maybe you will climb with me did you know that weeds can choke flowers? Sam said so--”

Sam stood by the path, grinning and shaking his head. “Hullo, Merry! Mr. Frodo! I’ve been keeping him company while Mr. Bilbo makes tea.”

“Father and Mother and Pearl and Pimmie and Vinca are going to be here for supper! Cousin Bilbo says we are having leg of lamb and mint jelly and potatoes and--”

Merry patted Sam’s arm sympathetically. Sam glanced up at the little one, who seemingly had yet to run out of breath. “Does he ever stop talking?”

“--we have new kittens at the farm Merry maybe you can come see them soon--”

The cousins headed into the smial. “--can Merry and me sleep with you tonight Frodo? I’d like that ever so--”

And as the green door closed behind them, Sam chuckled, and turned his attention to the flowerbeds.

Author: Dreamflower
Rating: G
Summary: In Minas Tirith Sam and Pippin have a little quest of their own...

“ ‘Morning, Mr. Pippin. Are you all slept out?” Sam looked at him with concern--Pippin had been on the night watch for the first time the night before.

Looking rather tousled still, Pippin grinned. “I’m fine, Sam! I’m ready for some breakfast.”

“Well, I was just getting ready to make myself some elevenses, if you want to join me, Mr. Pippin. I’ve some cinnamon scones left over from second breakfast, and I was going to boil an egg--should I put one in for you?”

“That sounds nice,” Pippin replied. “Here! Let me get that for you!” Sam was trying to get the kettle off the hob while standing on the special stool that was kept in the kitchen for the hobbits. Pippin could reach the top of the stove easily without it. “Where is everyone else?”

“Well, this is Mr. Merry’s day up at the old king’s bier, poor thing. Mr. Frodo and Gandalf had something to do for Strider up at the Citadel, and I’m not quite sure where the others are.”

Pippin nodded. “I think Legolas and Gimli said something about going down to the City. An old friend of Gimli’s has a shop there, and he wanted him to meet Legolas.”

After a few minutes, the hobbits sat down to the smaller of the two tables in the kitchen, and enjoyed their meal. “So, Sam, what are your plans for the day?”

Sam arched a brow at the young Took. He’d not expected him to be awake yet, and he’d thought to be gone before he *did* wake. “I thought I’d go to the market on the Third Circle. One of the Cooks up to the Citadel told me as how there was some new foodstuffs coming in today.”

Pippin nodded. “Yes, I heard that myself last night. A lot of the Spring produce is coming in from the outlying provinces. I can come along with you!” He smiled brightly.

Sam arched an eyebrow. There had been a time once when the idea of taking Master Peregrin Took to the market would have filled him with apprehension, and he chuckled wryly. Pippin apparently could tell what he was thinking, as he chuckled as well. “I’m not seven anymore, Sam. I promise to be good.”

“Well, you are right welcome to come along, Mr. Pippin! It means we can carry twice as much back.”

Pippin’s grin widened. “That,” he said avidly, “sounds like an excellent plan.” He quickly finished his second cup of tea.

Since he was off duty, Pippin dressed in the set of hobbit-style clothes that had been made for them after their return to the City. However, he still buckled on his sword-belt. Sam gave him a look, but did not say anything. He and Frodo had carried no weapons since they’d returned. As for Pippin, if he were to be escorting one of the Ringbearers, he had no intention of going out unarmed--though he knew, as perhaps Frodo and Sam did not, that they would be unobtrusively followed by a couple of guardsmen in plain clothing.

They made their way down to the Third Circle in a leisurely fashion, each of them carrying an empty market basket. There was, after all, no rush. Both of them were happy enough to stop at the street-corners and listen to the minstrels or story-tellers, or to watch the jugglers or acrobats.

“We’ll not have a chance to see the likes of this again once we get home, Mr. Pippin. I can’t see passing it up now. It’s all something to tell back in the Shire, if you take my meaning.”

“I do, Sam. They aren’t going to believe the half of what we have to tell them.”

Sam nodded. “And that’s only if we just tell them the good parts. There’s things folk aren’t going to want to hear about at all--battles and burning mountains and such,” he said solemnly. “And I’m afraid Mr. Frodo’s not going to want to tell none of his part.”

Pippin’s expression hardened. “Then it will be up to us to see it done, Sam. He deserves to get the credit, and this is *his* story, after all.”

The three young women who had been singing finished, and the watchers all tossed coins into the small wooden bowl which they had on the pavement. Pippin tossed in one of the silver coins that the King had given him on his knighting, and he and Sam went on their way.

They soon made their way to the bustle and noise of the market. In a wide area cleared of rubble, vendors of all sorts had set up their barrows, carts or pavilions.

So far little attention had been paid them. Pippin was not wearing his livery, and most people probably took them for children. But when the two of them approached a large barrow filled with fresh vegetables, the vendor looked up sharply: “Here now, boys! No touching if you are not going to buy--oh! I beg your pardon! I see you are no children at all!”

Suddenly there was a murmuring. “It’s two of the pheriannath!” “It’s the Ringbearers!”

Sam blushed and Pippin rolled his eyes. “Here we go again!” he whispered to Sam.

“What may I help you with?” the vendor asked avidly, his dark eyes glittering with anticipation. Soon everyone would know these heroes had come to *his* barrow!

Sam looked at Pippin, who shrugged, and then at the Man. “Those are nice lettuces, I see,” he said, “and is *that* asparagus?” His face lit up at the thought of serving Mr. Frodo some fresh asparagus, which his master dearly loved.

“A dozen stalks for a copper,” said the vendor, “is my usual price. But I would not dream of taking coin from *you*!” He looked around at the spectators to make sure they were all impressed with this generosity. He was gratified to see several people nodding in agreement.

Pippin muttered to Sam, “You might as well go along with it, Sam. None of them want our money, and you know Frodo loves asparagus…”

Soon they had filled Sam’s basket with a couple of nice lettuces, some radishes and spring onions, some fresh rosemary, and a couple of dozen stalks of the coveted asparagus. As the two of them moved away, several of the spectators remained to buy from the vegetable seller, while a number of them trailed along behind the two hobbits, who had begun to feel a bit exposed.

The sounds of squawking across the way drew their attention--there was a poulterer, with several cages of birds: chickens and ducks and a couple of geese, and some sort of smaller fowl.

Pippin grinned, and his whole face lit up. “That sounds absolutely lovely, Sam! I haven’t had your roast chicken since before we left, at Frodo’s birthday dinner.”

“Well, Mistress Firiel, in the kitchens up to the Citadel was telling me of a way they do them down here--they use them lemons, you see…”

“Really?” Pippin looked at him curiously. “I thought they only used those to make that drink--lemonade?”

“I guess not, Mr. Pippin, from what she told me, they use them for a lot of things.”

After the two of them listened to the effusive thanks of the poulterer, who wanted to make sure they knew that they had saved the lives of her sons who had been in the Battle at the Black Gate, she offered them two of the plumpest of her hens. “If you’ve other things to get, small masters, I can kill, pluck and dress them for you, and you can get them on your way back!”

Sam looked taken aback at this. “Now there’s no call to go to all that trouble, Missus!”

So they went further down the street, still trailed by a crowd of watchers, and found the fruit seller. Pippin soon found his basket loaded with lemons, oranges, early strawberries, and even peaches.

Now they wandered about a bit, and every now and then someone would approach them with a word of thanks. A sausage seller offered them a sample of his wares, and a young girl with a tray of sweet biscuits and tarts did the same. They did not lack for drink, either. As they passed a tavern, the innkeeper came out, with goblets of sweet red wine.

They took it with thanks, though they would have preferred ale, and then turned to go back and get their chickens. She had just finished dressing the birds, and tied them with twine, to make them easier to carry. Nevertheless, they were rather laden as they made their way back up to the Sixth Circle.

“You know,” said Pippin “Borondir and Artamir are following us. I could ask them to help us carry this stuff.”

Sam gave him a sharp look. “Now you know that wouldn’t be right, Mr. Pippin! Why what do you suppose your cousin would say to that?” Sam gave a sniff; he’d noticed the guards, but had preferred to act as though they were not there.

Pippin pretended to misunderstand. “Oh, I suppose Merry would think it a very good idea!” he said cheerfully.

“That’s not who I meant, and you know it,” Sam said sternly. “Now, we’ll say no more about it.”

Pippin chuckled, and said “Well, it was worth a try.” But he ducked to hide a smile. It was not like he’d thought Sam would agree anyway.

Soon enough they were back in the kitchen with the food. Pippin went to the small pump by the sink and washed his hands. “Oh, Sam!” he exclaimed. “I forgot! How will we roast the chickens?”

For the spits in the huge fireplace were too unwieldy for the hobbits to handle, and so they’d not roasted anything in this kitchen as of yet.

“Don’t need a spit, Mr. Pippin. We’ll roast ’em in a pan on the hearth.”

“Now aren’t you the clever one!” He went to the basket and got the asparagus out to clean it. “Just tell me what to do next!” he said cheerfully.

The two of them worked busily for a while, their conversation mostly consisting of such pleasantries as “See how much butter is in the larder, Mr. Pippin,” “Is this enough rosemary, Sam?” and “Where’s the salt when you need it?” Soon the kitchen was redolent with the lovely smells of roasting chicken and other good things. The two of them took a break at teatime and had a couple of peaches with some of the sweet biscuits the girl had given them, along with a cup of tea. Then they got busy again, Pippin preparing a salad while Sam saw to cooking the asparagus.

“What smells so wonderful?” exclaimed Frodo, as he entered the kitchen a short while later. “Oh, you two *have* been busy!”

Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli soon made their appearance, and with help both tables were laid, and the food was being dished up. Merry was the last to arrive, looking a bit wan and thoughtful. But at the smell and sight of such a pleasant meal his face soon brightened.

Frodo was carving the chicken at the hobbits’ table, and Merry gazed about at his friends, taking in a deep breath. “I say, Pippin, I do think that you and Sam spent the day very profitably indeed! I’ll have a leg, Frodo, please!”
______________________________________________________

1 (3 to 3 ½ pound broiler)
½ stick of butter or margarine, melted
3 cups chicken broth
2 lemons
1 small onion
2 cloves garlic
1 large sprig of fresh rosemary (or a teaspoon of dried)
Salt
Pepper

Rinse and pat dry chicken. Salt and pepper the inside cavity. Quarter the lemon and the onion. Put the garlic, two onion quarters and two lemon quarters inside the cavity, along with the rosemary. Brush the outside of the bird with the melted butter, and add salt and pepper. Truss the bird, and put in a shallow roasting pan. Combine chicken broth and the juice from the other two quarter lemons and half the other lemon; scrape in a bit of the zest if desired. Pour the broth/lemon mixture into the pan, and bake in a 400 degree oven for about an hour and a half or so, until golden brown or registering 160 degrees on a meat thermometer inserted in the thigh, basting the bird with the broth about every fifteen to twenty minutes. Garnish with slices from the last half-lemon, and serve with the broth on the side.

1 ½ pound fresh asparagus
½ stick butter or margarine
Salt
Pepper
¼ cup water
½ lemon

Wash and clean asparagus, snapping off the tough ends, and scraping the scaly stems with a peeler.

Melt the butter or margarine in a large sauté pan; add asparagus and stir-fry for just a few minutes. Add the water and the juice of the lemon half, and let simmer until the asparagus is crisp-tender, and the liquid is reduced by at least half. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve with lemon wedges.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is how my aunt used to prepare asparagus fresh out of her garden. I could never get enough of it.]

The challenge at LJ hobbit_ficathon was for an h/c story with a head injury. Quite fortunately, JRRT had already inflicted this injury, so I did not need to hurt poor Bilbo any more than he already had been in canon...

Bilbo knelt on one knee filled with sorrow. “Farewell, King under the Mountain!” he said. “This is a bitter adventure, if it must end so; and not a mountain of gold can amend it. Yet I am glad that I have shared in your perils--that has been more than any Baggins deserves.”
“No!” said Thorin. “There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and drink and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!”
Then Bilbo turned away, and he went by himself, and sat alone wrapped in a blanket, and whether you believe it or not, he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse. He was a kindly little soul. Indeed it was long before he had the heart to make a joke again. “A mercy it is,” he said at last to himself, “that I woke up when I did. I wish Thorin were living, but I am glad we parted in kindness. You are a fool, Bilbo Baggins, and you made a great mess of that business with the stone; and there was a battle, in spite of all your efforts to buy peace and quiet, but I suppose you can hardly be blamed for that.” (The Hobbit, Chapter XVIII, “The Return Journey”)

Bilbo huddled miserably in the blanket, sitting at the very edge of the huge encampment, hopefully far away from any prying and embarrassing eyes. He had wept until he could weep no more, and he felt dreadful. His stomach hurt, his eyes burned, and his head throbbed fiercely. Poor Thorin! and Fili! and Kili! He had finally managed to convince himself that the battle was not his fault, and that he had done the right thing, after all, with the Stone. But it did nothing to assuage the grief he felt for his slain friends, nor his horror at the carnage of battle.

And nothing at all to ease the pounding in his head, as if any number of Dwarves had taken up residence there with all their hammers. He felt quite dizzy and sick. In fact, he could not recall a time he had felt any sicker--

Oh! He retched, bringing up everything he’d last eaten, and kept on retching. This was dreadful!

It was Balin, who had gone to look for the hobbit at Gandalf’s request. He put a gentle arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, and supported him.

Bilbo looked up at him blearily--why was everything so blurry? “I am afraid, Balin, that I do not feel at all well,” he whispered.

“Hoy!” called Balin, to one of the passing Men. “Come and help us! We need to take this hobbit to Gandalf!”

Bilbo felt large arms lift him as gently as a babe. “Papa?” he asked in confusion, before his thoughts all fled in darkness.
_____________________________________________

Bilbo woke, and found himself lying in a large cot. He blinked in confusion--where was this? The light was diffuse and had a greenish cast; it did not feel like indoors, yet it was not outdoors either. It most certainly was not Bag End, and he had been having the most peculiar dreams. And his head ached abominably.

“You are in the tent of Thranduil, the King of the Elves of Mirkwood; it is two o’ clock in the afternoon, and you have slept the clock round.”

“Gandalf?” Bilbo asked. He tried to sit up, but felt too dizzy and weak to make the effort. “What happened to me?”

“My dear Bilbo! You took quite a nasty knock upon the head during the battle, though you were too busy to notice!”

“But I was wearing a helm! And I woke up and went to--to--” his voice faltered, for he did not wish to remember the scene at Thorin’s deathbed just yet.

“You may have been wearing a helm, Bilbo Baggins,” said an unfamiliar voice, “nevertheless you were hit hard enough to be rendered unconscious. And I daresay that was not the first time you hit your head recently.”

Bilbo turned to look at his other side. There stood a tall and imposing and unfamiliar Elf. His face was composed and almost stern, but his eyes were kindly. “Wh-who--”

“I am Guilin, personal healer to Thranduil, King of the Elves of the Great Wood. It is an honor to be of service to you, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo licked his dry lips, and said weakly, “And I am at your service, Guilin. Though it is of little use at the moment.”

“You have already rendered great service not only to me, but to all the Elves here! Had it not been for your bravery and quick wits, the Enemy would have arrived to find all the Free Folk who should have been united against them at one another’s throats.”

Bilbo’s eyes sparked with tears. He found it hard to think of what he had done that way. He had done the best he could, yet still, so many lay dead…

The Elf sat down upon the cot, at Bilbo’s side. “Now, about that other knock upon the head--you *have* had another recently, have you not?” He took Bilbo’s wrist as he spoke. “One that was sufficient to render you unconscious?”

“Well, yes. When the goblins captured us beneath the mountains, and we were escaping, I struck my head.”

“Ah, I see.” Guilin nodded sagely, and took up a candle, and peered closely into Bilbo’s eyes.

Bilbo stared intently--one--no, two--no, one, after all. Or was it? “I’m not sure,” he said hesitantly.

There was a brief silence. Bilbo felt quite exhausted by the short conversation. The Elf stood up, and placed a hand on Bilbo’s head. Bilbo felt a comforting warmth, and the pain receded. As he drifted off to sleep, he could hear Guilin speaking with Gandalf…

“I believe he is mildly concussed. He should be fine with a few days of rest.”

“That is good. I am really rather fond of the little fellow…” But Bilbo heard no more, for sleep finally claimed him.

It was the lovely smell of mushroom soup that brought him next to wakefulness. He blinked and opened his eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Baggins! You have awakened. We were just going to wake you up for your supper!”

It was Bombur and Bofur who stood by his cot, a large tray with a generous bowl of steaming soup and a chunk of yeasty-smelling bread. Bilbo pushed himself back upon the pillows, halting briefly as a wave of dizziness came over him. It soon passed.

“Mushroom soup!” he exclaimed. “Oh thank you! Wherever did you come by it?”

“The Men of Laketown had some stores of stuff they had brought along with their army. They made it with dried mushrooms. But the bread is freshly baked,” said Bofur.

Bilbo looked in dismay at the huge bowl and giant spoon. “I’m not sure I can handle that,” he said sadly.

“We thought of that,” answered Bofur. He drew forth a mug of Dwarven make--larger than hobbits used at home, but still easier for Bilbo to manage than the tools of Men. The Dwarf carefully spooned some of the soup into the mug and handed it to Bilbo, who sipped from it appreciatively. Bombur broke off a bit of the bread and buttering it lavishly, handed it to Bilbo.

The two did not try to make conversation, but allowed Bilbo to concentrate on his meal. He was surprised to realize that he was quite hungry! But then, it seemed his belly had been quite empty for more than a day! For a moment, he wondered if he would be able to keep this meal down--but he could feel no signs of his stomach’s rebelling yet.

When he had quite finished--and he was able to drink all the soup, though he could not quite manage all the bread--Bombur took the mug from him, and Bofur handed him a goblet.

“That Elf said you were to drink this; it’s some sort of draught of herbs and wine.”

Bombur sniffed. “If you don’t wish to drink it, we won’t say anything. There’s no telling what might be in an Elf-draught,” he said suspiciously.

“Hush, Bombur!” said Bofur. “It’s medicine! He’s a healer, even if he is an Elf. Besides, Gandalf trusts him!”

Bilbo took the goblet reluctantly. Medicine usually tasted rather foul, but Guilin had been kind to him so far, so he did not wish to disappoint the healer. He screwed his face up and took a sip--and was surprised to realize that it did not taste bad at all! It was a good sweet wine, and though he could definitely tell that herbs had been steeped in it, it was neither bitter nor foul. He drank it appreciatively.

Bombur and Bofur collected the items up on the tray, just as the tent flap opened, and the Elf-king, followed by Gandalf, entered.

The two Dwarves stood up, and giving a very stiff nod of the head to the Elf-king, made a wordless exit, carrying the tray away with them.

Thranduil sighed. “Stiff-necked Dwarves! They still have not forgiven me for my imprisonment of them! Yet I ask you, Mithrandir, what else was I to have done with strangers in my Realm?”

Gandalf shook his head. “There are too many years of suspicion between the Elves and the Dwarves to put all right overnight.” He said something else, in the Elven tongue, and Thranduil nodded sagely. Bilbo was fascinated! What a lovely language it was! He remembered those weeks in the Wood-elves’ caverns, and how he had longed to know what they were speaking and singing about among themselves. He wondered if he could ever learn to speak their tongue?

The two turned their attention to Bilbo, who was at the moment, feeling very small and insignificant.

“Master Baggins,” said the Elf-king, “I hope that you are beginning to feel somewhat better.”

Bilbo blushed to be so kindly addressed by the King. “I am, thanks to you, and to your healer, Master Guilin. I am more grateful than you can know for your care of me. But I am sorry to be putting you out--I was told this is your tent! Perhaps you could find some humbler place to put me?”

Thranduil smiled and shook his head. “You are not putting me out, Master Baggins, for I will scarcely spend time here now the battle is over. It was useful when we were planning strategy, but I do not need to sleep in the same way as you mortals.”

“Oh. Well, thank you very much again, for your hospitality.” He bit his lip. “I am sure that there are those who are more sorely wounded, and who deserve this bed more than I.”

Gandalf chuckled. “My dear Bilbo! There are indeed those who are more sorely wounded--they already have accommodations, and are being treated for their injuries. But you are the hero of the hour, my dear hobbit!”

Bilbo looked astonished. “What? For allowing myself to get hit on the head with a stone?” He started to shake his head, but it made him feel dizzy, so he stopped, and said instead. “Why, I did not even fight a single stroke during the entire battle! Not that I would have been of any use if I did, for I most certainly don’t know how to wield a sword properly!”

Thranduil looked at Gandalf in amazement. “Does he really not understand how great his accomplishment was? Are all his people so humble?”

Gandalf laughed. “Hobbits are modest creatures, true. It‘s not the way of his people to boast.” He turned an eye on Bilbo. “Guilin has told us that you are to rest in bed for another day or two. We will be here for a fortnight while the wounded recuperate. I suggest you get some rest now.”

Bilbo wanted to object that he had slept more than enough already, but found himself yawning instead.

In the morning, his breakfast was brought to him by Dori, Ori, Oín, and Gloín. It consisted of bread, cheese, fruit and a small mug of ale--not what he would have thought breakfast food in the Shire, but welcome, nonetheless. He noticed that Ori sported a bandage about his head, and Gloín had his left arm in a sling.

At first the Dwarves conversed with him, but Bilbo made the mistake of asking Ori and Gloín how they had come by their injuries. They began to recount their fights during the battle, and all four began to discuss each blow they had taken or landed, with many gestures. When Gloín described in enthusiastic detail how he had taken the head of the goblin who had injured his shield arm Bilbo began to feel a bit green. He was much relieved when Gandalf’s arrival sent his Dwarf friends away.

Gandalf drew out his pipe, and found Bilbo’s among his things, which lay carefully at the foot of his cot. They shared a smoke, and some nice gossip, as the wizard recounted the story of Bilbo’s Uncle Isengar, who had run off to sea in his youth. Bilbo slowly drifted off to the sound of Gandalf’s voice.

Before he left, the wizard placed a large hand on Bilbo’s curly head, and murmured “Sleep well, my friend.”

Bilbo spent that day in his bed, alternately sleeping, and entertaining visitors. In addition to each of the Dwarves with whom he had travelled,
he had visits from Dain, from Bard, and from Beorn. The latter seemed quite pleased that Bilbo had survived his Adventure, and tendered an invitation to the hobbit to stop at his home on the way back.

The huge Man laughed, and said “No more do I, when they are uninvited! But you have an invitation this time, my brave little friend!”

Finally, he had his supper, brought him on a tray, this time by Balin, who kept him company and visited with him afterwards.

They were just finishing up a pleasant smoke when Guilin entered, bearing a goblet of the same draught Bilbo had been given the night before. Once more he took the hobbit’s wrist, peered into his eyes, and held up fingers in front of his face. This time his exclamations of “Ah!” seemed to be those of pleased surprise.

“Well, Bilbo Baggins,” the healer said finally, “I am most pleased with your progress! I do believe that after tonight, you may be up, and go out and about. Do take it easy for the first few days however! No strenuous exertions for a while! And you may still have headaches from time to time for a few weeks. Do not hesitate to seek me out for a pain draught if you do. I am most impressed at how quickly you are mending.”

The next morning, Bilbo gathered up his things, and made his thanks to the Elf-king. “I am most grateful to you for your care, but I think that I will go and stay among the Dwarves, with my companions from our journey, for once we leave, it will be long ere I see my Dwarf friends again.”

“I understand,” responded Thranduil, with a kindly gleam in his eye. “And you and Mithrandir--that you call Gandalf--will be stopping with us on your homeward journey. I will look forward to actually *seeing* you there, this time,” he added wryly.

Bilbo laughed, and was startled to realize it was the first time he had laughed since the battle. Perhaps all would be well after all.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: Here is where I found my information on concussion--
The treatment for a concussion is usually to watch the person closely for any change in level of consciousness. The person may need to stay in the hospital for close observation. Surgery is usually not necessary. Headache and dizziness are common, but if the headache persists or becomes severe, it is best to seek medical attention.
Post-concussion syndrome may occur in some people. The syndrome generally consists of a persistent headache, dizziness, irritability, memory changes and vision changes. The person may seem overly emotional or unable to control their emotions. Some people experience unexplained depression. Difficulty with concentration or problems with thinking and planning ahead also are reported. Symptoms may begin weeks or even months after the initial injury.
http://www.muhealth.org/~neuromed/concussion.shtml ]

Written for LJ hobbit_ficathon's challenge to write a gap-filler in a different POV.

Strider leaned himself back a bit further into the shadows, and took another puff on his pipe. His gaze never strayed from the three Shire hobbits who were the center of attention. Of course, since they were newcomers and strangers, it was inevitable, once they had come into the common room.

When he had spotted them at the hedge beyond the gate, he had no trouble recognizing Frodo Baggins, though the hobbit seemed a good deal more youthful than he would have expected from the stories he had heard from Bilbo and Gandalf. Bilbo’s heir must be close to fifty, yet this one looked much younger; perhaps it was a side-effect of--what he carried? But he was, most definitely “fairer than most” hobbits, as the Wizard had described him, and he had the Fallohide air about him that Bilbo was so proud of. He had been somewhat taken aback at the companions--Gandalf had seemed uncertain as to whether there would be two hobbits or four. It had been four outside the gate, but it was only three in the room now. Strider could not place one of them, though he seemed by his speech to be a servant. Of the other two, one was a Brandybuck and the other a Took.

They seemed very heedless of their danger. He’d noticed a bit of wariness at first, but under the curious and friendly attention of the local hobbits, it was fast melting away.

Frodo had spotted him. It had been the merest glance, but the wariness had suddenly returned to his face. He watched as the hobbit gestured to old Butterbur, and they conducted a whispered conversation. The hobbit was too circumspect to stare back, but Butterbur gave away the topic of their discussion by his frequent and furtive looks in Strider’s direction.

When Butterbur moved away, Frodo glanced back at the Man once more, and Strider gave a discreet wave and a nod. Perhaps if he could just get a word with him, he would be able to put his proposal to him quietly.

Frodo stood up, and moved in his direction. Strider noticed that the of the two other hobbits there, the elder almost followed, and was stayed by a subtle move of Frodo‘s hand, while the younger was too engrossed with his conversation with the locals to notice Frodo’s departure.

As Frodo drew near to the table, Strider threw back his hood, and fixed him with a keen stare. “I am called Strider. I am very pleased to meet you, Master--” he lowered his voice “Underhill, if old Butterbur got your name right.”

“He did.” The hobbit’s posture was tense and his voice tight. There was wariness in the remarkable blue eyes.

“Well, Master Underhill, if I were you, I should stop your young friends from talking too much. Drink, fire and chance-meeting are pleasant enough, but, well--this isn’t the Shire. There are queer folk about.” He couldn’t help but smile at the intelligent skepticism in Frodo’s glance; he was very like his Uncle Bilbo. “Though I say it as shouldn’t, you may think. And there have been even stranger travellers through Bree lately.”

Strider sat calmly enough before Frodo’s stare. He was sure that the lad had used it too advantage before to quell impudence, but it would not work on him. However--

Across the room, the youthful voice with its Tookish accent was drawing laughter.

“Yes, and then he said ‘I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve,’ You should have seen the sour faces on the Sackville-Bagginses as they tried to work *that* one out..j.”

Frodo’s brows drew together in an expression of annoyance, and he bit his lip.

“You had better do something quick!” Strider hissed in alarm. This was coming far too close to matters that Gandalf would prefer not to have brought to people’s minds!

With a sudden expression of determination, Frodo jumped up from his seat, and hurrying forward, he nimbly jumped atop a table.

Strider heaved a sigh of exasperation, and placed his palm over his face. This was *not* what he’d had in mind. The ridiculous hobbit was going to draw even *more* attention than his friend’s tale. He shook his head and leaned forward to watch what happened next.

“We are all very much gratified by the kindness of your reception, and I venture to hope that my brief visit will help to renew the old ties of friendship between the Shire and Bree…”

At this the Man could not help but chuckle quietly. He had sounded *exactly* like Bilbo at that moment! How he wished his old friend could see *this*!

The room began to clamor for a song, and Strider relaxed a bit. A song was not that uncommon, and it would get everyones’ minds off what had gone before. Perhaps this young hobbit was cannier than he’d given him credit for…

“There is an inn, a merry old inn
Beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
One night to drink his fill…”

And this was ironically funny! He had heard Bilbo singing that song more than once in Rivendell, and the old hobbit had told him that it had been inspired by his own stay at the Pony on his Adventure many years ago! And now it was being sung by Bilbo’s cousin in that self-same inn! Whether wise or not, it was very entertaining.

The crowd was highly amused at the song, as well they should be, but Strider was a bit alarmed when they called for a second chorus--he looked about the room, and noticed some of the squinty-eyed outlanders that had begun infesting Bree lately were paying a good deal too much attention to this. Frodo should have quit while he was ahead.

But Frodo Baggins was having a good time now, and his face wore an expression of abandon as he was clearly enjoying himself. The song neared its climax. And then--

He’d vanished altogether. And Strider knew only too well how *that* trick had been accomplished! What foolishness! He felt anger well up at the way that Frodo Baggins had jeopardized everything for a bit of a trick!

Suddenly, Strider felt a presence close by, and glancing down, saw that the hobbit had removed the--item, and was crawling out from beneath the table. He kept his face stern and blank.

“Well? Why did you do that? Worse than anything your friends could have said! You have put your foot in it! Or should I say, your finger?”

But as angry as he was, Strider suddenly realized this had given him the opening he needed, to reveal himself and his purpose…
______________________

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Dialogue in italics is taken directly from The Fellowship of the Ring Book I, Chapter IX, “At the Sign of the Prancing Pony”

According to hobbit tradition, here is my birthday gift all of you--a bit of happy fluff from the "Eucatastrophe" Universe, in which Frodo, too, celebrates a fifty-fifth birthday:

Merry handed Sam an ale, and draped an arm around his shoulders, as he gestured to the scene under the Party Tree. “Well, Sam, five years ago today, did you ever expect you’d see such a sight?”

Sam smiled, as he watched Frodo, seated on the ground surrounded by faunts and young children, and Pippin on a branch above him, his leg dangling above Frodo’s head. “No, Mr.--I mean, Merry, no I didn’t much expect to ever see Bag End again once we left. I wasn’t sure we’d ever even make it back to Buckland once we left Crickhollow, but I knew that Bag End belonged to Missus Lobelia and Mr. Lotho, and I didn’t never think Mr.--I mean, Frodo, would ever get it back.”

“It’s so good to see Frodo happy.” Merry laughed. “He was nearly bursting with pride when you and Rose named your lad for him.”

“If I’d known how much trouble it would be--” Sam chuckled. Frodo had agreed to the naming with conditions: no more “Mr.” Frodo. And of course, Merry and Pippin had chimed in, and said if he wasn’t “mistering” Frodo, he could not “mister” them any more, either. Sam had given in, but putting a curb on his tongue had been harder, and the “Mr.” just *would* slip out from time to time.

“He always does seem to know that sort of thing. He knew Elanor’d be a lass, though he’d said nothing to us aforehand.”

Merry chuckled, and pointed to the two faunts who had claimed Frodo’s lap. “He told Pimpernel about the twins. He says it’s because he spent so much time with Elves. But we spent just as much time with them as he did.”

“It’s more than that, Merry,” said Sam. “He earned that foresight of his, he did.”

Merry’s eyes grew wide. “Is everything all right? It’s not?” His voice trailed off anxiously.

Sam and Rose watched him scurry back to Bag End, where several of the female guests, including Estella and Merry’s mother and Pippin’s betrothed, Diamond North-took, were ensconced. Sam shook his head, amused.

“Sam Gamgee,” said Rose, “you were every bit as bad when I was expecting.”

“I suppose I was, Rose-wife, but it’s a mite more entertaining when it’s someone else.”

They both glanced once more at the Party Tree. Pippin had come down from the Tree, and now he and Frodo were leading the children in song:

The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,
And his beard was of silver thread;
With opals crowned and pearls all bound
About his girdlestead…”*

“Uncle Frodo! Uncle Pip!” Flora Took, aged seven, interrupted by tugging on Frodo’s weskit. “What are ‘shoon’?”
____________________________
*From “The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon” in The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

Merry is one-hundred and ten when Pippin finally persuades him to accept Lothíriel 's invitation to visit her in her retirement at Dol Amroth; she dwelt in a dower house on the grounds of the palace where her nephew Adrahil held sway.

He had always declined the invitations, though Pippin quite wanted to go. “You know, Pip, that I have no fondness for the Sea; it's a gloomy, cold, grey thing that I have no wish to look upon again,” he would say, and a rare hint of bitterness would be in his voice. And Pippin would not press him, but would wait until the next time the widow of Merry's King invited them again.

But this year had been hard. Éowyn had finally followed her brother to the halls of their fathers, and Faramir had left Ithilien to the governance of his son, and returned to the City. Now the elderly hobbits cannot slake their need for green grass and trees by visits to him there, and when Faramir overheard their conversation, and having noted that his small friends had begun to wilt in the City, said “You know, Meriadoc, that you have only seen the inhospitable Sea of the North. There is nothing cold and grey about the warm blue waters at Belfalas.” And so Merry, noting that Pippin really did seem to need to get away, finally agrees.

A pleasant sail down the Anduin, and they are met not only by Lothíriel, but by a gaggle of small children, her great-nieces and great-nephews, all of whom are eager to meet the famous pheriannath.

And Merry is surprised to see that, yes, these Seas *are* warm and blue and teeming with life, and there are beaches of fine white sand that feel pleasant to hobbit feet. Even the harsh cries of the gulls sound pleasant in the warm breezes, with the hint of salt and fish. Lothíriel welcomes them warmly, and she and Merry spend time reminiscing about Éomer, while Pippin listens indulgently, only occasionally asking a question, to keep the conversation moving along.

The former Queen has a well-run household, and her cook is only too happy to indulge the appetites of these two jolly old creatures with as many meals as they seem to think are necessary.

One morning, Pippin has a bit of a lie-in. His knee has been twinging him a bit, and he'd not slept well the night before. Merry knows, and he slips quietly from their room, to have his first breakfast, and then to walk along the beach.

There he sees two children playing in the sand. They've a bucket of water, and a couple of small spades, and they seem to be constructing something.

They look up and grin at him in welcome. The children of the area quickly grew very fond of these small people, who are just their size, and yet have the smiles of tolerant grandfathers, and who can tell tales and sing songs and wipe tears.

Merry is fascinated, and soon the children are explaining to him the intricacies of building with sand. He quickly loses track of time, and at his age, his stomach is not quite so insistent at reminding him as it once was. He's very surprised to look up and see Pippin approaching, hobbling a bit, but carrying a laden basket, nonetheless.

“Whatever are you doing, Merry Brandybuck, to miss second breakfast and elevenses, and luncheon fast approaching!”

But Merry grins. “I don't suppose you thought to bring anything in that basket,” he laughs.

“Well, you'd suppose wrong. It's filled with cheese tarts and cherry pastries, and a bottle of lemonade,” says Pippin haughtily, but with a twinkle in his eye. “And I do imagine we've enough to share,” he added with a wink at the children.

It doesn't take long before the basket is empty, and Pippin joins Merry in the sand, as the marvelous edifice grows ever larger.

It's Prince Adrahil coming in search of his children, who finds the four of them, contemplating their work.

“Finished just in time, I see, for the tide to come wash it away,” the Prince remarks.

Title: Freedom's Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose (The Great Auntie Pringle Took Remix)
Author: dreamflower02
Characters/Pairings: Merry, Pippin, Pervinca, Pimpernel, Aunt Pringle Took (OFC)
Summary: Young Merry, Pippin and Pervinca are overheard having a conversation…
Rating: G
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 940
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offense is intended, nor profit made.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Great Auntie Pringle Took, by ceshaughnessy.

FREEDOM'S JUST ANOTHER WORD FOR NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE
(THE GREAT AUNTIE PRINGLE REMIX)

I know they are there. They think I don't see them, hiding from me, spying on me, mocking me. Why should I care? I have my birds, my lovely birds who fly away on wings of freedom, who sing to me, and speak to me. But I can hear the children whispering.

The older lad – that Meriadoc – he's a sharp one, as Brandybucks often are. He has eyes to see in his head, which is wiser than his years. And the lass, she's pretty quick as well. Their whispers are more penetrating now.

"Well, perhaps she talks to birds because no one talks much to her." Pervinca squinted up her eyes as she studied the scene thoughtfully, tugging at her bottom lip. "Perhaps she's lonely."

"She's daft! Of course no one likes to talk to her, they're afraid her strangeness is catching."

Ah, the youngest! No, you are right – that child usually never has an unkind word. But I smell his fear. He's afraid of me – afraid that someday he will become like me – and he's too young to know what to do with his fear.

"Well, I think she just likes to be the center of attention. She reminds me of you Pippin!"

Yes, here comes my Pepper, my darling, my own. Such a sweet and lovely bird! He knows what to say to me!

The whispers, which had grown low, are louder once more: Bilbo doesn't like me? I smile to myself. If they only knew; Bilbo knows we are alike, he and I. We don't speak because we both know the world would only call both of us even *more* "cracked" than they already do. I caught Bilbo's eye, earlier today. He tipped me a wink.

And he knew – he knew I didn't mean to hurt his trinkets, even if they had been his mother's. "Don't fret yourself, Pringle-lass," he'd said. Lass! Though it's true he has many more years than I, he looks too young to be calling me lass – but he said, "don't fret yourself! I learned long ago on my Adventure that people are far more important than things, be they the finest jewel beneath the Mountain or no!"

Adventure! Poor Bilbo – everyone knows of his Adventure! But no one knows of mine! The day I met that old Man in brown, down in the Woody End, back when I was a chit of a lass! He's the one showed me birds have voices. Yes, my Pepper, you do have a voice, my lovely!

What a sharp denial! He knows that he was being mean, though he doesn't know why he said it.

Perhaps the children would like to talk to you as well, Pepper, do you think? Let's go talk to them now, such sweet children, I could just pinch their cheeks..

Ah now! There's no call for that! As if Pepper or I would bring them any harm…oh, well, they are gone now. I wish I could speak to the youngest one, young Pippin. I know what he fears, and I know, I have seen flashes – he is right to fear. That lad is in for an Adventure someday himself, and it will be far darker than anything the Shire can imagine.

Oh! Look! Old Snowy has got herself a new brood of ducklings! I do believe I should go and make their acquaintance.

They are young and fearful – look how they scatter at my approach. Their mother is calling, telling them I'm no threat, but they don't heed her.

Good heavens! My old legs are not so steady as they used to be, especially since that day long ago, when I fell on my head, and was freed. This water is cold, cold and wet and rather unpleasantly muddy. Everyone's running here and there, one more tale of how "dotty" old Auntie Pringle is. I smile to myself. The dottier they think I am, the dottier I am free to be.

Here come the children. "Thank you, Pimpernel," I say, taking the towel she offers. "I seem to be wet. How extraordinary!"

The young Brandybuck is offering a hand to me. Behind him I see Pippin, staring at me with his green eyes wide; fear is there, and something else – he flushes bright red. Shame – yes, a child so good at heart would feel shamed for the things he had been saying. He knew better. He gives me a half-smile, and I accept the unspoken apology, for he doesn't realize I heard his unkind words.

I wish I could warn him. But he'd say he didn't believe it, even though he would, and he'd be fearful again.

Besides, no warning will keep him out of his troubles, and he will come through them well. It's a shame I won't live long enough to see it.

The music flowed and eddied, sometimes coming within the reach of his understanding, before drifting away again. Song after song, and his heart yearned for something…

Pippin sighed and stirred. He had been seated on the floor in the Hall of Fire, leaning against Merry, who was leaning against Frodo. Frodo had a gentle arm around Bilbo, and Sam was also on the floor, leaning against Bilbo’s knee. Frodo was still awake--Pippin could see the glitter of his eyes as he lost himself in the magic of the Elven song flowing about them. Merry and Sam were frankly asleep, though he was uncertain about Bilbo. Several times since their return to Rivendell from their long journey south, Bilbo had seemed to be asleep when he was not.

Pippin, too, had been lost in the song; but it had been a long time for him to sit still without moving. He got up very carefully, so as not to disturb Merry, and stretching a bit, he moved soundlessly to one of the wide doors that were always open to the vistas of the Valley of Imladris. He took a deep breath of fresh air, and noticed another figure, robed in white. Marvelous figures of smoke drifted from his pipe.

He took his own pipe out, and went to stand next to the Wizard, and they smoked in companionable silence for a few moments. Pippin studied him for a while; Gandalf the White, so much lighter of heart, so much more open than Gandalf the Grey. His grumpy manner had changed little--but now it was clearly only an amusement, for his dark eyes sparkled with a depth of mirth that Pippin could never before have expected to see there. And he no longer tried to hide the love and affection he felt for the hobbits who had become his companions. When they left Rivendell this time, it would be just the four of them and Gandalf. Pippin found comfort in that thought.

The wizard placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Why so quiet, Pippin? I do not think you have asked me a single question in days!” There was a mirthful challenge in the familiar deep voice.

Pippin chuckled. A sudden thought had come to him. “I do have one question, Gandalf--one I’ve been meaning to ask you for years! But what with the Ring and all, it rather put it out of my mind.”

Gandalf turned to look down at him, drawing together his bushy eyebrows. “And what pressing question is that, Peregrin?” he said with mock sternness.

“Well, you know, I’ve rather wondered about the Secret Word--you know, the Secret Word that worked the Old Took’s shirt studs…” He let his voice trail off, slightly abashed at his own impudence. There were far more important things on Gandalf’s mind than magic shirt studs. Pippin had come to realize that whatever Gandalf was--and what he suspected he scarcely dared put into words, though he was certain that Frodo for one *knew*--he was far above the comic figure that the Shire had been so familiar with for uncounted years.

Gandalf laughed outright, and his laughter was like the laughter of Elves, lifting the heart and filling the spirit with joy. “Ah, Gerontius’ shirt studs! That was quite a jest between us. They were my gift to him upon his accession to the Thainship. But you tell me the Secret Word was lost?”

Pippin nodded. “I’ve been told they worked for Isengrim III, but he died suddenly, and never had the chance to tell his brother. It’s clear enough they are still magic, for now that the Word is lost, they do not even work in the way that normal shirt studs do. They have a special place in the Thain’s mathom room. I’ve only ever seen them once myself.”

Gandalf sighed. “Dwarves made those for me, and I magicked them--the only time I have ever made anything like that. But Gerontius had such a sense of wonder, that I wished to indulge it. You remind me of him a good deal, Pippin, my lad. You have his eyes, and his smile.” He drew on his pipe, and then sent forth a bit of smoke in the shape of a large butterfly. Pippin’s eyes grew wide, as it spread its smoky wings and drifted away. “I shall tell you the Word. But you must swear to pass it on to no one save your father and in time, your son!”

Pippin nodded, awed. Gandalf bent down, and whispered into his ear. “Oh Gandalf!” he breathed.

“I will. Father will be so pleased! But what makes you think I’ll have a son?”

Pippin sighed. “I don’t know. Up till now, all the lasses I’ve liked have thought I was too young and silly. And all the ones who’ve liked me have only done so because I’m the Thain’s Heir.”

“Trust me, Pippin. You will in time find a jewel among wives, and you will have a son someday.”

The summer of 1420 was mild and fruitful, and Thain Paladin was expecting the Great Smials to fill for his birthday this year. But first breakfast was for family, and he sat at the head of the table in the private dining room of the Thain’s apartments, and one by one, opened the gifts of his wife and offspring.

He looked puzzled when he came to the end of them, and raised a questioning glance at his son. Pippin stood up, and taking out a small box, handed it to his father.

Paladin looked surprised when he opened it. It was not really done to give someone a gift out of his own mathom room. Pippin chuckled. “Those are not your gift, Father. This is.” He leaned over, and whispered in Paladin’s ear.

Paladin looked up at his tall son in amazed wonder, while Eglantine and his daughters looked on in confusion.

Sleepless. Merry's head was far too filled with memories for sleep; his legs felt restless, and he had to admit to himself that he feared to fall asleep, fearing the dreams that would follow, as surely as winter followed autumn. He sighed, and twisted, and glanced at the cup of chamomile tea he had made for himself, allowed to grow cold without tasting. He hoped Pippin was sleeping better than he was, himself.

But a sharp outcry gave him to know his hope was in vain. He sat up and raced from his room to Pippin's, where his younger cousin thrashed about. “Boromir! No! Boromir!”

He sat on the edge of Pippin's bed and gentled him awake. Pippin sat up, trembling and sobbing, and allowed himself to be gathered into Merry's arms.

Pippin gave a shudder and looked up into Merry's face. “No,” he said, “No, Boromir really is dead.” His face was pinched, stark and white, and the green eyes were wide.

Merry nodded slowly. Of course. It's what they'd avoided talking about all the day, losing themselves instead in the plans for their first party at Crickhollow on the following evening. A year ago *today* Boromir had sacrificed his life for theirs, and they had been carried off into captivity by the Uruk-hai. Both of them had remembered, but neither of them had been willing to talk about it--they had exchanged glances, conspiring without a word being said, to let the day go by without comment.

But obviously, their night was not going to be so easy. Pippin began to shiver, and Merry got up and handed him his dressing gown. “We might as well give it up. We'll not sleep well tonight,” he said. They left Pippin's room, and passing his own room, Merry grabbed his own dressing gown.

Pippin went into the parlor. “I'll stoke up the fire,” he said.
Merry nodded, and went into the kitchen. “I'll make some athelas tea.” All of them had been sent home with a generous supply of it, prepared by the King's own hands, for just such times as this.

When Merry returned, the fire in the hearth was blazing brightly, and the two of them sat down together on the settee and sipped the tea in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder. The scent of athelas brought to mind the beloved face of Strider, their friend, healer and King, and they breathed the soothing fragrance, as much as they sipped of it, and the horror began to recede, replaced instead by grief. Merry sighed when he finally put his cup down; he glanced at Pippin, whose eyes were swimming in unshed tears. He pulled his younger cousin close and kissed the top of his head, and then said, “Play for me, Pip.”

Pippin looked at him and gave a sort of crooked half-smile, and then he got up and went over to the shelf next to the hearth where his instruments were kept. He laid a wistful hand on his bagpipes, but then picked up his fiddle and bow. It was his first, and most comforting, instrument. It brought with it the memories of his lessons under his Aunt Esme's watchful eye and gentle hand, as Merry watched them fondly from a corner.

He stood next to the hearth, the glow of the fire behind him limning him in light, took a couple of strokes with his bow, tuned a wayward string, and then began to play.

Merry leaned his head against the back of the settee and closed his eyes to listen. Pippin played a familiar Shire ballad at first, a sweet and sad one, and then he began to improvise. Merry could hear in the ever-changing melody their journey and their friends: Frodo, dearer than dear, best beloved all their lives; and Sam, loyal and steadfast; Gandalf, whom they'd known since their childhood, and yet never truly known till they thought they had lost him; Strider, so much more than he seemed at the start, lordly and high beneath his Ranger guise; the lightness that was Legolas, merry and grave at the same time; the sturdiness of Gimli, stalwart and true. And Boromir was there as well, brave and proud and sorrowful and doomed…Fangorn, and Rohan, and Gondor…and home…and through and under and within every lingering note, the hopefulness of his Pippin…

It was the surprised voice of Bluebell Grubb that brought both of them awake with a start. Merry opened his eyes, and realized as Pippin sat up, that Pippin had at some point put his fiddle away and fallen asleep with his head in Merry's lap.

Bluebell was the matron Merry's mother had engaged to come in and cook and clean for Merry and Pippin three times a week. “I let myself in to make an early start today, what with your party tonight, and all!”

Merry finally found his voice. “I do apologize, Mistress Bluebell! We seem to have fallen asleep here last night.”

Pippin sat up, scrubbed through his curls with his fingers, and shook his head briskly. “We were too excited to sleep last night,” he chirped.

Bluebell nodded her head knowingly. “Ah,” she said. “If you'd like, I'll go and stir you up some breakfast, then, while I start the baking.” She took herself off to the kitchen.

Merry turned an incredulous look to Pippin. “ 'Too *excited* to sleep'? You made us sound like a couple of faunts the night before Yule!”

Merry chuckled ruefully and then sobered. “Thank you, Pip.” He meant for the music that had settled them both.

Pippin gave his cousin a quick embrace and then stood up. “I don't know about you,” he said with a grin, “but I'm starved! And we've got a party tonight!”

Merry shook his head fondly, and then, gathering the teacups, followed his cousin to the kitchen. They had weathered another storm together.
_______________

AUTHOR'S NOTES: My element for this story was the old saying: "Speech is silver, but silence is golden."

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Gimli glanced across the Courtyard, where Pippin stood, resplendent in his livery, but looking decidedly unhappy. He had withdrawn, and was standing near a large potted plant, almost as if to efface himself--not an action normal for the youngest of the hobbits. Both Elf and Dwarf cast their gaze around automatically, searching for the other hobbits. Frodo and Sam stood near the Royal Bride and Groom, who fairly glowed with happiness, and with them were Lord Elrond and Gandalf. For once, Frodo looked quite happy as well, glad to see his dear friend Aragorn finally united with Arwen.

Merry was speaking with Faramir and the Court Bard Menelcar, and it seemed odd not to see Pippin by his side.

Legolas and Gimli exchanged a glance, and then Legolas headed for Pippin, with Gimli in his wake.

Pippin started briefly when they approached him, unusual for the normally observant young hobbit, and then he looked away from them, his face a study in misery.

Legolas knelt down, and caught his gaze. "What is wrong, Pippin? Is there any way in which we can help?"

Pippin gave a rather bitter snort of laughter. "I suppose you could do me the favor of cutting out my tongue. Perhaps then I could keep my foot out of my mouth. Sometimes I think I'm worse than Folco Boffin." He gave a heavy sigh.

Legolas looked puzzled, but Gimli nodded. He'd been told a few stories about Frodo's cousin Folco, who had a positive talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. "Surely not, Pippin," Gimli said stoutly.

Pippin looked across the courtyard, to where Elladan and Elrohir had just joined their grandparents. The four of them looked rather solemn for the occasion. "I was talking to Elladan and Elrohir…"

"I was just so pleased with the wedding and all! I was going on and on about how happy Strider and Lady Arwen looked, and how they must be so glad that their sister and Strider were finally able to get married after all these years, and talking about what pretty babies they were likely to have, and they just smiled a little, and didn't say anything and then I realized that their eyes looked rather sad, and I realized…" He stopped, and drew a deep breath. "How could I have been so thoughtless? I forgot what this means to them--that their sister will die someday, and they'll never see her again!"

Gimli felt a lump in his own throat. In the joy of the day, he too had forgotten the more tragic elements of this marriage. His eyes flew to the Lady Galadriel. What pain it must bring her, to know she would be so sundered from her granddaughter.

"So you see," Pippin continued, "I think I had just better not say anything else to anyone. Because, really, I don't know what I *should* say!"

Gimli looked at his young friend, who looked so distressed at the thought of having made anyone unhappy, and nodded. "My people have a saying, Pippin: 'Speech is silver, but silence is golden. And knowing when to speak and when to be silent is mithril."

Pippin gave an audible swallow. "And I wonder if that is something I will *ever* learn!"

Legolas, who still knelt before Pippin, reached over and put a slender hand upon his shoulder. "Pippin, you said nothing that you would not have said at the wedding of any dear friend! You took note of their happiness, and were glad for them. Nothing you said was wrong, and you must realize this: Elladan and Elrohir have long prepared for this day. They have known for many years that it would be a bittersweet moment for them. But they love their sister and their foster-brother dearly, and truly are glad for them. And they do not begrudge your good wishes; certainly, it might be that their smiles are touched with sadness, but that is something to which Elves are accustomed."

Pippin's face brightened, like the Sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Do you really think so?" he asked.

Gimli smiled, glad to see his small friend cheered once more. "And I think he is quite right, Master Took!"

Just then Merry came up. "Pippin! Menelcar wondered if you would sing with him? I told him no one can sing 'On the Banks of the Brandywine' so well as you!"

Pippin laughed and allowed his cousin to draw him off, but not before he said "Thank you," to Legolas and Gimli.

Legolas watched them scurry off. "He has such a large and tender heart," he said.

Frodo huddled in on himself in agony--Fool! Fool! He called himself over and over. Why had he put on the Ring?

He lay in a haze, a fog of waking nightmare. His shoulder throbbing to the rapid beat of his heart. The voices of the others seemed like distant echoes, far away--too far away to reach him. But the pale king who had struck him seemed to have somehow remained--he could not see him, but he sensed his presence--he was here yet, he must be--"Where is the pale king?" he shouted wildly. His own voice seemed distant--as though he shouted into a void.

That had sounded like Pippin, but his voice, so desolate and forlorn--he’d never heard Pippin sound so sad and frightened. Why would Pippin be sad? Who was dying? Was it someone he knew?

Hands, warm hands on him. Merry’s hands, chafing his left arm, trying to lend some of his own warmth to it--it felt so cold. Sam’s hands, sturdy and strong, pulling him up, tucking blankets around him. Pippin’s hand, clasping his own right hand for dear life, though Frodo still clutched the Ring tightly.

“Frodo, my dear, you should put that thing away. Here,” Pippin guided Frodo's fist to his pocket, and stroked it gently until he let It go there. Now Pippin drew Frodo's hand back out of the pocket, and held it once more, entwining his fingers with Frodo's.

“I know, Sam. I hope those things don’t come back; I hope he doesn’t meet them again, alone in the dark. We'd be of no use against them.”

“Seems a bit odd, to me, him just waving a bit of fire at 'em and chasing ‘em off.

Their voices were so very far away, but their hands were warm. Suddenly, Frodo felt a spasm of pain shudder through him.

Frodo felt something small and warm and wet touch his cheek: a tear. Merry was weeping, but he could not summon the strength to lift a hand in comfort--if indeed there were any comfort left in him. Cold, so very cold.

The voices of his friends were murmuring again, this time so far away and distant that he could not understand what they were saying. But they had moved in close to him--he could feel the warmth of their bodies, as they placed him between them. The rest of him began to feel a bit less frozen, but his left arm remained icy and useless. He slipped away into a spiral of evil and half-finished dreams, the voice of the Ring pursuing him, and drowning all else out.

That roused him more than anything yet had. *Never!* he thought fiercely. *Never! Leave them alone!* He could feel It subside, yet It seemed to be laughing at him. How could he protect them, when he could not protect himself?

*No! No, never!* he repeated fiercely in his mind, over and over. He knew then. He could not succumb, he could not give in, not if he wished to protect Merry, Pippin and Sam. If he gave in, even for an instant, It would be at them. With determination he set his will against It, and the evil voice subsided once more--not ceasing, but closed away within a wall of his making. He knew he had only muffled It, not subdued It. And for how long?

Frodo had no sense of time, yet at some point, he became aware that Strider had returned. They had all jumped up, and Sam had drawn his sword. Frodo could see again, though dimly, and the voices were not so distant--they sounded almost normal.

"I am not a Black Rider, Sam, nor in league with them…" The Ranger went on to explain what he had been doing, and then stooped down to examine Frodo's wound.

Though he probed as gently as he might, Frodo could not suppress a gasp of agony as his wound was prodded.

Frodo was not certain his voice would work, but he took a difficult breath, and tried to explain what had happened. "I do not know why I put the Ring on--I could not seem to help it somehow. I am sorry…" His whisper faded away; it was too much effort to breathe and to speak at the same time.

Strider shook his head and sighed. "There are those wiser and more wary than you, Frodo Baggins, who have been caught in the Ringwraiths' snares. They are terrible." He turned away. "Merry! Pippin!"

"I need some hot water, as much as you can get for me. Do not boil it--heat it just until it begins to steam!"

Frodo's cousins darted away, to find all the small pots and kettles among their supplies "Strider, is there a nearby stream where we can replenish the water?" Merry called.

The Ranger shook his head. "Not easily--I do not want you to go far from this place yet. Use what we have with us. Once we have left here, there is a stream about a mile away. We will get more water then."

Strider put a large warm hand on Frodo's brow, and sang softly for a few moments. Frodo felt somewhat better as the Man did so, though he still felt the icy cold of his arm and shoulder.

Sam had been solicitously kneeling by Frodo's side. He got up and walked reluctantly away. But they did not go far. Frodo saw the Man whispering to Sam, and he heard Sam's gasp. After a moment, Strider turned and hurried off. Sam drew his small sword and came to sit once more at Frodo's side.

Frodo once more fell into dreaming. He was aware of his friends' ministrations--he could feel them next to him, trying to keep him warm, bathing his wound in warm water--each time, it would feel good, and bring just an instant of relief from the pain and cold. But each time the respite was briefer.

They took it in turns to hold him between them, while one or the other would draw out his sword and watch.

Once he was aware that Merry was talking to him, as he lay with his head in Merry's lap, reminding him of something they had done together as children, but he could not hold on to the sense of the words long enough to be able to respond. He clung instead to the love in Merry's tone, knowing how painful it must be for his cousin to see him laid so low, Merry who had always been his fiercest defender.

And at one point, he could hear Pippin's sweet voice, singing softly, he knew not what song, as his younger cousin smoothed the curls from his brow. Pippin's voice briefly brought him a memory of sunshine and summer days, before it slid away once more in the cold distance.

And Sam, when he was not guarding, was simply holding Frodo's good hand in his own warm and sturdy one. Frodo could feel the calluses and Sam's strong blunt fingers gripping him tightly. He could remember that sturdy brown hand when it was smaller, though he thought it perhaps had always been calloused. It lent him strength to fight the darkness.

At some point, he must have slept, for he came to himself with the feeling of time passed. He could not tell yet if it was morning: the light, for all he could tell, was grey and dim. He could hear Strider speaking to the others.

Frodo heard the others hissing in alarm, and then he heard Pippin give a whimper of fear.

"Alas, it was this accursed knife that gave the wound. Few now have the skill in healing to match such evil weapons. But I will do what I can.":

He saw Strider come and sit upon the ground by him, and heard him sing softly in Sindarin, though he could not catch the words. Then he bent over Frodo's face and spoke even more softly. It was not Sindarin, but Quenyan, and Frodo was not fluent enough in that language to catch the meaning. Yet a sense of peace and warmth began to well up in him, combating the horrible iciness within.

Strider took out some leaves, and explained where he had come by them, and their virtue of healing. Athelas. Even the name of it was soothing, and the scent of it brought memories of summer days in the Shire, new cut grass and roses and lilacs in bloom in Bag End's gardens, and then a further, fainter unfamiliar scent with a tang of salt and a crisp breeze…

As Strider laved the wound, Frodo felt the pain and also the sense of frozen cold lessen in his side; but the life did not return to his arm, and he could not raise or use his hand. What at fool he felt, as he realized that he had given in to the command of the Enemy in putting on the Ring. He had endangered them all. How in the world could they continue now when he could not even summon enough strength to stand?

"I think now that the enemy has been watching the place for some days. If Gandalf ever came here, then he must have been forced to ride away, and he will not return. In any case we are in great peril here after dark, since the attack of last night, and we can hardly met greater danger wherever we go."

"I think you are right, Strider. But Frodo can't stand, much less walk. Do you think he would be able to ride Bill if one of us guided the pony?"

"I think that would be the best thing, Merry; though I hope the pony is up to the exertion."

"Of course he can, Mr. Merry! He's a good fellow, and he's feeling better since we left Bree."

"Well, he'll manage better if we take some more of his load. I can carry a good deal more if I have to!"

"We all can. Pippin, you keep Frodo warm. Sam, if you'd mind getting a bit of breakfast together for us, Strider and I will see to dividing up the supplies."

All Frodo could manage to get down was some tea. Pippin supported him around the shoulders, holding him up with one arm and holding the cup with his other hand, while Frodo sipped. His younger cousin tried to feed him a bit of journeybread dipped in the tea to soften it, but it was just too exhausting to even try and chew.

"It's all right, Frodo. You've done as much or more for me when I was little. Do you remember…"

Pippin's voice faded away, and Frodo heard the Ring. *You won't last long. Soon you'll be in my Master's realm, and these others will be mine.*

"NO!" He had not meant to speak aloud, but the Ring backed away, and Frodo slammed the walls down once more.

Pippin jerked, taken aback. "I'm sorry, Frodo dear, you don't have to try and eat anymore if you don't wish it."

Frodo felt his cousin gently lower him down again, and curl around him protectively, putting one arm over Frodo's own cold one, and rubbing it gently. Frodo dozed again briefly, but it seemed all too soon he was being awakened again.

It was Strider. "Frodo, I am sorry to disturb you, but I am going to put you on the pony now. Do you think you will be able to hold on?"

Frodo nodded, and tensed. But even though he tried to steel himself, he could not bite back a cry of anguish as Strider's long arms gently lifted him, and he felt himself deposited atop the hapless pony.

"Sam, can you lead Bill? I need to keep my hands unencumbered in case we encounter foes."

They moved forward with a painful lurch. Frodo fought down his nausea, gritted his teeth against the pain, and concentrated on the feel of his cousins' hands. Merry had one hand over his own, helping him to hold onto Bill's mane. On his other side, Pippin walked along with one hand on Frodo's knee, helping to steady him.

He could feel the Ring pushing against the wall he had made, and he pushed back. He would not let It win; he would not let It defile those who loved him, who even now were lending him all their own strength and comfort.

Pippin blinked back both the tears and the anger, as they helped more of the hobbits from the Lockholes. The sight of poor Fatty had nearly broken his heart, though his friend had jested with him. He was dreadfully shaken--Fatty had looked very nearly as starved as Frodo and Sam had, when they had first come out of Mordor!

He thought back to the storming of Isengard. "I wish," he muttered firmly under his breath, "that Quickbeam had been a bit quicker." The imagined thought of his Ent friend stomping on Saruman gave him a bit of grim satisfaction. "It would have saved a deal of trouble."

He pried open another door, and the three hobbits there blinked owlishly at the light.

They shambled out, looking wan and dispirited. As the last one came forth, Pippin was startled by a pair of hazel eyes, and a glimpse of red curls beneath a battered and shapeless felt hat.

She stared at him for an instant, in shock. "Pippin? You're not dead?" then her knees buckled, and Pippin scooped her up, the hat falling unnoticed to the ground.

Pippin looked at Tom, amazement still plain on his face. "It's your cousin, Rusty."

Tom gaped in disbelief. "Oh lass! And here we thought you safe all these weeks!"

She managed a faint smile for her cousin as he took her gently from Pippin. "Hullo, Tom," she whispered. "I'm so tired." She closed her eyes and gave a weary sigh.

He shook his head, and smoothed the cropped curls away from her brow. Her face was thin, and her usually freckle-dappled face was pale.

Sam looked at Tom. "We need to find a place for her. Are there any other lasses?"

Pippin nodded, but added "Most of them were in with poor old Lobelia. Rusty was in with the lads." He put a hand briefly to her head, where it lay cradled against Tom's should. "She was got up like a lad." He turned to where he saw Frodo in conference, along with Merry, with the sadly depleted Mayor Whitfoot. "Merry!" he called.

"It's Rusty. Where should we take her? She's going to need to be cleaned up and fed and possibly have a healer look her over."

"Mrs. Whitfoot and some of the other matrons have taken charge of the other lasses, Pip. They're taking all of the freed prisoners over to Brownlock's Emporium. The ruffians had it closed down, but there is plenty of room there, and Carlo Brownlock had some blankets and other supplies hidden away there. As soon as it's seen how many there are, and who needs healers, they will find families for them to stay with."

Tom nodded, and followed closely by Sam, they carried Rusty away. Pippin watched with an expression of sorrowful dismay, till he heard someone else calling out "Captain Pippin." Turning, he went to see what was needed. He was beginning to develop an understanding of what it must have meant for Aragorn and Boromir and Faramir having to be captains of Men. There was always someone who needed to be told what to do.

A few hours later, Pippin went in search of Sam, whom he found looking sad and lost, on the steps in front of the Emporium. Sam looked up at him, and asked "Where's Mr. Merry?" at the same time that Pippin asked "Where's Frodo?"

They caught one another's eye, and smiled faintly. Then Pippin said "I think we'll find them together. You've heard Merry's idea?"

Sam nodded. "He put Mayor Whitfoot up to asking Frodo to stand in for him until he's feeling more himself. I don't think Mr. Frodo was none too happy about it. He planned to give Mr. Merry an earful, I think."

Pippin shook his head with a rueful chuckle. "Merry will count 'an earful' a small price to pay. I have to say, I was in full agreement with him. Frodo needs something to keep his mind off all that awfulness at Bag End."

"Well, you're right there, Mr. Pippin. Mr. Frodo will be a lot better off if he don't have time to dwell overmuch on things as no one can do aught about."

Pippin sat down next to him. "It's been a bad piece of work, all the way 'round, Sam. I never thought we'd come home to any of this."

"I don't suppose none of us did, 'cepting maybe Gandalf. He seemed a bit, well, *knowing* when he left us."

Pippin shrugged. He'd wondered about that himself. But Gandalf had always been close about things--and on this, he had been right. They had grown enough to handle it on their own, without the interference of wizards or Rangers or other Big Folk, and it was a good thing, too. But he didn't say so. Instead, he said, "Well, that wasn't why I came looking for you. I wanted to ask about Rusty--how is she? And how did she come to be in the Lockholes? The last I'd heard, not long before we left the Shire, was that she was an apprenticed weaver to your Great-Aunt Jasper, all the way out in Gamwich."

"That's the truth, Mr. Pippin. But from what Tom said, when word come of what was going on, she got to worrying about her folks, and she came back to Bywater. Tom said she pestered him and Jolly something fierce to be helping out in Captain Freddy's band of lads. They was afraid she was going to do something rash against the Ruffians on her own, so them and Mr. Freddy come up with a job for her--she was helping to relocate the families of hobbits who were being forced to work for old Pimple, smuggling 'em into the Tooklands where they'd be safe." Sam sighed. "After the last time, they thought as she'd stayed there. No one knew she'd been caught."

Sam shook his head. "She's weak and starved of course, like all of 'em were, and Tom and Jolly haven't had the heart to question her yet." His brows drew down in anger. "Orc-work, right here in the Shire!" he muttered.

Pippin patted Sam's arm, and he favoured Pippin with a small and rueful smile. "Anyways, she was taken in by family. My cousin Bramble and her husband took her in. They're living on the farm what used to belong to Aunt May and Uncle Rufus. Cousin BriarRose is staying there as well--she had to close her shop--it was too dangerous for her here in town, a spinster on her own."

"Do you think it would be all right for me to go and see her? We were pretty good chums at one time." He spared a slight smile at the remembrance of the mischief the two of them had found on their occasional meetings.

Sam nodded. "I'll come with you, Mr. Pippin. I need to check up on my cousins Bramble and BriarRose anyhow. And my Rosie's going to want to know all about how Rusty's doing."

It was beginning to get dark when Pippin and Sam rode up to the farm--it was a small, old-fashioned house, and not a smial. It looked somewhat rundown, as had many of the farms in the Shire, neglected during the Troubles. But as they rode up, Tom came out to welcome them.

They were made welcome by Bramble and her husband, Braden Gravelly, and by Bramble's sister, BriarRose Goodchild, who were Sam's cousins.

Braden was effusive in his thanks to them, for the running off of the Ruffians, and Bramble and BriarRose were full of questions for Sam about their time away from the Shire. Pippin left Sam speaking with his relatives, and went in to see Rusty.

She lay in the bed, looking wan and pale, her hazel eyes seeming huge in her thin face. Her young cousin Sweetbriar sat near her, coaxing her with a mug of broth. The lass gave a start as Pippin entered, and then, with an awkward curtsy and a giggle, made a hasty retreat, leaving the broth on the bedside table.

"Hullo, Rusty," Pippin said as cheerfully as he could manage. "It's been a while."

"Hello, Mr. Pippin, or Captain Peregrin, as I guess I should say, for I've heard of how you came to our rescue, you and your cousins and Sam."

"Ah, Rusty, you always called me Pippin before. Please, you are an old friend, let's have none of these titles between us, or I shall have to start calling you Miss Ruby Cotton." He sat down on the chair which her younger cousin had vacated.

There was a ghost of a smile that made itself briefly known, and she said "No call for that, then, Pippin."

He nodded, and took up the cup of broth her cousin had left behind, and held it to her lips. She gave him a startled look, and then took a sip, before leaning back against her pillows. "I should be more hungry. I don't seem to be able to take much in."

Pippin nodded. "Going without for a long time can do that." He hesitated, and then went on. "When poor Frodo and Sam finished their errand, they were thin as rails. Frodo's not completely recovered his appetite yet."

Pippin shrugged. "Why we had to leave the Shire. It's a long and complicated story--I think perhaps you may ask Sam--or if he is reluctant to answer, I believe your cousin Rose will have the story out of him."

She took a deep breath. "I suppose Tom and Jolly told you I made them let me help out Captain Freddy?"

"One of the things Captain Freddy tried to do was help the hobbits that were being forced to work for Lotho because of threats to their families. Whenever he would get the opportunity, he would try to get them away, and to smuggle them into the Tooklands, where the Ruffians could not get at them. He asked me to help with that--I would escort them into the Tooklands, to Whitwell, where your cousin Isembold Took would take them in, and then see to them finding a place to stay." She paused and looked at Pippin. "Isembold is really a very brave hobbit. He risked a lot."

"It's what we call him. I'm told it was because as a faunt he liked to eat buttons, but that's just hearsay. I was only a faunt myself at the time, so I wouldn't remember. But it's most certainly what everyone in the family calls him!"

She giggled, and then looked startled. "I think that's the first time I've laughed since--well, since I was taken." Her voice faltered.

"How'd that come to happen, Rusty? You're such a clever lass--I can't imagine you getting caught."

She sighed. "Heron Diggle, of Pincup, was a hobbit who'd been forced to work for Lotho, driving waggons full of pipe-weed away to Sarn Ford. They'd threatened his family. If his family could be taken to safety, then Heron wanted to join up with the rebellion. So Noddy Brownlock and I were sent to get them away: Heron's wife, Daffodil, his mother, Mistress Coraline, and the two children, a lad, Kit and a lass, Carrie. It was decided that it would be safer to split up: Noddy took the wife and the mother, who would have to travel by cart--the mother was an invalid. I was to take the children on foot. We would take the longer and safer way."

She paused for a few moments. "The ruffians had tightened their siege of the Tooklands. Do you remember the wooded copse about five miles east of the farm, that ran down to Stoney Brook?"

"We were making for it--it would be our last stop before trying to get to Whitwell the following night--we were travelling at night of course…"

"Of course, the better to avoid prying eyes." Pippin bit his lip, remembering how difficult the journey had been from Rivendell to Caradhras, travelling all night long. How much harder it would have been for a lass and two small children?

"We were creeping silently along, when we heard them, laughing and making a racket. They had a camp right in the way we needed to go. And there I was with the children." She shuddered, and crossed her arms and began to rub her upper arms as though she were chilled. "It was dark enough. If I'd been alone, I'd have risked trying to get by them--Big Folk are so noisy--but I couldn't take the chance with the children.

I decided to wait a while, to see if they'd fall asleep. And most of them did, but they'd set a watch. The night went on, and I knew once daybreak came, they'd see us right away. There was a bramble-bush nearby--it was plenty of cover for the children, but it wasn't big enough for me. I made Kit and Carrie go in to hide. 'Pretend you are hiding from a fox or an owl', I told them. And they were good as gold, frightened and cold and hungry as they were, they did as I said without a whimper."

She closed her eyes and her voice dropped to a whisper. "When the light began to break, I took off running. I knew they'd follow me away from the little ones, and they did. They caught me. Thought I was a lad, thought I was a Took, too, because of my red hair. Cuffed me about a bit."

Pippin's eyes grew stormy at the thought of brave Rusty, being mishandled so. He did not much imagine her captors had been any gentler with her than the Uruk-hai had been with him and Merry.

"I was knocked out. Came to on my way to the Lockholes. I told 'em my name was Isembold Took, and that I'd been sent by the Thain to see what I could find out about their movements. They thought I might know something, and chucked me in with a couple of other lads. They told me that they were saving me to be questioned by someone named Sharkey, but it never happened."

She stopped a moment, and then looked at Pippin, her eyes swimming with tears. "It's just--Pippin I don't know what happened to the children! I had to keep the Ruffians away from them, but they were left there, all alone--" suddenly, she burst into tears.

Pippin moved over to sit on the bed, and held her as she wept. "There, now, Rusty. You protected them as best you could. Take heart that you kept them from being caught--I'm sure that once they had you, the children would have been safe." He stroked her hair, and remembered how helpless he'd felt, being carried away from Frodo, whom he had promised to stick with, and from Sam, and Merry being carried along--not knowing if Merry was only unconscious, or maybe even dead. He knew just how she felt.

She wept against his shoulder until she began to hiccup. Pippin drew away, for an instant, and sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have any pocket-handkerchiefs with me, Rusty," he said. "Uncle Bilbo gave me a splendid one for Yule, but I seem to have lost it in my travels."

Rusty giggled, and gave a mighty sniff, and ran her hand under her nose like a little child. Pippin grinned at her, and then both of them chuckled.

"Us Tooks, eh?" Pippin asked drolly, with a lift of his brow. "And you've known, oh so many Tooks!"

She blushed. "Well, not so very many--but the ones I know are very funny," and the twinkle in her eye when she said it reminded him of the lass who had sneaked them into the animal trainer's tent at the Michel Delving Fair.

Just then, the door opened, and her cousin Bramble came in. Pippin rose, took Rusty's hand just briefly in both his own, and then took his farewell.

A couple of days later, Isembold Took was coming from his barn wondering when he would again have any animals to put in it--it had served so long to house refugees from elsewhere in the Shire--when he heard the sound of a pony rapidly approaching.

"Cousin Hildifons!" he exclaimed. "What's going on? Have the Ruffians returned?"

"No, not at all. But the Quick Post has been reinstated, and you've a letter here."

I thought you might like to know: Rusty Cotton was found in the Lockholes. She's staying for the next few weeks at the Gravelly farm in Michel Delving. She's recovering well from her ordeal, but one thing looms large on her mind--she is worried about the two children she was forced to hide and leave behind. I know it would relieve her greatly if you had anything of their fate to tell her.

He smiled. Resourceful young Kit had brought his sister safely to the wooded copse, guarded by Took archers. One of them had escorted the children quickly to the farm, where Noddy and their mother and grandmother had already arrived.

"Looks like I'm going to Michel Delving," he grinned. And maybe, he thought, Miss Rusty Cotton would consent to become Mrs. Isembold Took.

Dana also requested a time-stamp meme; she wanted to know what happened around the time of Rusty's wedding. Four double drabbles.

Sam raised Rosie lightly in the air, and swung her around to the left, handing her off to the next hobbit, before turning to his right, where the bride grinned as she took his hand. By the time they finished dancing "Toss the Milkmaid", he'd've partnered every lass in the circle. He noticed she was still pale from her stay in the Lockholes, but he wagered that by summer, her freckles would return.

"So, Cousin Sam, when will you and Rosie make it official?" she asked, her hazel eyes gleaming with joy.

"Rusty!" he exclaimed, even as he blushed. "Here, now, let's dance--" and they followed the music eight steps to the left.

"Not everyone is in so much of a hurry as you and Isembold Took! You're nowhere near of age, Ruby Cotton!" he said sternly.

"Ruby Took now, if it please you--or even if it does not, Sam Gamgee!" She stuck her tongue out at him as she had often done as a lass. And then she gasped as he tossed her high before passing her off to the left, and turned to see his sister Marigold on his right.
___________________________________

Merry put his mug of ale down on the ground by the hay bale where he'd been sitting, as the musicians began the strains of "Exchanges". Wil Cotton's barn made a fine site for a winter wedding, and it was wonderful to be celebrating now, after all the work of scouring the Shire clear of Ruffians.

The bride and groom were at the head of the line now, though after four measures they'd be further down. Now that they were wed, they were both fair game for poaching. It was considered a bit of a triumph to be the first to poach the bride. It looked like her cousin Jolly wanted that honor, but Merry thought he could be quicker.

He studied Rusty, as she gazed adoringly at her groom. She wore a frock of deep green wool, and Merry remembered the hoyden who could scarcely be kept out of lad's clothing. How good it was to see her smiling again!

The music signalled the first notes of the fourth measure, and Merry moved in smoothly, edging Jolly out with a smirk. Isembold glared at him, but Merry took Rusty's arm with a smile. "May I congratulate you, Mrs. Took?"
______________________________

Frodo approached the bride as the first notes of the "Cherry-Blossom Pavane" began. The groom had been claimed by his cousin Pervinca.

Rusty blushed to the tips of her ears, which were still very visible. Her hair had been cropped short so she could pass as a lad during the Troubles, and it had yet to grow out. Frodo thought it very odd, as he recalled the little lass with the unruly copper plaits, to see her with it so short. For that matter, it was odd to see her in a frock: one of his first memories of her was of her railing against having to wear one.

"Thank you, Mr. Baggins," she said, placing her right hand over his left, as they moved into the line of the dance.

She bit her lip before she answered, eyes twinkling. "Did you know, I used to have a dreadful crush on you? I used to dream of dancing with you."

"Did you really?" Frodo found himself smiling, strangely warmed by her confession.
___________________________________

Pippin put his fiddle aside to join in the dancing. He had not yet had a chance to dance with the bride.

The couple stood among several well-wishers when Pippin approached.
"Hullo, Buttons, d'you mind if I steal your bride away for a dance?" He glanced at Rusty. "It's a Three-Step next, I do believe."

"How can I deny the famous Captain Peregrin?" Isembold chuckled. "If, of course, the bride *wants* to dance with him!"

Rusty rolled her eyes. The music began; she reached up, putting her left hand on Pippin's shoulder, while he took her right in his own, and they spun away, twirling to the three-quarter-beat of the music.

"Did you ever think," grinned Pippin "back when we were tormenting Lotho, that we'd actually be cousins one day?"

"No, never! It *was* fun, wasn't it? Remember Mistress Lobelia's face that day?"

She gave a bark of laughter, then sobered. She looked up with troubled eyes. "Do you suppose, if folks had been nicer to them…"

This story was written for Pipkin Sweetgrass, who recently had surgery, and needed a bit of cheering up. My thanks to Mums the Word for the lovely title!

Rating:G
Summary: It's the day before the Fellowship leaves, and Pippin needs a bit of cheering up...

Pippin tossed another small pebble into the still pool before him, and watched as the ripples reached his toes. He sighed deeply, and then tossed another, and listened to the sound of the "plunk" it made, as it sank, spiralling, to the bottom. The water was so clear, he could easily see where it stopped, a tiny, slow explosion of sand marking its resting place. The sand slowly settled, and it seemed as though nothing had disturbed the placid surface of the pool--that's Rivendell for you, Pippin thought.

Pippin hunched up his shoulders, and did not look up. "Hullo, Boromir," he said in a listless tone. He felt the Man sit down on the bank of the pool next to him, but he still did not look at his new companion.

Pippin shrugged. "I wanted to be by myself for a little while, that's all," he muttered.

He shook his head. "No, you can stay." He picked up another tiny pebble from the ground by his side, and tossed it in.

"I was getting rather tired of the conversation. Merry and Sam just yammering on and on about supplies and maps and gear and so on, and poor old Frodo just sitting there between them looking more and more miserable--and then Merry wanting to know had I packed yet. I just didn't want to hear anymore about it right then."

"I mean, I do know that all the preparations are important. But most of them are *done* with now! And Merry and Sam know that--they're just talking to hear themselves talk. And I've never properly *un*packed yet--why does Merry think I'm not packed?"

"Merry and Sam are the sorts of persons who like to be sure of things, Pippin, that is all."

"Oh, I know that. Merry's always been a fussbudget, and Sam's the same, really, though most of the time you wouldn't think it of him--but he worries every bit as much as Merry does, especially on Frodo's account." Pippin tossed another pebble. "And Frodo--I hate to see him looking so dreadfully miserable, and not know what to say that will cheer him up. I usually do know how to do that--but I couldn't think of a thing…"

Boromir picked up a pebble and tossed it in himself. "And why is that, do you suppose?"

"It's just--well, we leave tomorrow, don't we? It's on us now." Pippin drew his feet up, and wrapped his arms around his knees, looking miserable.

"I'm frightened. But I don't dare talk to Merry or Frodo about it. I defied Lord Elrond, but if the two of them decided to not let me go after all, I'm not sure I could get round them. If they knew how scared I was, they'd pack me back home before I could blink." He took a deep breath and threw his head back, and blinked away the sting of threatening tears. "I know you've worked hard with me and Merry and our swords, but I'm still not very good yet--why the only time I've ever beaten Merry was that time he held his breath and passed out, silly ass. What if I can't pull my weight? What if I let everyone down, just when it's most important? What if--what if I'm a coward?"

"Peregrin Took," Boromir said softly, "you--and the other hobbits--are the bravest beings I have ever met."

Pippin felt his jaw drop in shock. "We--we *can't* be, Boromir! Why, you are a great warrior! You've been in battles! I'm sure you've met many braver than us hobbits! Especially me--I'm scared spitless, I really am!"

"But, you see, Pippin, that is exactly why I tell you that." He reached one long arm out, and squeezed Pippin's shoulders affectionately. "I have been in battles. I know many warriors, and know what they feel before going into battles. And yet, to a Man, they've had years of training in what to expect, even before their first real battle." He looked up, and seemed to see some vision or memory in his mind's eye briefly, and then he looked back down and caught Pippin's eye.

"But you hobbits--you have always lived peaceful lives. You have never expected to have to fight danger. Yet here you are, my young friend, and the thing which frightens you most is *not* your own peril, but that of the ones you love. You have only what little preparation I have been able to give, and your experiences before you arrived here. Aragorn has told me that you, Sam and Merry helped wield the flaming brands at the Ringwraiths--do you know, I have known many warriors of long years' standing who could not have done such a thing against such as those!"

Pippin's eyes grew wide as he took in what the Man had said. "I don't like being scared, Boromir."

"No one does, Pippin. Yet it would be a fool indeed who was *not* frightened, under such circumstances. Anyone intelligent enough to realize what we are doing would be frightened."

"And yet you resist any thought of going home--you will not be parted from Frodo, even though you have had--and still until we actually leave--do have--the chance to go home."

Boromir gave his shoulders another squeeze. "I do not doubt you for a moment, Pippin. Your friends are very fortunate in your love."

Pippin looked up at him. "Thank you, Boromir," he finally said, after a moment of silently studying his friend's grey eyes. He gave the Man a lopsided smile.

"You are welcome. Shall we return? Though luncheon may be over, I would not be surprised if the others had saved you one of those cherry tarts."

Rating: G
Summary: The weather is wet, the children are cranky, Esmeralda tells a story...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Merry is 6, Pearl is 13, Pimpernel is 9 and Pervinca is 3. (Or 4, 8, 6 and not quite 2 in Man-years).

Merry stared out the window at the rain, steadily and drearily dripping down the panes, and heaved a great sigh. "I wish Frodo would come. He was supposed to come today."

The Brandybucks were visiting the Tooks at the farm in Whitwell. Bilbo was supposed to bring Frodo there to join them, ending Frodo's annual springtime visit to Bag End.

"You wouldn't want him to get sick, Merry," his mother said. She and Eglantine were sitting in the armchairs by the hearth. She was working on some mending--Merry was rather hard on his clothing--and Eglantine was busy knitting. Pearl, the oldest of the children, sat on an ottoman by her mother, embroidering a handkerchief. Pimpernel was trying to dress her favourite doll, somewhat hampered by the fact that little Pervinca had the doll's frock, and was refusing to give it up.

Pervinca stuck out her lower lip, and put the little garment behind her back. "Don't want to," she said, her brows drawing together.

Warned by the note in her mother's voice, Pervinca reluctantly brought forth the coveted item, and thrust it at her sister. "Don't want it anyway!" she said crossly.

Eglantine sighed. Having the children cooped up inside was often trying, especially since they had been looking forward to Bilbo's and Frodo's visit. She put her knitting aside. "Come here, Pervinca," she said in a firm, though kind voice. She took her youngest daughter into her lap. Pervinca put two fingers in her mouth, and glared at her older sister.

Esmeralda looked with sympathy at her sister-in-law. She had only Merry and Frodo, and Frodo was so much older than Merry that they never quarrelled. It made a difference also, she thought, that Frodo was Merry's cousin instead of brother--but right now she missed Frodo a lot. He'd have kept the little ones occupied, rain or no rain. Suddenly, she smiled. Thinking of Frodo gave her an idea. She knew just how he would have entertained this lot.

Merry smiled. He did like Tip and Tulip stories. Pimpernel brought her doll and sat down by her aunt's knee, and Merry claimed his mother's lap. Pearl continued her stitching. At thirteen, she thought herself too old for Tip and Tulip tales. Nevertheless, she was listening.

Esmeralda shifted Merry into a more comfortable position, and then commenced in the traditional words with which all "Tip and Tulip" stories began.

Once there were two little hobbits named Tip and Tulip. They were brother and sister, and they lived in a cosy little smial with their mama and their papa and their auntie.

They woke up one fine morning in early summer to the smells of first breakfast cooking--newly-baked sweet buns which smelled of cinnamon, and porridge and other good things. Quickly they dressed, and rushed to the kitchen.

And indeed, Tip's tummy was growling as fiercely as a wild animal. His mother laughed, and said, "Well, by all means we shall feed you! Do wash your hands and sit at the table!"

And soon their auntie set before them bowls of porridge with golden butter and honey, and a plate of wonderful sweet buns, and mugs of frothy white milk, cold from the cellar. The two children ate quickly, and when they had finished their third helpings, Tip pushed his empty bowl back and sighed, and said "That was delicious, Mama. What shall we do today?"

Their mama smiled at them, and said, "Well, first, little hobbits must tend to their tasks! And then, after second breakfast, perhaps you would like to go berrying! I do believe that the blackberries below the meadow are ripe!"

So after first breakfast, Tulip helped Mama wash and dry the dishes, and make the beds and dust the baseboards, while Tip helped Auntie to sweep the doorsteps and feed the chickens and fetch the dry clothes from the clothesline, and soon enough it was time for second breakfast. They had worked up quite an appetite for bacon and eggs and toast and juice, and Papa joined them this time.

Once they had filled up their corners, they headed out together to pick berries. They carried two empty baskets, as well as a small bottle of mint tea and a couple of sandwiches tied up in a napkin for their elevenses.

"Now, be careful, children! Don't go any further than the hedgerow below the meadow, and be home by luncheon!"

Tip and Tulip played in the meadow on their way to the hedgerow, chasing after butterflies and one another, until they were laughing and breathless. When they finally plopped down upon the ground by the bramblebushes that made up the hedgerow, they decided to eat their sandwiches and drink their tea. They finished off their elevenses by eating some of the berries straight from the bushes.

Then they set to picking the berries, and they sang a song--I daresay you know it too:

"Sing a song of summertime,
Sing a song of sunshine.
The berries are juicy, ripe and sweet--
Lovely berries can't be beat!
Oh, there is no finer treat
Than I know of for to eat
Berries juicy, ripe and sweet!
Berrying, a-berrying!
We love to go a-berrying
In the summer-summertime,
In the sunny sunshine!"

They were filing their baskets, and even, like good little hobbits, putting more berries into the baskets than themselves, when suddenly a shadow passed over them.

It passed over quickly, but they looked up. There above them a bird--a very *large* bird was sailing!

"It's a hawk!" exclaimed Tip fearfully. He looked at his sister, and she looked at him.

Now, Tip and Tulip knew what to do as well as you do, my dears, I am sure, though they did not like it a bit. As quickly as any bunny could have, they scrambled into the brambles, and crouched down as small as they could make themselves.

"Oh Tip," whispered Tulip, with tears in her eyes, "I'm frightened. But these brambles are so very prickly!"

"So they are," said Tip, and he sniffled a bit, too, though he put his arm around his sister and held her closely. They peered up at the bird, patiently circling. "Oh, please," whispered Tip, "go away, Mr. Hawk!"

But he did not, not for ever so long. Poor Tip and Tulip huddled there, feeling very hot and uncomfortable and scratchy-itchy. But they dared not leave their hiding place.

What they did not know was that their Papa, who had been busy in the vegetable patch, had looked up and seen the hawk high above, as well.
Quickly, he threw down his hoe and raced across the meadow, thinking of his dear children and their danger.

The hawk, realizing that his little prey was lost, flew away, and Tip and Tulip were ever so glad to see their Papa, who helped them to get out of the briars and thorns.

"I'm so proud of you, children," he said, hugging them tightly. "You did just the very right thing."

And so they all went home--and they did not forget the full berry-baskets, for after all their trouble, it would have been a shame to lose them!

Their Mama fussed over them, and gave them both a bath, and rubbed all their itchy scratches with cool, soothing lotion.

And Auntie made a splendid blackberry pie for tea, and they gobbled it all up, every last crumb.

"That's all right, Vinca," Merry said stoutly, "I wouldn't let any old hawk get you! I'd throw stones at it and chase it away!"

The children ran to the window to look out at the sudden sunshine. "Mum!" called Merry, "come look!"

Eglantine and Esmeralda rose and went to gaze out the window themselves at the rainbow spreading itself across the sky.

Of First Impressions and Old Friends

Faramir opened the curtain, peered within, where the hobbits lay: Frodo exhausted, shadows like bruises on his pale face; Sam, even in sleep, a worried furrow on his brow, an arm flung across his master.

He felt a stir of protectiveness and love. So small, so determined, so valiant. Their mission was hopeless…would he not be doing them a favor to hinder it?

He drew up sharply.

“ ‘Not if I found it on the highway would I take it…’ Well that I gave oath before I knew whereof I spoke.” He laughed ruefully.

And took himself away from temptation.

Frodo stirred slightly, his eyes slitted half-open, as he saw Faramir's shadowed form backing away from their sleeping alcove. He'd been sleeping until he felt the tug against his mind, as the Ring exerted Itself. He had found himself, against all odds, trusting Faramir, yet he knew what It could do, even to one with the best of intentions. He had readied himself to assert his will and make It subside, but there had been no need. The Man had backed off on his own, and Frodo even felt a twinge of mild amusement at the Ring's disappointment.

"'If hard days have made me any judge of Men's words and faces, then I may make a guess at Halflings! Though, there is something strange about you, Frodo, an elvish air, maybe." So Faramir had said of him. But he thought himself a judge of character as well--and he recalled his words, telling Faramir that he had an "air of wizards". Perhaps that was why he found himself trusting the Ranger--he reminded him very much of Gandalf.

He choked back a sob at the thought of Gandalf. The greatest of the Company had been the first to fall, but not the last. If Faramir's vision was true--and Frodo saw no reason to doubt it--then Boromir had been the next. Frodo shuddered at the thought of that noble Man as he had last seen him, his comely face contorted with rage and Ring-lust.

And it was all too likely that if Boromir was dead, the others were as well. Oh, Merry! Oh, Pippin! But no, he mustn't allow himself to think of that! Faramir had said Boromir had been placed in that boat by friends, arrayed as if for a funeral...his cousins had to be all right.

But, yes, Faramir did remind him of Gandalf. In fact, Frodo recalled, Faramir had also known Gandalf as a friend. He recalled one evening in Hollin, as they ate their meagre supper in preparation for the night's journey. Gandalf had crossly reminded them to hurry, and had stalked off to the edge of the campsite and lit his pipe, muttering and mumbling all the while.

Boromir had looked after the wizard. "He truly is irascible, isn't he?" he said with a wondering tone.

Merry and Pippin had exchanged a grin; Sam chuckled; Frodo himself had shaken his head with a wry smile.

Gimli had said "He's cranky. Always has been, so long as I've known him."

Aragorn chuckled, and Legolas nodded with a smile. "He used to upbraid my father with impunity, and had the nerve to tell Thranduil to his face that he was an 'old man' and entitled to say things as he pleased!"

Boromir shook his head. "I always thought he was gruff because he and my father did not get along. Now I see that they did not get along because he was gruff!"

Frodo had shifted slightly and spoken up. "So you knew Gandalf as well? When did you know him, then?"

The Man of Gondor had looked up, and a look of amusement crossed his face. He gave a smile and said "I was a callow stripling of fourteen at the time I first met him. But I did not know Mithrandir nearly so well as my younger brother. Faramir was nine, and completely captivated by him..."

Faramir went to his own pallet. He did not expect to sleep; too much had happened this day. Not only the attack of the Southrons, but the unexpected encounter with the halfling of the riddle and his friend. Frodo and Sam were by no means what he had imagined halflings to be; truth to tell, he had never really envisioned halflings before at all, even when the riddling dream had come to him. He had far more interest as a youngster in the tales of ancient Númenor, in the Sea Kings of old, and even in the Elves of the earlier ages. And then there was the news that Mithrandir, too, was lost.

A new and fresh grief to lay alongside his grief for Boromir, not so sharp, perhaps, nor so hard to bear. But Mithrandir had been his friend. He remembered the twinkle in those dark eyes, the shaggy eyebrows and bristling beard, the gruff, yet fond, manner of speech so unlike his father's stern and formal words. His words had been filled with amusing double meanings and sly jokes. Most of all, he had paid grave attention to a young boy who had questions...

It was not unusual in those days for Boromir and he to attend their father's audiences with those who came to seek him. They were expected to stand silently, to observe, and take note of what was said and done. Their father would often ask them later their opinions, as he sought to teach them statecraft.

From the first moment Faramir had laid eyes on Mithrandir, he had been fascinated. There was something about him, at once high and far away, yet earthy and free as well...

Frodo recalled Boromir's occasional glances at the wizard, as if he were wondering whether they could be overheard. Frodo was quite sure that Gandalf could hear every word. But if he disapproved of being the object of conversation, he did not indicate it. He simply stood with his back to them, examining the sky, and sending forth smoke rings to chase one another. At any rate, Frodo said nothing. He wanted to hear Boromir's story.

"My father was rather cool and polite, though he spoke respectfully enough. He offered him the hospitality of staying in the guesthouse where he had lodged in his visits during my grandfather's time, but he did not give him much time. He quickly dismissed Mithrandir, and made time for a delegation from Lossarnach. I am afraid that Faramir risked my father's displeasure by slipping from my side and quietly going out as well. Fortunately for Faramir, my father did not notice his truancy. As soon as I could do so without getting into trouble myself, I went in search of my little brother..."

Faramir remembered how he had silently followed the wizard. Something about the old man drew him. He watched Mithrandir pass out into the Courtyard of the White Tree, and saw him go before it, ignoring the silent Guardsmen. He had stood in silent contemplation of the dead tree, his staff in one hand, and his pointy blue hat in the other. After a moment, he'd given a slight bow, put his hat upon his head, and strode off. Faramir had trotted along behind, curiousity burning in his young breast.

Then Mithrandir had stopped, and sat himself down upon one of the marble benches that were located here and there along the walkways. Faramir had gathered up his courage, and drawn near.

He found himself suddenly the object of scrutiny from two very sharp black eyes beneath the bristling brows. "Good morning, sir" he'd said politely, appalled to hear how his voice had squeaked...

Sam proffered some more of the tea he had brewed, and Boromir and the others accepted, before the Man had continued his tale--

"I passed outside into the courtyard, and cast my eyes around in hopes of seeing my errant young brother somewhere, and I saw him in the distance approaching the wizard to speak to him. I cringed, imagining the impudent child being turned into a toad at worst--or at best having the wizard complain of Faramir's behavior to my father. Imagine my surprise at seeing Mithrandir throw his head back, and laugh heartily enough that even on the other side of the courtyard, I could hear it."

"What happened?" Pippin asked curiously. "How did he make Gandalf laugh?" Frodo saw the twinkle in Pippin's eye, and thought perhaps his youngest cousin was recalling occasions when he had managed to make Gandalf laugh.

"I asked him about that later, and he told me..."

Faramir recalled that he had gulped as the wizard looked him up and down for a moment, but he held his ground and stood at polite attention.

Finally Mithrandir had spoken. "Good morning, eh? What do you mean? Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

Frodo remembered how Boromir had blinked in surprise as all the hobbits suddenly burst into gales of helpless laughter; Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas chuckled as well, but Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin were howling and wiping their eyes. Frodo finally managed to get his breath back, and he noticed Boromir's astonishment at their reaction. He also noticed that across the campsite, Gandalf's shoulders were shaking in silent laughter as well. Frodo drew a deep breath, and suppressed the chuckles that still seemed ready to burst forth. Sam and Merry had finally managed to control themselves, but Pippin was still chortling in fits and bursts.

Boromir had given a puzzled smile. "I know that I thought it an amusing response, but I must confess, I did not think it was *that* funny!" he exclaimed.

Frodo had shaken his head, and chuckling once more, said “Apparently Gandalf does not mind repeating himself. He said the exact same thing to Uncle Bilbo at one time!”

The Man’s eyebrows rose, and then, as one, Frodo remembered, all eight of them had cast a nervous glance in Gandalf's direction.

Frodo had grinned once more, realizing that the wizard’s apparent indifference to the conversation was all for show, and he’d turned once more to Boromir. “So, how did your brother answer him?”

Faramir had been taken aback by the question. No one had ever said anything like it to him before. He thought for a moment, and then said “I think that I mean the first, sir--that is, I wish you a good morning. But the morning is a good one anyway. The weather is very pleasant and the sky is very blue.”

Mithrandir had burst out with a loud bark of hearty laughter, and then said “You are not only a polite boy, but a very wise one for your age. I have known some adults who would not know how to answer my insolence!”

“How can you be insolent, sir? You are an adult, and I am a child.”

He nodded. “A very astute observation, my lad. You are the Steward’s younger son, are you not? Faramir?”

“Yes, my Lord Mithrandir.”

“I am no lord, boy, just a weary old man. Come, sit and speak with me a while,” and he patted the bench next to him. As Faramir did so, overjoyed with the response, the wizard pulled out a strange-looking item--a sort of small bowl with a curved stem. “Have you ever seen one of these before, Faramir?”

Faramir had shaken his head. “No, sir…”

“I watched for a moment, and then saw Faramir sit down next to him. As I walked over, I began to see small perfectly round rings of smoke floating up to hover over the wizard’s head, where they turned green. I thought this rather amazing myself.”

“He can do all sorts of tricks with smoke,” said Merry. “Have you ever seen him turn them rainbow coloured?”

“Indeed, I have. They welcomed me to join them, and Mithrandir deigned to answer all of my brother’s rather intrusive questions with grave attention. He told us some stories as well, which I must confess I thought to be all moonshine made up to entertain us. But Faramir believed his every word. Mithrandir was in the City for several months that year, and my brother took every chance he could get to be in his company.” Frodo saw a cloud pass over Boromir’s expression. “It did not please my father,” he said.

The fact that Gandalf chose that moment to suddenly rejoin the Company, saying briskly, “Well, we’ve had enough time to rest. Let us be on our way. I should like us to make at least a league ere moonrise,” confirmed Frodo’s belief that he’d heard everything.

Perhaps, thought Frodo, as the memories drew him back towards sleep, it was Boromir’s stories of Faramir that help me to trust him. He does remind me of his brother, so proud and noble and brave. But I fancy I see something of Gandalf in him as well…I am glad to have had the chance to meet him…

Faramir turned on his side, his back to the common room where several of his men still stirred, and drew his blanket up. Mithrandir--Gandalf, as the halflings called him--had trusted these two. He fancied that he could see something of the old wizard’s wisdom in the halfling’s blue eyes.

He had just begun to drowse, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. “Captain Faramir! There is something or someone at the pool!”

Rusty blew the lock of hair that had escaped from her rather short braids out of her mouth, and drew a sweaty sleeve across her forehead as she stood up.

“Hmm…” said a voice behind her. “You look rather fetching in my breeches, Mrs. Took.

She turned with a grin. “They are much more practical than skirts out here in the garden, Isembold Took. And they *do* fit me much better than my brother’s breeches ever did!”

He walked over to encircle her in his arms, and planted a kiss on her sunburned nose, thinking as he did so how much better she looked. His arms tightened as he remembered her pale and sombre face when she had been rescued from the Lockholes a few months ago. “Marriage and sunshine suit you, love,” he said gently.

She tilted her lips up for a brief kiss, and then said “I was getting ready to prepare luncheon.” She gestured at the garden basket that nestled in the dirt by her bare feet.

“I think so. I gathered some spring onions, some radishes, some young carrots, rocket and cress and three kinds of lettuce and…”

The newlyweds were surprised to see Isembold’s cousin Pippin trot around the corner, mounted on his lovely black pony. He was dressed in breeches and a shirt, not his armour, but he still had his sword belted at his side. He dismounted smoothly. “Hullo, Buttons! Rusty!” He turned to his saddlebag, and fetched out a rather fancy and impressive looking envelope. “I thought I’d save Mother a farthing, and the post-hobbit a trip, and bring this to you myself.”

He handed the envelope to Rusty with a wink and a smile, and she gave a nervous look to her husband before she ran her thumb under the seal. She was still rather uncertain about her place in the family Took. After all, she was a mere Cotton, when all was said and done.

“A ball?” she exclaimed incredulously. “Isem, we’re invited to a *ball*!” Her hazel eyes held both excitement and worry, in equal measure.

Her husband took the invitation from her and read it over. “What’s all this in aid of, Pip?”

“It’s to honour them, and incidentally, our reluctant cousin Frodo, and--” here he glanced at Rusty, “*your* cousin, Sam.”

Rusty’s eyes grew wide, and Isembold said, “Why don’t you come in and have luncheon with us, and you can give us all the gossip and details?”

“I thought you’d never ask, cousin! Let me tether Sable in the shade and fetch him some water, and I will be there in a moment.”

By the time Pippin entered the kitchen of the old Whitwell farmhouse, Rusty had changed into a skirt and bodice of deep green, over which she had donned a sprigged apron. She was busy over a pan of water, as she rinsed and dried the bounty she had brought in from the garden.

Isembold was standing at the table, cutting bread, cold meats and cheese. Pippin quickly found an extra knife, for the kitchen had not changed much over the years when he was a small lad and had lived there himself, and came to lend a hand. As he and Isembold sliced up the bread, meat and cheese, Rusty arranged the greens in a large bowl, and then fetched a second cutting board to cut up the other vegetables. She arranged the carrots, radishes and onions on the greens, regretting that it was too early in the season for cucumbers or tomatoes, and wishing they had some mushrooms. This was their first time to entertain a guest at a meal in their home, and even if Isem didn’t think it was much, it was important to Rusty.

She wanted to make it special. What could she do besides dressing the salad with a bit of vinegar and oil? Ah…Aunt Lily’s dressing!

She darted into the larder, and soon returned with the ingredients she needed: oil, a cone of sugar, some nuts, a clove of garlic, and one of her wedding gifts, a bottle of Aunt Lily’s raspberry vinegar.

Rusty worked busily, with half an ear to Pippin’s gossip from the Great Smials. It was a relief to her to learn that her cousins Rose Cotton and Marigold Gamgee would be there. She supposed her wedding dress would have to do for the ball.

“I could not believe how rude Opal was to Legolas,” Pippin was saying. “But Pearl and Frodo put her in her place rather quickly.”

Rusty grimaced. While she liked Pippin’s sisters, his cousin Opal got on her nerves rather badly. Still, she’d just stick like a burr to her husband’s side. How bad could it be? She put the teakettle on, and finished preparing the dressing.

Soon, they were all sitting around the table, enjoying the meal. But Rusty could not help a worried furrow appearing in her brow.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” Isembold asked, as he realised his wife was being uncharacteristically quiet.

She sighed. “I’m just wishing I was the sort of lass who’d paid more attention to things like frocks when I was growing up. I don’t know what I’ll wear that won’t disgrace you, Isem!”

Pippin shook his head. “I’m quite glad you weren’t that sort of lass myself!” he said emphatically. “We’d never have been able to do Lotho one in the eye if you had been! Don’t worry about frocks! I’m sure that Pimmie would have something to fit you--that’s what she’s doing for Rosie and Mari.”

“Your sisters don’t need to be clothing my wife,” said Isembold emphatically.

Pippin looked a bit taken aback. “I’m sure I meant no offence, Buttons,” he said.

“None taken.” Isembold looked at Rusty. “I think I may have something for you.” He rose and left the table, while Rusty stared after him curiously.

“This may be a bit old-fashioned, love,” he said as he returned, “but it was my mother’s.”

The frock he held up was a pale spring green, and Rusty exclaimed delightedly. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” She stared at Isembold, her heart in her eyes.

Pippin cleared his throat. “Well, cousins, I thank you for the delicious luncheon, but I think I’ll be going now.”

Pippin grinned, and showed himself to the door. He didn’t think they’d be missing him.

1/3 cup minced onion
1 TBLSP. minced garlic
1/4 cup of a sweet vinegar*
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 tsp. salt (or to taste)
1/2 tsp. pepper (or to taste)
1 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 coarsely chopped toasted nuts* * (toast lightly for about 3 to 5 minutes, then chop)

Combine the first 6 ingredients in a non-reactive bowl and mix well with a whisk. Then slowly whisk in the olive oil, beating constantly. Finally, stir in the nuts. Serve over seasonal greens.

(I keep any unused in the fridge, but take it out to come to room temp about 30 minutes before serving, as it gets very thick when cold. If it separates, just shake it up a little; but if you make sure to whisk slowly enough, it will emulsify, and then it doesn't easily separate. It *can* be kept at room temperature for two or three days if necessary--but I don‘t use it up that quickly.)

* If you don’t have raspberry vinegar, balsamic will do nicely.
** The original recipe on which this is based used pecans, which is what I use. But they wouldn’t have pecans in the Shire, so I’m thinking that walnuts or other nuts would do just as well.

Title: Making Do
Rating: G
Characters: Merry, Pippin
Summary: Missing a main ingredient…what’s a hobbit to do?

“Oi! Pip! Where are you?” Merry called as he came in the kitchen door. He hefted the large basket he was carrying onto the table.

“I’m in the larder, putting away the butter,” came Pippin’s voice. There was a slight tinge of annoyance in his tone. He came out of the larder and frowned. “I had tea without you, Merry! I thought you’d be home in time.”

Merry just grinned as he watched Pippin give a sniff, and saw his expression change from irritation to bliss. “Mushrooms! Oh, blessed Meriadoc! How did you come by them?”

Merry chuckled. “Forgiven, am I? While I was at Brandy Hall helping Da go over the breeding books for the ponies, Farmer Maggot dropped over to have a word with him--and he brought a bounty of mushrooms with him for the Master of the Hall. Mum insisted that I bring some home with me.”

Pippin had already opened the lid of the basket, and was examining the contents. The earthy and musky aroma wafted forth, as he began to name the glorious bounty: “Summer Truffles! Penny Buns! Chicken of the Woods!
Chantarelles! This is wonderful, Merry!”

Pippin’s face fell, in an expression of consternation and guilt that took Merry back across a span of more than twenty years in an instant. “What have you done, Pip?” his eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “Don’t tell me you ate all the bread? There was over half a loaf left after luncheon!”

Pippin rubbed one foot behind the other, looking very crestfallen, and nodded. “I’m sorry, Merry! But I was hungry.”

Merry sighed. Pippin might be all of thirty years old now, but he still had the appetite of a young tween. There was certainly no time to make bread, and bread was something neither he nor Pippin was particularly good at making. When Bluebell had not been in to bake for them, they purchased their bread at the bakery in Newbury, or Merry would bring it home from Brandy Hall. “How’s the flour supply?” He was fairly certain they did not have enough to make scones--something they were good at--though he did not think they were completely out. He had planned to go into Newbury the following morning to do the marketing.

“I hate to see these go to waste,” Merry said. “They won’t be nearly so good tomorrow. But I guess we can take them back up to Brandy Hall with us and have supper there…”

Pippin bit his lip again, clearly unhappy with the thought of not having supper at home. He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment. “I know, Merry! We’ve plenty of potatoes! Why don’t I make potato cakes! I know there’s enough flour for those! And we can have the mushrooms with them--I‘m sure they‘ll do instead of toast in a pinch!”

Merry raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Potato cakes? Hmm…well, why not?” He paused. “Have you made them before?”

Pippin grinned. “Not really. But we watched Sam make them often enough while we were gone. Don’t worry.”

Merry shrugged. “In that case, I’ll fix the mushrooms and leave the potato cakes to you!”

Pippin darted back into the larder, and brought out some potatoes to put on the boil.

While they waited for the potatoes to first boil, and then cool afterwards, they sat at the kitchen table to have a pipe and a cup of tea.

Merry picked it up, and ran his thumb under the seal to open it. He scanned it for a moment. “They’re in Tharbad now.”

Pippin nodded. Merry would probably let him read it in a moment. Just then Merry gave out with a bark of laughter. “Ah, Beri! You know me too well!”

“It seems my cousin has fallen in love! Listen: “I am making the acquaintance of Miss Viola Harfoot, Mistress Poppy’s apprentice. She is a remarkable lass. In some ways she is very timid, but that does not sway her determination to do what she needs to do, and to be a help and not a burden to us.

You may remember meeting her at the Great Smials. She’s quite lovely, with a tip-tilted nose, warm brown eyes, and her curls are just the colour of autumn leaves. She has a beautiful smile as well. But when she is busy at being a healer, she is quite formidable!

Stop laughing at me. I have listened to you gush about Estella often enough!”

Merry met Pippin’s eyes, and Pippin was smiling, but it was rather a wistful smile. “What is it, Pip?” he asked.

“Well, I had hoped to make the acquaintance of Miss Viola myself,” he sighed, “but what with everything else that happened, we never got beyond a dance or two. And then the next thing I know, Mistress Poppy is hauling her off to Gondor. Beri has excellent taste.”

“Ah yes,” said Merry. “You were dancing with her at the Ball last spring!”

“And then we had all those interruptions, and all that trouble with the Bankses, and nothing ever came of it.” He sighed.

Pippin snorted. “That’s easy for you to say! You and Estella are all but betrothed!”

Wisely, Merry sought to change the subject. “Was that all the post-hobbit delivered?”

“I had a letter from my mother,” Pippin said. “Pimmie’s doing very well, and Mistress Lavender has confirmed it’s going to be twins!”

“Mother says Flora’s quite looking forward to being a big sister again; Allysum’s still too young to understand yet.”

The two of them gossiped a while about their various Took relations, and then Merry furrowed his brow. “We haven’t had a letter from Frodo in almost two weeks.”

“I expect he’s busy,” said Pippin, who in his turn decided to also change the subject. Talk of Frodo was often a painful subject. Both of them knew that in the past Frodo had never been too busy to write. “Why were you and Uncle Sara going over the stud books?”

Merry’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “We were trying to decide which mares we should breed with Stybba! He’s going to make a great difference in our stock!” Merry was quite proud of his little steed from Rohan, and rightfully so.

Pippin stood up. “I think the potatoes are cool enough to handle now,” he said, standing over the pot.

Merry nodded, and soon the two of them were busy with the important task of making supper.

Pippin peeled the cooked potatoes, and then grated them into a bowl with some onion. “Do we have any chives, Merry?”

“In the blue bowl, Pip,” Merry answered, as he occupied himself in wiping and trimming the mushrooms.

Pippin checked the bowl, where Merry would place freshly harvested herbs, wrapped in a damp napkin, each morning. He found the chives, and snipped them into the bowl with the potatoes and onion, and added a bit of salt.

Merry had begun to slice the mushrooms. “May I use the other half of that onion, Pip?”

“Of course. Need anything from the larder? I have to fetch an egg, the flour and some butter…”

“I could use a clove of garlic,” Merry answered, as he diced the onion. “and I’ll need the butter as well. Oh, and that jar of beef stock--”

Soon the sounds of sizzling butter and Pippin’s cheery humming filled the kitchen, and the air was redolent with the aroma of mushrooms and other good things.

The little potato cakes were round and golden and crispy on the outside, as Merry and Pippin ladled the mushrooms over them. They rounded out the meal with a salad of rocket and radishes and cucumber, and half a cherry pie left from luncheon.

As they lit their pipes for an after-supper smoke, Merry leaned back and locked his fingers behind his head. “You know, Pip, I think those mushrooms were even better on the potato cakes than they would have been on toast!”

2 large potatoes, boiled, cooled, peeled and grated
½ of a medium onion, grated
About a TBSP of snipped fresh chives (optional)
1 heaping TBSP of flour
1 egg
Salt to taste
2 TBSP cooking oil or melted butter or margarine

In a large bowl thoroughly mix the potatoes, onion, chives, flour and egg with your hands, then form into eight patties. Heat the oil or butter in a frying pan, and then cook the patties about 3 to 4 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and heated through.

Remove from skillet to a warm plate, and keep warm until serving. Serves four humans or two hobbits.

About 1 pound of fresh mushrooms (mixed varieties are best, but the dish can be made with only one sort of mushroom if that’s all that’s available.)
½ a medium onion, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 TBSP finely chopped parsley
1 TBSP each finely chopped thyme and tarragon
2 TBSP butter
1 cup of beef or vegetable stock
Salt and pepper to taste

Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Sauté the onion until translucent, then add the garlic and mushrooms. Continue to sauté for about five minutes, or until the mushrooms begin to sweat, then add herbs and stock. Bring to a simmer, and let simmer for about five to seven more minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve over toast--or if hungry cousins have eaten all the bread, over potato cakes

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story takes place in my “Eucatastrophe AU” in S.R. 1452. In this AU, the Three Elven Rings did not fade after the destruction of the One, but instead were freed, and gained even more power. Frodo was able to find healing and remain in Middle-earth, and Gandalf and the Elves were allowed to make return journeys to Middle-earth. (I know, I know…if only…)*

In this story, Frodo, at the age of 83, has retired to Minas Anor, where he hopes to finish his definitive book on the languages of Men and Elves. Merry’s son Peridoc, Pippin’s son Faramir, and two of Sam’s sons--Merry-lad and Pippin-lad--have accompanied him, for they are to spend two years studying at the Court of the High King. The four lads live with their Uncle Frodo and Gandalf in the same guesthouse where the Fellowship stayed after the War. This story takes place at the beginning of their second year.]

Frodo: 84 (about 53 in Man-years)
Fam (Faramir) Took: 22 ( 14 in Man-years)
Perry (Peridoc) Brandybuck: 27 (17 in Man-years)
Merry-lad Gamgee: 25 (16 in Man-years)
Pippin-lad Gamgee: 23 ( 14½ in Man-years)]

“No, Fam; neither is Gandalf.” Pippin Gamgee scurried back to the door, where his friend, Faramir Took, and brother, Merry-lad waited.

“They were going to the archives this morning. They shouldn’t be home before time for luncheon,” said Merry-lad.

There was a scuffling sound, and the three young hobbits entered the house with a sigh of relief, and looked at their prize.

Which looked back at them out of liquid brown eyes, tongue lolling, as it thumped its tail.

“Our room?” asked Merry-lad, as he absently scratched the shaggy white head. Sitting, the dog’s head was nearly at a level with his shoulders. It was an amiable mongrel, mostly dirty white, but with one brown ear and a small brown marking on its back.

Just then the door opened, and all three lads jumped. “Oh, it’s you,” Fam sighed with relief. It was only Peridoc, his Brandybuck cousin.

“No one’s coming,” Perry said. “But we’d better get him out of sight.”

“I’m going to get him something to eat,” said Pip-lad, and headed for the kitchen.

“Do you think Uncle Frodo and Gandalf will let us keep him?” Fam asked as they led their furry guest down the short corridor to the large chamber the lads shared.

“I don’t know,” said Perry. “Da once said that Uncle Frodo didn’t much like big dogs, ever since Farmer Maggot’s dogs chased him a long time ago.”

Fam nodded. “I was afraid of that. They chased us, though, and we’re not afraid any more.”

Perry shuddered, remembering that long ago encounter. “We were for a long time though.”

“Do you think,” asked Merry-lad doubtfully “that we’ll be able to hide him for long? I think he needs a bath.” He sniffed. There was definitely a doggy aroma.

Perry-lad sighed. This was getting complicated. It was just that when the lads had gone down to the fourth circle, to their favourite bakery, they had seen some boys tormenting the dog, poking at it with sticks. The four of them had gone quickly to the rescue--disconcerting the boys, who though larger, knew immediately who the lads were. They were the only pheriannath in the White City after all, except for their Uncle the famous Frodo of the Nine Fingers. Everyone knew that they were under the king’s protection, and even more, they were under the protection of the wizard Mithrandir. No one with any sense at all would confront them.

Perry had stood to the fore, and glared at them. Abashed, the boys had abandoned their cruel game, and slunk off sheepishly.

The dog had grinned at them, and wagged its tail, and put one huge paw up on Perry’s shoulder. Only his quick reflexes kept him from getting a sloppy wet tongue on his face. Fam had distracted it by offering it a sweet-bun they had still left. The bun had disappeared in an instant.

Then the lads had started up the street for home--the old guest-house in the sixth circle, which they shared with their Uncle Frodo and Gandalf. But they had not gone more than ten paces before they realized they were being followed.

Pippin-lad came in the room then, bearing a leg of lamb he had purloined from the larder. He had chosen it with regret--he was very fond of lamb, and this would have made a lovely supper--but it seemed the best thing there for a dog the size of--of

“Yes!” said Merry-lad, who knew what his brother meant. “He’s as big as a pony, so we should name him ‘Bill’ after ‘Bill the Pony’!”

“Well,” said Merry-lad, “I think we should try to clean him up.” The four lads looked at the dog doubtfully.

Bill grinned at them, and then playfully put its head down, and its tail in the air, and gave a surprisingly small bark considering its size.

Nearly two hours later, every towel in the guesthouse had been used. It had taken buckets and buckets of water and half a bar of soap, and all four of the lads together--all of whom had been drenched from head to toe.

Now Bill was more or less clean, and the young hobbits were clean and more or less dry, though the curls on heads and feet were still more than a little damp. And so was the stone floor of their sleeping chamber, although it was no longer swimming in water. The hobbit-high pile of wet and dirty towels in the corner gave them a qualm. Uncle Frodo would not be happy they had made so much work for the laundresses.

Just as they were beginning to relax, they heard the sound of the door open and close, and voices--

“Gandalf, I am afraid I don’t understand why the accounts of the Second Age here in Minas Anor are so contradictory. The accounts in Rivendell all were in agreement…”

“Because the memories of Men are not so accurate as those of Elves, Frodo--”

“We’ll be right there, Uncle Frodo!” Perry called. The four of them hurried out of their room.

Fam whispered urgently “Be a good lad, Bill, and stay quiet!” as he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Here we are, Uncle Frodo!” said Perry cheerfully. His voice was pitched a bit high.

“What have you lads been doing today?” For the four of them had been given a holiday from their lessons at the Citadel, as the Royal Tutor, who taught them along with the children of the King and of the Steward, was away attending his niece’s wedding.

“Oh, we just went down to the shops in the fourth circle, Uncle Frodo” said Merry-lad.

Frodo looked at them sharply. Years of experience with their fathers had taught him the folly of relying on an innocent expression and a non-challant tone of voice. He fixed his sharp blue eyes on Fam as the most likely to wilt under his gaze.

Just then, there came a loud scratching noise from the direction of their chamber. Uncle Frodo’s eyebrow went up.

“Please, Uncle Frodo!” said Pip-lad, his brown eyes filled with distress. He looked exactly like Sam at that age, thought Frodo. “Can’t we keep Bill?”

Gandalf, who had been watching and listening in amusement, said mildly, “Perhaps we should meet this ‘Bill’.”

The lads looked at one another. Gandalf almost never said anything when Uncle Frodo was dealing with the lads. But they all four scrambled back to their chamber, where the scratching noise was now accompanied by an occasional sharp bark.

Frodo put his palm over his face. “ ‘Bill’.” He sighed. “They’ve named it.”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Frodo said. Merry-lad and Pip-lad had often brought strays home to Bag End, and by the time Frodo left, a sweet little terrier named “Teacake” had been a member of the Gamgee household for several years, joining several cats.

Still, even though he was half-expecting it, Frodo found himself startled by the sight of the shaggy, grinning monster the lads brought forth for his inspection.

Bill’s tail began to wag, fanning the air like a small windmill. Frodo approached slowly, and the dog lay on the floor, exposing a white belly to be scratched. Frodo laughed. There was certainly nothing to fear here.

Shaking his head, Frodo leaned over to oblige, and then looked sharply at Gandalf.

The wizard approached, and looked at the dog carefully. “Indeed, Frodo, I think you are right.”

The belly was slightly swollen. Frodo patted it and stood up, and Bill rolled over. The younger three lads looked a bit puzzled, but he saw the light of comprehension dawning on Perry’s face.

“I think you may wish to re-consider the name, lads. Bill’s going to become a mother in a few weeks’ time.”

“Well, we can hardly turn her back out into the streets in her condition,” said Frodo. “But you are going to find her a good deal of work to care for. And you will have to find homes for all of the pups! You can’t be taking a whole kennel home to the Shire when you go.”

Fam looked over at her. “I guess we’ll just have to call her ‘Billie’.”

Holman judiciously snipped the blooms that were past their prime. The alba roses would soon be finished with their showy mid-summer display. Fragrant and white, they stood out against the dark stone of the garden wall. The eglantine roses--Maiden’s Blush--were blooming still, and would keep on doing so until the first light frost, and as long as he kept deadheading them they’d make a magnificent show. But that smaller bush at the south end of the fence he’d leave be. It was packed with blooms, and would be a good source of rose hips. Rose hip tea, rose hip jelly--they was all to the good. His Aunt Rose, what was married to Cotman down at Bywater was a healer, and she set a lot of store by rose hip tea to help keep away the sniffles in winter.

He glanced up at Bag End, where Hamfast was hauling water. It had been hot and dry for several days, and the sweet peas and hollyhocks and delphiniums was looking a mite peaky. But the water would perk them right up.

Ah, and here came Mr. Bilbo down the path for his morning stroll. The Master usually took a little walk most mornings, fetching up at The Ivy Bush for elevenses as often as not. Holman watched him exchange courteous greetings with Hamfast, and he bent to examine the salvia that had come into bloom, with a riot of scarlet.

Then Mr. Bilbo plucked a marigold, and put the bloom in the buttonhole of his weskit, before continuing down to the gate where Holman was working.

“Ah, Master Holman! The roses are looking magnificent this year! Do you plan to enter any of them in the Midsummer Free Fair next week?”

“I’d thought on it, Mr. Bilbo, I’d thought on it. The white’s is past their prime, I think, but the Maiden’s Blush will be looking their best--unless this dry spell don’t break.”

Holman pursed his lips. “It’s likely,” he said. “T’aint natural for it to stay dry for so long this time o’ year.” The Shire was used to frequent summer showers.

“True! True!” said Mr. Bilbo. “I’m sure we’ll have some rain soon--oh, botheration!” Mr. Bilbo looked past Holman and down the lane crossly. Holman turned. Oh! It was them Sackville-Bagginses--Otho and his wife Lobelia, and Mr. Bilbo’s Uncle Longo…

“Mr. Bilbo?” He turned back around, but the Master was nowhere to be seen. Holman shook his head; he’d noticed aforetimes that Mr. Bilbo could be pretty quick on his feet when he saw unwelcome kin headed his way. Mr. Bilbo was two years older than Holman, but he was as spry as a hobbit nigh on twenty years younger. Holman scratched his head--Mr. Bilbo weren‘t nowhere to be seen. Then he went back to his work, as the unwelcome callers continued in his direction.

Holman pretended not to notice they were there until Mr. Longo cleared his throat and said crossly, “My good hobbit! We have come to see my nephew!”

He turned around, and said “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Baggins. You just missed Mr. Bilbo. He’s gone for a walk.”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Mistress Lobelia. “If he had, we would have passed him on the road.”

They pushed past him and went through the gate and up the path to the front door, where they spent several minutes knocking and calling to no avail. That Lobelia even went and peered in the windows! Holman watched them in amusement.

They finally gave up long after most hobbits would have--Holman had to give them credit for persistence--and stomped off angrily.

The dry spell broke late that night. Holman and Hamfast made their way up the Hill to Bag End in a morning washed clean and clear. The flowers were brighter than ever, and even the grass looked cleaner for its night-time shower.

He left Hamfast to see to the weeding of the herbaceous border, and took himself around to the back of the smial. The kitchen garden was in need of a bit of tending--the rain would have made certain that there would be some cucumbers and tomatoes ready for harvest, not to mention the runner beans. And he’d finished harvesting all of the radishes a week ago--time to sow something else. Perhaps he’d put out some more onion sets.

He checked things over, and then went down to the potting shed to find that box of onion sets he’d put aside. As he came back up the path towards the garden, he saw Mr. Bilbo, basket at his feet, plucking some of the ripe tomatoes. He grinned--the Master would probably grill a couple of those for his second breakfast.

The Master did not see him--the path was hidden from his sight by the trellises of runner beans, and he whistled a cheery tune as he harvested his treats.

“Halloo! Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins! I *know* you are home!” It was Lobelia, and she was coming towards the back of the smial.

Holman was watching the Master, whose face suddenly looked like thunder. Mr. Bilbo dropped the tomato he was holding into the basket, plunged his hand into his pocket…

He whirled, looking around in alarm; Mr. Bilbo seemed to have simply disappeared! There wasn’t a trace of him to be seen anywhere! He wasn’t behind the beans, and the path back to the smial was empty. No matter how spry, no hobbit could move that fast.

His head spinning, Holman crouched behind the beans and hoped that Mistress Lobelia would not spot him.

Perhaps he had just imagined it all. Mayhap Mr. Bilbo had never been there at all! But no, there was the basket of tomatoes, right where it had been a-sitting at the Master’s feet.

Lobelia marched to the back door, hammered on it, calling out a few times, and when no one answered, she let herself in.

But Holman could not for the life of him summon up any indignation. His heart was a-fluttering and a-pounding. There was something unnatural there, something uncanny. Either his mind was going, or Mr. Bilbo--well, he *had* been off in foreign parts alongside of that conjuring wizard friend o’ his, Gandalf.

He put his head on his knees. He couldn’t’ve seen what he thought he’d seen. Mr. Bilbo, vanishing, as it were, into thin air. He thought back to all the other times, when he though the Master had just legged it right quick to some handy hiding place. But not this time. And truth be told, probably not all them other times either.

His cousin, Long Hom, over to Bywater, he’d been asking Holman to come and help him get his new farm up and running. Maybe it was time. He’d been gardener at Bag End for nigh on thirty-five years now; young Hamfast was of age now--yes, indeed. It was time and more than time, and time enough.

“Are you quite certain about this, Frodo?“ Gandalf looks at me, and his expression is both shrewd and concerned. We are in my study, enjoying an after supper pipe. The evening breeze wafts through the window, bringing the scent of the summer roses. The fragrance makes me feel melancholy--will I ever smell them again? “It is not necessary for you to actually sell Bag End. There are other ways to do this.”

I shake my head. “I have to do it this way. I cannot just leave things the way Bilbo did--that will cause both confusion and gossip. And if I simply close the house up, no one is going to believe I’ve run out of money. ”

He sighs at me. “No one believes it anyway, Frodo. Even were it true, no one would believe it--the idea that Bilbo left a vast treasure to you is far too entrenched in local legend to expect that anyone will believe it.”

“Gandalf, I must. I am going off into danger, and dragging Sam with me, and I cannot just leave Bag End unoccupied.” I look a bit resentful at this, for I am still not happy with that idea. Gandalf had accomplished in a few words what I will find impossible to undo: by telling Sam he is to go with me, Sam will believe he is not only satisfying his own wish to accompany me, but fulfilling a solemn duty. And a Gamgee is nothing if not dutiful.

“Yes,” said Gandalf, drawing on his pipe and sending up a smoke ring, “Sam is going with you.” His voice is light, but the look he gives me is stern and I cannot argue with him now.

“Still, selling Bag End to the Sackville-Bagginses seems a bit extreme.” He takes another puff on his pipe, and the look he gives me now is reproachful. He knows as well as I do that Bilbo would be appalled. I am very glad I do not have to face Uncle Bilbo--I seldom saw him angry, but I have a feeling that this would do it.

“It’s a matter of time,” I say, trying to sound objective and calm. “I’ve had a standing offer from first Otho, and then from Lobelia and Lotho, ever since Bilbo’s will was read. It was intended as an insult, but it was quite a genuine offer. I should never have the time to locate someone else who can afford the hole. You know how rare it is for hobbits to remove to another home.”

I carefully do not voice my true reasons for my actions. Yes, it seems logical if I am running out of money--and I still think that was a good story, I do not know why no one believes me--and it will save the time and effort of finding another buyer. But the truth is, I *need* to do this. I am terrified. In all of my years of thinking that I might one day journey out of the Shire, it never once occurred to me that the journey would be as urgent and desperate as this one is likely to be. Now, I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here, comfortable and safe, in Bag End. And I cannot and must not give in to my fears.

If I turn Bag End over to Lobelia and Lotho, I shall *have* to leave. I could never bear to stay and see what they will do to my beloved home. It’s a tie I must cut, and cut sharply. This will set me adrift in the world, and send me on my way. I hope if Bilbo ever does find out, that he will forgive me. I am just not as brave as he.

Gandalf looks at me shrewdly, and I can read in his dark eyes that he knows all too well exactly what I am thinking. “Indeed, Frodo,” he says mildly, “I do understand, though I can wish I did not.”

“Well,” I say, more lightly than I feel, “only two things remain: to tell Sam, and somehow to get through the remainder of the summer.”

Gandalf rises carefully, and puts a large hand on my shoulder. “Keep up your hope, my friend. All may yet be well, though darkness beckons.”

As he leaves the study, I put my hand to my pocket, where the darkness resides. Still safe, still secret, still there.

Author: Dreamflower
Title: The Token
Theme: POV challenge--I chose Arwen. I have written her a time or two, but never from her own POV.
Elements: red, circle, nine
Author's Notes: The third section of this story takes place immediately following my drabble “Heart’s Desire”:
http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=3043&cid=14428
in which Arwen has her first conversation with Frodo after the wedding.
Summary: Arwen deals with losses.
Word Count: 1,465

It is not a day I will ever forget, Anor in the West, staining the horizon red; the sound of waves and the wind in the rigging of the tall grey ship; the smell of salt in the air, and the taste of salt as my tears ran down my face. She had already embraced my brothers, and now she came to me.

Within the circle of my arms, she felt so frail and weightless. I noticed, not for the first time, the hint of transparency about her. I knew she had to do this, I knew she had to go--she was surely fading, and if she remained we would lose her anyway.

She pulled back and looked into my eyes. "My daughter," she whispered, "my Undómiel, do not grieve." Then she pressed something small into my hand, and closed my fingers upon it, before I could see what it was.

I opened my hand, and there in my palm it lay, white and gleaming, its mithril chain coiled coolly against my skin. "Mother!" For I had never seen her without this gem about her throat, the gift of her own mother, filled with the light of Eärendil. As I closed my fingers around it and gazed at her, stricken, light from it escaped through my fingers. "Mother--" my voice choked.

I knew what she meant, and I nodded. I was so certain that one day I would choose also to accept the life of the Eldar, and join her in Elvenhome--I would have gone then, had I not known what it would mean to them to leave my father and brothers bereft of both of us.

Of course I would bring it back to her. She drew me once more into her embrace, and placed a kiss upon my brow, before turning to say her farewells to my father.

The roses of my bower were red and fragrant, yet neither I nor my companion could appreciate their beauty. He leaned into the circle of my embrace, weeping bitterly. I knew not how to comfort him, for only a few moments before, my father had told Bilbo that he would not be allowed to accompany us on our journey.

"Your health will not stand it, my old friend. I am very sorry, but as your healer, I will not countenance it. Would you have us arrive in Gondor to see Frodo and the others, only to tell them that we had left you buried along the way?"

My father's face had been both stern and gentle, and pained as well, for he knew the disappointment he was causing. He glanced to me in entreaty ere he left us, hoping I would be able to comfort poor Bilbo.

I knew not how to console the old hobbit's grief. For long months we had been comrades in adversity, united by our fears and our hopes for the loved ones we had watched go off into mortal peril. And now, after all the long waiting, he was not to go and be reunited with them, but must wait instead for them to come to him. And I was disappointed as well, for I had looked forward to his stout and cheerful presence at our side when Aragorn and I finally realised our long-awaited dream.

But it could not be; my father was right--these months of anxious waiting--nine months if I considered the turmoil and fear that had accompanied Frodo's dangerous journey to Imladris, and the days and nights of anguish after his wounding, as well as our mutual worries when they left once more--had all taken their toll on my small friend. He was already ancient by the reckoning of his kind, and the destruction of the One had released the hold it had on him, leaving him prey to all the years it had held at bay. As much as he wished it, he would not survive a journey to Gondor in his perilous state of health.

His weeping exhausted him, and soon his weary body succumbed to sleep. As I felt his hitched sobs slowly even out into soft gentle snores, I eased him into my arms. He was frail, and weighed no more than a very young child. I arose carefully, and carried him through the wide door that led from my bower-garden to my chambers, and laid him upon the soft cushions of a small bench by my window. He curled up, and slept on without further stirring. I cast a fond glance at him, and laid a kiss upon the papery-thin translucent skin of his brow, as I drew a thin coverlet of my weaving over him. Sleep softened his great age, and I marvelled again at the changes time makes upon a mortal. Until Aragorn, I had met few mortals and loved none. Since I came to love Aragorn, I found that there were other mortals making inroads upon my heart--this small one not the least among them. My own heart contracted as I realised that I would probably never see him again after we departed on the morrow.

What would I not give to ease his sacrifices and those of the ones he loved most?

Tears stung my eyes as I went to resume the task that my father's news had interrupted. Most of my packing was done, but some few items remained. I took forth a small casket of dark polished wood, and opened it. I touched my mother's gem. I had not worn it since I had pledged my troth to Aragorn, and I had planned to ask my father to bear it back to my mother in Elvenhome, that my word to her not be broken. I had meant to leave it here.

And yet, something stirred in my heart, a foreboding of I knew not what, and I felt that I should take it with me after all.

I almost wish I had not spoken to him. All unthinkingly, I have distressed him, whom I would never wish to distress. Yet I owe him so much! How could I leave that debt unacknowledged?

I walk away from him reluctantly, leaving him to his pensive wonderings beneath the White Tree. I could not miss the spots of red against his pale cheeks, when I had thanked him, nor missed the flair of pain within his fëa. He is still filled with distress over the way his quest had ended. And his constant and forced association with evil for many months has left him feeling soiled and diminished.

I had longed to take him into the circle of my embrace and lay a kiss of blessing upon his brow. Yet I had sensed that he would not welcome it, but consider it an undeserved comfort as well as an affront to his dignity. So I left him to his thoughts.

I turn to look at him once more. He is rubbing his right hand with his left, as though he is wishing to rub away the evidence of his missing finger. "Frodo of the Nine Fingers", the minstrels call him, thinking to honour him as though he were "Beren One-Hand". Yet it seems clear to me that he sees his wounding not as a badge of honour, but as a sign of failure. In the depths of his blue eyes, behind the pain, there is a self-loathing. And about the blaze of brightness that is his spirit, a scar of darkness remains, and there is about him a frailness and a hint of transparency that I have seen before. He is fading.

He does not realise it yet; the cloud does not envelope him, and for much of the time, he tries to recapture his old habits of being. He is a hobbit after all, and they are hard to quell. I know that my beloved believes that once Frodo is home amid his old familiar surroundings in his gentle Shire, the natural bent of his race to living cheerfully in the moment will overcome the remaining darkness. But I fear he is wrong.

After all, my father once hoped that home and family would overcome the darkness in my mother's heart.

Perhaps I am wrong. I am too new to the ways of mortals to feel any kind of certainty, and perhaps they have more strength to resist fading than the Eldar.

(A/N: Wedmath, Halimath and Winterfilth are the Shire equivalent--sort of-- of August, September and October.)

Things are going fairly well here at the Great Smials, all things considered. Of course, all of us miss Paladin dreadfully. Pippin was very worried about his mother, afraid that she would waste away after Paladin was gone. However, he insisted that she continue in her role as “The Took” rather than pass it over to him immediately. He asked her to continue for at least a year, in order for him to have time to get his duties as Thain in order before taking on the family duties as well. Eglantine was dubious about it. You know as well as I do that a widow keeping the family headship fell out of fashion--especially among the Tooks--after Lalia abused her position for so long. But Pippin managed to convince her. It was something to keep up her interest in life, truthfully, because of course Pippin could easily have taken both roles with no difficulty.

With Eglantine’s help, and Pearl’s, I am beginning to find my way among my duties as the Thain’s Lady. But I have to say, I miss our cosy little household at Crickhollow. All of these servants to manage, all of these Tooks to keep track of! It quite gets on my nerves at times. I had never really wanted anything but to be a simple healer. But I suppose I deserve my fate, since I allowed myself to fall in love with the famous Sir Peregrin Took! Pippin, however, is very encouraging, and says I’m doing a splendid job, so I allow myself to believe that I am not a complete disaster!

However, the children are thriving among all their Tookish cousins, though they miss Perry and Wyn.

Pippin has been very busy, of course. There are days when the only times I see him are at first breakfast and supper!

How are you and Merry getting on at Brandy Hall? I wish I could see you and talk to you!

It was so good to get your letter. We miss you and Pippin and the children as well. Even after we had come here to Brandy Hall, we knew you were just up the road at Crickhollow. Now there’s half a Shire between us.

I am glad to know that Eglantine is overcoming the worst of her grief. It was very clever of Pippin to make her keep the responsibility of being The Took. Merry says he wishes he’d thought of that when Saradoc left us; you know how dreadfully worried we were over Esmeralda right after that. But she had to rally and be strong for Merry after the flood, which brought her out of the worst of her grief and melancholy over Sara.

With Merry’s duties as Master and Pippin’s as Thain, I don’t know when any of us will have a chance to get together anytime soon.

In other news, Celandine and Moro are expecting an addition to the family in late fall. And I’m sorry to say that Cousin Laburnum’s health is fading.

I saw Mistress Bluebell at the Bucklebury market the other day. She misses “doing” for us at Crickhollow, but is enjoying being a part of her son and daughter-in-law’s household. She said that I should give her good wishes to “Missus Diamond and Mr. Pippin--Thain Peregrin as I should say”, if I should write to you, and thus I have done so.

Let us continue to hope that things will get less busy, so that we may have time for one another soon.

I am really missing you and Merry and Crickhollow dreadfully. Pippin has been unaccountably cross lately, and I am convinced it is from missing Merry.

I think that it must have been that brief meeting at Michel Delving, with Merry and Sam--all business and no time at all for just visiting with one another. Pippin said it was almost worse than not seeing Merry at all.

In other news, little Primrose has a loose milk teeth, Pet and Pansy seem to be going through a stage of squabbling over their every possession, and Fam is running about, and leading us a merry chase. His aunts think it screamingly funny to watch Pippin chasing after his son--they seem to think it is some sort of justice for the way they had to chase after him as a lad.

Eglantine is doing very well. And Pimmie’s son Drogo is laid up with a dreadful rash after getting into some hogweed, poor lad.

And I’ve been dealing with an outbreak of tummy troubles in the Smials. I suspect that something served from the main kitchen had gone off, but have not tracked down the precise cause yet. It seems to be subsiding now, after three rather hectic and unpleasant days. I’ve had a stern talking-to with the cooks about storing food safely, and convincing them that it is better to “waste” food they are uncertain of than to keep it.

I do miss you dreadfully, dear! Please give mine and Pippin’s love to Merry and the children.

I hope that this letter finds you and your family well. I have heard rumour that Mistress Rose is expecting again sometime next spring. This will be your ninth, I think! It does my heart good to think of the sound of children filling Bag End.

I know that you still keep up Cousin Frodo’s custom of honouring Bilbo’s (and his) birthday on the twenty-second of next month, and that most years you are joined by Pippin’s family and by Merry’s.

My son has been making noises to the effect that he cannot get away this year. I suspect that he has been using his duties as Thain to avoid thinking about his father. He tries to keep me busy, but he is not taking the time he needs for his own sorrow. As well, he misses Merry, and the simple life that they had at Crickhollow.

Merry too, is still grieving, not only for his father, but about the flood last year. Esmeralda writes to me that it still haunts him.

I hope you will lend the weight of your friendship to persuade them both to put aside their duties and make their customary fall visit.

Rosie and me would certainly be glad to have Merry and Pippin to come again this year, with all their families. I know they’ve had a hard time of it the last couple of years. I know Mr. Frodo counts on me to do right by his cousins what with him not here anymore, and you know they are good friends to me also.

I’ll write to them, and tell them that Rose will be dreadfully offended if they don’t come, what with her unchancey temper in her condition. That was her idea. She says that will make them come quicker than just me asking. But I’ll put my own inviting in too. If I tell them Mr. Frodo’d want it, I think they’ll come.

It’s kind of you to think of us, Mistress Took. You’ve been a good friend ever since I got home to the Shire.

I will write to Merry and to Pippin right as soon as I finish this letter to you.

Sam wrote that Rose will be upset if we don’t come to Bag End for The Birthday this year. Diamond and I will be there with the little ones. You’d better come too.

Yes, Estella and I will be there, along with Perry and Wyn. Mum says that she and Berilac can handle things at the Hall without us.

I have to say, it will be good to see you again when there’s no business to conduct. Still, we haven’t settled everything yet about the rebuilding of Newbridge, or the rest of the repairs to the Old Stonebow Bridge. Maybe we could get that out of the way while we are there.

At any rate, Estella is anxious to see Diamond again, and the children are excited over seeing their Took cousins again. We plan to leave Brandy Hall early on the nineteenth, and arrive at Bag End on the morning of the twenty-first.

No. No Newbridge. No Old Bridge. No business. No Master, Mayor and Thain. Just Merry, Pip and Sam.

We’re going a few days early. We should already be at Bag End by the time you get there.

We have had a delightful visit with the Gamgees. The children have been tumbling about Bag End like so many puppies, till you can’t tell Tooks from Brandybucks from Gamgees.

Rose, Estella and I have had plenty of time for talking. The day after The Birthday, Pippin, Sam, Merry and Tom took all the little ones down to the Water to go fishing, while the three of us and Marigold had a delightful visit. Of course the husbands came home as wet, dirty, sunburned and exhausted as the children.

And Estella had a wonderful idea. Rose and Sam have offered to keep the children here for two weeks! Pippin and I are going back to Buckland with Merry and Estella and spend a couple of weeks at Crickhollow!

The house has been kept up, Merry said, and has gone back to its original function as a guesthouse, and we shall be the first “guests” to stay there!

Rose and Sam seemed a bit smug about it. I think they planned it out ahead of time. Sam seems to know when Merry and Pippin need a bit of comfort. I suppose it comes from all those years of looking after Cousin Frodo. I wish I'd had the chance to know Cousin Frodo better.

At any rate, you may expect us back in Tookland sometime during the second week of Winterfilth.

We are having a splendid time. The four of us put our heads together, though--this was all yours and Aunt Esme’s idea, wasn’t it?

I can’t tell you how grateful we all are for this time we are having together, with no responsibilities and no children to worry over--though Estella has written to Perry and Wyn nearly every day--just the four of us in our cosy Crickhollow once more.

Merry has enjoyed himself so much that he has proposed we make an annual event out of it, and Pippin was quick to second it. Just think of it--two weeks every year, just the four of us!

You’ve only been gone a few days, and already we are looking forward to next year.

And I have a suggestion about Yule--I know that you can’t abandon the Tooks every year, nor can we abandon Brandy Hall completely every Yule. But perhaps we can begin to take it in turns, all of us having Yule at the Great Smials one year, and at Brandy Hall the next.

We must make sure to visit one another frequently from now on, and not allow our duties and those of our husbands to keep us apart for too long. It's just too dreadfully dreary to be apart for months on end!

I look forward to seeing you again at Yule! I do believe that the Great Smials should get the first turn.

Title: “A Midsummer’s Night Dream” (with apologies to Wm. Shakespeare)
Theme: September: “Young/Old” Challenge
Elements: curious, gentle, abundant
Author's Notes: There is a reference in here to my story “The Knight Has Been Unruly”, which was part of Lindelea’s group story “To Tell a Tale”.
Summary: Young Bilbo has a conversation with his grandfather Gerontius and with Gandalf.
Word Count: 1,375

“Yes, it is all very dim, and stuffy, in here,” said Pippin. “It reminds me, somehow of the old room in the Great Place of the Tooks away back in the Smials at Tuckborough: a huge place, where the furniture has never been moved or changed for generations. The say the Old Took lived in it year after year, while he and the room got older and shabbier together--and it has never been changed since he died, a century ago. And Old Gerontius was my great-great-grandfather, so that puts it back a bit.” (TT, Book III, Chapter IV, "Treebeard")

“Come in, Bilbo-lad, come in. I can’t see you properly from all the way over there.”

Bilbo entered, shutting the door behind him carefully, and padded across the polished oak floor of the study. His grandfather lay upon a settee where he was bundled up in a knitted coverlet. Though it was mid-summer, a fire blazed in the hearth, and the room felt stifling.

“Hullo, Grandfather,” he said politely. He hoped his nervousness did not show. It had been a while since he had seen his Grandfather, and Gerontius looked older than ever. It was frightening to see how frail he looked.

But the green eyes twinkled back at him, as sharp and curious as ever. “It’s good to see you again, my lad.” He coughed, and then pulled himself up to almost a sitting position. “Have a seat, Bilbo.”

Bilbo looked behind him. The armchair was too far away for comfortable conversation. He pulled the footstool close, instead, and sat down near his grandfather’s side. Gerontius put out a withered hand, and Bilbo took it between his own. The skin felt thin and dry. “I have missed you, Grandfather.”

Gerontius smiled. “I know that it is not your fault you have not seen me these last few years.”

Bilbo bit his lip. When Grandmother Adamanta had passed on, the year after the Fell Winter, the Old Took had moved out of the rooms they had shared for so many happy years, and into his study. He never came out of there anymore now. He took his meals there, and slept there as well. And when Bilbo’s cousin Fortinbras had wed Lalia Clayhanger (to the disapproval of both his parents and his aunts and uncles) his own parents rarely visited the Great Smials any longer.

Only the news that Gandalf was coming back to the Shire for the Tookland Litheday celebrations, with his famous fireworks, had brought his mother to reconsider their attendance. She was very fond of the old wizard, and thought that the chance of seeing him once more was worth the annoyance of seeing Lalia.

“I wish I could see you more often,” said Bilbo.

His grandfather laid a gentle hand against his cheek briefly. “I know that you do. Tell me how you are getting on in Hobbiton, amidst all of those stuffy Bagginses, lad?” But he said it with a twinkle in his green eyes, and Bilbo did not take offence.

“I get on well enough. But none of them are so much fun as Chop and Siggy,” he replied cheekily, referring to his Took cousins Adalgrim and Sigismund.

“Yes, well, I daresay none of them get you into as much trouble, either,” he chuckled.

Bilbo blushed, but he laughed as well. “I am too old for such things now, Grandfather,” he said.

“Of course you are, a great tween like yourself! Why you are nearly of age!”

“I’ll be twenty-nine on my birthday.”

Just then, there was a sharp rap at the study door.

“Would you go see who it is, Bilbo-lad?”

Bilbo got up and went across the room, and just before he opened the door there was another rap. Bilbo’s eyes grew wide. “Gandalf!” he exclaimed. “Grandfather, it’s Gandalf!”

“Well, don’t just stand there, let him in!!”

Bilbo stood back nervously. He had not come face to face with the wizard in nine years--since he and his cousins had been caught filching some of the old wizard’s fireworks. He cleared his throat and stood back.

“H-Hello, Gandalf,” he stammered. “Grandfather says to come in.”

His tall figure bent nearly double to enter the door, but once inside he could stand easily, for the ceilings at the Great Smials were much higher than normal hobbit-ceilings. He walked over to the settee, and greeted Gerontius.

“My old friend,” he exclaimed heartily, “it’s so good to see you once more!” He bent down and took the Old Took’s hands between his own. “I have missed you!”

“And I you,” was the answer.

Bilbo stood there placing his weight first on one foot and then on the other, biting his lip. Should he stay, or should he go?

His grandfather answered his unspoken question. “Run along, Bilbo-lad! I will see you later. You and your parents are to take supper with me before the bonfire and the fireworks tonight.”

Gandalf looked at him beneath lowered brows, though the sternness was belied by the twinkle in his eye. “I believe that you will find I have abundant fireworks for tonight! There will be no need for you to steal them!”

Bilbo blushed furiously, and giving a quick bow of farewell, he backed out of the room and closed the door.

__________________________________________

Gandalf chuckled. “He is a very remarkable young hobbit.”

Gerontius smiled. “I think, in spite of his Baggins heritage, that he is one of the most Tookish of my grandchildren! His adventurous nature was somewhat subdued by the Fell Winter, however. He is far more cautious than he used to be. But I think that the Tookishness is just below the surface, ready to burst forth if the right occasion comes along.”

Gandalf nodded. “I think that you are quite right, my friend. So, can I coax you out of your cosy den tonight with the promise of bright explosions?”

“I think perhaps you may, Gandalf! I would quite like to see your fireworks once more.” Unspoken were his last words, “before I die”.

Gandalf nodded. He knew what his friend did not say.

_______________________________________________

That night, tucked up snugly beneath a rug, in a large wheeled chair, Gerontius was the center of his family. Bilbo could not get very close to him, for all his aunts and uncles were nearby, rejoicing in the fact that their father had seen fit to come out of his room on a beautiful summer’s night.

Gandalf’s fireworks had been brilliant, like a fiery flower garden, Bilbo thought. The wizard had been generous as well with squibs and crackers and sparklers--abundant fireworks, as he had said. Now the family and villagers from nearby Tuckborough listened to fiddle and harp and drum, and some of the couples were still dancing, but it was clear that the night was winding down.

Bilbo gave a great sigh--he did not know if it was a sigh of satisfaction for a wonderful evening, or of sorrow that the evening was soon to end.

“Well, Bilbo Baggins,” rumbled the deep voice of the wizard from behind him, “did you enjoy the fireworks even though they were not stolen?”

Bilbo looked up at him. “Yes, sir! They were the most splendid thing I’ve ever seen! Like lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire, like a whole garden of fire! I will never forget it--or you!”

Gandalf laid a hand on his head gently, and bent down to look into his eyes. “Never is a long time, young hobbit. I think that you will forget for a time--but when the time is right, you will indeed remember!”

What a very peculiar thing to say! thought Bilbo. But then his attention was caught by his cousin Siggy, pulling him to come and join the Tangle Dance, in which all hobbits young and old, joined in.

______________________________________________

The Lithedays of 1319 was the last time Bilbo saw his Grandfather Gerontius to speak to. When his family returned at Yule, the Old Took was too ill for conversation, and he passed from life only a few weeks later, in the early Solmath of 1320.

It was many years, however, before Bilbo saw Gandalf again. Over the years, that magical evening gradually came to seem like a long-ago and faded dream, and when he did remember, he found it most peculiar that he could have nearly forgotten so remarkable a personage.

Written for frolijah_fan_54, for the Baggins Birthday Bash exchange on LiveJournal.)

Title: Surprises and Secrets
Author: Dreamflower02
Request: "I'd like to have Frodo and Bilbo - hurt/comfort (Frodo hurt & Bilbo comforting) that requires a modification of a planned birthday party and results in some very unusual/special gifts being given."

“I will not hear another apology. You were helping a friend and neighbor--there is nothing for which you need to apologize. Now, you get comfortable, and let me put this pillow under your foot.” Bilbo tucked and fussed, and Frodo finally began to relax, though his disappointment did not subside. He had been trying to help the Widow Rumble get her washing in before a sudden rainsquall ruined it. A misstep in the wet grass as he ran had resulted in a badly sprained ankle.

It was bad enough to be in pain and to be laid up, but the timing could not be worse--his and Bilbo’s joint Birthday was in two days, and Mistress Salvia had made it clear that he was to stay off his foot and stay in bed with it elevated for at least three or four days. He would certainly not be up in time to take part in the party that Bilbo had planned. Frodo groaned. The Brandybucks were probably already on their way from Buckland--there would be no time to let them know.

“Frodo, I am going to go and get some fresh ice from the cellar. Mistress Salvia said to keep that ankle cold until the swelling subsides. You drink that tea she left for you, and then I will need to go to my study for a while and write some quick notes to go out by Quick Post. We will just postpone the Party for a while.”

“No. Do not apologize!” He smiled, and reached down to smooth the dark curls away from Frodo’s forehead, and then leaned over to place a kiss on his brow. “I’m very proud of you lad, and a delay in having a party is a very small price to pay.”

Frodo sighed, and watched as Bilbo turned and left the room, and then he picked up the tea. He sniffed it, and made a face. Chamomile, vervain, and willow-bark, among other things. Honey would scarcely disguise the taste. Still, he drank it dutifully, for Bilbo had gone the expense of having the healer in.

By the time Bilbo returned with the ice, to refresh the pack that Mistress Salvia had applied, Frodo was beginning to feel drowsy. The pain had subsided to an icy numbness, and when Bilbo left the room quietly to go write the notes to let people know of the postponed party, Frodo had begun to drift off.

He awoke to the delightful smell of mushrooms, as Bilbo entered the room with a tray. Blinking, Frodo glanced out the window, and realized it was past teatime.

“I thought,” said Bilbo, as he helped Frodo to wash his face and hands, “that we would take ‘tupper’.” Frodo grinned at the silly word his cousin had come up with to describe a late tea or early supper. Bilbo had come up with it one day when Merry had been there visiting, the first year Frodo had come to live at Bag End.

They chatted companionably for a while, and then Bilbo made some more of the tea left by the healer, and tucked Frodo up for the night.

It was scarcely sunrise, when Frodo woke up feeling rather urgent. His uncle had assisted him the night before to use the chamber pot without putting any weight on his foot, but Frodo was not sure if he could wait this morning. Uncle Bilbo was not always an early riser. Just as he was beginning to feel that he would have to risk trying it by himself, there was a tap on the door, and then his cousin peeked in.

Once Frodo had finished seeing to his morning needs, Bilbo settled him back in the bed, and propped his ankle up on the pillow. It was beginning to ache again, but it was no longer the sharp excruciating pain of the day before. It had now become a rather persistent, but dull, throbbing ache.

First breakfast rapidly made an appearance--tea, and fruit juice, and porridge, and some of Uncle Bilbo’s famous honeycakes.

Bilbo had brought him a small stack of books, to help while away the time, and Frodo settled in quite happily, with one of his favorites--a translation by Bilbo of the story of Beren and Lúthien.

Just as he was getting to one of the most exciting parts of the story, there was another tap on the door. Was it time for second breakfast already?

When the door opened, Frodo found himself grinning in surprise--for the one bearing the loaded tray was young Sam Gamgee.

“I brung your second breakfast, Master Frodo,” the lad said. “Mr. Bilbo put lots on the tray and extra plates and all--he said you might like to have my company while you et.” Sam blushed as he put the heavily laden tray down upon the bedside table.

He pulled the chair closer to the bed, and soon the two of them were enjoying sausages, fried potatoes, eggs and scones, with plenty of butter and brambleberry preserves.
“Missus Rumble is awful sorry about your poor ankle, Master Frodo. She’s telling’ everbody about how you got hurt helping her.”

Frodo blushed. “Yes. Well, I should have been more careful. I hope she doesn’t blame herself.”

Sam sighed. “Well, it wouldn’t’ve happened if you hadn’t’ve been helping her. But I don’t see as how anyone could be to blame for it.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to blush. He changed the subject. “Mr. Bilbo says as how Merry is going to be here anyhow--even though the Party is off.”

Frodo nodded. “Uncle Sara, Aunt Esme and Merry will probably be here sometime today; they would have already left to come here before Uncle Bilbo could send out the notes.”

Sam grinned. He and Merry had formed a firm friendship over the last couple of years, since Frodo had come to live full-time at Bag End. Sam always looked forward to Merry’s occasional visits to Hobbiton.

When the meal was finished, Sam gathered up the dishes onto the tray. Then he hesitated and blushed once more. “Master Frodo,” he said, ducking his head, “seeing as how your birthday’s tomorrow, I wanted to give you your present today, while it’s still proper.”

“Why Sam! A present?” Frodo looked surprised. The Gamgee clan usually gave a joint gift to Uncle Bilbo, one which served as both Bilbo’s and Frodo’s gift.

Sam nodded. “My mum sent up some of her cherry tarts for you and Mr. Bilbo. But this is for you.” He reached in his pocket and held out his hand.

It was a marble. “Sam! That’s a bull’s-eye aggie!” Frodo grinned and took the marble to look at it. “I didn’t know you had one of those!”

Sam grinned back. “I won it off of Jolly Cotton t’other day! Do you like it, Master Frodo!”

“I do, very much Sam! As soon as I’m better, we shall play, and I’ll give you a chance to win it back!”

Sam laughed. “I’d like that, Master Frodo, but I don’t see as that’s likely. You’re ever so much better at marbles than me!”

The day passed comfortably enough, with Uncle Bilbo coming in to keep him company from time to time. After luncheon, the Widow Rumble came herself, with the birthday gift of a blue pocket handkerchief and profuse apologies for his injury. Frodo thanked her for the gift and reassured her that he did not hold her to blame for his sprain.

“Good afternoon, Frodo dear.” She bent to pinch his cheek, as she had always done. Perhaps one day she’d realize that he was a tween now, and too old for that sort of thing. But she was fond of him, so he tried not to wince.

“I was sorry to hear of your mishap, Nephew. But I am very impressed with your Kindness. It is always Proper to Help One’s Neighbors.” She sat down and smiled at him.

“Thank you, Aunt Dora.” In spite of the sententious way she had of speaking, Frodo was very fond of her as well. She might worry a lot about what was proper, but she had a very generous heart.

“I have your Birthday Present,” she said, as she reached into her reticule. She took out a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Your father made this, and gave it to me on his own Twenty-Second Birthday.”

Frodo opened it curiously. It was a small box made of oak, a small flower carved upon the lid. Tears unexpectedly came to his eyes, as he thought of his father making this for his sister. “Thank you, Aunt Dora,” he whispered huskily, and sniffed.

She smiled, and handed him a handkerchief. “You are Most Welcome, Frodo dear. I do think that your dear Papa would have liked you to have it.” She rose and kissed his brow, and took her leave.

It was just after teatime, when Frodo heard voices in the hall, and realized that his Brandybuck kin must have arrived.

Sure enough, the door opened seconds later, to admit his Uncle Saradoc, Aunt Esmeralda and Merry. Merry rushed over to him.

Uncle Sara came over. “Yes, we *heard* how it happened, Frodo! I’m not surprised you were helping someone else when it happened.”

Aunt Esme chuckled warmly. “But it was not *anyone* who did so. It was you, so pardon us if we feel a bit proud of you.”

“Not so very dreadfully, now, sprout,” Frodo answered. “It hurt much more when it first happened.”

Frodo reached out his arms, and Merry came over to him to receive his embrace. “The best part of the party is here, Merry. You came!” He squeezed his little cousin fiercely. He was always surprised to realize how much he had missed Merry until he saw him again.

Bilbo allowed Merry to take supper in the room with Frodo, and then, after much discussion and pleading from two pairs of wide young eyes, gave in to allowing Merry to sleep in Frodo’s bed.

The next morning, Merry was collected by his mother for a wash and to get dressed, and Bilbo came in to share first breakfast with Frodo.

“Happy birthday,” said Frodo, smiling. “Do you mind very much, Uncle, opening the top drawer of my bureau? The one on the very top is yours--and would you mind passing out the others to those who are here?”

Bilbo went over and opened the drawer, taking out the wrapped parcels he found there. One of them was small and flat, and had his name upon it in Frodo’s neat handwriting. He carried it back over to the chair by the bed, and sat down. He placed the parcel on the tray, and took another very small one from his breast pocket, to place next to it.

The two of them ate their breakfast in silent companionship, and then Frodo said, “You go first this time, Uncle.”

Bilbo carefully drew away the paper. “Oh my Frodo! This is wonderful!” It was a carefully done watercolour painting of the rooftree atop the Hill. “I can almost count the leaves!” he exclaimed.

“And now for yours, Frodo-lad.” He handed the tiny fabric wrapped parcel to Frodo, who took it curiously. Frodo untied the ribbon, and pulled the fabric off.

“You have lived here for more than a year and a half. I think that it is time you had your own key to the smial. You are old enough to be trusted in this, I think.”

Suddenly Bilbo stood up, and with a look of determination, said “There should be no secrets between us, Frodo. I am going to tell you something which no one else in the Shire knows about.” He turned away for a second, and then turned back. “I have something to show you.” He reached into his trouser pocket, drew it forth, and opened his hand.

Theme: Song/Poetry
Elements: The title, Supper’s Over, Breakfast’s Cooking , which is a line from the folksong, Old Dan Tucker
Rating: G
Author's Notes: The song “Nob O’ the Lea” was written for Marigold’s Challenge, and was featured in my story “Life of a Bard”.
Summary: A discussion about the importance of mealtimes among the Fellowship…
Word Count: 1,530

“Supper's ready, Mr. Pippin! Do you want to get the others?" This was only the fourth day out of Rivendell, and Sam had decided to cook when he had finished his watch. He was not really used to sleeping in the day yet.

Sam blinked, as Pippin, who had been on watch with Legolas, went to shake Merry and Frodo awake, before moving on to Boromir, and then Gimli. Aragorn had sat up at Sam's low call, and Gandalf, too, was already stirring.

"What do you mean, Mr. Pippin?" Sam shook his head. "It's too late for teatime."

"No," said Pippin. "I just wonder if it can be properly called supper, since our days and nights are turned around. Perhaps we should call it breakfast."

"Breakfast?" snorted Merry. "The Sun's about to go down. Breakfast is not at sunset."

"But," Pippin replied, "breakfast is called that because you are breaking your fast after sleeping all night. So if you sleep all day..."

Frodo, who was finally awake, smiled at Pippin's logic. "You do have a point there, Pip. We walk all night and sleep all day, so I suppose we are breaking our fast in the evening."

Sam was torn. He tended to agree on this subject with Mr. Merry--but he did not want to say so, not if Mr. Frodo was of another opinion.

Boromir, who was fully awake now and listening to the conversation with amusement, said "Does it really matter what name you give the meal?" only to find himself the object of four horrified expressions.

"Does it *matter*?" spluttered Merry. "Of course it matters! You can't just call a meal *anything*!"

Pippin nodded, and began ticking off his fingers. "First breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, tea, supper. Sometimes late supper, too. "

“Not to mention the other things that aren’t quite meals, such as a mid-afternoon break or a midnight larder raid or a little something to tide one over before supper!” Merry declared.

"And don't forget about 'tupper', Uncle Bilbo's invention," put in Frodo, with a twinkle in his eye. He was clearly enjoying this discussion.

"We are barely having two meals a night with a little something to nibble in the middle," said Merry. "I don't know that there *are* proper names for the meals we are having."

"If you can call them meals--especially when we don't even stop walking for one of them," put in Pippin.

Aragorn had been listening in amusement. "Hobbits!" he said. "You all make such a ritual of feeding yourselves."

Gandalf, who had been listening to the exchange with a twinkle in his eye, said “You should know by now Aragorn how important meals are to hobbits! But whether we call it ‘breakfast’ or ‘supper’, we are wasting time, and should consume this delicious smelling meal that Samwise has prepared, for I should like to be moving along ere moonrise!”

Indeed, it did smell delicious--a thick coney stew, for Merry and Frodo had some luck with throwing stones at hares that morning before the Company had halted. It contained not only coney, but dried mushrooms and dried fruit from their supplies, and some herbs and roots that Sam and Pippin had foraged as they walked the night before. Sam had also made some oat bannocks to go with the stew.

As Legolas took his bowl and went to get his food, he was surprised when Merry took it from him. “You Big Folk don’t know what a proper serving is,” he said firmly. He and Pippin collected all the bowls to the amazement of the others, and went over to the cooking pot, where they dished up very generous portions.

Boromir blinked, as Pippin brought his food and went back to fetch some for Aragorn. He started to protest. “I do not believe I can eat this much…”

Frodo interrupted. “You had better try. Sam has been offended at how little you big people are eating--he was afraid that you don’t like his cooking!”

Gimli took the bowl that Pippin brought him, and smiled widely as the aroma reached his nose. “We are lucky indeed to have hobbit cooking! Master Gamgee is an excellent cook and it would not do to insult him!”

As the group sat about the campfire eating, Pippin asked hopefully “Do we have any tea, Sam?”

Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pippin. We don’t have all that much tea in our supplies, so I’m only making that in the morning before we go to sleep.”

Pippin finished using his finger to get out the last of his stew, what his spoon had missed. He looked in the bowl sadly to see if he had missed anything. “Tea,” he sang, “tea, glorious tea…” He began once more, singing softly, and soon joined by the other hobbits.

Tea, tea, glorious tea!
Come put your feet up and have some with me!
Some bread and some butter
‘Twixt lunchtime and supper
There’s naught like a cuppa
Tea, glorious tea!

Tea, tea, glorious tea!
Now won’t you have a nice sitdown with me?
Just a wee little drop?
Oh, the kettle is hot
And I have a full pot
Of tea, glorious tea!

Tea, tea, glorious tea!
I know you’re longing to gossip with me!
I’ve managed to bake
Some biscuits and cake.
Oh come and partake
Of tea, glorious tea!*

The others listened to the hobbits singing, and Aragorn smiled at Gandalf. “That’s a favourite song of Bilbo’s.” he said softly.

First breakfast he has at the rise of the sun,
Two eggs, a sausage and one sticky bun.
He stays at the table until it is done,
And then back to bed is his idea of fun.

Second breakfast, to the kitchen again,
Porridge and cream is his happy plan,
Followed by toast and strawberry jam,
An apple or pear and a wee bit of ham.

He takes himself out for a bit of a walk,
But elevenses come at the chime of a clock.
There’s no time to stop and no time to talk
When there’s bread and butter and beans in the crock.

Though he’s much work to do, he has a hunch
That naught will be done before time for lunch.
There are mushrooms and leeks and carrots in a bunch,
All of them things that he’s eager to munch.

He’s ready to eat when teatime arrives,
Though fainting with hunger his spirit revives
With scones thickly spread with soft cheese and chives
And tea made with honey from his own beehives.

Soon supper has come and his hunger is dire,
He’s almost certain that he soon will expire--
But there’s chicken on the spit and soup on the fire,
It makes him the happiest lad in the Shire.

And now that he finally finds he is fed,
He takes himself off to his warm little bed
And laying him down and nodding his head
He dreams of a marvelous, bountiful spread!

The tune was a jolly one, and by the time they had finished, the Big Folk were all joining in the chorus. But no sooner had they completed the last verse, than Gandalf said “The Man in the Moon is peering over the mountains! Come now, it is time to break camp and move along.”

Soon the fire was doused, and the Company walked on, heartened a bit by song and good food.

Boromir found himself unexpectedly humming “Tea, glorious tea…” With a sigh, he realized that the song was going to be running through his head all night long.

______________________________
* Sung to the tune of “Mud, Glorious Mud (The Hippopotamus Song)” by Flanders and Swann

Title: Will There Ever Be a Morning?
Theme: Song/Poetry
Elements: Will There Ever Be a Morning?
Rating: G
Author's Notes: The title is taken from a poem by Emily Dickinson.
Summary: Pippin encounters a new friend after the siege of Minas Tirith has been broken.
Word Count: 1,338

Pippin sat up. Merry finally slept deeply, the furrow of worry in his brow eased, a bit of color in his pale cheeks, and his breathing deep and steady. Pippin had slept as well, lightly, still almost unable to believe that the two of them had been reunited after all the dreadful fighting.

He fought down a wave of sorrow as he remembered finding Merry. “Are you going to bury me?” Those words would haunt him for a long time, he feared. But good old Strider had put things to rights, and now, after a pipe and some food and a nap, Pippin knew it was time for him to return to his duties, for he had other responsibilities now. He placed a light kiss on Merry’s brow, and carefully slid down from the huge bed. He made sure that Merry’s pipe and a mug of water were left within his cousin’s reach. Then he took up the tray of dirty dishes and quietly padded from the room.

He gave a companionable nod and smile to Beregond, who stood outside the door of the room in which Faramir lay. If there were no other orders for him, he would return and stand guard there with Beregond until other word was given.

Pippin had no idea of the hour. The Sun had broken through the Enemy’s darkness when the Rohirrim had arrived to break the siege, but it had been but a respite. He knew very well that until Frodo and Sam completed their mission the West could not count victory. At least, thanks to Captain Faramir he knew that the two of them were still alive and still bent on their task.

The passageway was quiet, though every now and then, he heard soft murmurs behind closed doors. He began to believe that it might truly be late at night. The stone flags were cool and smooth beneath his feet, and the fragrance of the herbs the healers used was more prominent now than the smell of blood, though not enough to disguise it completely.

As he turned a corner, however, he heard something else: a soft and muffled weeping. A door was ajar, just ahead. It was too small to be the door to a room. He hesitated. While he did not wish to intrude, at the same time, he wished to help. He bit his lip and considered for an instant. The worst the unknown person could do was to tell him to “go away”. He put the tray of dirty dishes down on the floor, and peeked past the door.

He’d found a linen closet, and in it, a child was huddled and weeping miserably. For an instant, he thought it was Bergil, but then he realized that this child was smaller than his friend.

The boy turned, startled, and wiped an arm across his face. He stared at Pippin, his grey eyes wide in his pale face, and then he whispered, awestruck: “You are Bergil’s friend, the ernil i pheriannath!“

“Yes, I am,” Pippin said, kneeling down next to the child. “I have seen you with the other boys, but I do not know your name.”

“Sador,” was the trembling answer. “Please don’t tell anyone else you saw me weeping like a baby!”

Pippin sat down next to him. “Of course I won’t. But why are you hiding here?” He carefully did not ask why the lad was in tears. Did not everyone in this benighted City have reason for tears the last few days?

“I was not exactly hiding.” Sador gave a sniff. “I came to get clean linens--Dame Ioreth asked me to bring them for one of the beds. The one who had been in the bed,” he paused, his eyes welling up once more, “he died. I had thought he would get better, but he died. Everyone keeps dying, and I know they say we won today, but there are so many dead here, and so much blood, and I don’t know if it will ever get light again.” He sniffed once more, and then scrubbed his face with both fists. “Will there ever be a morning?”

Pippin felt his heart pounding with pity. So young! Bergil was ten, and this boy looked to be at least a year or two younger than that! He placed his arm about the thin shoulders, and took a deep breath. “I do not know, Sador, but I do believe so. After all, we have Gandalf--you call him Mithrandir--on our side! And I am sure that you have heard rumors about the King returning.”

Sador nodded, and looked up at Pippin, his eyes wide. “Dame Ioreth said it was because she said ‘the hands of the King are the hands of a healer’.”

“And so they are,” said Pippin, “for I know him. And I believe that with him on our side, things will get better. There are many people working against the Enemy, and they are all very determined. I do not *know* they will prevail, but I feel that they will.”

A thought came to him. No songs of the Shire fit for great lords, he thought, but for a troubled child… “Would you like for me to sing for you?” he asked. He did not wait for Sador’s answer, but began to first hum, and then to sing, an old Shire lullaby.

“Evening has fallen, the Sun’s in the West.
The nightbirds are calling, the Shire is at rest.
Peaceful the night and gentle the breeze,
In cot and in smial, the folk take their ease.
High above the Stars are kindled,
Kith and kin within are nestled,
Safe from harm
In loving arms,
Find slumber deep,
Fall into sleep,
May joy find all your dreams,
May only joy find your dreams…”

As the last notes died away, Pippin realized Sador was asleep. He carefully moved his arm. He couldn’t leave the child in a closet. And he was much too large for Pippin to carry. He spotted the stack of linens on the floor next to Sador--they must still be waiting for those. Moving as silently as only a hobbit can, he gathered them up, and slipped into the hall. Yes, just a little further down the passage, another door was ajar, and Pippin could hear a voice there.

“…and so I saw him with his healing hands! He used kingsfoil to cure the Black Breath! He cured our own dear Lord Faramir, and the pretty lady from Rohan, and the little pherian who came in with Mithrandir and the ernil i…why, here’s the ernil i pheriannath now! And with the sheets of all things! Where’s that boy, Sador? He should have brought these long ago…”

Pippin gave a small bow. “Dame Ioreth! I left the poor child fast asleep among the linens. He must have been very tired.”

“Thank you, my lord pherian. I forget how young he is, and this has been a very long day for all of us.” Ioreth took the sheets from Pippin and turned to the other woman in the room, an apprentice healer.

“Merewen, would you mind bearing the boy back to his cot among the other errand boys?”

Her companion nodded, and went out, Pippin following at her heels, to show her where Sador lay. She gave a sigh as she picked him up carefully. “Poor child! He should not have stayed in the City, he is so young. But he had no kinfolk in the outlands to take him in, and his only family is a brother in the Tower Guard.”

That news made tears spring to Pippin’s eyes--imagine that, to be so bereft of family! He patted his young friend on the arm before she carried him away, and then with a sigh, he picked up the tray of dishes and padded on his way.

I owed a drabble to Slender Sail, for an icon she made for me, this was her request.

"Hobbits will do. I'd like serious, but since they are hobbits, it will be light in the end. Something about both the future and the far past... ?"

“In Brandy Hall there were many works dealing with Eriador and the history of Rohan. Some of these were composed or begun by Meriadoc himself…” (FotR: Prologue: A Note on Shire Records)

Merry put down his quill, removed his spectacles, and leaned back. He rolled his shoulders, remembering how Frodo used to do the same. Sighing, he stood and glanced out the window, wondering how often old Bilbo had done that when he occupied these very rooms. Even though Master Elrond had sailed years before, Rivendell was still the abode of Elves and the Valley of Imladris retained its beauty, if not its timelessness.

Merry had come in search of knowledge. So much of the history of the Shire was bound up with this place: Bilbo’s Adventure was tied up in it, and the heirs to the King had been sheltered here. The records of the Kings of Arnor were kept in this library: even the granting of the Shire to Marcho and Blanco by King Argeleb II was recorded in the leather-bound annals of Rivendell‘s library.

The Shire needed to know, to remember. It should not be forgotten there were important connections between the Shire and the Wide World. Merry worried; the hobbits of the Shire were only interested in their own back yards. They still called the places outside the borders the “Outlands”. What knowledge would be lost, when he and Pippin and Sam were gone? And if that knowledge was lost, what danger might follow? If the hobbits of the Shire should forget they had both enemies and allies beyond the Bounds, then King’s Edict or no, there could be peril.

“Merry,” said Pippin, poking in his nose, “it’s time for elevenses! Lord Celeborn asked if we’d join him and Elladan and Elrohir in a picnic!”

Merry’s mood lightened instantly. He capped the ink, and said “I’m coming! I hope there are some strawberry tarts…”

Gandalf stood outside the tent, puffing on his pipe and listening to the conversation within.

He heard the voice of Thranduil: “Bilbo Baggins! You are more worthy to wear the armour of elf-princes than many that have looked more comely in it. But I wonder if Thorin Oakenshield will see it so. I have more knowledge of dwarves in general than you have perhaps. I advise you to remain with us, and here you shall be honoured and thrice welcomed.”

"Thank you very much", was the courteous response. “But I don’t think I ought to leave my friends like this, after all we have gone through together. And I promised to wake old Bombur at midnight, too! Really I must be going, and quickly.”

Gandalf chuckled at the sound of hobbity politeness, and as the details of Bilbo’s escort were arranged, he moved from his listening post to a spot further out in the camp.

He had known, somehow, that Bilbo was the right hobbit for the job. Outwardly, the hobbit might appear all staid Baggins. But Gandalf had known from the start that Bilbo took far more after his grandfather Gerontius, the Old Took, than was apparent to the eye.

He was very pleased with this outcome. As Bilbo approached, he clapped him on the shoulder, and said “Well done, Mr. Baggins! There is always more about you than anyone expected!”

The look of amazed joy on Bilbo’s face at the sight of the wizard warmed Gandalf’s heart. But there was no time for a reunion now, and he stopped Bilbo’s spate of questions before it began. “All in good time! Things are drawing towards the end now, unless I am mistaken. There is an unpleasant time just in front of you, but keep your heart up! You may come through all right! There is news brewing that even the ravens have not heard! Good night!”

He suffered Bilbo’s brief grasp of his hand, and then watched him scurry off with a quick “Good-bye”.

He stood, leaning on his staff and watching the small figure move out of the lights of the campfires as he was taken to the ford at the edge of the encampment.

Bilbo had been such an innocent little creature when he left the Shire, inexperienced in the ways of the Wide World, never realizing how different things might be, or how his life had changed. He still had grief ahead of him, and Gandalf sorrowed that he could not spare his friend that much. But he was glad to see that Bilbo’s trust that people would do the right thing was still intact. That bit of innocence, he thought, would be rewarded if all went well.

And if Bilbo was no longer quite so innocent as he had been on leaving the Shire, he had exchanged it for wisdom, that would serve him well.

Gandalf turned and went to seek out Thranduil and Bard, his own heart that much lighter for his encounter with Bilbo.

A/N: Quotations in italics are from The Hobbit, Chapter XVI, "A Thief in the Night"

A very brief little birthday mathom for our beloved Shirebound! Happy birthday, dear!

Sam came from the kitchen where he had been putting away their purchases from the market. He and Rose had taken advantage of Mr. Frodo’s offer to watch baby Elanor for a while, to go down and pick up a few needed items.

She put her finger to her lips, and gestured towards the sitting room; Sam glanced in and smiled.

Mr. Frodo was reclined in the big armchair, his feet upon the footstool, with little Elanor snuggled in his arms. His face was relaxed in peaceful sleep, as was hers, her little thumb in her mouth; and his dark curls mingled with the golden curls of the baby on his shoulder.

Rose walked over and took a coverlet from the back of the settee, and turned to tuck it carefully over both the sleepers, giving each a gentle kiss on the forehead before turning to meet Sam’s shining eyes.

Rating: G
Author’s Notes: This story takes place between Chapters 16 and 17 of my story “A Conspiracy of Hobbits”.
Summary: Lily Cotton bakes Frodo’s last birthday cake before he leaves on the Quest…

“Missus Lily!” Marigold burst into the Cotton’s kitchen with Rose at her heels.

Rose saw her mother look around from her cleaning, with a startled and annoyed expression on her face. “Bless me, lasses! You did make me jump! What news could possibly be worth such a pother?”

It was Marigold who answered. Rose’s mind was elsewhere, as she remembered how bold she had been earlier in the day. If her mother ever knew how she had kissed Sam like a shameless hussy, there would be a pother, sure enough! But she couldn’t have borne to let Sam go off and not let him know how it stood for her-- that she’d wait for him, no matter what!

Marigold was bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. “Mr. Freddy Bolger-- Mr. Frodo’s cousin from Budgeford-- he wants you to make a birthday cake for Mr. Frodo’s birthday tomorrow!”

Rose shook herself from thoughts of Sam. “Oh, Mam! He said he knows it’s short notice and that you won’t have time to make one as fancy as usual, but he said he’d pay extra for your trouble! He said he just wants it as big as possible and he knows it will be delicious!”

“ ‘Extra for the trouble’!” Lily exclaimed. “If that’s not just like a gentlehobbit. All the coin there is won’t put an extra hour in the day! What am I to do? Why it’s nearly two hours past luncheon as is, and tea and supper to see to! But there’s nothing for it, I suppose, as it’s for Mr. Frodo! I’m sure he’ll need a cake to cheer him, what with having to leave his lovely hole to the likes of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and that son of hers, and move off to the wilds of Buckland across the River! But Rose, I’ll need all your help!”

“I can help, too, Missus Lily!” said Marigold eagerly. “I already told the Gaffer I’d stay over with Rosie tonight, and he said as it’s all right!”

Lily wiped her hands on her apron, and said “Well then, you two lasses finish the washing up.” She went to the kitchen door, and called. “Nibs!”

Her youngest son was busy chopping firewood, and he looked up at her call. “What is it, Mam?”

“You run across the field to tell your Aunt Delphie I’ve a mighty baking to do on short notice tonight, and as it’s for coin, I’d appreciate if you lads and your Dad can take your tea and supper over there. I’ll need the kitchen to meself tonight.”

Nibs nodded, and put down his axe. But before he could dart off, his mother called again. “Tell her I’ve got a big pot of pork stew on already, and if she says yes, then I’ll send it along. No need of it going to waste, and she won’t have to stretch her larder to feed you lot.”

Rose went over to her mother as she turned. “The dishes are all done, Mam. What do you want me and Mari to do now?”

“Make sure that the table is clear for us to work. And fetch out the mixing bowls and pans. I’m going to check the larder to see what we have that will make a nice cake. Mr. Freddy wants a big one, does he?”

Rose nodded. Mr. Freddy had stressed that. “Frodo needs some distraction, Miss Rose, and worrying about what to do with leftover cake is better than worrying over his move. Assuming of course, that there are any leftovers with Pippin around!” He had laughed heartily at that, and Rose could not help but chuckle as well. Mr. Pippin was well known for his sweet tooth.

Lily turned and went into her well-stocked larder. Rose could hear her mother muttering to herself. “No sugar, no time to make sugar paste even if I had some; honey’ll have to do. Plenty of butter from this morning’s churning…I think I still have that tin of marzipan from Cousin Handy…”

Rose and Marigold made short work of the table, scrubbing and drying it, and then Rose took a chair to rummage in the upper cabinets for her mother’s special baking bowls and pans. Those had been a wedding gift from Lily’s Uncle Perry Noakes. He had been a renowned baker, and in her tweens, Lily had worked for him in his bakery in Michel Delving. After she had wed Tom Cotton, he had supplied her with special ingredients on his birthday or at Yule, and his son, Cousin Handfast kept up the tradition. On his last birthday her mother had received a tin of marzipan, nearly a pound of white sugar, and a precious vanilla bean, sealed up in waxed parchment and kept in a little glass jar. Last year he had given her some of the precious sticks of cinnamon that gave off such a wonderful scent, and her mother still had more than half of them left.

But the white sugar was gone, for a month ago, her mother had used the last of it on Hyssop Goodbody’s wedding cake. It was just as well; sugar paste took a lot of time to make and the fancy decorations and such that her mother knew how to make took days.

As the ingredients were laid out upon the table, Rose saw to firing up the brick oven built into the side of the huge kitchen fireplace. She shoveled in some embers from the hearth, as well as some wood. Once the embers began to glow, her Mam would check to make sure it was not too hot. “For cakes, lass, the oven should be not too low nor too hot. A nice medium heat is best for baking…” It would take a while to get the temperature just right.

Marigold had put the kettle on, to make tea for them as they worked, while Lily double checked to make sure she had everything on hand.

Just then Nibs came rushing back into the kitchen, his cousin Rufus on his heels. “Aunt Delphie says we can take supper there and welcome to us. I’ll let Dad and the others know.” He dashed back out.

Rufus was holding a small covered bowl. “Ma sent these over-- some of her candied cherries. She thought as you might could use them, Aunt Lily.”

“Bless her!” said Lily. She gave Rufus a large dishtowel, and she took the stew off the hearth. “You take this back to Delphinium with my thanks, Rufus!”

“Yes, Aunt Lily! ‘Bye Rose! Bye Marigold!” And off he went, a bit more carefully than he had come.

Her mother smiled. “We’ll not starve. There is plenty of bread, cold ham and cold roast chicken in the larder. Now to work.”

Soon Lily was busy mixing the flour and leavening together, as Rose beat together the butter and honey and eggs, and Marigold chopped the fruit.

As her mother blended the ingredients together, Rose prepared the special cake pans, wiping them generously with butter and then sprinkling them with flour so they would not stick.

Soon the first four cake pans were filled and placed in the oven, and the three tired bakers sat down to a well deserved meal.

“I’m so hot, Missus Lily!” said Marigold as she wiped her brow. “I guess that this cold supper is better than the stew.” She began to munch on a pear-- she’d made short work of the sandwich she had made of cold ham and sharp cheese.

Her mother looked at Marigold. “How’s the Gaffer taking it, then, his Sam moving off to Buckland to do for Mr. Frodo?”

Rose blushed, and looked down into her teacup; fortunately, her mother was looking to Marigold to answer.

“He’d be happier about it, I think, if only Mr. Frodo had not sold Bag End to Mistress Lobelia and that Lotho of hers. I s’pose we’ll be having to say ‘Mr. Lotho’ to him before long. But the Gaffer says I’m not to be going up there to do for them any longer.” She sighed. “But, bless him, Sam’s been saving up since he learned about his going off. He put four month’s pay by, and he says that he’ll see we have more. He doesn’t want me working for that Lotho either! I don’t know what’ll become of the gardens, but the Gaffer’s not up to working up there anymore. And I think they’ll find it hard to hire someone new.”

Rose bit her lip and gathered up their dishes, carrying them away to the sink. She knew from the feeling at her back that her Mam and Mari were watching, wondering what she thought of Sam’s going away. But if they didn’t bring it up, she wasn’t going to. ‘Twas bad enough when she thought that Buckland was as far as they were going, and there’d been no talk of her joining him there; then she had begun to suspect that there was more to it, and that Buckland was just the first stopping place out of the Shire and into the Wide World for some reason. Sam hadn’t confirmed her suspicions-- and he had not denied them either. But he’d be back. She knew it in her heart of hearts.

Lily went to check the cake layers, and she drew them forth. The fruity and spicy aroma filled the kitchen. She placed them on folded dishtowels at one end of the table to cool, and they began to prepare the next layers.

“Four more, Mam?” Rose asked, as her mother once more began to fill the pans. She was surprised, for her mother had once said that seven was enough layers for any cake.

Her mother turned to her with a wink and a grin. “Well, we’ve worked hard enough-- and I expect we need to be sure it’s good enough for the gentry, don’t you?”

Both lasses smiled widely. They had been tantalized by the wonderful smells of the baking, but had not thought they’d get a taste.

Once the final layers were in to bake, the three made short work of the washing up. The cooled layers were carefully wrapped in clean damp muslin, and placed in the cool larder, for it would be easier to finish the cake when it was completely cool and settled.

All save the last layer. Her dad, Tom, Jolly and Nibs returned from their dinner at the home of their Uncle Wilcome and Aunt Delphie. Nick had gone to The Green Dragon, where he was now working part of the time.

Rose and Marigold talked about their day, giggling over the morning at Bag End, and Rose confessed that she had kissed Sam. But she did not confess why. Mari giggled, and said “I’ve kissed your brother oftener than you’ve kissed mine!”

“Mari, you wicked lass!” Rose exclaimed, as though she had not known it all along.

Marigold snickered, and then turned her back. Soon Rose could hear her soft snores.

Sam, Merry and Pippin finally finished loading the various items into the waggon-- the last of Frodo’s possessions to be given away, things that were not included in the sale to the S.-B.s or had not been shipped to Buckland.

“Will the Cottons be able to use all these things, Sam?” Pippin asked as he shoved in a large box.

“Nay, Mr. Pippin,” Sam answered, “but they’ll know who can. Old Tom knows the hobbits thereabouts in Bywater, those who can use these things. Though I think Missus Lily will be pleased with that set of Dwarven pans that Mr. Bilbo had.”

Fatty Bolger came out of Bag End, and gestured to Merry, who turned and went over to him. Freddy nodded, handed him something, and patted Merry on the shoulder. “Take care, lads,” he called, “and be back before noon!”

“No worries,” laughed Merry. “We know!” He clambered up onto the waggon seat to join Sam and Pippin, and as they drove off, he held up a pouch and shook it so that it jingled. “Payment for the cake!” he said. “This was most certainly a clever diversion on Fatty’s part, I must say!”

Sam shook the reins, and the ponies headed off down the road. Merry looked at Sam seriously. “Sam, is all going to be well for your family while you are away?”

Sam did not pretend to misunderstand. “Yes, Mr. Merry. Mr. Frodo has advanced me eight months wages-- we’ve left it with Mr. Grubb, with instructions to deliver it to the Gaffer and Marigold after four months. And I had saved up four months wages that I gave to the Gaffer t’ other day. That should see them through, I reckon, till we get back.”

Merry shook his head. “It only took Bilbo from April to Midsummer to get to Rivendell, which is as far as I expect we’ll be going. But I think Sam’s wise. We don’t know what might happen to delay us along the way--especially as Gandalf hasn’t returned yet.”

“He will,” Pippin said confidently. “Gandalf always does what he says he will.”

“I don’t ‘spect we’ll be gone so long either, Mr. Pippin. But as my old Gaffer says, “Better safe than sorry!” And I’m sure that Mr. Gandalf will turn up!”

The conversation lapsed, and after a few moments, Pippin began to sing, and was soon joined by Sam and than by Merry. Before long they were turning down the lane that led to the Cotton’s farm.

Sam’s thoughts went back to the day before, when Rosie had given him such a kiss as she never had before in all the time they’d been walking out. He blushed to remember it. She’d guessed, she had, that Mr. Frodo was going further away than just Buckland, but she’d asked no questions, not his Rosie. She’d just kissed him till he couldn’t breathe nor even think straight, and then she’d told him right sharp to come home when he was done. His Rose was clever-- the cleverest and bonniest lass in all the Shire. And he’d see her again today.

The Cottons and Marigold had finished first breakfast, and Farmer Cotton and his lads had been sent off about their morning chores. Rose and Marigold did the washing up, while Lily set about assembling the cake. First came the fancy plate, which would later be returned.

Then over each layer was spread a generous amount of raspberry preserves before the next layer was added. Great care was taken in adding the last layer, and then Lily carefully inserted four of the clean wooden rods that Jolly whittled for her, to keep the layers from sliding apart. Finally, she rolled out a circle of marzipan and placed on top.

She stood back and looked at it. It needed a little something…”Rosie! Go out to the cutting garden, and make me a small nosegay--about so big.” She held out her hands a very small distance apart.

“Yes, Mam!” Rose went around to the south side of the house, where the small garden of cutting flowers grew. She soon had a nice little posy of calendulas and cosmos and late-blooming dianthus. Just as she was about to go back into the kitchen and give them to her mother, she heard the sounds of a waggon approaching, and she raced to the front of the house.

“Good morning, Miss Rose!” Mr. Merry called. “We’ve brought those things we mentioned yesterday, and we’ve come to pick up the cake.”

She walked over to the waggon, trying to avoid Sam’s eye. “Good morning, Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin… Sam.”

She dared a glance up at him, and felt her face flame. It was some consolation, though to see that he was just as red as she felt! Mr. Merry grinned knowingly, and Mr. Pippin gave a low chuckle, and Rose felt her face grow even warmer. They couldn’t know-- Sam would never tell. But perhaps they’d guessed. Rose bit her lip, and then said, “The cake’s very nearly done, Mr. Merry! If you wish to come in and see it?”

The three of them trailed her into the kitchen. Her mother greeted Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin politely as befitted gentry, and Sam warmly. She was pleased with the flowers, and placing them atop the cake said:

Mr. Merry laughed. “I know it was short notice, Mrs. Cotton.” He took out a pouch of coin and handed it to her. “Fatty said to keep the difference, to make up for all the trouble he must have caused you. Well, we shall go and find a couple of your sturdy sons to help us unload that waggon, and then we shall come back in and fetch the cake. Is there anything we need to know about carrying it back?” He looked at the cake anxiously. It was very large!

“Just to take care, Mr. Merry! I’m sure Mr. Bolger would not be happy if it were dropped along the way!”

“I’m sure he would not either! And it will be just as delicious as all of your other beautiful cakes!”

Rose watched her mother blush. Mr. Merry could be quite as charming as his cousin when he wished.

The three turned to go out of the kitchen, but Rose caught Sam’s eye for an instant, and the look in it made her heart skip a beat, it was such a look of love and sorrow. Then they were out the kitchen door, and she heard Mr. Pippin yelling: “Hoy, Nibs! Nick!”

Rose turned to see that her mother had emptied the coins on the table. She stared.

Her mother looked up. “Why this is more than twice what I would have charged! I can’t take this much!”

Rose laughed. “You will have to, Mam! If you try to give any of it back, Mr. Merry will just wave his hand and say that’s what Mr. Freddy gave him for you, and he won’t take it.”

A couple of hours later, Rose watched as Sam and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin drove slowly off, so as not to jostle the cake. Mr. Pippin sat in the back to keep it steady. Sam turned and waved a farewell, and Rose lifted her hand to wave back. She kept waving as long as she could.

Lily Cotton’s Famous Layer Cake
(This is a much smaller version. It only makes three small layers, rather than seven giant ones!)

½ cup butter or margarine, softened (but not melted)
1 cup honey
2 eggs
1 cup applesauce
1 teaspoon vanilla

2½ cups flour, sifted
2½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ cup raisins (or currents)
¼ cup candied cherries, chopped
1 apple, peeled, cored and finely diced
(Optional: ½ cup chopped nuts)

"Mother." Pippin stood in the door to the kitchen, with his small travelling case in his hand.

"Excuse me, Buttercup," Eglantine said to the cook. They had been planning the list for market day. "What is it Pippin?" she asked, studying her small son. She recognised the stubborn Tookish glint in his eyes. Whatever he had in mind, he would not be easily dissuaded.

The nine-year-old looked at his mother seriously. "I wondered if I could have a sandwich and an apple. I don't think I can get to Bag End before time for lunch, so I might need something to eat on the way."

"Bag End?" What did her lad have in mind? "I don't believe we have received any invitations for you to go to Bag End." She did not mention the fact that it was too far for a nine-year-old to walk by himself.

He nodded furiously. "I did! I did, Mother! Last year when I visited, Cousin Bilbo said 'Pippin-lad we enjoyed your visit very much! You must come back to see us again!' and so I am." He gazed up at her earnestly, making his eyes as wide as possible. "That's an invitation! It is!"

Eglantine pursed her lips. His little trick of putting on that innocent expression meant he knew very well it had not been a real invitation. "It is an invitation of sorts, Pippin. It means that he would not object to you asking if you could visit. It does not mean you are free to show up unannounced upon his doorstep."

"Oh," Pippin looked down and rubbed the back of his right foot with his left. "But I'd like to go visit Bag End now."

Ah! The light dawned. Paladin was away from the farm for some weeks, gone to the Great Smials at the request of Thain Ferumbras-- or more likely, at the order of Ferumbras' tyrannical mother Lalia. Poor Pippin had been rather at the mercy of his sisters, since his father was not here for him to follow about, and get out from under their feet. But there must be a little more to it than that…

Pippin looked up with panic in his eyes, as Pimpernel stalked into the kitchen. He retreated behind his mother's skirts.

"Mother! My new blue linsey-woolsey that Aunt Primrose gave me for her birthday, is missing! I was going to make a new frock with it this week! And I was going to show it to Daffodil when she came to visit today! He's taken it!" Her eyes blazed and she glared at Pippin.

Eglantine arched a brow, and folding her arms, asked "Now, why do you suppose he'd do a thing like that, Pimmie?"

Pippin peered out cautiously at the sudden silence, and glanced up at his mother. She put a hand on his head. "Don't say a thing, Peregrin."

Now it was her daughter who looked down and rubbed one foot behind the other. "I don't know," she mumbled.

"It could not possibly be because he thought you'd try to use him as a model, could it? Hasn't your father told all of you lasses never to do that again?"

"But Vinca's too tall!" she blurted, and then put her hand to her mouth. It was a grievance with Pimpernel that her younger sister was often taller than she. Pippin, however, had recently had a growth spurt, and at least at this point in time, was as tall as his older sister. Pimmie took more after the Banks side of the family, who were somewhat shorter and plumper than most Tooks.

Eglantine shook her head. "Pippin may be near your height, Pimpernel, but he's far too slender. Furthermore, your father has forbidden you to do that to your little brother any longer."

Eglantine looked down at her son, who was grinning triumphantly. "Peregrin Took, you go and fetch your sister's fabric for her at once. And then we will write a little note to Cousin Bilbo, to see if it is convenient for a visit from you."

Pippin shot off like an arrow, and was quickly back, the material rather mussed and soiled. Pimpernel looked at it in dismay. "I'll have to wash it!"

"You would have had to, anyway, Pimmie, dear, lest it shrink after you made it up. You do not need to press your brother into service as a dress model. Pearl and I will help you to fit it to yourself, which will work much better." Pimpernel nodded, and went off with her material.

"Mind you, Peregrin Took, it does not excuse you for taking something that did not belong to you."

"I know, but that doesn't matter. Keep your hands off other people's belongings unless you ask."

"Now, fetch my stationary box, and we will send a note to Cousin Bilbo by way of the Quick Post, and find out if it is convenient for you to visit him and Frodo right now."

He gave her a big hug and ran to do her bidding, as Eglantine congratulated herself on one more family crisis averted.

Here's my birthday fic for all of you to enjoy: a bit of Young!Frodo and Wee!Merry fluff. Sorry for its late-in-the-day appearance.

(Author's Notes: This story takes place right after the flashback events described in "Dear Frodo..." during the summer of the first year in which Frodo has gone to live in Bag End. (Frodo is 20 and Merry is 7, the hobbit equivalent of human children 13 and 5½).

A Golden Summer's Day

"Merry?" Frodo walked over to his small cousin, who was gazing out through the little round window of his guest room. "Is something wrong?" Merry had been growing unaccountably quieter and quieter ever since supper.

Merry bit his lip, and turned into Frodo's comforting arms. "I don't really like it here at the Great Smials, Frodo."

Frodo nodded, and sat down in the windowseat and drew Merry into his lap. At seven, Merry was beginning to get almost too big for that. "I don't much like it here either, sprout. But it is a good chance for us to see one another again! And wasn't the bonfire lovely, and the music and dancing and the Litheday feast?"

Merry nodded. "Yes. But I don't like her!"

Frodo had no need to ask who Merry meant. There was only one "her" referred to in that particular tone of voice at the Great Smials. Lalia the Fat-- or "Lalia the Great" to those who did not wish to offend. "I am sorry to say, I don't much like her either."

"She makes Mummy and Uncle Paladin sad and angry. She says things to them and I don't think the things mean the same as what she says, and she laughs and it doesn't sound funny. And it makes Da angry, too."

He drew back and looked in Frodo's face. "And what she was saying at supper made you sad and angry, too! I know she was saying things about your Mum and Da!"

"Yes, well Uncle Bilbo made her stop," Frodo said proudly. He had no idea what his Uncle Bilbo's reference was about a "dwarf dagger" and "tongues that speak too quickly", but it had made Lalia turn quite pale, and she had excused herself coldly, saying she was tired and needed her rest.

Merry heaved a sigh. "I don't want to stay here."

"Your Mum and your Uncle Paladin have to stay. There is Took family business for them to attend to tomorrow. We will all leave the next day, and go to Bag End for you all to visit a few days before you have to go home to Buckland."

"Frodo, I wish you could come back home, too."

"Merry..." there was a stern, if sorrowful, note in Frodo's voice.

"I'm sorry, Frodo. I know. Bag End is your home now." He yawned and snuggled in more closely. Frodo rocked him a bit, and smoothed his curls, and when his little cousin was softly snoring, he carried him over and tucked him in. It was unlikely Merry would try to sneak into his bed later-- the rooms in which he and Bilbo were staying were off a different corridor, in another guest apartment altogether.

Poor Merry! This was the first visit to the Great Smials in which he was old enough to notice the unpleasant atmosphere here. Tomorrow would be a long day. Perhaps he could think of some way they could occupy themselves away from all the gossip and from Lalia's uncomfortable gaze.

Uncle Bilbo and Aunt Esmeralda were quite pleased with his idea, when he presented it to them the next morning. Aunt Esme even accompanied them to the big kitchen where she supervised the packing of a goodly sized picnic hamper, and another of a smaller size. Aunt Esme planted a kiss on Frodo's brow, and whispered "This is very thoughtful of you, Frodo! There is plenty of food to keep the both of you out until teatime! It will make me much happier today to know that Merry is in your good hands for a few hours." Frodo blushed at her praise, but the truth was it would be just as much fun for him as for Merry.

Frodo led Merry out, as he carried the larger hamper, and Merry the smaller one. The day was very warm-- it was, after all the first of Afterlithe. He thought briefly of leading Merry up to one of his favourite places to get away from folk at the Great Smials--up on the grassy meadow of the roof, with no one else there save the grazing sheep, and nothing but daisies and chimneypots to break up the scenery. Although he could not take Merry up by the steep climb by the terrace, there was a gentle slope to the west up which they could go. But the heat made him reconsider; while it would be a wonderful place to picnic, and for Merry to run and play, there was not a bit of shade up there--not even a single rooftree, like the one at Bag End.

Instead, Frodo led Merry through the South Garden, and down beyond the field where the older children would probably come to play kick-the-ball later on. through a small copse of beeches and alders to a wide pond. Ducks swam placidly on the water, which was fed by a stream that had been partly diverted and dammed to provide a place where the Tooks could fish if they wished. Today, however, the place was completely deserted. They had not brought fishing poles, though Merry was actually an accomplished little angler for his age. But Frodo did not wish to worry about dealing with a catch today.

There they put their hampers down with care, and then quickly shed their clothes and raced into the water. It was refreshing, but not so cold as the Brandywine and far less treacherous, since it was not running water. Merry reached the water first, and leapt in with a resounding splash, though Frodo was only an instant behind. Soon they were splashing and playing, as Merry dived from Frodo's shoulders, or they swam down among the startled fishes ( who had never before seen a hobbit in the water with them and did not know what to make of these strange creatures) and sought for stones along the sandy bottom. All too soon, however, their stomachs informed them it was time for elevenses.

They dried quickly in the hot sun, and put their clothes back on before examining the contents of the small hamper: there were bottles of ginger beer, and thick sandwiches of sharp cheese and spicy mustard, and a bowl of strawberries. And in a couple of twists of paper were two toffees.

After they had eaten, they spent some time at the shore, feeding a few crusts of bread they had saved a-purpose to the ducks, who had only just returned to the water after being frightened off by their sport. Merry was amused by the ducks, and the two of them made up names for them.

"I think that one over there should be named Waddles," said Merry. "See how she walks?"

Frodo chuckled. "They all waddle, Merry!"

"Yes," said Merry, "but she waddles even more."

"Well," said Frodo, "I think that particularly scruffy looking drake over there should be named...Lotho!"

Merry's jaw dropped, and then he giggled. "Frodo! You are not supposed to say things like that."

"Says who?"

"Well-- the grown-ups."

Frodo leaned down conspiratorially and whispered "Do you see any grown-ups?"

This set Merry off into gales of laughter, which only intensified when Frodo attacked him with tickling fingers. Merry, however, knew his cousin all too well, and tickled back fiercely in just the right spots to render Frodo helpless with laughter. After a while, they both collapsed back in the grass to catch their breath. Frodo would have been content just to stay there for a while, but soon Merry was up and exploring the edge of the pond, and picking up small pebbles. "Frodo! Do you want to play Stones?" he called.

Frodo smiled and sat up. "Stones" was a nice quiet pastime, and Merry was very fond of it. He was improving very quickly for a small lad. They sat there at the edge of the pond for a while, tossing their stones up in the air and catching them on the backs of their hands. Frodo kept score with a stick in the dirt.

Merry became cross, however, when he managed to drop several, and flung them into the pond, disturbing the ducks, who scattered, quacking. "Merry!" said Frodo with a frown.

"Sorry." Merry hung his head. He did not like it when he did poorly at a game.

"I've an idea, sprout! Would you like to learn to skip stones? We'll need some nice flattish ones."

Merry was thrilled at this new game, and Frodo was quite amused to watch him concentrate: holding his breath, his little tongue sticking out one corner of his mouth, and his little body tense with raptness. In fact, Merry was so engrossed with the new game he did not even notice his own tummy rumbling.

"Merry! Let's have some luncheon!" This broke the spell, and the two of them sat down to dive into the larger hamper. There were mushroom pasties, and pickles and more bread and cheese and more ginger beer and a couple of pears and cherry tarts. This time the two of them ate every last crumb. When they had finished, they waded in the shallows of the pond; Merry suggested another swim, but Frodo reminded him that they had only just eaten. The sun was high and hot, so they decided to ramble in the woods. Frodo would have gladly climbed up into the shady branches of the trees, but he had learned by now that Merry had no head for heights. Instead, they explored for a while, pretending that they were in the dark forest of Mirkwood. Merry picked up a stick, pretending it was Sting, and slashing away at "spiders". But they spotted a bounty of wild mushrooms growing near the stump of a fallen tree, and their game was forgotten, as they gathered them greedily.

After a while they had gone the whole way round the pond, and come back to where they had begun. They sat down in the shade, and nibbled a bit on the mushrooms, though they were still sated from their nuncheon. Merry leaned into Frodo's side, and Frodo put an arm around him. "Tell me a story, Frodo," he asked.

Frodo smiled, and leaned against the trunk of the tree. "Once upon a time there were two little hobbits named Tip and Tulip. They were brother and sister, and lived in a cosy little smial with their mama and their papa and their Aunty. One day, their Aunty asked them to feed the ducks. They took some grain in a pail and went down to the duck pond, and began to scatter the grain. The ducks came eagerly to gobble up the grain. Imagine their surprise when one of the ducks suddenly spoke, and said 'Thank you very much!'

For a moment, the two little hobbits could not say anything for their surprise, but then finally Tip said, 'Pardon me, but I did not know ducks could talk.'

The duck raised her beak proudly. 'Of course we can. We talk among ourselves all the time. But only I can speak to hobbits. I am the Queen of the Ducks and my name is Matilda Whitefeathers.'

'Oh,' said Tulip. "you are a most magnificent and beautiful duck!'

'I would like to reward you for your feeding of us,' said the Queen. 'Would you like to go for a ride?' And she flapped out her wings, and as she flapped she grew a deal bigger--just big enough that Tip and Tulip could ride upon her back.

'That sounds like fun!' said Tip.

Tulip was not so sure, but she nodded, and they clambered upon her back. She flapped her wings, and rose a little above the ground--but not too far, for she was a wise duck, and knew that hobbit-children would not like to go up so high. Tip gave a squeak of fear, but Tulip was surprised to discover that she did not mind it so very much at all. In fact, she thought it was fun. Then Queen Matilda glided down to land upon the pond, and sailed along like a boat. Tip thought this was wonderful, but Tulip looked down at the water, so close to her toes, and shuddered. Still, she did not say she was afraid, but held tightly onto her brother. After a while, the duck swam up to the bank of the pond, and the two stepped off.

When they turned to thank her, though, they saw she was no bigger than at first, and when they said, 'Thank you, Queen Matilda,' she merely looked at them with a puzzled quack.

When they got home for tea, they told their mama and papa all about it. Their papa laughed and their mama patted their heads and said 'Such fanciful stories!'

But their Aunty smiled at them and winked, and said 'I am glad you had a good time with Queen Matilda.'

Frodo looked down at Merry, who was dozing off, and leaned back against the tree, and thought his own thoughts as Merry drifted off to sleep.

He must have dozed off himself, for the next thing he heard was the voice of Uncle Saradoc calling from a distance: "Frodo! Merry! It's nearly teatime"

He shook Merry awake, and stood up, brushing leaf and mould from his breeches. "We're by the pond!" he called, and in only a moment he saw Uncle Sara and Uncle Bilbo coming through the trees.

Uncle Bilbo helped Frodo carry the empty hampers, while Uncle Sara carried Merry, and they made their way back up to the Great Smials and their tea.

'Da,' Merry was saying, 'we fed the ducks! And Frodo taught me to skip stones, and...'

Author: Dreamflower
Title: Heat Waves and Hobbit Wishes
Rating: G
Theme: Some like it hot
Elements: 333 words for a Fixed-Length-Ficlet
Author's Notes: This story came in at 491 words. I had to cut 158 words.
Summary: Minas Tirith is really hot in the summer; Pippin has a plan
Word Count: 333

Author: Dreamflower
Title: One Fine Autumn Day
Rating: G
Theme: September the twenty-second
Elements: This story starter sentence: The leaves had already turned, the colours giving the wood the appearance of being ablaze.
Author's Notes: I'd like to thank lindelea1 for the beta!
Summary: Bungo Baggins has a lot to think about on this momentous day...
Word Count: 2,223

The leaves had already turned, the colours giving the wood the appearance of being ablaze. But Bungo had no thought to admire them; he was paying little attention to the scenery. He was cold and miserable, and thoroughly frightened. She had told him to "stop hovering" and "it's not time yet!" and finally, bluntly, "Go away!" So he had reluctantly gone from her side.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to come to the Great Smials at this time. Belladonna's ancestral home often brought out a side of her that he could not understand. At home, she was cheerful, calm and level-headed. Here, it seemed, she would get caught up in all sorts of family dramas. But when she had begged to go for a visit while there was still time, he could not deny her.

He stopped as his tramp through the trees brought him to the edge of the pond. It was stocked with perch and other fish, and was a nice spot for a bit of angling. Often enougn he had been here with one of his brothers-in-law or his father-in-law to wet a line. But today it was deserted, which suited his mood just fine.

He picked up a stone, and chucked it into the center and watched as the water rippled outward. It unsettled him when she was unsettled.

He could not help but recall that their courtship had not gone so smoothly as he had hoped. Like a stone in a pond, things had caused ripples and disturbances in the course of their love...

They had done well in the beginning. He had written her faithfully, and she had answered his letters. They had seen one another at various family functions from time to time, and it had always brought a thrill to his heart when they saw one another again.

But then they had their first quarrel. It had been eight years ago, but it was still as fresh in his memory as if it had just happened.

Although Belladonna had three years still until she came of age, they were officially a courting couple, with her parents' blessing. For the first time, he had invited her home to his parents' hole for Yule. His mother had been cordial, his father a bit more reserved but kind; however some of his other relations were less than agreeable. His younger brother Longo's nose was out of joint, and he kept making remarks about how he was quite sure she was used to finer things; and every time his aunt got the chance, she brought up an old family scandal-- always speaking to someone else, just loudly enough that Belladonna could overhear. It was unpleasant and uncomfortable, and he could tell her patience was getting frayed, and finally he had lost his own temper and attempted to defend her.

Apparently that had been a mistake, for she took offense. She told him she had done nothing for which she needed to be defended, and that if she did need defending she could do it herself, thank you! She returned home abruptly, and for months she would not answer his letters, and avoided him when family gathers were inevitable. He heard wild tales about her, that she'd gone off with her sister Mirabella into the Old Forest overnight; that she'd gone off adventuring with that old conjuror Gandalf; that she had swarms of suitors.

But his cousin Rosa-- who also happened to be her sister-in-law-- set him straight. Yes, she'd been in the Old Forest, but it was Gandalf who had brought her safely out. And while there were swarms of would-be suitors, she had shown no interest in any of them, and so far the Old Took had refused any requests to court her, saying she was "still too young".

This surprised him. Gerontius had been perfectly agreeable to his own request when he had spoken for her after her twenty-ninth birthday. Why had her father decided now that she was "too young"? He mulled it over and over.

One day when Longo was being rather more snide than usual, Bungo left the room abruptly. He had to avoid losing his temper with his brother, and it was getting more and more tempting to poke him in the nose-- not at all the action of a respectable gentlehobbit!

Walking around to the east side of The Hill, he ascended it. A large oak grew on the crown of The Hill, and the view was spectacular. The Baggins family owned the entire hill of course, and Bungo often wondered why they had chosen to build the family hole in the gentler slope on the west side, not even midway up. This was truly a much better place for a smial.

An idea came to him, like a bolt from the blue. But he could not act on it until he knew what Gerontius thought about him.

He went home, and told his father he was going away for a day or two, to sort things out one way or another. His father was relieved to hear it. So Bungo packed a valise and headed off to Tuckborough. According to Rosa, Belladonna was still in Buckland, so he had no fear of running into her.

He nearly changed his mind when he came to knock on the Great Door. The Tooks always intimidated him, and especially the Old Took, who had a knowing glint in his eye and who kept his large clan in order by the force of his very considerable personality. But Bungo had to know if he should make another attempt to win Bella's hand, or if he should step back and allow her to go on her own way without him. Her father's opinion was the key.

When he was shown into the Thain's study, Gerontius was standing with his back to the door, staring out the window. "Hullo, Bungo," he said without turning. "I was beginning to wonder if you would ever decide to press your claim."

"Sir?" Bungo was confused. This was not quite how he'd imagined the conversation beginning.

The Old Took turned and looked at him, and with an effort, Bungo managed not to quail under his intense green-eyed stare. "You had my permission to court Bella long ago. Yet you seem to be dragging your feet."

"She told me not to bother her. She returned my letters. She avoided me. She went off to Buckland."

"You thought that she was still angry, and you wanted to wait until she was not." Gerontius moved to sit behind his massive desk, and waved a hand. "Sit down, lad."

"Lasses can be very contrary, Bungo. They often say what they do not mean, and expect that we will somehow know what they do mean, if we 'really love' them. If we cannot read their minds, they take offense."

"Is it too late for me, sir? I do still love her more than anything. I mean to prove it to her."

"I will build a hole for the two of us, so she will not have to live with my family, for one thing. My parents like her well enough, but the others, I am afraid, do not have a good opinion of your family."

Gerontius did not take offense. "Tooks are not quite such respectable hobbits as the Bagginses. The disappearance of two of my sons and the fact that another of my sons got ahead of himself with your cousin does not help our case."

Bungo nodded miserably. Rosa was just as much, if not more so, to blame as her husband for their hasty wedding, but his aunts and uncle had never quite seen it that way. To them, Hildigrim Took was no better than a rake. And the gossip had never died down over the disappearance of Hildifons years before, only to flare up again after the more recent disappearance of young Isengar. In addition, there was the frequent presence of that large wizard at the Great Smials, something that never failed to make Aunt Pansy cluck her tongue.

"How will your father feel about this? You are his heir and future Head of the Bagginses."

"He wishes to see me wed, and he knows that for me it is Belladonna or no one. He will not object. And I do not have to live in his hole to be Head of the Bagginses."

Gerontius leaned back in his chair, and pursed his lips. "If I were not very well aware that Bella still loves you, and that for her as well, it is you or no one, I would not make the proposal I am about to make."

Bungo felt hope spring up in his heart. It looked as though the Thain was on his side. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I will advance Belladonna's dowry to you for the constructing and digging of this hole. I will take it on faith that the two of you will mend things between you. Spare no expense in making a smial that my daughter will be comfortable living in; but do not reveal to anyone except your parents what I have done."

Bungo was stunned. He had put enough aside himself to make a comfortable hole for the two of them-- but now! Oh, now the possibilities crowded his mind! "Sir!" he said in heartfelt gratitude.

"Don't thank me yet. When the hole is built, we will plan the wedding. In the meantime, you have to win my daughter back. She is already on the way back from Buckland. I believe that you might catch her staying at The Oak and Thorn in Pincup."

Bungo rode as quickly as he dared. He was not an accomplished rider, and the pony was hired. But perhaps his urgency communicated itself to his mount, for the journey to Pincup went swiftly by, and it was sometime between teatime and supper when he had arrived in front of the inn. He was tired, sore, and stiff. He dismounted, and unfastened his valise from the saddle, and watched the young stablehobbit go off with the pony. Then he took a deep breath. What if she still refused to see him?

He turned, and was surprised to see her standing in the doorway of the inn, staring. Suddenly, she gave a wordless cry, and ran to him, flinging herself into his arms tearfully. "Oh, oh Bungo! I'm sorry I was so unkind! Please say you forgive me!"

She drew back indignantly, and suddenly he had a sinking feeling they were about to quarrel again, when she gave a mighty sniff, and then began to laugh. "Not very clever of us, to begin first off with another quarrel about who was to blame!"

He pulled her close again, and laughed himself. "No, I don't suppose it is. Perhaps we can start over. Belladonna Took, I have your father's blessing. May I court you?"

They had gone into the inn, where she was staying with Mirabella and some of the Brandybuck relations who had been escorting the Took sisters home, and they all took supper together. Afterwards, the others withdrew to their rooms, and he and Bella had sat together in the common room and talked for hours about their future and about the new hole.

Work began on it immediately, in spite of Longo's jealous jeers at his brother's "folly", and six months after Belladonna came of age, they celebrated their wedding in the Hobbiton Party Field. The two of them were able to honeymoon in the brand new smial dubbed "Bag End"-- a bit of a joke from Bungo's youngest brother, Bingo, and yet strangely appropriate. Belladonna had been delighted with it as a name from the instant she heard it, which naturally commended itself to Bungo.

The two had settled nicely into Hobbiton life, and Belladonna took quickly to being mistress of her own hole. Rowan Gammidge, wife of the rope-maker, came in twice a week to help with the cleaning, and took the laundry away with her. Otherwise, Bella enjoyed taking care of her hole herself.

Then came the joyous news they were to be parents, and they had been so pleased and excited.

Yet as the months drew on, Bella had grown homesick for Tookland, and she began to speak of missing her family. If only they had stayed at home. But he could not deny her wish to see her mother at a time like this. If only they had taken the longer way round, instead of that bumpy post-road, but she had been too impatient. And now she was quite shaken up, and blaming him for her discomfiture!

He tossed another pebble in, and then jumped with a start at the voice behind him.

"You are wanted. It seems this little Baggins has suddenly decided to be impatient to enter the world."

"Why didn't you say so?" he said, somewhat illogically, as he began to hurry back, all his annoyance with his wife forgotten in his worry.

Gerontius chuckled. "I've been through this twelve times. It never gets any easier."

Bungo shuddered. Twelve times! He could scarcely imagine it, though he knew very well it was so.

Hours later, he wondered miserably if he should not simply have stayed out by the pond, for all the good he was doing. He had seen her only briefly before he had been sent away by her mother Adamanta, the healer Mistress Matilda, and the midwife Mistress Posy. Now he sat in a room crowded with his brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and various and sundry cousins-in-law, each of whom had stories of births to tell in detail. Every so often, he would wince at the sound of Bella's muffled cries. He could not even pace the room for fear of bumping into one of the numerous Tooks!

Suddenly there was a cry of a different sort: a babe's cry. There was a sudden silence, and then a sudden eruption of Tookish cheers, as Bungo's back was slapped in congratulations. But he just stood, stunned. How was his Bella?

The door opened, and Adamanta stood there, smiling, and his heart lifted. "Bungo, you have a son. Mother and child are well. Come in and meet your lad."

He entered the room cautiously. She lay in the bed, pale, her curls damp with the exertions of her labour. But she was smiling at him. He moved to her side, and then noticed the bundle on her arm, wrapped in the pale green blanket traditional for lads.

He bent and dropped a kiss on her brow, and then looked at the baby. Soft downy brown curls, a wrinkled red face, and sleepy blue eyes met his gaze.

He glanced over at his wife, who giggled and said, "I don't believe 'Bertha' is at all suitable. So I suppose it will have to be the other name we decided on."

Drogo and Primula's sitting room was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire on the hearth and the ticking of the dwarven clock upon the wall. Bilbo smiled when the door opened and he saw his hosts standing there, little Frodo in Drogo's arms.

"We shall be just down the passage, visiting with Rory and Gilda if you need us, Bilbo," said Drogo, as he set Frodo down on his feet. Frodo had a book in his arms, the very story-book he had recieved that day from Bilbo as his fifth birthday present.

"Go along with you," Bilbo said with a wave of his hand. "Frodo and I will have a jolly time together, won't we Frodo?"

"Will you read to me?" said Frodo, trotting over to Bilbo, and clambering into his lap without a backwards glance for his parents.

Bilbo smiled, and helped Frodo to settle into his arms. The little hobbit in his nightshirt and his blue dressing-gown smelled of rosemary soap and his dark curls were still damp from his bath. He snuggled into Bilbo's embrace and handed the book to him. Bilbo opened the book, and gently guided Frodo's thumb away from his mouth. As of today, Frodo was no longer a faunt.

Once upon a time there were two little hobbits. Their names were Tip and Tulip, and they were brother and sister. They lived in a cosy little smial with their mama and their papa and their auntie.

One fine day in autumn, Tip and Tulip went outdoors to play in the sunshine. Their papa had been hard at work in the front garden, raking up fallen leaves from the great chestnut that stood by the gate. But he had put down his rake and gone to run an errand for Mama. The rake leaned against the tree most temptingly, and Tulip had a marvelous idea.

She took up the rake, and began to rearrange the pile of leaves. "Here," she said, making a circle, "is the smial." She made an opening in one side, and said, "Here is the door." She carefully began to push some of the leaves into "walls", as she decided where each room should be. She paid no mind to Tip, who was practicing somersaults across the lawn, until he stopped and came up behind her.

"What are you doing, Tulip?" he asked, startling her into dropping the rake. "Papa won't be happy that you have messed about with his pile!"

"A smial?" Tip stared at the leaves. "Silly lass! That's not a smial. It's just leaves."

"It is," she said crossly. "See, there is the front door! You are standing right in it!"

Tip laughed, and then swept his foot across, scattering the leaves that she had so carefully arranged...

"Tip! You beastly lad!" Tulip was so angry that tears came to her eyes. "You ruined it!"

Truthfully, Tip was a little sorry he made his sister so angry, but he did not wish to admit it, so he decided to be angry as well. "I didn't ruin anything! It was just leaves!"

They heard a rather high-pitched voice. "Well, what a fine sight this is! Two little hobbits in a temper!"

Another voice said, "Yes, it's quite a show! Do you suppose they will come to blows?"

Now this startled both of them out of their temper, and they stared around to see where the voices came from. They heard laughter, and looked up. On a branch of the tree was a thrush, and next to him a large grey squirrel. "Such a shame," said the thrush, "to waste a fine day like this quarreling."

"Especially when there are much better things to do with leaves!" said the squirrel. He gave a flip of his tail and darted away up the tree. The thrush looked at the children, and it seemed he winked at them, and then he flew away-- flap-flap!

The two children looked at one another, and Tip's face grew red. "I am sorry, Tulip! I should not have spoiled your game."

Tulip nodded, looking down at the curls on her feet. "I am sorry I called you beastly."

Tip reached for the rake. "We should put the leaves back before Papa gets home."

Tulip grinned at her brother. "But first..." and she took a running leap into the leaves. Tip laughed and the two of them had a splendid time jumping in the leaves.

But when their Papa came home, he found them working. They had raked up even more leaves than he had left.

"What hard workers my children are!" He cried, and gathered them up into a hug.

But Tip and Tulip could not forget the thrush and the squirrel. So they told their auntie about it later. She nodded, and said "When you misbehave, you may never know who will be gossiping about you, do you?"

Bilbo closed the book, and looked down at his quietly slumbering charge, the lashes dark upon rosy cheeks. He dropped a kiss on Frodo's curls, and leaned back, allowing the ticking of the clock and the crackle of the fire and the soft breathing of the child to lure him into dreams.

Theme: Myth or legend
Elements: a fruit: the shipova, which is a cross between a pear and the fruit of the whitebeam tree.
Author's Notes: This takes place in my "Eucatastrophe-universe", in which the Three Rings did not fail, but gained in power and those who sailed West were given the option to return to Middle-earth, and in which Frodo was fully healed and able to stay in Middle-earth. At the time of this story, he is 83 and has retired to Minas Anor to write the definitive book on the languages of Men and Elves. He and Gandalf are living in the same house where the Fellowship stayed after the war, and staying with them are Merry's son Periadoc, Pippin's son Faramir and two of Sam's sons, Merry and Pippin Gamgee. They have come to spend couple of years studying and learning at the King's court. (In this universe, the Fourth Age actually begins on the date of the Ring's destruction, rather than two years later.)
Summary: Frodo writes a letter home, and has a story to tell Merry...

I was very glad to get your news! It is hard to imagine little Wyn being courted! I certainly hope that her suitor is worthy of her, though I would think he would live in terror of breaking her heart! Pippin mentioned in his letter of how you have made it a point to speak to the lads who have been buzzing round her while sharpening your sword. I would say, "shame on you" in a very repressive older cousin manner, if the image it brought to mind did not make me grin so much. Still, she has a few years yet to her majority, and tweens can be fickle, so perhaps your lass will change her mind.

Your son is doing well in his studies, according to his tutor at Court. Master Herion says Perry is a very apt scholar and is somewhat in competition with the other students, stung to furious effort whenever any of the others get ahead of him or get better marks in anything. I find him less attentive with the lessons I set him. He seems to need the presence of others to spur him on. Your namesake Merry-lad, and young Princess Miniel seem to be his chief rivals, save in mathematics. Pippin-lad has quite a talent for numbers and he has impressed Master Herion immensely with his skill with sums, though he is barely adequate in his other studies. Fam's become a more attentive pupil than I remember him being in the Shire, though he seems to love sport and the arms-training the youngsters are given here better than his books. You and Sam and Pippin should be very proud of your sons; they are excellent representatives of the Shire here in Minas Anor, and have made many friends here.

However, he and Fam and Merry-lad and Pippin-lad have also had their share of mischief. Only a few weeks ago, they brought a new addition to the household, a stray mongrel that caught their attentions when they found it being abused in the lower city. Perhaps it will give you some idea of the creature's size when I tell you that Faramir decided to name it after Bill the Pony. That turned out to be an unfortunate choice, as "Bill" turned out to be a she, and an expecting mother at that! She is now called "Billie" and we have six mewling pups on the premises, which we will have to find homes for. I have to warn you that the lads are determined to bring her back to the Shire. I suppose that you, Sam and Pippin can draw straws, and the loser will get the privilege of housing the beast. (Actually, she is rather amiable. You know my feelings on the subject of large dogs, and can be assured that if she were not a good-natured animal, I would not have her in the house. But she is very large!)

We recently spent a few days in Ithilien, with Faramir and Éowyn. I am sure that Perry will fill you in on all the details of the visit in his own letter; but I thought I would tell you of something I heard while I was there. Éowyn's Rohirric chambermaid, Milda was persuaded one day to relate an old tale of Rohan, one she had learned from her grandmother. I know that you and I have often discussed the connections between the language of Rohan and that of the Shire, and of the legends of the holbytlan that are sometimes heard among the common folk there. So I know you will appreciate this tale, which I shall endeavour to set down in her words.

“Long ago, when our people dwelt still to the East of the Great River, many long generations before the Longfathers of Eorl the Young became the chiefs of our peoples, there dwelt a widow and her youngest son.

Her husband had been slain by invaders from the East, and her two older sons had gone off to join their father's eored to avenge him, leaving their youngest brother Wat to care for their mother. But alas, things grew difficult for just the two of them, and at last all they had left was her husband's horse. They loved the horse, not least because it had been in their family for many years, but the choice was between keeping the horse and the three of them starving together, or selling him and perhaps keeping them all fed.

So young Wat went off with the horse to find a buyer. As it so happened, not many miles distant a man called out to him: "Where are you going in such a hurry, boy?"

Now this man was greedy and less than honest, but he said to the lad "I will buy your father's horse."

Now Wat was pleased to have found a customer so quickly. He dismounted and said, "What will you give me?"

The man took out a couple of silver pennies, and said "I will give you a purse of silver."

The lad's eyes shone with pleasure! He and his mother would be able to live in comfort with that much coin! So he agreed to the bargain. The man took the silver pennies, and placed them in a small leather purse, heavy and jingling, and gave it to the delighted boy. Then he got up on his new horse and rode off swiftly.

Alas! When the lad looked in the purse, he discovered that only the two pennies he had been shown were of silver-- the rest of the purse was filled with nails! He turned to shout at the thief to stop, but the wicked man was long gone from sight. Weeping with despair, the boy wandered from the road, paying no heed to where he was going, for all he could think of was how he had been cheated and his mother's disappointment when he returned.

He knew not how long he wandered, but it began to grow later, and he realised he was lost. He espied a small hill and decided to climb to the top and see if he could get his bearings. But he had not ascended even halfway when suddenly, his foot sank into a hole and he fell to the ground. This was the last straw, and he simply lay there and wept for his misfortune.

He gazed up in astonishment. There stood a little person, half so high as a man. He was dressed all in green, and his ams were akimbo as he glared at Wat.

"I am the Tucca and my people are the hole-dwellers. This is my home. Now who are you and why are you blubbering on my doorstep?"

And so young Wat began to tell the little man his whole story. He showed him the purse, and told of how he had been cheated. The Tucca's expression grew grave, and he nodded in sympathy. "I see you have had a dreadful time of it, young man. Why don't you come inside and get warm, and have something to eat? It is getting dark-- you can find your way home in the morning."

The Tucca indicated something Wat had not seen before: a small green door, set into the hillside. It was damaged, hanging from its hinges where his foot had crashed into it, but the Tucca pushed it aside. Wat had to crawl to come inside, but once there he could stand up, although his head very nearly touched the ceiling. He was inside a cosy house, built into the hillside. There were many more little people inside, and all stared in astonishment at their large guest. Still, they made him welcome, and brought him food to eat: delicious bread, yellow cheeses, a stew of mushrooms and a mug of small beer. He ate his fill and then he fell sound asleep upon the hearth, to the sound of the little people singing.

Not too far distant, the man who had cheated the boy had made camp. He made a fire, and set a pot of soup upon it for his supper. Then he turned his attention to feeding the horse, and hobbling it, for it had taken a dislike to its new master, and had thrown him and tried to run off. He never noticed the small figure that crept up to his fire and stirred something into his soup. And after he ate, he grew very sleepy indeed...

When Wat awakened the next morning, he discovered he was outdoors upon the hillside. He could see no sign of the broken door, nor of any of the little hole-dwellers he had met the night before. He rubbed his eyes and thought he must have been dreaming. But as he gazed down the hill, he saw to his delight, his father's horse, calmly grazing at the foot of the hill. Joyfully, he ran down to it and mounted, and allowed it to take him back home, for of course the horse knew the way!

Still, as he went, he mused over things, and he realised that he would have naught to show for his efforts save the two silver pennies. They were better than nothing of course, but he knew his mother would be disappointed. And yet, he could not bring himself to be-- for they did have the horse again!

His mother had been worried and anxious for her boy, for she had not expected him to be gone all the night. When he rode into view, she was so delighted to see him that she did not even scold him for not selling the horse. He came into their house, and recounted to her all his adventures, and took out the little purse, to show her the two pennies and the nails-- but when he poured it out, lo! it was filled with silver pennies!

As for the villain, he too awakened-- very late in the day. But when he woke he found that he was in a completely strange place. There was no fire, nor sign of one, no horse, and he discovered to his dismay that he'd not a stitch of clothing on-- not even his smallclothes! As he jumped up with a cry of alarm he saw a tiny person standing not far away, holding a bow with an arrow notched, aimed steadily at him.

"You have been a thief and a liar," said the little person. "Now you must reap your reward. You must make a new start of your life, and be an honest man from this day on." Suddenly, the little man vanished. And the thief was left to make his way as he was-- but he was honest from that day on, for fear of the little people.

Wat and his mother meanwhile delighted in their new good fortune, which was increased mightily with the return of his brothers-- who had escaped from their captivity among the enemy and made their way home!

I am certain that the story has been embellished and transformed over the generations, but I think that you will see as well as I do the possibility that there might actually have been a "little man", a "hole-dweller", behind the story! And I am quite sure that you will take note of the name of their leader! Milda says she knows more tales of the holbytlan from her grandmother, so I am in hopes of sending you more.

I hope you enjoy the fruits I'm sending-- one of the crates is for you, the others are for Bag End and the Great Smials. In addition to the peaches, lemons, limes and oranges, I am including a tasty fruit that has recently made its way into the City from Lebinnin. It is called a "shipova", and I'm told it is a cross between the common pear and the fruit of the whitebeam tree. The fruit is very uncommon. I will mention to you as I did in my letter to Sam: do not bother with saving the seeds; it is the result of grafting, and the seeds do not breed true. However, if I can learn more about the procedure, I will send you both more information. Pears grow in the Shire, and so do whitebeam, so I do not know why such a thing could not be repeated there.

Gandalf sends his greetings, as well as his thanks for the cask of Old Toby you sent him for your birthday. I know that the King also was quite pleased with his as well, as I saw the look of delight on his face when he opened it. I also saw the look of dismay on the Queen's face. She is no fonder of the smell of pipe-weed than Legolas.

I miss all of you, but my book is coming along very nicely, now that I have access to the Archives here, and the warmer climate is kind to my old bones, now that I am no longer as young as I once was. Please give Estella and the lasses my greetings and my love.

Author: Dreamflower
Title: Somewhat Better Than Ironmongery
Rating: G
Theme: Dialogue challenge
Elements: a tailor, a street, a table, and the color brown
Summary:Sam's in need of something a little more practical to wear...
Word Count:933

"Mr. Pippin knows the city. They have a right good chicken pie, according to him. And my Gaffer says 'Never do business on an empty stomach, else you'll miss hearing something important for the rumbling of your innards.'"

"Very well, we shall stop there for an early luncheon. Merry speaks well of their chicken pie also-- and of their ale, though he says it's not up to Shire standards. But we shan't put off this errand for long."

"There now, Mr. Frodo! That was a fair meal, and you can't say it wasn't! Do you fancy more ale?"

"No, thank you, Sam! I've enough to finish my brown bread and cheese. And that was indeed a toothsome chicken pie!"

"It had a different sort of mushroom in it to what I've tasted afore. And there was a mite more rosemary, I'm thinking, than what we use at home."

"More garlic, as well, and of course, there was that touch of lemon. Not something we use at home at all!"

"Plenty of carrots, celery and onion, though! And a very flaky crust! Don't say as I could've done better myself. Should we ask for some of that honey-pastry as the server said they had?"

"I don't think so, Sam. The day is getting on; we still have our errand to run. Don't sigh at me-- we shan't put it off any longer."

"Very nice, Frodo! The light grey shirt and dark grey breeches will suit you. I like the stitchery. And I take it the other set is Sam's?"

"I like how the embroidery on the shirt sleeves matches the stitching on the seams of the breeches..."

"Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took! Stop teasing Sam. Sam, they will not only wear well, but will look very nice indeed! I think the tailor did a splendid job."

"Well, Sam, I must say as I'm glad to see you put away the ironmongery! But looks to me like you've been a-working in your good clothes! Why, that shirt and breeches is far too fine to be a-grubbing weeds in, nor clearing away rubbish! What's so funny?"

"Ah, Gaffer! These are my workaday clothes! Nothing I wore from home was more'n rags by the time Mr. Frodo and me finished our errand. But this is the Southern folks idea of work clothes!"

"Well, all I got to say then, is thank goodness you're home again amongst sensible folks!"

Recipient: cherie_morte
Request:"Something that takes place during Moria with Merry being protective of Pippin, and maybe Boromir being protective of both of them. I'd love to see some fellowship dynamics...
Characters: Merry, Pippin, Gandalf, Boromir.
Rating: G
Summary: Poor Pippin has first watch-- in the dark-- in Moria. Merry is sympathetic.
A/N: Portions in italics are quoted from FotR, Book II, Chapter IV, "A Journey in the Dark".
Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants are the property of the Tolkien Estate, and spring from the great imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is written as a gift, no profit save enjoyment will be received.

"What's that?" cried Gandalf. He was relieved when Pippin confessed what he had done; but he was angry, and Pippin could see his eye glinting. "Fool of a Took!" he growled. "This is a serious journey, not a hobbit walking-party. Throw yourself in next time and then you will be no further nuisance. Now be quiet!" tom-tap; tap-tom. They stopped and when the echoes had died away, they were repeated: tap-tom; tap-tap, tom. They sounded disquietingly like signals of some sort; but after a while the knocking died away and was not heard again.

Nothing more was heard for several minutes; but then there came out of the depths faint knocks:

"Yes, said Gandalf, "and I do not like it. It may have nothing to do with Peregrin's foolish stone; but probably something has been disturbed that would be better left quiet. Pray, do nothing of the kind again! Let us hope we shall get some rest without further trouble. You, Pippin, can go on the first watch, as a reward," he growled, as he rolled himself in a blanket." (FotR, Book II, Chapter IV, "A Journey in the Dark")

Boromir, like the others, had listened silently and uncomfortably to the wizard's scolding of Pippin. He sometimes thought the hobbits were too familiar with Mithrandir-- Gandalf-- who often reprimanded them more mildly than Boromir would have expected. But on this occasion he thought perhaps Gandalf had been too harsh with the young hobbit. Anyone could have been drawn to drop a stone down that well. He felt his own face warm as he recalled the stone he had thrown into the pool before the door. Perhaps he had been responsible for stirring up that creature that had trapped them here. Not a pleasant thought-- and he was an experienced warrior and should have known better. Perhaps, when they went on their way again, he could console Pippin with that thought; it was embarrassing, but it might make the lad feel better. He turned to his side, and tried to get comfortable. The stone floor was no harder than the ground upon which they had been sleeping, but it seemed far colder. And he was all too aware of the blackness-- it mattered not whether his eyes were opened or closed-- and of the massive weight of the mountain over his head. Folly to fear it would collapse upon them and bury them for all time--and yet it seemed as if that very thing could happen in any instant.

Beside Frodo, Merry shifted. Pippin should be at his back. It was hardly fair to make Pippin sit the first watch-- as if his cousin would be able to see anything coming at them in this pitch darkness. Merry was used to being underground-- hobbits had a sure sense of direction even in the darkest of tunnels-- but the stone felt very different to being in a nice cosy smial. Earth felt warm and full of life. Stone felt implacable and heavy. Poor Pip! If he dared, he'd crawl over and sit with him. True, Pip had been a "fool of a Took" for throwing that stone-- but Gandalf had not needed to be so hard on him. Pip had been holding up splendidly on this journey, rarely complaining, doing his share of the work without being told, keeping up everyone's spirits with his songs and jests. Gandalf was cross as two sticks, and it was unfair. If it had been anyone but the wizard, and they'd been anywhere but in this pit of blackness, he'd have told him so! Even though he could not see Pippin, he gazed in the direction where his cousin was sitting, all too aware of Pippin's fear, and hearing his every little fidget.

Merry tried to compose himself. If he began to stir himself, he was likely to waken Frodo, who slept at his back-- that was the last thing he wanted to do. Frodo needed rest so badly. It was hard having to look after both his cousins. Sam was of immense help in looking after Frodo, but he felt the responsibility of watching over Pippin keenly. His younger cousin should never have come on this journey-- while it was true Pip was no child, he was not an adult yet either. How had he allowed himself to be persuaded? But the truth was, he'd never had much success in telling Pippin 'no'. The lad would look at him with those wide eyes, and he would give in almost every time. And since all Pippin ever seemed to want was to be included in whatever Merry-- and usually Frodo as well-- were doing, it somehow seemed reasonable in the end. But this time? This time Merry thought, and not for the first time, he should have agreed with Lord Elrond and sent Pippin back to the Shire. He should have stuffed Pip in that sack himself when it came down to it. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly and shifted again as carefully as he could.

Boromir could tell that Merry was not asleep--he could hear him moving restlessly. Merry tended to be anxious for Pippin when he could not keep him in sight. He behaved far more like an older brother than a cousin. He had himself been much the same with Faramir. He remembered his own chagrin, years before, when he learned his brother-- fresh from his training, and ready to become a warrior-- had not been assigned to serve in his own company, where he could have kept an eye on him, but to the Rangers of Ithilien. When he protested to their father, he had been surprised to learn it had been Faramir's own request. "And, Boromir, I must say that in this I agree with him. Not only must he learn to stand on his own, but you, in your regard for your brother, will endanger yourself and possibly your other men as well!" To this Boromir refused to admit, but Denethor would not be moved on that occasion. Looking back, he realized his father-- and his brother-- had been right. But he truly understood Merry's fears for his kin.

There was a mutter, and he heard another stir. It was not from the direction in which Aragorn or Legolas had placed themselves, and it was most certainly not Gimli, who was already snoring away not five feet from his own position. Was it the wizard? Why?

Merry heard Gandalf going over to Pippin again. What for? Had he thought of something else scathing to say? Hadn't he been stern enough already?

"Get into a corner and have some sleep, my lad. You want to sleep, I expect. I cannot get a wink, so I may as well do the watching."

"I know you are, Peregrin. Now go over there and set Meriadoc's mind at ease. He'll not sleep himself if you don't. I imagine he's rather cross at me for scolding you so."

An instant later, and Merry heard Pippin crawling in his direction. He sat up and made room for Pippin to get between him and Frodo, and they settled in. Pippin draped an arm over Merry's waist, and they both stared through the darkness in Gandalf's direction.

"I know what is the matter with me," they heard him mumble. "I need smoke! I have not tasted it since the morning before the snowstorm." They saw the flicker as he lit the pipe, and smelled the whiff of pipe-weed.

Merry felt Pippin chuckle against his back. "Poor old Gandalf!" he whispered. "I know how that feels."

"That's all right. I know he's fond of me; and he was right. I should never have done that."

"I know. You've said that before. Now let it go, and let us get some sleep while we can."

Boromir let out a breath he did not know he'd been holding, and smiled. Hobbits. He heard their breath even out into the rhythm of sleep, and allowed it to lull him into slumber as well.

Author: Dreamflower
Title: Coming to an Understanding
Recipient: Larner
Request: I'd like a story in which Frodo and Aragorn interact either along the quest or
in Minas Tirith, perhaps in which Frodo complains that Aragorn is babying him
somehow.
Summary: The hobbits did not exactly make a sterling first impression on Strider...
Rating: G

Frodo was getting rather tired of it. The way he looked down on them-- well, he supposed it couldn't be helped as their guide was so very tall, but he seemed to be doing it on purpose, the sarcasm and thinly veiled contempt for their inexperience in the Wild--well, not everyone could spend their whole lives tramping through the Wilderness, surely! the way it seemed he had chosen the most uncomfortable paths for them to wander through... if it were not for that letter of Gandalf's, he'd wish they'd left him behind in Bree!

He'd vanished out of sight again on those long legs of his. In a moment, he'd turn back and say crossly "keep up!" As if anyone could keep up with someone with legs twice as long as one's own. But they needed him. Without Gandalf, they needed him.

Sure enough, there he was. "Keep up! We've a long way to go yet before we stop!"

On they slogged, through the midges and marshes. Sam was slightly ahead, leading Bill carefully. Merry and Pippin were lagging behind-- these marshes were dreadful! The midges seemed to take a special delight in tormenting them. It was chilly as well-- one would think the cooler weather would drive the swarms of creatures away, but no such luck! He could see the sense in avoiding the Road. Those Black Riders would still be looking for them. But did the Man's shortcut have to take them this way? "My cuts, short or long, do not go wrong!" How pompous and condescending! And Frodo would certainly not think that slogging through such terrain was going exactly right!

He sloshed forward, trying to reach a patch of firm ground he had seen Strider taking earlier. As he struggled, he heard a shout and a splash behind him, and a curse from Merry. He turned around quickly-- it took a good deal for Merry to use that sort of language! Merry was pulling Pippin up. Pippin had stumbled and gone right down, and now he was soaked with the marshwater from head to toe. Oh dear, this was the last thing they needed. They would have to stop for a while now-- Pip couldn't be allowed to keep going, soaked through! He'd catch his death of cold!

Aragorn turned with a frustrated sigh. Now what? he wondered. Not for the first time since meeting these four hobbits, he wondered just what Gandallf had been thinking, to leave the responsibility of the One in the hands of a hobbit like Frodo.

He'd been disappointed at their first meeting. From all that Bilbo and Gandalf had told him, he had been somehow expecting a paragon of a hobbit. Instead, he'd found a hobbit who, in spite of all danger and need for secrecy, had made a spectacle of himself in a public place! And his story that the Ring had slipped on his finger by accident? How likely was that?

This Frodo was a good deal younger than Aragorn had expected, and his companions younger still. The servant, Samwise, seemed to have a bit of sense, but he wondered about the other two. The Brandybuck had gone off for a casual walk-- at night, in a strange town, and then of all follies, had followed a Ringwraith! And the younger-- well, Aragorn was not the best judge of hobbit ages, but he'd be surprised if the Took was old enough to be out of his parents' sight-- much less drinking in an inn and causing careless talk! Why in creation had Frodo brought them along, as if this were simply a lark?

He'd been watching the Shire for a good many years, but he'd rarely encountered Shire hobbits during the course of his duties. After all, Gandalf preferred the Rangers' watch over the Shire to be discreet. And the hobbits of Bree mostly avoided him with only a few friendly exceptions. He had no idea that hobbits of the Shire were so-- so feckless! He supposed he had been spoiled by his acquaintance with Bilbo, who was uncommonly sensible. But Bilbo was a hundred-and-twenty-eight, after all, and had some experience of the world outside the Shire. He liked Frodo and the others-- they were quite likeable, and he'd grown fond of them very quickly, but he was not sure he trusted their sense!

He turned and retraced his steps, to see Frodo, Sam and Merry hovering over a thoroughly wet Pippin.

"We will have to stop, Strider," Frodo said. His tone was imperious. "We have to get Pippin warm and dry, or he'll catch his death of cold!"

Aragorn rolled his eyes. He had learned long ago from Elrond that one did not catch cold from being wet-- colds were contagions, and were passed from person to person, and being wet had nothing to do with it. But he had learned long ago that he might as well talk to the wind as expect anyone outside Imladris to believe that! And if the lad had breathed in any of the nasty water, he might very well get ill anyway. Who knew what might be in that marsh water?

He heaved an impatient sigh, and nodded curtly. "I will keep watch. But please, gentlemen, make it quick."

He turned to where Merry was rubbing Pippin down with one of the blankets. One of the few good things about their delay in Bree had been the opportunity to pick up a change of clothing second-hand, to make up for what they'd lost at the Barrow. Sam soon had Pippin's spare clothing out of Bill's pack.

"Oi!" said Pippin crossly. "I don't want to put my clean clothes on without washing!"

Frodo shook his head regretfully. Poor Pip, this was the first time he had actually objected to anything they'd had to do. He'd been trying not to complain-- well, any more than they were all complaining. "I'm sorry, Pippin! No copper tubs out here in the Wild. I am afraid it will be a long time before any of us get a bath."

PIppin wilted under Frodo's sympathy. "I'm sorry, Frodo. I do know," he said sadly. "I didn't mean to stumble."

In only a few moments Pippin was clad in the dry garments. His wet ones were bundled up and placed on Bill's back ("We'll dry them out tonight when we have a fire," Frodo had said.) and they were once more moving on their way.

Aragorn was relieved that for a while, at least, their way would be somewhat dryer for a few miles-- though it seemed the "neekerbreekers" as the hobbits had taken to calling the midges, were following them. He waved a hand in front of his face to drive some of them away, and tried to slow his pace. It was hard to remember that he could walk more swiftly than these little people. He made an effort to abate his pace.

He knew he was being impatient. He was used to travelling alone, or at most with other Rangers, who understood the dangers of the wild. One thing, at least, he could give these hobbits-- at least they moved quietly, so long as they were not talking.

He placed a palm over his face. This was all they needed, for one of them to take sick and slow them down. The young hobbit must have breathed in some of that water after all.

But in spite of the sneezes and coughs that occasionally broke the silence behind him, and the murmurs of encouragement that the other hobbits had for the youngest member of their party, they did not suggest stopping again, or slow their pace. Now that they had, at least for a while, put the marshes behind them, they were making better time.

Unaccountably and perversely, Frodo felt annoyed that Strider had seemed to slow down for them. While it was what he wished, it seemed to show that the Ranger knew the hobbits could not keep up with him. Well, of course they couldn't-- but it felt to Frodo as though he was being humoured.

Pippin shook his head. "I'm fine!" Then he coughed again. Merry silently passed his younger cousin his waterskin, and Pippin gratefully drank.

"I think it's just that nasty water-- it's left a dreadful taste in my mouth, and a tickle in the back of my throat. Thanks, Merry!"

Frodo shook his head, and wondered once more why he had allowed his cousins to come along. He should never have allowed them to persuade him-- as welcome as their company was, he was the eldest and should have known better.

Aragorn walked steadily on, making an effort to keep his pace slower than he had been. He stopped often to check on his charges-- they moved very quietly, and were not talking, so except for Pippin's occasional sneeze or cough, he did not hear them following. At one point, he turned, and realised that Sam and Merry were not with the others. Frodo was leading Bill, and he and Pippin seemed unconcerned. He was about to ask angrily where the other two were, when flushed and grinning they came silently trotting from out of some trees to the side, each of them carrying his jacket, bundled up around something.

"What have you been doing?" he asked crossly. Was he going to have to walk behind them?

Merry raised his jacket high. "Mushrooms! Golden chantarelles!" His voice was triumphant, as was the expression on Samwise's face.

Frodo crossed his arms. "They stayed within sight! You had indicated that our food could run short. I gave them permission to gather those!"

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. He'd heard no words. Frodo just looked at Sam and Merry, and they fell in behind him; Frodo started walking once more, and Aragorn turned and, annoyed, began to walk a bit faster once more.

Frodo could tell that Strider was angry. But when the hobbits had smelled, and then spotted the beautiful mushrooms to one side, he'd given Merry and Sam the nod. It had been the work of only a few moments for them to harvest their bounty and rejoin Frodo and Pippin. They'd never been out of sight for an instant after all! And why should Strider object to them supplementing the food they'd brought? It wasn't like they were not going to share with him!

But now he was walking faster, as if to punish them for dallying, or something, as though they were unruly children in need of a lesson. How could he get this Man to take them seriously? Perhaps things got off wrong in Bree. He flushed. He had been far too incautious at the Prancing Pony, he knew.

The shadows were lengthening, and their brief respite from the Midgewater Marshes was nearly at an end. Perhaps they should stop and make camp. There was a copse of trees in a small dell near-by. They could make camp while it was still relatively dry underfoot, and tackle the marshes again on the morrow.

Perhaps he could find a few herbs to add to his meagre store, to ward off Pippin's congestion. At any rate, he could not see dragging them through more marshes as it got darker. And there were not anymore good campsites to be found for many hours of travel.

"We'll stop here, gentlemen," he said, indicating the dell. "The ground dips down there-- as long as we keep it small, we should be able to light a fire safely. You do know how to make a fire that doesn't smoke?"

Sam, Merry, and Pippin looked at him with relief, but to his surprise, Frodo looked somewhat angry, as he stood with his arms folded, glaring. "I think, Strider, that we can manage that!"

Aragorn found himself resisting the urge to take a step back from the intensity of that glare. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

Frodo found himself resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and by dint of effort, to keep a reasonable tone of voice. "The problem is, Strider, that we are not wayward children! All of us, save Pippin, are fully adults, and he is not a child himself by any means! It is true that we are not familiar with the way to Rivendell, nor would we know how to fight such creatures as pursue us. But we are not incompetent. All of us have tramped about the Shire at times, have made camp, have foraged. While we don't know much about fighting, we do know a lot about hiding. After all, we got ourselves out of the Shire without being caught, though those Black Riders pursued us for many miles. We are grateful that Gandalf arranged for you to guide us, but if you insist on acting as though we have not the sense of a goose, we might as well part ways, and we will somehow manage to locate Rivendell on our own."

Aragorn flushed. He realised he had been allowing his impression of the hobbits to show. "I am sorry, Frodo. I am afraid I am not used to travelling with others, and also, I fear that I was somewhat put off by our first encounter. You must admit that you were not hiding at the Prancing Pony."

It was Frodo's turn to flush. "Well, I know that we did not make a good first impression, Strider. But you must believe that the incident with the Ring was completely accidental."

Aragorn nodded. "I pledged my aid to you, Frodo. I did not do so grudgingly, but I am afraid my actions today have belied that. You are not children, and I will not treat you as such any longer. Gandalf has often told me not to underestimate hobbits, and I fear that I was guilty of doing so." He held out his hand.

Frodo did not hesitate, He reached out and took the proffered hand firmly, giving it a shake. "That's all right, then," he said.

"I will go out and do a bit of scouting, then, and also see if I too can forage a few things."

Frodo nodded. "Sam, would you go and see about some firewood? Merry and I will tend to Bill and set up the camp. I think--" he turned to look at Pippin, who had been starting to ask what he could do, "that Pippin needs to bundle up and keep warm..."

Aragorn watched for an instant, satisfied very quickly, that yes, they did indeed know how to set up a camp, then he left it to them and silently vanished into the woods, seeking for any sign of trouble...

It had been quite some time since Gandalf had crossed the Shire. Perhaps seventeen years or so-- when young Fortinbras had become Thain. He'd spent a goodly part of the last decade wandering about in the empty lands of Erebor, and poking his nose into the business of the Dúnedain. And then he'd spent some time with Radagast in Rhosgobel. Now he was on his way to the Ered Luin, to see some of the Dwarves displaced by the coming of Smaug. It was as good an excuse as any to pass through the Shire and see how it was faring, and to visit his friends amongst the Took clan.

He was not too far from Tuckborough-- he'd cut cross-country from the Three-Farthing Stone-- when he heard a commotion ahead of him. Looking forward, he saw several figures running full tilt in his direction. It seemed the course of wisdom to step behind a nearby elm. Pretty soon he saw four hobbit youths pelting along, the sounds of barking dogs and angry shouts behind them. As the youngsters neared him, he noticed their arms laden with foodstuffs-- one had a pie, one a string of sausages, another an armload of vegetables, and yet another a loaf of bread. Suddenly, the one with the pie halted. "Scatter!" he called. "They can't follow all of us if we split up!"

The other three nodded and did just as he said-- each taking off in a different direction, while the one with the pie looked about rapidly, and then dove into a nearby tangle of brambles, not far from Gandalf's tree. It was none too soon. The dogs came rushing along, barking madly, and then halting in confusion as the scents of their prey went in different directions. They were quickly followed by three adult hobbits, all of them puffing and blowing as they stopped.

"What's the matter with those dratted dogs?" said the plumpest and reddest of face.

The animals were casting about and would soon have the scents sorted. On impulse, Gandalf decided to intervene. He stepped forth from behind the tree.

"Good day," he said. The dogs took up another racket of barking, at him this time. He raised a hand. "Peace!" he said. The dogs immediately stopped barking, and sat down, gazing up at him as if for further instruction.

The plumpest hobbit stared at him, caution and fear waring with suspicion and anger upon his choleric countenance. The other two hobbits also stared, quite as warily, though not so angrily. Finally, one, who wore a hat with a feather in it, said "I'm Tom Whitfoot, a Shirriff of this Farthing. We were after some young scalawags who decided to snatch some goods from Mr. Bracegirdle's foodstand on the Green in Tuckborough-- today's Market Day!"

Gandalf nodded. "I saw them pass by; they did indeed take off in separate directions." He did not mention the one, who was doubtless cowering in his bush, listening intently, and waiting to be given up by an unexpected witness.

"Those young wretches! They are getting away with this! Such thievery is scandalous!"

"Now, now, Mr. Bracegirdle," said the third hobbit, who spoke now for the first time. "I am sure the tweens were just having a lark!"

"You would take up for them, Sagramor Took! No doubt at all that they were probably young Tooks! Of course you would stick up for your kin!"

Sagramor shook his head. "Lark or no, they should not have stolen valuable merchandise. But there are other ways to get to the bottom of this. I am sure the Thain can soon discover the guilty parties."

The Shirriff looked at the dogs, who were amiably wagging their tails, and showing no interest in any scent there might be, and sighed. "He's right Mr. Bracegirdle. If they've split up, we'll never catch 'em this way." He then looked back up at Gandalf. "And who are you? And what business does one of the Big Folk have in this part of the Shire?"

The Took had been studying him, and exclaimed "I think I know you! Aren't you Uncle Fortinbras' friend? That wizard? Er...Gundolpho or some such?"

"I am Gandalf the Grey, and have the honor to know the Thain! I was passing through the Shire on other business, on my way to the Blue Mountains, and thought to break my journey and call upon him."

"Sagramor Took, at your service," said the hobbit, bowing. He indicated his companions. "This is Briffo Bracegirdle, a merchant, and this is Tomba Whitfoot, the Shirriff here in Tuckborough." He turned back to Gandalf. "We will go and report this incident to the Thain. Will you come with us?"

"You go ahead, and give him tidings of my coming! I believe that I may have a stone in my boot..." he lifted up the hem of his grey robe to indicate his large black boots, well-worn with travel. "I shall deal with it, and be along shortly."

The Took looked at him sharply, the Bracegirdle suspiciously, while the Shirriff attempted to get the attention of the dogs. Gandalf stood for a moment, as they walked away, back in the direction from which they'd come, and then sat down with his back to the elm, and removed his left boot. Sagramor Took turned briefly to look, and Gandalf raised a hand and waved at them as they vanished over the hill. There was indeed a tiny pebble in his boot, and he shook it out. "They are gone, young hobbit!"

Another rustle, and then the culprit emerged, scratched and dirty, but still carrying the pie. He stood with his prize in his hands and his gaze firmly fixed upon his curly toes. "Why didn't you give me away?"

"I was curious. Besides, it seemed unfair to me that you should bear the sole burden of your crimes, as you clearly had confederates."

"Oh!" The youngster was startled into looking up. "Well, er, thank you..." He rubbed the back of his left foot behind his right, and blushed.

Gandalf studied him: a mop of chestnut curls, a sharp nose and chin, and intelligent green eyes. If Gandalf was any judge of hobbit ages, this one appeared to be in late adolescence-- perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight. And he was undoubtedly a Took, well-dressed and likely close kin to the Thain. He pursed his lips and allowed his sharp gaze to linger on the lad, who then flushed even redder, as he stared.

"You...you really are that Gandalf! I was only little when you were here!" he blurted.

Gandalf began to put his boot back on. "I am indeed, that Gandalf." He patted the ground next to him. "And who are you, then?"

The lad looked startled at the question, and stared so long that it seemed he might not answer, then, nearly whispering, he said "Gerontius Took, sir, at your service."

This time the hesitation was briefer, though the voice was even lower. "My father is the Thain."

"Ah! I see. Yes indeed, I do see. I am quite sure my old friend Fortinbras would be most displeased to know his son had behaved like a common thief." Gandalf spoke in a mild conversational tone.

"It wasn't supposed to be like that!" the lad burst out angrily, and then instantly looked abashed at his daring.

"Sit." Gandalf patted the ground next to him, and the lad sat down rather warily. "And what was it supposed to be like?"

"Well, it's just that Mr. Bracegirdle is always shouting at the younger fry, and chasing them off. And the other day my little nephew Hildibras had a farthing to spend! But when he reached for one of Mr. Bracegirdle's sausages, the old bully hit him on the back of the hand with a wooden spoon and sent him away crying!"

Gerontius nodded miserably. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he muttered.

Gandalf laughed at this, startling his companion. "Oh my! You have no idea, young hobbit, how often disasters have been explained by the words 'It seemed like a good idea at the time'!"

A smile began to twitch about Gerontius' lips, but he was not quite ready to laugh along. "I don't think it turned out the way we thought it would."

"I daresay!" He studied the young hobbit closely. "I believe that it would be best if you accompany me when I present myself to your father. And I am certain that you will make a full confession." It was not a question.

"You have to do nothing. I've no doubt that even if you name no names, your father will easily guess at your partners in crime. And you will have to face the consequences of your deed."

Gerontius sighed deeply, and looked at the pie. "It smelled delicious," he said sadly, "but now it's gone cold. And I don't know what I'll do with it, for I'm sure Mr. Bracegirdle will not want it back now."

Gerontius rather reluctantly placed the pie in Gandalf's hands. Gandalf held it out, and whispered a few words under his breath. Suddenly, steam rose from the vents in the pie's crust, along with the delicious smells of chicken and mushrooms and other good things. "It would be a shame for such good food to be wasted. Do you care to share your spoils with me?"

Gandalf's eyes twinkled, as he said in a ponderous tone, "I am a wizard!" He took out his belt knife and cut into the pie.

Gerontius did not hesitate, as he took the generous slice proffered to him. "You really are a wizard! That was amazing! How do you do magic? Where do you go when you are not in the Shire? Are there very many wizards about?" His pause to take a bite, chew, and swallow, scarcely slowed the spate of questions. "Why did you go away for so long? What are you going to do in the Blue Mountains?"

Gandalf laughed. He'd missed hobbits! And he thought perhaps he had just made a very good friend in this one.

(For those who are not familiar with "my" Shire-universe, in S.R. 1433, the year after Merry becomes Master of Brandy Hall, Buckland suffers a devastating flood. I first described it in a drabble, "Lesson Learned: Spring Flood S.R. 1433" and later on, after Hurricane Katrina struck my hometown I expanded on the event in "Hobbit Aid" In this set of vignettes, various characters affected by the flood find strength in thinking of those who are absent.)

Challenge: Earthquakes, starvation, natural catastrophes. Do these happen in Middle-earth? Write a story, poem or create an artwork where the characters have to deal with any natural catastrophe.

How the wind howls, the trees creak and groan, and the water roars. Outside the windows of the Hall, the night is black and the lightning illuminates in brief flashes sheets of water pouring down, and debris floating by. The noises remind me of nothing so much as that long night at Isengard, you and I huddling together on a pile of rock, like islands in a river's current as the Ents wreaked their destruction of Isengard. Oh Pippin! You are halfway across the Shire, and there's a raging River between us. But I know if you were here, you'd lift my spirits with your own, and cheer my heart with your hope.

Saradoc my love! How I wish you were with me now! You'd be so proud of our Merry, so strong, so determined. He reminds me so much of you. You taught him well, my dear! I know it would break your heart to see what's become of Buckland on this bleak grey morning. But I can see you, standing behind him, guiding him in the care of our people. I know you are watching over him, over me, somehow.

Is this what it's going to be like? I see Merry's face, as white as the cold marble statues in the Citadel. He's carrying the burden of all Buckland on his shoulders, and it's weighing him down. It won't be long before I'll have the same responsibility for all the Shire: I have to face that. I have to start now with Merry. I have to help him, to help Buckland. But I know where to start: Strider. He's taught me what it means to lead, and he'll help us now, in our time of trouble. I can always trust my King to know what's right.

Mr. Frodo, I'm glad you don't have to see what's become of the place where you grew up. I'm glad you don't have to see how much poor Merry's hurting, nor how much Pippin's hurting for him. But I wish you was here for them. I'll do my best-- to my way of thinking, you left me your cares and duties as well as your properties, and I know as you'd be trying ever so hard to take care of your cousins in a time like this. They're my friends as well, I want to help. But I'm only filling in for you-- it's you as they need. I'll just have to try and think, "what would Mr. Frodo do?" And then, I guess, I'll go and do it.

Challenge: Begin a story with a character on his or her way to deliver an unpleasant message to someone. From here, show us what transpired to bring the character to this moment. (You may or may not show the actual delivery of the message.)

Berilac led his pony from the ferry, and mounted thoughtfully. This was not a very pleasant task; yet Uncle Saradoc felt it was important that this message be delivered by a representative of the Brandybuck family. And a written message would not do.

He'd been to Hobbiton, to Bag End, before. He'd even been to the famous Party old Bilbo gave the night he vanished. While his uncle and his father had not told him any of the details they had from poor old Fatty Bolger, it was clear to Beri that whatever threatened Frodo and his friends was actaully connected with Cousin Bilbo's vanishment. He gave a shudder; what could make Merry and Frodo feel so threatened that they felt safer going into the Old Forest than facing the threat? Of course, Brandybucks were never quite so intimidated by the Old Forest as other hobbits-- but they had a healthy respect for it in any case. Going in there was no lark to any hobbit of sense. It was possible that Pippin, who was a tween and a Took, might have done so. But Merry, who was as level-headed as they came? Or Frodo, who was uncommonly wise about such things?

Beri passed north through Stock, at a brisk trot. He was very tired still. It was early enough that most in the village were not yet stirring; he passed The Golden Perch on his left-- it wasn't open yet, nor was the stationer's. He'd thought to pick up another pouch of pipe-weed for the journey, but he'd have to wait, he supposed, until he got to Bridgefields. He'd have luncheon at Whitfurrow. In the meanwhile, he could substitute a couple of apples for the second breakfast he'd be missing. Then he'd have to detour to Budgeford briefly in order to deliver his first message to the Bolgers.

Thank goodness Fatty had recovered enough to write his parents. But Berilac was sure that Fatty's father and mother would question him closely about the circumstances.

Beri didn't really know the Bolgers. Fatty had never been to Buckland before, and Berilac had not seen him since they were both children-- in fact, at that very Party at Bag End! He knew that Fatty had become very good friends with Frodo, and that, of course, meant that he was also good friends with Merry, who'd naturally take to anyone Frodo liked. When he'd come with Merry to bring Frodo's belongings to Crickhollow, Merry'd brought him down to the Hall for dinner. Berilac had talked to him a while then, and thought him a pleasant enough fellow, if a bit silly. He'd looked nothing then like the pale and wild-eyed hobbit who'd huddled in terror, babbling incoherently two nights ago. And he certainly had not looked like someone who could run a mile-- but with something like one of those Black Riders after him, Berilac could understand why!

Only Uncle Saradoc and his father had any notion of why those mysterious creatures were after Frodo. They'd told Fatty to speak to no one else of it. But whatever they were, they were not common Big Folk. They'd left behind them a miasma of terror even greater than their actions-- horrific as they were-- could account for. The mere sight of them had completely unnerved many of the hobbits whom they'd left in their wake, and that was before they'd even run down Ned Banks! Poor little Neddy! Beri had seen his trampled and mangled body, a sickening sight! To be ridden down like that! He forced the thought from his mind-- he could not afford to stop and be sick at the side of the road, and it would frighten the pony.

Beri tried to turn his thoughts away from the terrifying events recently passed. The countryside was pleasant, signs of autumn colour and the recent harvest were everywhere, the sky was beginning to brighten to a crisp blue, and the breeze brought the scents of mown hay. Hobbits were now going about their business and waved at him as he passed. He did not stop-- gossip was the last thing he had time for now. Soon the Bridge came in sight, and he stopped briefly at the Bridge Inn, where he purchased a pouch of leaf, a mutton pasty and a half of ale. Fortunately, the common room was not much occupied. The innkeeper wanted a bit of news, for of course those in Bridgefields knew of what had happened and had felt some of its effects.

"Business is off, Mr. Brandybuck. Folks was frightened by what happened t'other night. Poor little Neddy-- his funeral is today. We'll have some of the mourners in this afternoon, a-trying to drown their sorrow, I expect. Do you know any more of what happened?"

"Not really, Mr. Headstrong. Uncle Saradoc has increased the number of Bounders, though, so we should have more warning if they try to come back."

"Mr. Frodo should've never gone off to Hobbiton like that, with that cracked Bilbo Baggins! Mind you, he should've stayed in Buckland with folks that are sensible."

Word had not yet reached Whitfurrows, and in spite of the crowd at The Happy Fox he was able to eat his own luncheon in peace; most of the hobbits there were proudly wetting the head of one of their own local lads, who'd just become a father for the first time, and had no interest in the unfamiliar Bucklander who was taking his nuncheon in a table in a corner. He ate his brown bread, cheese, onions, pickles and ale quickly, left a few coins on the table for the serving lad, and left.

It wasn't far to Budgeford, and he presented himself at Brock Hall. He introduced himself to Odovacar Bolger, who had answered the door, as Merry's cousin, and told him that he bore a letter from Fredegar.

He felt rather guilty, knowing the news he carried, at the hobbit's wide smile. "Why it's so kind of you to bring it, Mr. Brandybuck! I am surprised Freddy did not simply entrust it to the Shire Post! Rosamunda! We've a letter from Fredegar!"

Berilac soon found himself ensconced in their parlour, a cup of tea and a plate of ginger biscuits in his hand. "Mr. Bolger, I have to tell you that the letter is rather urgent, and that there is some rather unusual news from Buckland."

This earned him a sharp look, and Odovacar took the letter and opened the seal with his thumb. Rosamunda went to stand behind him, and read over his shoulder.

Berilac sat forward uncomfortably as the Bolger's read Fatty's letter. Rosamunda kept making little gasps and moans as she read, and Odovacar's face grew grimmer and grimmer.

"I knew no good would come of his crossing the River," he said, putting the letter down at last.

Rosamunda picked it up again. "He says he's 'indisposed'! What's wrong with him? What have Frodo Baggins and Meriadoc Brandybuck landed him in?"

Berilac flushed. Their tone was accusatory, but he couldn't really blame them. "I know very little in the way of details. Fredegar spoke to my Uncle Saradoc and my father, but they did not confide in me what he told them. We do know that on the night of the thirtieth, several strange Big Folk dressed all in black and riding huge black horses invaded Buckland. They seemed to be searching for Frodo. Fat-- er, Fredegar ran all the way to the nearest home to bring warning of the danger, and then collapsed afterwards. The strangers ransacked Crickhollow, doing a good deal of damage to the house, and then rode off. They killed a young hobbit at the Bridge-- ran over him with their horses."

There was a stunned silence, and then Odovacar slowly drew breath. "Thank you, Mr. Brandybuck. You said you were on your way to Hobbiton?"

"Yes, sir. One of the missing is Frodo's servant Samwise Gamgee. Uncle Saradoc charged me with bearing the word to his father."

Odovacar nodded. "It's too late now for you to reach Hobbiton tonight. You are welcome to take supper with us, and spend the night in our guest room."

Berilac was grateful to accept their offer; he'd been prepared to return to the road and go on to The Floating Log in Frogmorton to spend the night. The evening was rather subdued, but the bed in the Bolger's guest room was comfortable, and Beri slept better than he'd expected to. He left immediately after first breakfast, riding briskly, and took his second at The Floating Log. He purchased some bread and cheese there, and ate his lunch at the side of the road, then road on once more, passing through Bywater and arriving in Hobbiton before teatime.

Now that he'd come to his destination, he found himself reluctant to complete his task. One of the reasons Uncle Saradoc had sent him, rather than trusting to the Quick Post was that he knew that Master Gamgee was unlettered. The news had to be delivered in person, and Saradoc felt it should be a family member to give the tidings. But to have to tell Sam's father that his son had vanished into the Old Forest, pursued by some unknown danger-- he could tell him no more than he'd told Odovacar Bolger-- and Mr. Bolger's son, at least, was safe!

When he reached the foot of the Hill, he dismounted, and led his pony. He wanted more time to think. Or perhaps, to postpone his task-- he was honest enough with himself to admit it.

As he drew closer to Number Three, he could hear a voice, shrill and immediately recognizable to any who'd heard it even once. Lawks! It was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and she was screeching even more loudly than she usually did.

The old fellow, who stood leaning on a walking-stick in front of the gate leading to a tidy little smial with a yellow door, replied "No, it ain't a mile!"

An attractive lass who stood behind him said, "Gaffer, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins wants you to come back to work on the Hill."

Lobelia drew a great breath, and then let it out in an exasperated huff. "OH, YOU ARE PERFECTLY HOPELESS!" She looked suspiciously at the lass. "And I suppose you will not come back to work at Bag End either?"

" 'Twouldn't be proper, Missus, not without my brother or my old Gaffer working there, too."

"Ridiculous!" She thumped her umbrella on the ground by her feet for emphasis. "Well, it is your loss, I'm sure, as you will note when I am paying generous wages to someone else." She turned to stomp up the Hill, spotting Berilac, as he stood there waiting, and fumed. "What are you staring at, you young lout! Mind your own affairs!" And she stalked up the Hill, with each stride punctuating the road with her umbrella.

The Gaffer waited until she had gone some distance, and then chuckled. "T' old besom! I'd not work for her if she paid in gold ducats! Mr. Frodo should never've let those confounded S.-B.s into Bag End... and what is it you want, young fella?" he added beligerantly as he saw Berilac standing there.

Berilac, who'd been somewhat apprehensive during the exchange with Lobelia at the thought of having to scream his news at Master Gamgee realised to his amusement that the old hobbit was not nearly so hard of hearing as he had appeared. But now, recalled to his errand abruptly, he shuddered and grew sombre. "Mr. Gamgee? I am Mr. Brandybuck-- I believe you know my cousin Meriadoc?"

The Gaffer nodded warily, and the young lass looked at him sharply. "Mr. Brandybuck? You've news of our Sam haven't you?"

Berilac realised this must be Sam's younger sister. "I am afraid so, Miss Gamgee," he said solemnly.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she gasped. The Gaffer opened the gate. "Best to come in, young sir; it's clear to see you've no good news. Shan't be telling it at the garden gate for prying eyes and ears." He turned and led them into the smial. It was small, but meticulously tidy. The Gaffer led Berilac straight to the kitchen, saying "Bad news needs a hot cuppa..."

Sam's sister, who introduced herself as Marigold, bustled to making tea, and Berilac sat down and began to explain his news as best he knew it.

The Gaffer's face darkened with anger, and Berilac expected to hear him begin to rant about "those queer Bucklanders across the River", but instead he nodded as though he'd expected as much. "Sounds like that queer black fella showed up at my door the night they all left. If I'd've known he was up to no good then...but no good crying over spilt milk. Besides, it's clear who's to blame!"

"Who?" put in Marigold, as she sat down with her own tea after pouring theirs. "Not Mr. Frodo, surely!"

"Nay!" said the Gaffer. "But I've heard the gossip from down Southfarthing way! Big Folk! Who is it hires Big Folk, to come in and take jobs as should rightfully belong to upstanding hobbits? It's that Lotho! Why would Mr. Frodo sell Bag End to him, of all people? He must've made threats to Mr. Frodo to make him sell! He's up to no good, mark my words! He's sent them Big Folk of his a-plundering after poor Mr. Frodo and our Sam, to make sure as they can never come back!"

Somehow, Berilac doubted this theory. He'd seen and felt the terror left behind by the Black Riders. But he felt no inclination to argue. If it comforted the old fellow to imagine that Lotho Sackville-Baggins was behind his son's disappearance, Beri would not try to disillusion him.

As soon as he decently could, he made his farewells to Sam's worried family, and rode down the Hill, to take a room at The Ivy Bush. His errand was done, and he wanted to go home.

(Written for Back to Middle-earth Month in March of 2006, I somehow missed posting it here!)

1. In FOTR Bilbo says to Frodo, “But I thought you knew enough Elvish at least to know dûn-adan: Man of the West, Númenorean. But this not the time for lessons!” Just what were Frodo’s lessons like? What were Bilbo’s teaching methods? Did Frodo even want to learn Elvish, or have lessons when he came to live at Bag End? Could he have been inspired to "go back to school" upon seeing Sam's joy in learning? Or was it an organic process, Bilbo teaching Frodo new things as he thought of them, as they hiked and lived together?

[AUTHOR’S NOTES: Frodo is 16, or the equivalent of 10, in Man-years, in this story. It takes place shortly after “Buckland Spring”, during the events of “Grief” and “The Apology”. Frodo is visiting Bilbo at Bag End for a while after having run away from Brandy Hall due to a misunderstanding.)

Frodo looked up from his plate of second breakfast into the face of his older cousin. “Yes, Uncle Bilbo?”

“You know that I told you that you would have to have lessons while you are here, and that you are not to consider this a holiday. While I am very glad to have you here, you must realize that you did wrong to come away from Buckland the way you did.”

“I know.” Frodo bit his lip. He had written a letter of apology to Saradoc and Esmeralda last night. In his distress, he had never considered how upset and frantic his cousins might be at his disappearance. He realized now that he should never have run away like that. “Do you think Uncle Sara will let me stay a while?”

“I think when he reads my letter as well, he may do so. But it is going to take a few days before we get an answer, even by Quick Post. So we may as well start as we mean to go on. When you have finished eating, we shall go to my study.” The older hobbit suppressed a smile, as he watched the younger one attempt to hide the eager gleam in his eye. “Here, my lad, take the last sausage, and have another scone.”

Frodo, for his part felt a bit excited. He was an eager scholar for the most part, and enjoyed his lessons--except for sums. And he wondered what sort of lessons his Uncle Bilbo might set him. At home in Brandy Hall his tutor was his Uncle Dinodas, who had taught any number of young Brandybucks, and there was a certain rhythm of familiarity in his teaching. And then, he had his drawing lessons with Cousin Calla--he would miss those here--he did not suppose Uncle Bilbo would be giving him drawing lessons.

Bilbo watched the young teen eat, and began to plan the lesson in his mind. It had been many a long year since he had done any tutoring, but he had always enjoyed it. It would be nice to have a student again, even for a little while.

After breakfast, they did the washing up together, and Frodo followed Bilbo into the study. Like Uncle Dinodas’ chamber at Brandy Hall, it was filled with crowded bookshelves, and books stacked on tables. Unlike Uncle Dinny, however, Bilbo had very little in the way of piles of papers laying about, except upon his large desk, that stood beneath the round window, and looked out upon the front garden. To the right of Bilbo’s desk stood a round oak table and a couple of chairs. A draughts game was set up there. Bilbo quickly cleared it away into its box.

Frodo sat down at the table and watched Bilbo curiously. Bilbo went to a shelf that did not look as though it were used as frequently as the other bookshelves, and began to run his fingers along the spines of the books there.

“I am sure at your age, you know your genealogy,” he remarked, as his hand paused upon one volume bound in pale blue.

“Yes, sir. And Uncle Dinny made sure I knew my Baggins side as well as my Brandybuck side.”

“My last essay was on the Goblin Invasion in the North Farthing. And I believe that I was going to be learning about the settling there of Bandobras Took.”

“And what of the world Outside? Have you been told any of the history beyond the Shire and Buckland?”

“Only about how the King of the North gave the Shire to hobbits to settle, and how, about three hundred years later, the last King made Bucca of the Marish the first Thain, and asked him to hold the Shire for him until a King returned. I really did not understand that. If he was the last King, how could a King return?”

Bilbo smiled. “Excellent question, my lad! Well--ah--here it is! ‘A Brief History of the Northern Kingdoms’--very good! That will do to begin on.” He placed the volume on the table, and then went to his desk, where he procured a stack of parchment, a quill, a penknife, a bottle of ink and a small container of sand. “This should be enough to start.” He looked at the large book, and opened it to the beginning. “Yes, yes, I did remember correctly--read the first section. Then I should like you to draw up a table of the Kings, using the information you find there, and you may begin to understand some of the answer to your question.”

He looked further down on the shelf. “Good, good--it’s still here!” He took out a slate and a small, rather dusty box of chalks. “You can use this to do up your rough draft, less waste of parchment that way. And it will be handy when I set you sums to do.” Bilbo noticed with amusement the small face Frodo made at the mention of sums. He chuckled.

“My father?” Frodo asked in surprise. He had never really ever heard anybody talk much about his father. Whenever he was mentioned at Brandy Hall it was usually “Poor Drogo, he was so fond of Primula,” which was lovely to know, but did not convey much information.

“Yes, yes,” said Bilbo. “Before my Adventure came, and I lost my Reputation, I used to be the Baggins family tutor. In fact, your father and your Uncle Dudo were among my last students.”

Frodo’s eyes grew wide at this information, and Bilbo realized that his cousin would love to hear more about his father. Well, there would be time for that, surely, on this visit. He had asked Saradoc to allow Frodo to stay for at least two months.

“Now, I think you have everything you need, but if you have any questions, I will be right here at my desk doing my own work, so you just feel free to speak up.”

“Yes, sir!” Frodo glanced down at the book, eager to see what new information was to be found there.

Bilbo started to turn to his desk, and then went back to the bookshelf once more. From an upper shelf he took down a dusty hourglass. He had used it in the past to keep track of time when working with a student. He blew the dust off, and gave it a cursory swipe with his handkerchief. It would not do to lose track of time the way he often did nowadays, now he had a student once more.

Bilbo placed the hourglass on the corner of his desk, turned it, and then drew out his own work.

Frodo interrupted a short time later. “Uncle Bilbo--it was *not* Arvedui Last-King who made Bucca the Thain!”*

“No, it was not. It was his *son* who did so. Does that answer your question?”

“Well, it means the King’s family did not die out, so maybe there could be some descendants…”

“Very good.” Bilbo smiled, and returned his attention to a rather tricky verb.

For a good long while, no sound was heard save the turning of pages and the scratch of quill upon parchment, and a bit of occasional birdsong through the open window. The sands of the hourglass ran down unheeded, and the chime of the clock upon the mantelpiece was not even noticed.

Bilbo glanced at the hourglass guiltily, and then at the clock. “Bless me! We’ve worked right through elevenses and luncheon as well! Come, come, that will not do! You are a growing lad, and need your regular meals. Shall we go to the kitchen and see what we can find in the larder?”

Frodo got up with alacrity, Bilbo a bit more slowly. As Frodo passed Bilbo’s desk, his eyes were caught by the papers there, and he stopped.

Frodo looked up at his older cousin, longing in every line of his face, and Bilbo found himself warming to that eager gaze. “Do you think that is something you should like to learn as well?”

Words failing him, Frodo nodded fervently. He’d never wished anything so much before.

“Well, then, after we have managed to feed our faces, I shall see what I can do about setting you some lessons in that, as well.”

Frodo gasped. “Oh, Uncle Bilbo,” and launched himself at the older hobbit with a grateful hug.

Bilbo patted his back, and felt very gratified indeed. It looked as though he had found a kindred spirit at last.

I'd like to thank danachan. Her Annotated Tale of Years just made this little factoid jump out at me.

(I wrote this story at least two years ago. Imagine my surprise to discover I had never posted it here!)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Fatty and Folco are 15, the equivalent of 9 years old in Man-years. Estella is 10, or about 6 ½ in Man-years

“Yes, Fredegar?” Rosamunda looked up from her embroidery, knowing what the question would be, as it was bound to be the same one he had asked only a quarter of an hour before.

His mother gave an impatient sigh. “Folco and his parents will be here before noon, or so his mother wrote.” She glanced to the corner of the room where Estella was busily trying to put a doll’s bonnet on her kitten, Topsy. Topsy was beginning to be impatient with the procedure, and Rosamunda didn’t wish to see Estella get scratched or bitten. “Why don’t you take your sister to the kitchen and have Cook give you some elevenses?” It was a little early for elevenses, truth be told, but it would put an end to Fatty’s impatient queries after his friend, and give the kitten a chance to get away.

Food is always an excellent distraction for young hobbits, and most especially for Fatty, whose nickname had begun as a mispronunciation by his baby sister, and then persisted when it became apparent that he would continue to be rounder than the average hobbit lad of his age.

The Boffins had been away for a month, visiting Daisy’s Aunt Dora in Bywater. They were returning now to the Yale, and to their home near Budgeford. Fatty had been moping about nearly the whole time, missing his friend, but Rosamunda had been glad of the break. One never knew when Folco was going to say something unfortunate. The child had his foot in his mouth so often that she wondered he could walk. Of course, it had helped a bit when his parents saw to his flute lessons. One had only to suggest to him that he play. It was very effective. Still, he couldn’t play the flute *all* the time, and it was exhausting having to stay alert all the time. She had no idea how poor Daisy managed.

And the lad was often given to bouts of unexpected generosity as well, also not always appropriate. It had been he who had given Estella the kitten, the last time he had been here to tea. It had been a singularly ugly and ill-favored little thing at the time, and Rosamunda was just grateful that it had improved its appearance markedly with regular meals, for of course one could not turn down a gift. She supposed she should be glad he had not come across one of the fabled oliphaunts instead of a stray cat.

Still, for all his faults, poor little Folco meant well. And it couldn’t be denied that he and Fatty were extremely devoted to one another.

In the kitchen, Fatty was devouring the toasted cheese and fruit juice that Cook had given to him and to Estella, as he regaled them with a list of all the fun that he and his friend would be having on Folco’s return.

“Mother has said we may go for a ramble, and take our tea along for a picnic this afternoon! We might take fishing poles with us!” He gave Cook and engaging smile. “If we catch lots of fish will you make them for our supper tonight?”

“Well, Master Freddy, if you are so lucky as to catch *lots*, I guess that I will. But don’t forget there’ll be company here tonight, so there must be enough for everyone, mind you!”

“No, Master Freddy, I’m making some jam tarts. And if you and young Master Folco are good lads, then I will give you some to take for your tea.”

She grinned. In truth, though Mistress Bolger was a very demanding mistress, it more than made up for it, to have such a lad about who appreciated her cooking as well as this one did. It made her quite blush at times to hear him praise her cooking to all and sundry.

“Why certainly Miss Estella! Here, you stand up in the chair, and you shall use the teacup to cut the rounds out. Master Freddy, would you like to put the jam in the middle?”

And so the time after elevenses passed pleasantly enough, until the sound of coach wheels could be heard, and Freddy darted from the kitchen.

He tore out the door to be there when Folco jumped out and the two friends spent several minutes in exuberant hugs and back-poundings. Then Fatty remembered his manners. “Hullo, Uncle Griffo and Aunt Daisy!” They were “aunt and uncle” by courtesy only, and the relationship was more distant than that. Daisy was Odovocar’s third cousin once removed through her paternal grandmother Ruby Bolger.

The parents exchanged more subdued greetings. Then Folco said “Hullo, Aunt Rosamunda! That’s a very purple dress you’re wearing! Have you been sick?”

Behind his wife, Odovocar placed his hand over his mouth to stifle a chuckle. She might forgive the child, but she’d never forgive him if he laughed.

Griffo rolled his eyes, and poor Daisy went beet red. If it had been anyone but Folco, Rosamunda would have been highly offended. As it was, she just sighed. “No, Folco, dear, my health is just fine. Why don’t you children go to the playroom until luncheon?”

The children went off, Estella carrying Topsy under the front legs, and showing Folco how much her kitten had grown.

Rosamunda gave a rueful laugh. “Well, I should have known this color would not flatter my complexion, for all that it is popular this season.” Now that she thought of it, her dressmaker had tried to discourage her from choosing this material. She should have listened.

The friends enjoyed a fine luncheon, unmarred by any tactless remarks due to the fact that Folco’s plate was kept full and his mouth occupied with the food.

Afterwards it was time for Estella’s nap, and Rosamunda encouraged the two lads to take their picnic and return in time for supper.

Cook made up a small basket, with some of the jam tarts, and a small stone bottle of cold milk, and some bread-and-butter sandwiches, and armed with a pair of fishing poles, the two lads headed off. They went north along the Scary road until they left the village, and then cut across country until they came to a small stream that flowed down from the Water. They wet their lines for a while, but there were no fish to speak of. Folco proposed going on to the Water, but Fatty did not wish to go there--he was a bit frightened of the Water. So they sat in the shade of a large willow tree, and Folco took out his little wooden flute. In the few years he had been taking lessons he had grown quite proficient, and it was a lovely pleasure to Fatty to close his eyes and listen to the music that his friend made. Folco started out with some familiar Shire airs, but soon he simply began to improvise, letting the music take him where it would.

So the two of them set to on the fine treats they had with them. “Why don’t we save the last two tarts for the walk home?” asked Folco. He was full.

Fatty looked at them with longing, but reluctantly agreed. “I suppose we should head back then, if we are to be in time for supper.”

They were cutting back across the meadows, when they heard the distinct sound of a young child crying. It sounded quite close by, and after casting about for a few minutes, they found the source.

It was a tiny little lass, barely a faunt, who sat alone, hot and dirty, and screaming at the top of her voice. Fatty was somewhat taken aback, Folco went over and picked her up.

“What’s the matter, little one?” he asked, bouncing her on his hip. “Are you lost?”

She sniffled mightily, and looked up at her young rescuer with huge brown eyes. “Lost,” she repeated.

Folco looked at Freddy. “She shouldn’t be out here by herself. What if a fox came along?”

Now the brown eyes went huge. “Fots?” she asked fearfully. “Where fots?” and started to scream again.

Fatty shook his head, and took her from Folco. “No, no, there’s no fox, really there’s not.” But she kept crying.

Folco reached into the basket and took out the jam tarts. “Here,” he said desperately, “don’t cry, baby. Here.”

The sight and smell of the treats dried up her tears instantly, and Fatty watched with a twinge of regret as she took one tart in each grubby little hand and began to devour them. They had been such good tarts, too.

“I guess she’s gone and lost herself,” said Folco. “Do you think we should try to find her family?” The way he said it made Fatty think his friend was hoping he’d say no, they could keep her, as though she were another stray kitten. He tried to imagine what his mother would say if they came home with a baby and Folco decided to give her to Estella for a gift.

“Yes,” said Fatty. “we do. Come on, then.” She had finished her tarts, and was enthusiastically licking her hands.

The two boys took turns carrying her, as they moved closer to the road, in the hopes of spotting the smial or cot where she might have lived.

Dimly, they could hear voices calling. They headed in that direction. Soon they could hear them more clearly.

Folco was carrying the child now, and she began to bounce excitedly in his arms. “Mummy! Da-da!”

“Oh, Blossom!” called the mother, as she raced over and snatched her child, covering her in kisses and hugs.

The father approached more quietly, but there was a look of relief on his face. “Oh, thank you, lads! Where did you find her?”

Fatty pointed back over the fields from which they had come, and the farmer shook his head in astonishment.

The mother began to cry, and now the father looked cross. “Her Gaffer was supposed to be watching her, but he fell asleep. She‘s only just learned to toddle, I don‘t know how she could have gone so far.”

Fatty shook his head. “My friend didn’t mean anything by it, sir. It was just surprising to us to find her like that.”

The farmer looked mollified then. “I guess it was,” he said. “I suppose my old dad’s getting past it, if he canna’ keep awake to watch his grandchild.”

The mother, who had been inspecting her little one from head to toe, and was trying to wipe her sticky face with the tail of her apron, said “What did you lads feed her?”

She smiled. “Well, I don’t suppose that I can replace the jam tarts, but I did make a seedcake this morning, if you’d like some, and maybe a cup of cold buttermilk?”

They followed them down to the road and around a bend, where a little thatched cot stood. An elderly hobbit was leaning on a stick in the doorway, looking anxious. His relief on seeing them was great.

The lads enjoyed their treat in the cozy farm kitchen, and then headed back to Budgeford and Brock Hall. They were very nearly late for supper, but their parents praised them when they told their tale.

As they went in to dine, Daisy noticed the relieved look on Rosamunda’s face. “What is it?” she asked her friend in amusement.

“I am just counting my good fortune that your son did not decide to give my daughter a stray baby this time.”

Rating: G
Summary: It's S.R. 1436, and an historical meeting is taking place at the Stonebow Bridge...

It was a spectacle, no doubt about it, and the sight was almost enough to make her feel young again: the colourful pavilions, the Big Folk in their finery, the assemble hobbitry in their Highday best, and over it all, the jeweled black banner waving proudly beneath a brilliant blue sky—it made her catch her breath.

“Esme? Are you all right?” Her sister-in-law Eglantine took her by the elbow and gazed at her face in concern.

“I’m quite well, Tina, dear. It’s just, well, did you ever think when we were young that we would ever see such a thing?”

Tina chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose I’d ever thought to see any such thing until the King comes back!” Eglantine arched one eyebrow mischievously as she used the old phrase, now almost two decades out of date.

The jest surprised a bark of laughter out of Esme. “Tina, you wicked thing! We mustn’t disgrace our lads on such a solemn occasion!”

Eglantine gave Esmeralda’s shoulders a squeeze, and said “I think there is nothing we could do to disgrace our lads here and now! Just look at them.”

Esmeralda had been looking: there the two of them stood, resplendent in their finery, their armour burnished and their grey cloaks billowing behind them, as they stood to attention just outside the largest of the pavilions. To one side stood Samwise, looking every inch the prosperous Mayor.

Tina nodded. Both of them still felt the recent grief of widowhood. Saradoc had gone unexpectedly four years ago, and Paladin had gone more slowly but two years later.

Suddenly, there was a silver sound that lifted all their hearts, as Merry lifted the horn he wore at his side and played a liquid call. Then, from the pavilion they emerged: the King and the Queen. A huge cheer rose up from hundreds of hobbit throats.

Esmeralda and Eglantine stood side by side on the Stonebow Bridge. In front of them was a gaggle of children: Brandybucks, Tooks and Gamgees all together, while Estella, Diamond and Rose Gamgee stood in their midst. Estella was holding little Niphredil, Rose held tiny Primrose Gamgee in one arm and had her Daisy by the other hand, Diamond had Faramir by one had and Goldilocks Gamgee by the other. Young Elanor Gamgee was carrying little Hamfast. The other children crowded close to their mothers.

Behind them they were aware of all the other assembled hobbits, family Heads and their wives and children, all awaiting their chance to meet the King.

Samwise made a brief speech of welcome to the King and Queen, and then made a gesture. Esmeralda and Eglantine went up to relieve Estella and Diamond of the children, and the wives went forward to be presented. Esmeralda smiled to see the beautiful curtsey that Estella made—her daughter-in-law had been very nervous about that!

Suddenly, Esmeralda felt a tug at her sleeve. It was her older granddaughter Wyn, who reached up to take her little sister. Perry and Frodo-lad came to take Goldi and Fam from Eglantine, and then Esme looked up into Merry’s twinkling eyes as he offered her his arm. Pippin was doing the same for his mother. This was unexpected! Esmeralda had not thought that she too, would be presented to the King!

She and Merry stood back, as Pippin introduced his mother, and then Merry brought her forward.

Merry kept a firm grip on her as she made her own curtsey, and considering it was not something she’d done since girlhood, Esme felt she did well enough. It was not hard to rise with her son’s sturdy help. And then she looked up.

The Queen! Oh, the Queen was the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld! She smiled and took Esme’s hand and said warmly, “I am very pleased to meet you.”

And then the King also took her hand. He bent slightly, and raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss on the gnarled back of it, and Esme felt herself blushing like a young girl. “I am honoured to meet you, Esmeralda Took Brandybuck.”

Esmeralda looked into those grey eyes and saw there kindness and wisdom and mercy and, yes, humour. This was the Man who had seen her son and her nephew and her beloved cousin through toil and danger and brought each one of them out of the shadow when they had nearly been snatched away. She felt tears gather in her eyes, but she mustered a smile for him.

(Written for the LotR GFIC Community's July 2010 Fixed-length-ficlet challenge, "Short and Sweet". The story is exactly 399 words.)

Author: Dreamflower
Title: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time
Rating: G
Theme: Two sides to everything
Elements: My topic for the story's debate: Was the Edict prohibiting Men from entering the Shire a good idea?
Author's Notes: The Edict is canon; according to the Tale of Years in Appendix B, in S.R. 1427, King Elessar issues an edict that Men are not to enter the Shire... The details of the edict and the mechanisms by which it is carried out are not specified, although we do know that Elessar held himself bound by it and refused to enter the Shire in S.R. 1436, when he made his Northern Progress to Arnor. I have made my own provisions for the “Ban”: it was in partial force as a trial period prior to S.R. 1427, at which time it was made permanent. Also, exceptions could be made for Men to enter if the Thain, the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor all agreed. Also, hobbits were allowed to set the penalties for any violations of said Edict.
Summary: Merry and Pippin take Strider to task for a long-ago decision.
Word Count: 1,751

Aragorn leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out, crossing his hands behind his head. With these two friends, all formality was gone, and only a long history of affection remained. With them as with very few others, he could just be Strider again.

“I am glad you are here,” he said, looking at the two elderly hobbits. “I wish we could have had more time to speak in Rohan.”

“Éomer's funeral was a busy time for you,” said Merry sadly. “I was glad to see you there, but I knew there would be little chance for conversation.” Merry leaned back himself. It was cosy in the King’s drawing room. The Queen had retired, and now it was just the three old friends. Merry and Pippin had arrived in Minas Tirith earlier in the day, and after the public feast to honour them, had joined Aragorn in the Royal apartments, for, as Pippin had put it, “a proper chin-wag among friends”.

“I hope you are not too weary from your journey.” Aragorn looked at them closely. Merry had passed his century mark, and Pippin was only a few years shy of his. Not so old for hobbits, but still quite elderly, even for hobbits of Took blood.

Merry snorted. “My backside’s well padded, but I confess it is good to get here, and to be able to stay put for a while.”

“And my backside’s quite bony, and very tired of riding. But we’re just a couple of gaffers now—pay no mind to us, Strider!”

Aragorn laughed. The two hobbits were as droll as ever. “Well, I am a gaffer as well, you know!”

For a while, the conversation turned to children and grandchildren. Pippin’s children had proved remarkably prolific, and he thought that between them Faramir and Goldilocks were going to try to outdo old Mayor Sam in the matter of progeny, while Pippin’s daughters had fourteen among the three of them! Merry had only four grandchildren, but they had kept Brandy Hall lively.

“You should have seen them hanging onto Mellor for tales the last time he stayed at Brandy Hall!” Merry exclaimed.

Aragorn frowned. “I know that you made an exemption for Mellor years ago,” he said, “yet it makes me uncomfortable to know he so often comes into the Shire. It makes it seem as though a King’s Man is taking the Edict lightly.”

Merry snorted. “First of all, Buckland is not exactly the Shire proper. And second of all, you allowed us to make the exemptions for those that the Thain, the Master and the Mayor agreed upon. And third, Mellor has had that permission for a very long time.”

“I’d like to have seen someone tell Aunt Esme that!” laughed Pippin. “She was very fond of Mellor, and took every chance she could get to feed him up!”

Aragorn smiled, remembering the chance he’d had to meet Merry’s remarkable mother Esmeralda when he had gone to the Bridge to make his three hobbit friends Counsellors of the Northern Kingdom. She had indeed been a formidable matron, and he would not have cared to gainsay her. Still…

“The Edict was put into place for a purpose. It is meant to protect the Shire from those who’d take advantage of the hobbits who live there. I thought that the two of you agreed with that.”

Pippin fixed a gimlet eye on his liege lord. “Absolutely not! Merry and I always thought the Edict was rot!”

“Well, not completely rot, Pippin,” said Merry in a mild tone. “It did serve a useful purpose to begin with.”

“Yes, but we thought it was going to be temporary! Just until the Shire had a chance to train up more Bounders and the Rangers had a chance to build up their strength again after the War! We never liked the idea of it being permanent!”

“Who were still our fathers at the time,” Merry pointed out. “And you had made your own wishes clear.”

Aragorn shook his head, surprised somewhat at his friends’ vehemence. It had never once occurred to him to doubt the wisdom of that Edict.

“But you saw how there were some Men already laying plans to take advantage of the hobbits of the Shire as soon as the trial period ended. If the Ban had not remained in place, they would have been able to do so.”

Pippin snorted. “I think we could have handled it ourselves. We did handle it ourselves. Hobbits have enough sense to deal with such things as they arise. It's Men who think there have to be 'Rules' for everything.” His snort showed what he thought of that, remembering the “Rules” that had greeted them when they returned to the Shire after the War.

“Be fair, Pip,” said Merry. “Lotho thought up a good many of those ‘Rules’.”

“Yes, well, Lotho wasn’t much of a hobbit,” said Pippin. “At any rate, we could have handled what those Men had in mind. The Families would certainly not have allowed Men to buy up all that property in the Southfarthing.”

“And I do think if it had not been for that incident, we could have persuaded our fathers to allow the Edict to expire,” he added. Pippin drew in a deep breath; his father had not been quite as likely as his Uncle to agree, but he had been making progress in persuading him. And of course, Sam was becoming the Mayor at the time—he had wished to allow the Edict to expire as well.

“Frodo thought it a good idea.” Aragorn knew that this was an unfair and emotional argument to use on Frodo’s cousins, who even after all these years, still missed their older cousin fiercely. But it had weighed a good deal in his own decision—he had a great deal of respect for Frodo’s wisdom and judgment.

To his surprise, Merry shook his head. “Frodo wasn’t thinking straight before he left. His heartfelt wish was for the Shire to be just as innocent as it had been before he left. He blamed his absence for a good deal of what happened in the Troubles.”

Pippin nodded. “He wanted everyone to acknowledge you as King, and to know that we were part of the Northern Kingdom, and yet at the same time, he wanted to keep out the bad influences. And you have to remember, Strider, that he left when the trial period had only just begun. I do think he’d have changed his mind if he’d still been around at the end of it.”

“I’m sure he would have,” said Merry. “The problem is the Ban causes as many problems as it solves. True, you allowed us to set the terms for any exceptions, but requiring the Thain, the Master and the Mayor to agree on any such can cause difficulties in emergencies. At least you allowed us to set the penalties. I hate to think of what Men’s justice would have come up with as a punishment for entering without that permission.”

“And it makes trade difficult. All trade has to be carried out through Dwarves, or through the few Men who do have permission to cross the Shire,” said Pippin.

“And it kept you out,” said Pippin crossly. “I would very much have enjoyed the opportunity to show you the hospitality of the Shire! But you have to be so noble that you will not even allow us to grant you an exception—one that we have extended from time to time to your Messengers or Rangers!”

“Those exceptions were emergencies,” said Aragorn reasonably. A glance at Merry’s troubled face, though, made him drop that topic. The Buckland flood of 1433 was still a very painful subject for Master Meriadoc. Pippin looked abashed as well, and for a moment, the argument ceased.

“What would you have me do, my friends?” the King asked after a few moments of silence.

“If you ask me, I will rescind the Edict even now, trusting that you know best what will serve your people.”

Merry and Pippin looked at one another, and then both silently shook their heads.

“No, Strider,” said Pippin. “That’s no longer our decision to make. Faramir and Peridoc are the Thain and the Master now, and it looks as though Robin Gamgee will be Mayor after his Uncle Nibs finishes his term. The Shire belongs to another generation now. We couldn’t do that to them.”

Merry nodded. “The responsibility has passed on. Besides,” he added, “it’s too late for that. Hobbits are used to the way things are now, and a change after all this time would not be taken well at all.”

For a while the three friends smoked their pipes in silence, and then Merry spoke again. “The Shire is safe and prosperous again, thanks in no small part to the Edict and to the Rangers. But I fear another more insidious danger, one that no amount of guarding from the Outside can prevent. If things go on as they are, the Shire will grow once more soft and complacent, and forget what hobbits can do when necessary. There are very few alive now who can still remember our Frodo, and the tales about him, even among our own grandchildren are little more than fireside entertainment.”

Pippin nodded sadly. “They laugh in the wrong places,” he said, “and they ask the wrong questions. They do not understand what was risked or what the cost was.” His eyes glittered for a moment, and he blinked away the suspicious moisture. Merry too, blinked, and reached over to pat Pippin on the arm.

“And yet,” Aragorn said quietly, “you know that is the way Frodo would have had it.”

Suddenly, Pippin chuckled. “Stubborn Baggins! He always got his way in the end!’

Merry looked at Pippin in astonishment, and then began to laugh as well. “Cheeky Took!”

Now both hobbits were laughing, and Aragorn, after an instant of astonishment, joined in.

They could never stay solemn for long—and somehow, Aragorn thought, that was their true strength. Perhaps the Edict had not been such a good idea after all. But one could not turn back time.

(Written for the LOTR GFIC Community's September 2010 Challenge, "Back to School")

Title: Useful Things Legibly Beautiful
Rating: G
Theme: Back to School
Elements: handwriting-calligraphy
Author’s Notes: This story is dedicated to my friend and fellow calligrapher, pearltook1; Happy Birthday, Pearl!
Frodo is twelve in this story—the equivalent of a human child of about eight years old. The title is taken from this quotation by the father of modern calligraphy, Edward Johnston : “This is then the scribe's direct purpose: the making of useful things legibly beautiful.”
Summary: Young Frodo's education begins anew after the loss of his parents.
Word Count : 3,142

Saradoc Brandybuck paused on his way out of the dining hall, and turned. “Yes, Uncle Dinny?”

Dinodas approached him. “Sara, would you join me this evening for a snifter of brandy? I’ve something I wish to discuss with you.”

Saradoc was surprised at the request, but nodded. “Let me have a word with Esme, and tell Frodo good-night, and I will be there in a few moments.”

The older hobbit nodded. Saradoc turned to see Esmeralda and Frodo waiting for him. “Esme, my dear, Uncle Dinny has invited me to his quarters for an evening drink and a talk.” He kissed her lightly, and then turned to Frodo, who stood close by his wife’s side. “Frodo, I’ll say good-night now, and will see you in the morning.” He bent and gave the child a hug.

Frodo gave a mute nod, and returned the embrace very briefly. Saradoc hid his disappointment at the lack of enthusiasm. They had to give him time, after all. He stood up and said, “Perhaps you will go down to Bucklebury with me tomorrow?”

Just a little interest showed for an instant in the sad eyes, and an attempt at a smile passed across the small pale face. “That would be nice, Uncle Sara.”

He watched Esmeralda lead Frodo off to their apartment, and gave his own sigh of resignation. When he had agreed to this it had never once occurred to him how long and how difficult it would be. Face it, he told himself, he had never even thought it would be necessary. A will was just a precaution that reasonable hobbits took when they had children. How on earth could he have thought it would fall upon him to take Primula’s and Drogo’s son in, in reality? He could not even remember the last time he had heard of a child who lost both parents at the same time.

Saradoc was surprised that the palms of his hands were sweaty as he approached his uncle’s door, and laughed at himself. Uncle Dinny had been his tutor for many years, but Sara was an adult now, and the Son of the Hall. There was no need to be intimidated by his old teacher. He gave a firm knock.

He entered the study in which he, his brother, and his cousins had spent so many afternoons, sitting at the large oak table and gazing out the window while trying to think of something to write, or doing sums on slates. The bookshelves that lined the walls on either side of the fireplace were crammed from top to bottom with books and papers. In one corner was his uncle’s desk, also piled with papers; in the other was the cupboard where slates and chalk and parchment and paper and ink and all the other necessities of a scholar were kept. Much of it might appear haphazard to a casual observer, but Saradoc knew from experience that his uncle knew exactly where to lay his hands on any particular piece of paper or book he wanted. Drawn up around the hearth were three comfortable and overstuffed armchairs, and in the center a low round table bore a tray with a decanter of brandy and two snifters. His uncle did not rise, but gestured to one of the other two chairs. “Have a seat, Saradoc, and make yourself comfortable,” he said, and leaned forward to pour two generous tots of brandy, offering one to Saradoc.

Saradoc leaned back, taking a sniff and then a sip. It was Buckland’s own apple brandy and an excellent year as well. “Thank you, Uncle Dinny.” He leaned back. “Not that I do not enjoy your hospitality, uncle, but I do not think you invited me here just for the company.”

Dinodas chuckled. “You are astute, Sara. And not that I do not enjoy your company and conversation, but I do have something—or rather someone—that I wish to speak of with you.”

“Frodo, Saradoc. Young Frodo Baggins. Are you continuing his education yourself?”

“Well…” Why had he not realised this was what his uncle wanted to talk about. “It’s so soon, Uncle Dinny. I hoped that he’d have some time to get past his grief before I thought about that. He still seems so easily upset.”

“It has been five months, Saradoc. Even for a child as bright as Frodo, that is a long time to be without any lessons. If you wish to teach him yourself, I do not object, but he is old enough to be coming to me for his lessons if you are not going to take them on yourself. I know that if Drogo had lived, he probably would have continued teaching Frodo himself—he was a fine scholar in his own right.”

Saradoc sighed. “I know how well Frodo was taught. Primula taught him his letters when he was barely out of faunthood. And he was only seven when Drogo began teaching him more advanced reading and writing. They would not wish his education to be neglected. But—“ he paused, and then continued, “I fear that it will be hard for Frodo to accept another teacher, that it will only increase his grief. I did hope it would have lessened somewhat by now.”

Uncle Dinny looked at him sympathetically. “I know you do not wish him to hurt any more than he already does, Sara. We are all fond of Frodo, and it is hard to see his pain. But think about this: he has nothing to fill his time or his days. He rarely joins in the play of his cousins, and though he is quite bright enough to read on his own—oh, I’ve seen him in the library, his nose buried in a book—he needs the structure of lessons and of work that will challenge his mind. Otherwise, what else has he to do but to brood on his loss?”

“It’s almost his birthday. He’s going to be twelve. And Bilbo Baggins will be arriving to celebrate with him. Do you wish to explain to the Baggins why Drogo’s son is not having lessons? Bilbo is legally joint guardian with you. That would give him just the excuse he needs to take the child off to Hobbiton with him. And there would be no question of his lessons at Bag End. Bilbo was a very good teacher before his foolish expedition turned most of the Bagginses against him, and he’d have no problem teaching the lad.”

“Do you want me to tell Frodo then, that he must begin coming to you for lessons?”

Dinodas chuckled. “You were always direct. Just like your father. It would be best if we could coax Frodo into wanting to have his lessons again.”

“I know it has been hard, Saradoc. You and Esmeralda were suddenly parents of a grief-stricken child, and had no chance to grow into the role, as you would if you had an infant. You’ve no experience with children, not in that way. But do not forget that you have help. All of us love Frodo and will be glad to help you when there’s need.” Dinodas leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Would you object if I approached him myself? Perhaps I can pique his interest.”

“How?” Saradoc was curious. He realised now that his uncle must have had this in mind before he ever requested this conversation.

“Drogo used to show me samples of his lessons. Frodo has an excellent hand for a child of his age. I thought I might ask for his help. One of his cousins has atrocious handwriting, and I’ve had little luck in improving it.”

“You know, Uncle Dinny? That might just work. I’ll let Esmeralda know that we have spoken of this.”

Saradoc counted the visit to Bucklebury a moderate success. Frodo had appeared fascinated by the visit to the blacksmith, with whom Saradoc had business. His father had asked him to engage the blacksmith to come up to the Hall stables and check some of the new ponies. They stopped in the bakery and picked up a loaf of cramsome bread, a favorite of Frodo’s, and some teacakes. Frodo actually did not pull away when Sara took his hand as they strolled through the main street, and on the walk back to Brandy Hall they had stopped to observe the antics of two squirrels chasing about in the branches of a spreading chestnut tree, and Frodo had actually laughed a little. Perhaps time was helping.

After tea, there was a knock at the door of their apartment. Esmeralda opened it. “Why, Uncle Dinodas! Do come in!” Since Saradoc had told her what his uncle had in mind, Esmeralda was quite curious.

Esmeralda laughed at the compliment, and ushered the older hobbit in. “Do take some tea with us, Uncle Dinodas!”

“Perhaps a little.” He took a seat and accepted the cup Esme poured for him. “I suppose you are wondering why I called?”

Frodo was watching him curiously, and he moved a bit closer to Esme on the settee.

“Is there a special reason, uncle?” Saradoc asked. Of course he already knew the answer.

“Yes, Frodo. You see I happen to know that you have exceptionally nice handwriting, and not merely for a hobbit your age.”

“Thank you,” he responded politely. “Do you want me to write something for you, then, Uncle Dinny?”

Dinodas smiled. He was pleased to note that the child had not tried to be modest, but had accepted the compliment as the truth it was. “Not exactly. You see, your cousin Margulas has exceptionally bad handwriting. Knowing how nice yours is, it occurred to me that you might be willing to help him improve it.”

“That is true, Frodo. He is nearly seven years older. But in spite of that, he needs your help.”

“I’d like you to come along to my study tomorrow afternoon, while Margulas and his brother Marroc are having their lessons. I thought perhaps you could help Margulas with his writing, while I am working with Marroc.”

“Thank you, Frodo!” Dinodas stood to take his leave. “I will see you tomorrow afternoon after luncheon, then.”

“Very well, then,” said Dinodas, and he bent to shake Frodo’s small hand before taking his leave.

“You do understand, Margulas, that this is as much for young Frodo’s benefit as your own?”

“Yes, sir.” Indeed, Moggie knew his handwriting was atrocious, and Uncle Dinny had spoken to him more than once about making an improvement. But he had bristled a little when he’d been first told of the plan to have Frodo help him with that. He’d thought at first it might just be a way to humiliate him, having a twelve year old show him up! But then Uncle Dinny explained that the hope was to get Frodo interested in taking lessons again as well. Moggie thought that quite clever on Uncle Dinny’s part; and poor Frodo had been so glum since his parents’ death. Of course, Moggie thought, he’d every right to be glum; he could not begin to imagine how dreadful it would be to have his own parents die like that! But it had been months now, and he missed how cheerful his little cousin used to be, bright-eyed and running about full of questions and mischief. Perhaps this would help get his mind off his loss.

He agreed with Uncle Dinny that there was no need to tell anyone else of the little deception—he glanced over at his younger brother Marroc, already at the old oak table, slate in hand and busy with his sums. Marroc would give it all away in an instant!

There was a hesitant rap on the study door, and Uncle Dinny called out “Come in!”

Frodo entered, padding into the room and coming over to Uncle Dinny’s side. He looked up at his cousin. “Hullo, Moggie,” he said, almost shyly, as if he didn’t see his older cousin every day at the children’s table during meals.

“Hullo, Frodo. Uncle Dinny says you are to help me improve those chicken-scratches I call my handwriting.”

Frodo nodded solemnly. Uncle Dinny made a gesture, and Moggie led Frodo over to the table, where paper, ink and quill were already laid out, alongside a large blue book, which was open to the middle.

Moggie nodded. “Uncle Dinny set me to copying out parts of it, in the hopes my writing would improve. But it hasn’t done much for me.”

Moggie obligingly picked up the quill, dipped it into the ink and began to write:

”Gormadoc Brandybuck married Malva Headstrong in S.R. 1173. They had three sons: Madoc, born 4 Thrimmidge, S.R.1175; Sadoc, born 17 Solmath S.R. 1179; and Marroc, born Overlithe, S.R. 1184…”

He stopped and looked at Frodo, who stared at what he had written, and then giggled slightly. He put his hand to his mouth and turned red. “I’m sorry, Moggie, but you were not fibbing when you said it looked like chicken scratches.”

Moggie chuckled himself. “That’s quite all right, Frodo. You see why Uncle Dinny thought I needed help.”

Frodo stared at the sentence once more, and then said, “Let me see your quill.” Moggie silently handed it over, and Frodo studied the end of it seriously. “Your quill is too pointy,” he said, “And it has a nick in it as well.” He took a little penknife out of his pocket, and laid the nib end of the quill flat on the table. He bent over it, squinting, and then took his knife and sliced off the end. Then he held it up and began to trim it precisely, stopping every so often to examine his work. “Now it is flat and slanty on the end. It is much easier to write that way.”

He dipped the quill into the ink, and recopied the sentence Moggie had written. Moggie’s eyes widened in surprise at the elegant letters. “That is beautiful!” he said in amazement.

“Thank you,” Frodo said shyly, flushing again, this time with pleasure at the compliment. In a low voice, he added, “My mama taught me to write. She always said that letters should be as pretty as I could make them.” The lad gulped and blinked, and Moggie patted him on the shoulder.

“No, Uncle Bilbo taught me that. Papa — papa and I always wrote with copper pens. Do you have a pen? They are easier than quills if you have one.”

“That’s all right,” said Frodo. “Now, what you need to do, is to hold the quill at an angle, like this…then make each stroke separately…like this…”

Both lads laughed out loud. Moggie glanced over at Uncle Dinny, expecting a reprimand, but instead saw a look of satisfaction. He winked at Moggie.

After a few days of intensive practice under Frodo’s eye, Uncle Dinny assigned Moggie to write about a book he had read. “Show it to Frodo first, so that he may check your handwriting. Then I will mark it for content.”

Frodo found himself wandering about his uncle’s study, looking with longing at some of the books that were just out of his reach. Books that belonged to his uncle and that he had never seen in the big library next to Uncle Rorimac’s study on the first level. His fingers just itched to get at them, but Uncle Dinny told him those books were reserved for his students to read when they were having their lessons. The only sounds were those of Moggie and Marroc writing busily at the big oak table, and the occasional rustle from his uncle’s desk as he marked the lessons of other students.

Frodo went over and took the parchment upon which his cousin had worked so painstakingly.

Frodo sat down next to Moggie, and began to read in earnest. The only thing he had known about Calimac before was that he had started the Shire Post. He never knew that his ancestor had an Adventure, or had been all the way to Bree. He wondered if this was one of the books that only Uncle Dinny’s students could read.

Frodo gave a start. “Oh! Oh yes, Moggie! This looks much better, it really does! I think Uncle Dinny will like it.”

Moggie grinned and gave Frodo a hug. “Thank you, Frodo! You really did help a lot!”

Marroc glanced over and teased, “Oh yes! His writing’s so pretty now! All the lasses will swoon to get notes from him!”

All three gave a jump, at the sound of Uncle Dinny loudly clearing his throat. “Marroc, do you wish to write lines?”

“You’d do well to work on your own handwriting, then, and not pester your brother.”

A few moments later, the lads were dismissed. Moggie and Marroc rushed out, eager to get to their luncheons. But Frodo hung back.

When Bilbo arrived at Brandy Hall two weeks later to celebrate his birthday with Frodo, he was gratified by how glad the child was to see him. The last time he’d seen Frodo had been shortly after Drogo and Primula’s funeral, and he had thought then that the lad might never smile again.

“Uncle Bilbo! Would you like to see the marks I got on my essay about Calimac Brandybuck?”

Author: Dreamflower
Title: Ember-Roasted Artichokes
Challenge: Genre challenge (My genre was “culinary”)
Rating: G
Pairing/Characters: The Fellowship, a couple of OCs
Words: 4,253
Summary: In Cormallen, Merry makes an unexpected and delightful culinary discovery.
Author's Notes: My genre was culinary, and my words were: artichoke, earthenware, garlic, hourglass, and meadow. I am aware that I have a botanical improbability here. I will explain further in my End Notes*!

Since I have finished the accounts that Eomer King set for me, and as I know he will not allow me to return to the tent where my cousins and Sam await until they waken from their naps, I shall take some time to write down my small doings of yesterday. I am not nearly so fretful as I was before I saw all three of them up and about four days ago, still my king and Strider say we will all rest better if I do not spend all of my time at their sides.

Yesterday, Strider asked one of the Rangers of Ithilien, a Man by the name of Findegil, to do a bit of foraging for some of the more common healing herbs that the healers are beginning to run short of. Eomer asked if I would accompany him, and perhaps do some foraging myself for some foodstuffs that would be useful. It is rather early spring to find much besides greens, but I agreed. It would be a far more agreeable task to be out in the sunshine and clean air than sitting in a tent copying lists of horses or mending harness or polishing the same armour I have been polishing over and over.

The Field of Cormallen is in a wide meadow. There are a few copses of trees about, such as the one where Frodo and Sam were taken to awaken the other day, but there is not much else growing there now after days of an encampment, and Men and horses tromping about. Once we are gone, it will soon spring back to life, however.

I followed Findegil south and east, past the edges of the encampment to where a wide stream ran back to the Anduin River. I was surprised to see what pretty country there was in that direction since it ran towards the Black Land; looking east, I could see a series of rills and waterfalls in the distance. The country was hilly and well wooded, though not densely wooded. It reminded me somewhat of the Green Hills area of the Tooklands, though it was a wilder, shaggier land. I took a deep breath, and suddenly a wave of homesickness overtook me. Yet it passed quickly with the joyful realization that not only would I be going home; we all would, something I had not been altogether sure of just a week past.

I heard Findegil behind me also take a deep breath. " 'Tis wonderful to breathe the clean air of Ithilien, and to see blue sky to the East, where only a few weeks past were only foul smokes and darkness, is it not, Sir Meriadoc?"

I gave a start. I am not all that used to my new title. "Please, just call me 'Merry'!" I said.

The Man blushed and smiled. "The Ringbearers are your cousins, are they not...Merry?"

I chuckled. "Frodo is my first cousin once removed as well as my second, also once removed, on the Brandybuck side; he's also my third cousin on the Took side of the family. But so far as I know, I'm no relation at all to Sam." I gave a sly look at the Man-- it was fun to see their reactions to statements like that. He blinked, but to give him credit, he showed no other sign of astonishment. "Sam's a very dear friend, though," I added.

Findegil smiled. "I had the good fortune to see them when they came into the keeping of Captain Faramir on their journey. Your cousin was very quiet, with good reason as now I know, though we all guessed wrongly as to the object of their journey. Samwise, however, was a very droll fellow."

I grinned at this, imagining Sam's blush when I passed the description on to him.

We began to walk once more, now keeping our eyes open for the signs of the herbs and other things we had hoped to search for. "I have to say, Findegil, I am surprised at this whole country--" I waved an arm about to indicate what I meant. "it seems strange to see such a place so close..." my voice dropped off. It's still hard to say Mordor out loud, though writing it down does not seem so hard.

"Ithilien was once called the 'garden of Gondor'. All of this country was once a province of farms and villages. It's why we shall have good fortune in our foraging, for many of the plants of field and garden grew wild and multiplied when the farms were abandoned after the Enemy returned."

"I remember Sam telling me just yesterday what luck he had finding greens and potherbs when he made a coney stew hereabouts..." I darted over just then to a patch of sorrel and added a goodly supply to my foraging bag. I noticed that Findegil had found some rue, borage, and pennyroyal, so I left those to him. I cast my eyes for more. Wild carrots I spotted, and remembering what Sam had said, I pulled one, but the root was woody and too mature for good eating. I saw some mushrooms, but close examination showed me they were poisonous, so I left them alone. I suppose my disappointment must have been obvious, for Findegil came to my side and said,”You will find no wholesome mushrooms hereabouts, sadly enough."

Near a tumble of rocks, covered in stonecrop-- which Findegil gathered, as stonecrop is good for staunching bleeding, I spotted some wild onions and wild garlic, and added some to my bag. Findegil gave an exclamation, and turned away, "This was probably once a farmhouse. Let us go see what might have been left in its fields." He seemed anxious to hurry away, though I was not altogether convinced we had found all there was to find there.

I left him to silence for a few minutes, and then asked him what the matter was. At first he did not answer, but finally he said, "There were bones there, Merry. I did not think you needed to see them."

"Oh." He didn't need to say more. I remember what the orcs had done in Rohan to many of the farms and villages of the Westfold.

We found a number of other useful plants. I had found enough greens for quite a large salad, but as I had suspected, it was too early for berries and such, though I did see a patch of strawberries still in bloom, with a few green berries. Some even had a pinkish tinge to them. I made note of their location. Assuming we were still here in a week or so, I'd return. Imagine Frodo's delight if I could present him with some fresh strawberries!

Indeed, a number of edible plants could be seen hither and yon, but few were of harvestable size yet. I did find more herbs: sprigs of thyme, rosemary, and bay were added to my bag. I was sure that the cooks in the mess tent would be happy to see them.

"Sir-- I mean, Merry! Look!" Findegil was pointing excitedly at a plant that looked to me like nothing so much as an overgrown thistle.

I strode over and looked at the plant. "What is it?" I asked, curious as to what could have excited my companion so.

He looked at me, surprised. "Do they not have artichokes in your land?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I have never heard of them," I answered. "Are they edible?" I reached up to touch one of the thick thornlike scales that covered the fruit.

"They are, indeed! They are considered quite a delicacy, though there is much work involved in eating them," he laughed as he spoke.

"Artichokes. You see, the tastiest part of it is hidden within the heart of it. And it is covered with a fur like substance that would choke a person; 'heart of choke' is what I have always been told. Only a small part of the whole thing is edible, though." He looked about, seeing two other similar plants in our vicinity. "There are not enough here to feed many, but I daresay it would make a fine treat for the Ringbearers and young Sir Peregrin, as well as for yourself."

The idea pleased me, but I pursed my lips. "It seems scarcely fair for the hobbits to have a treat that others cannot share."

"Merry, none would grudge such a thing to you all! I am sure everyone would be pleased for all four of you to indulge in such a thing. If you are concerned, you can ask the King or Mithrandir, but I am sure they too would be pleased. It would be good to have something special for them, especially for Lord Frodo." He began to cut the strange fruits from their stalk. "What fortune!" he exclaimed, as he looked at the other plants. "It appears that there are eight of them-- enough for all the company of walkers!"

This pleased me well. I knew that Frodo would feel better about the treat if we could share at least some of it with others.

There were a few more small ones lower down on the stalks. Findegil harvested them as well, to my surprise.

He shook his head. "No, and these are more tender within. While there is not enough meat on these for any one person, the cooks can use them as an ingredient in other things, I am sure."

We took our bounty and returned to the encampment. Findegil reported to the King of our finds. He was pleased both with the healing herbs and the artichokes.

Master Pellas, the chief cook, was quite pleased to see the various herbs. "They will add a bit of flavour to the plain rations we are yet forced to work with. Though I know that some of the soldiers have gone to try their hands at hunting and fishing to supplement our stores. Although," he sighed, "there is not likely to be a lot of game where orcs have been for so long."

I asked him about the artichokes, wondering would he mind preparing them for our company that evening?

"Indeed, Merry," for I had early on insisted he not call me "Sir Meriadoc", "In the city, I would boil them in an earthenware pot. They must never be cooked in an iron pot, for it turns them an unappetizing colour. But here I will roast them in the embers of the cooking fire."

"May I watch?" I asked. It would be most interesting to see how these odd vegetables were prepared.

He was only too happy to allow me to observe. First he cut off a goodly portion of the top, where the spiky leaves were. He also trimmed the stem. Once he had done that, he rinsed them and carefully spread the leaves apart. He inserted slivers of the wild garlic, and some of the thyme and other herbs we had found in between some of the leaves. Then he sprinkled salt, and poured some oil of olives-- a substance in much use in the South-- over them. After he had prepared the first one, I was able to assist him in preparing the others.

He took a long shovel, and created a deep trench near the hottest part of the large open air cooking fire, that was kept burning night and day in the heart of our encampment. He would not allow me to help in placing them into the trench-- that task involved using a long pair of iron tongs taller than I am, so I could scarcely have handled them safely. He was very careful to avoid spilling the oil he had poured on them. Though I stood well back, the fire was very hot, and I could feel my face growing red.

"There," said Pellas, "they should be done in a little over a quarter of an hour. When their colour has dulled they will be ready. We should prepare a dipping sauce for them."

"There are a number of them," he said. "The most common is melted butter with the juice of lemons stirred in. But I am afraid both butter and lemon are in short supply here. I shall infuse some oil with garlic and herbs, and stir in a little wine vinegar. We have that in abundance."

I nodded. Vinegar and oil are an excellent way to dress greens and other vegetables.

When I came to the tent we hobbits shared, Strider was there. He'd only just turned the hourglass he had put on the small table by the tent's entrance so that Pippin would know when he was due another pain draught. It disturbed me to still see some of the bruises he yet carried, though they were yellow and fading, and the lines of pain that furrowed his brow. I knew his knee, especially, still pained him dreadfully. And yet he was recovering well; many of the Men who had been less injured than he had yet to rise from their cots.

Frodo and Sam still looked far too gaunt. I knew it would take more than a few days for them to recover the weight they'd lost in their dreadful trek. But Sam, at least, was recovering his colour, and the dark circles beneath Frodo's eyes were not as bad as they had been when he wakened. His poor hand was still partially bandaged, however.

He smiled and nodded. "I am looking forward to it myself," he said. "I have not enjoyed artichokes for many years."

I nodded. "That's exactly what it is, Sam. I would not have believed it if I had not seen it myself!"

Frodo smiled, and I was pleased to see the curiosity in his eyes. When he smiled, he looked almost like his old self. "I am eager to see these odd vegetables myself. But I wish you could have found some mushrooms," he added wistfully.

I sighed. It would have been delightful to treat my dear cousin to some mushrooms. "The only ones I could find were unwholesome. I don't wish to poison you!"

He laughed. "No, I don't think you do, Merry! And I'm not so eager to have mushrooms that I'd eat any doubtful ones."

Just then Gandalf entered, followed by Legolas and Gimli. I realized that all eight of us had not been together at the same time since the night of the feast when Frodo and Sam first wakened. Those of us who were sound had many duties to keep us busy, and the invalids still spent much of their time resting, though they did often take short strolls in the early mornings.

Gandalf went over to check on Frodo and Sam, and then sat down next to Frodo's cot. Legolas sat down next to Pippin, and Gimli perched himself at the foot of Sam's cot.

Strider and I busied ourselves arranging things so that all of us could take our meal together comfortably. The tent was somewhat crowded with all of us there, but not unpleasantly so. We had scarcely had time to converse among ourselves when Master Pellas arrived with three undercooks, and our meal.

One of the undercooks brought the soup and flatbread that was the mainstay of most meals in Cormallen; but the other two bore a large plank with the cooked artichokes and the dishes of warm, flavored oil for dipping. With a bow, Master Pellas presented Strider with a bottle. "A gift from the Prince of Dol Amroth, who said it was only fitting that the saviours of Gondor have something special to wash down their special meal."

I could tell by the bottle that it was a pale rosy wine, and we hobbits exchanged a grin. While I must admit, I am quite fond of a good beer, the wine here in the South was much more palatable than the watered down ale we had usually been served.

The cooks bowed and excused themselves, and we were left to contemplate the meal, which had set my mouth to watering. The pavilion was redolent with the aroma of garlic and herbs.

Gimli eyed the artichokes on their plank dubiously, and Sam looked at me and said, "You are right, Mr. Merry! They do look more like giant thistles than anything else. And you say that they are supposed to be right good?"

Frodo nodded. "They do, don't they?" He wore a look of anticipation, and I so hoped he would like them.

Legolas reached out and touched one of them. "But how are we to eat such a thing?"

"They are a messy affair," said Gandalf, "best that we leave them to last. They are still very hot!"

"Yes," said Aragorn, as he dished up some of the soup. "And we can take all the time we need to savour them!"

We made short work of the soup and bread, though I was pleased to note that Master Pellas had made use of some of the wild thyme and other herbs I had brought him. It tasted far better than it usually did.

Gimli scraped the last of his soup with the last of his flatbread, and eyed the strange new vegetables arrayed in front of us. “Now what?” he asked.

In answer, Gandalf leaned forward to the artichoke in front of him, and with thumb and finger, plucked one of the spiny leaves. The dark dull green of the leaf faded to a pale buttery colour below. He dipped the lower part of the leaf into the dipping sauce, and then brought up between his teeth and scraped off the pale part. Then he discarded the rest of the leaf into his empty bowl. He reached for another, and Strider began to do the same with his. Pippin watched for a moment and was not far behind. I watched his eyes widen in delighted surprise, and then watched Sam and Legolas enjoy theirs. Much as I wished to taste of these treats myself, I did not want to miss the reactions of the others. Gimli was the last to try, and he grinned and used his sleeve to wipe away the oil from his beard. Satisfied that the others would enjoy my find, I reached for my first taste.

It was fun to scrape off the tiny edible portion, buttery in texture and very slightly bland in flavour—I understood at once why it was tastier with something to dip it in. But it was quite delicious. The garlic and herbs lent it all the extra flavour it needed, and it was unexpectedly creamy in the mouth. I reached at once for another leaf. We ate in blissful silence, and the piles of discarded leaves filled up our bowls. Frodo was not much hampered by eating with his left hand only, until we neared the heart of the fruit at its base. Pippin’s was the first of the chokes to be displayed. It was covered in a fuzzy purplish substance, and for once he was at a loss when confronted with food. He looked at Strider. “What do I do now?” he asked.

“Use your eating knife to scrape away the covering, and trim off the hard base at the bottom. Then you can eat it.”

We watched as Pippin followed the directions, scraping away until all that was left was the pale knob of the heart. He dipped it into the sauce and bit into it, just a tiny bite. He closed his eyes and gave a little hum of satisfaction. “I think that this is as good as mushrooms!” he declared.

Soon all of us had reached the hearts of our artichokes. Sam assisted Frodo to scrape his, as that would have been very difficult to do one-handed. I had to agree with Pippin as I ate mine, that it was every bit as good as many mushrooms, though not quite so flavourful as my favourites.

It was amusing to note that though Pippin had been the first to start on the heart of his choke, he was the last to finish, taking his time, and sometimes just dipping it into the sauce and licking it off without a bite. He’d always been one who loved to play with his food as much as to eat it, and this food was perfect for that.

“I have to say, Merry,” Frodo said, when he had finally finished his, “this is a most remarkable discovery! I wonder who would ever have thought to try eating one of these, though? They are so formidable looking!”

“Master Elrond had a very few plants in the garden at Rivendell,” Strider said. “They took a good deal of pampering even in the mildest of winters. But once established they bore year after year, though never very prolifically.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose I could give it a try. Mayhap I could cover them over in the winter, like asparagus.”

“It would certainly be worth a try, even if we only ever grew enough for one such feast as this,” said Frodo thoughtfully. I was delighted to see the look of determination spring up on Sam’s face, and I knew that he’d see to it that he grew some of them for Frodo, no matter how much work it was.

We talked for a while, discussing some of the things that had been going on in the camp, and hearing the latest news from Faramir in the City, when Strider gave an exclamation! “The sand has run out, Pippin, and I never noticed. It is time for your draught, and for you, Sam and Frodo to retire.”

Pippin made a face, but did not otherwise complain, as he drank down the unpleasant draught.

The Big Folk left, though I could tell they had only gone so far as just outside. I helped Pippin into his bed, and then turned to tuck up Frodo and Sam. I’d been doing that since they first wakened. It made Sam blush furiously, and he would always object, but I did it anyway. It was fun to watch him turn red.

Frodo suffered my attentions with a sly murmur of “Thank you, sprout.” That made me blush, as it was a reminder of my childhood when Frodo had always tucked me in. And I wasn’t going to object to his using my baby-name. He was alive, and he could call me any names he wanted. I turned to make sure Pip was covered, and dropped a kiss on his forehead. He was already sleepy from the draught. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Pip.”

“Wish I could have a smoke and a sniff of air,” he muttered. But he was already asleep by the time I went outside to join Gandalf, Strider and Gimli for a brief evening pipe. Legolas had left to “go check on Arod”, his usual excuse to get away from the scent of pipeweed. Our supply of leaf from Isengard was low, so we kept it quick. Better a short smoke once in a while than no smoke at all.

I soon left the others and went back into the tent. I checked on Frodo and Sam, and then on Pippin. I was tempted to crawl in beside him, but I had promised Strider that I would take my rest in my own cot—he thought I did not sleep soundly enough when I was by Pippin, since I feared to hurt him if I moved in my sleep.

I felt quite pleased with myself. Often I had felt I did not contribute enough to the efforts that had been made during and after the War, but last night I felt as though I had accomplished something with my foraging, and especially in finding a new and unusual food that everyone had enjoyed. I hoped that I could find more of those, and perhaps some other new and exotic food that my cousins and Sam could enjoy. And I did not forget the location of those strawberries…a week? Ten days? I would check on them often—it would not do for the birds to get at them before I could.

Good heavens! I have been writing for quite a while! I am sure that the others are awake by this time. Sure enough, the King’s cousin Éothain pokes his head into the tent. “Holdwine! Are you still here? The Ringbearer was asking after you just a few moments ago!”

I slip down from my cushioned chair and roll up the pages I have been writing upon. I know that Éomer King will not begrudge me them, and I would like to have these notes to refer to. I am certain that I will once more have the chance to prepare artichokes sometime.

I had the bunny for this story at once when I received my prompt words. However in researching it, I discovered it was unlikely that artichokes would be at the harvestable stage that early in the year. Since the bunny would not go away, and Merry insisted his encounter with the strange veggie took place at Cormallen, I can only conclude that this was a strain peculiar to Ithilien, one which was ready to eat far earlier than other sorts.

Also, the explanation for the name "artichokes" is a bit of false folk etymology; the name actually comes from the Arabic. But I thought the popular myth would be suitable for Middle-earth.

The recipe I used here is one that I must confess I have never personally tried. (I have cooked and eaten artichokes in the conventional manner.) It came from an excellent book called The Magic of Fire: Hearth Cooking, One Hundred Recipes for the Fireplace and Campfire by William Rubel. It is filled with delightful information about cooking with real fire, and is a marvelous resource for anyone who writes fic set in a time and place when cooking would have been done with woodfire.

Author: Dreamflower
Title: Nothing Personal…Just Business
Rating: G
Theme: Potluck (taken from the Feb. challenge, “Send it in a Letter”)
Elements: A business letter
Author's Notes: See end notes.
Summary: Sometimes it takes years to build a relationship…
Word Count: 2,524

(A number of documents were discovered in an upper room of Orthanc, in the late fall of T.A. 3019, by representatives of the High King, the Lord Elessar, and of Éomer King of Rohan, along with a quantity of gold and other treasure. Many of those documents originated in the Shire and clearly showed the long-standing interest the renegade Wizard Saruman had in the place where he finally met his end. Here follows a portion of that correspondence between Saruman and his agents.)

As you ordered, I have taken up with my mother's kin here in the Bree-lands, and am using her family name, Ferny. Most of them have accepted me, though I have one uncle who grumbles about my Dunlendish blood and seems less than trusting. But he is considered queer by the others of the family, so they pay him no heed.

My queries into the whereabouts of the grey one indicate that he has been known to pass through here, most often journeying West towards the lands of the halflings, called the Shire. There are a few dealings between the halflings of the Shire and those of Bree. I continue to keep my eyes open for anymore information on the grey one. It does seem, as you suspected, that Bree is the best place to pick up his trail.

I have had a stroke of luck. After months here finding out little more than I was able to report to you before, a party of Dwarves passed through Bree this week, staying at the Prancing Pony Inn. Before the evening was old, they were joined by the very one I have been seeking! The group has been provisioning itself for a journey to the Blue Mountains, and the grey one will be travelling among them to the Shire.

I used the coin you gave me to purchase a stock of cheap wares, and will seek to travel among them as a peddler, and discover if I can find out why the grey one travels this way so often. I do not know how soon I may be able to make another report, but I am hopeful that I will have more information when I do.

3 Blooting, T.A. 2953
(Called 3 Blodmath, S.R. 1353 in the reckoning of this land.)
Hardbottle, Southfarthing, The Shire

I followed the grey one when he left off from his Dwarf companions. He managed to give me the slip for several days, and I feared that I had lost track of him again. However, I was fortunate to learn through tavern gossip that he had been seen in a village called Hobbiton, staying with a halfling by the name of "Baggins". Local gossip has it that this "Baggins" is mad, and as proof the gossipers point to his acquaintance with the grey one. By the time I came upon the trail, he had left once more, travelling in a Southerly direction.

I finally caught up with him in a village called Hardbottle. There I observed him in the market haggling for the leaves of a plant the halflings call "pipe-weed". He came away with a pouch filled with the stuff, and I noticed that the merchant with whom he was haggling seemed disgruntled with their bargain. I approached the merchant, and after a few queries, I bargained the rest of my wares for this stuff. I told him that it might be profitable in other lands, and he was quite eager to do the deal. His name is Brutus Bracegirdle, and his father Titus is the head of his clan.

This pipe-weed is quite popular among the halflings of Bree and even among many of the Men there as well, especially those Rangers whom you told me to watch out for. Dwarves as well indulge in the smoking of this stuff.

I told Titus Bracegirdle that I was an agent for a wealthy patron who was looking to expand his business.

As a result I am enclosing to you a message from him, as well as the pouch of weed that I purchased, that you might determine whether it is worthwhile to pursue this angle. The grey one seems to have left, however. He was travelling South out of the Shire, so one of your other agents might be able to pick up his trail.

Since I have once more lost the trail of the grey one, I will return to Bree after seeing this report and the message sent to you, and will settle there awaiting further commands.

Your agent Mr. Ferny has indicated that you might find some interest in expanding your own trading to include the pipe-weed of the Shire. My family grows some of the finest Longbottom Leaf to be found in the Southfarthing of the Shire. I am sure that we can come to an amiable agreement as to the best way to conduct such trade.

[An account ledger was found here, indicating the shipments of pipeweed, and the payments given. Investigation shows that Saruman was consistently paying between ten and twenty-five percent more for his purchased leaf than the going rate of each season. The ledger covered the better part of eight years. There is no indication that any of the purchased leaf was ever sold to anyone else.]

I find that our business together has been most profitable. The last several years have seen an eight-fold increase in our pipe-weed trade, all made possible by your investments.

I am quite interested in your suggestions of how to increase my holdings, and following your advice, I have bought up several more small leaf-farms, leasing them back to the former owners for their labour. In return, they will take a small share of the crops. Their shares may be sold locally, while I am able to sell my shares to you. I am very pleased to learn that pipe-weed has become so popular in the South that you need to increase your purchases.

I know that you have asked for any information concerning an old friend of yours. Gandalf the Grey is not seen in the Shire as often as he used to be during the days of the Old Took Gerontius, but I have it on good authority from my daughter Lobelia, who is married to Otho Sackville-Baggins, heir of the Baggins, that he often pays visits to his old acquaintance Bilbo Baggins. I am sorry to tell you that your friend is not thought of very highly here in the Shire; his responsibility in luring Bilbo out of the Shire with no notice about twenty years ago has given your friend a very poor reputation here. No offense meant, for I am sure that Men see these things very differently than do Hobbits

I am sorry to tell you that my father has passed on. As I am now the Family Head for the Bracegirdles, I would like to continue our profitable business ventures together. I would be most happy to honour all agreements which you had with him.

I thank you for your advice. It is sad that my own son cannot see beyond his nose and realise how profitable this business is for the Family. I agree that such impudence should not be allowed. I have cut Hugo off, and sadly, my daughter as well. They seem to be perfectly content to languish in the wilds of Buckland. My younger brother Bruno will be my heir, and his son Dago will be the Bracegirdle after him. We cannot allow hot-headed young people endanger our long-standing business arrangements over a silly prejudice against dealing with Big People.

I have done my best to keep my eyes and ears opened over the years, and regret that I have not had more of import to report.

I settled here, and to avoid suspicion, I wed one of my cousins, and assist with the family farm. Only the oldest of our sons was bright enough to learn his letters, and those only crudely. Nevertheless, I have told him that my patron “Mr. White” will pay him well for any information about the grey one, or about the doings in the Shire. I do not know if he will remember to write to you or not.

My own health is very poor. I fear that if you wish for more information out of Bree, you may need to send new agents.

MY OLD DAD TOLD ME AS HOW YOU WOULD BE INTERESTED IN THE DOINGS OF GANDALF THE GREY BEFORE HE DIED AND AS HOW YOU WOULD PAY GOOD FOR THE NEWS. YESTERDAY HE COME THROUGH BREE AND STAYED AT THE PRANCING PONY HE WERE TRAVELLING WITH A BUNCH OF DWARVES AND HAD A WAGGON THEY WAS ON THEIR WAY TO THE SHIRE TO HOBBITON. I HEARD AS IT WAS ABOUT A PARTY OR SOMETHING.

I KNOW MY DAD WORKED FOR YOU FOR A LONG TIME I HOPE AS YOU WILL THINK ON THAT AND REWARD ME FOR THIS NEWS.

PS I ANT HAD TIME TO SEND THIS AS YET OLD BUTTERBUR AT THE PONY HE SENDS OFF MESSAGES BUT HE HADNT HAD NO ONE GOING SOUTH AS YET SO I THOUGHT AS YOU MIGHT LIKE TO KNOW THEM DWARVES CAME BACK THROUGH HERE TONIGHT HEADING OFF EAST THEY DIDNT HAVE GANDALF BUT THEY HAD AN OLD HOBBIT INSTEAD.
B.F.

I thought you might be interested to hear a rumour passed on to me by my cousin, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She is fairly certain that the wizard known as Gandalf the Grey was seen a few nights ago at Bag End in Hobbiton.

Her efforts to confirm this however, came to naught, and she believes that he must have left again early the next day.

I know that you have asked for any information regarding Gandalf’s movements, and hope that you will find this useful.

I am glad you were pleased with your last shipment of Longbottom Leaf. I hope it was as profitable for you as it was for us.

NO SIGN OF THAT OLD GANDALF ANYWHERE, BUT THERE ARE RANGERS ALL AROUND THE SHIRE THESE DAYS. HARDLY NOBODY EVER GOES THERE NOW NOT EVEN HOBBITS. AND SHIRE HOBBITS, THEY DON’T COME THIS WAY NO MORE EITHER. HASN’T BEEN EVEN A TOOK OR A BRANDYBUCK IN LONGER THAN I CAN RECALL.

THAT WAS RIGHT NICE OF YOU TO SEND ME THAT POUCH OF COIN BY WAY OF MR. KRAG. HE’S GOING TO STAY WITH ME FOR A WHILE. I THINK YOU COULD SEND SOME MORE OF YOUR FOLK THIS WAY WE COULD USE SOME FOLKS AROUND HERE WHAT KNOWS HOW TO HOLD THEIR OWN.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Bruno Bracegirdle, and I am the younger brother of Brutus Bracegirdle, with whom you have dealt for many years. Alas, my brother passed away last week from a sudden apoplexy, and has left me as the Family Head, since he has long been estranged from his son Hugo.

In your last letter to my brother, you enquired about the person known hereabouts as Gandalf the Grey. He has not been openly seen in these parts in some years, and it’s been almost five years since he was even rumoured to be hanging about up in Hobbiton amongst the Bagginses. My younger sister was married to the Baggins’ rightful heir, Otho Sackville-Baggins up until he passed on about three years ago. But she keeps track of things up there at Bag End, and she’d know if your friend had been seen there or not, and she says not.

This year’s crop of Longbottom Leaf has been especially good; I hope that you are satisfied as usual with your purchase.

I am the new Family Head for the Bracegirdles here in the Shire. My father was taken last month by the same apoplexy that carried off his father and his brother.

I just want you to know I will be honouring any and all agreements you had in place with our family.

In hopes of gaining more property, I have brought my cousin Lotho Sackville-Baggins, in as my partner, and have sold him some of my minor holdings in exchange for some considerable property of his. I expect you will be hearing from him soon.

My cousin is an up and coming fellow, and I expect that the expansion of our partnership can only bring us more profits than ever.

You have been recommended to me by the Family Head of my mother’s people, my uncle Mr. Bruno Bracegirdle, as someone who has an interest in the pipe-weed trade. I am aware that you have been buying exclusively through the Bracegirdles, but I am hoping that you might consider an expansion of this trade, and I am offering my services as a broker, should you think well of the idea.

I have a good many business and family connexions throughout the Shire, and am well-known for my profitable business dealings here. I have long thought that the Shire needs to broaden its horizons, and trade beyond our borders is a good way to begin.

Should you be interested, I have already purchased an interest in this season’s harvest of Longbottom Leaf from my cousin Dago Bracegirdle. I would be most pleased if you would consider this proposition.

[Another ledger accounting for the pipeweed trade between Orthanc and the Shire between the years of the Shire Reckoning 1385 to 1417 was also found. Tucked between the pages was the following receipt:

Received: __ S.R. 1417, 3017 of the Third Age, 12 gold ducats, in exchange for 5 waggonloads (50 barrels) of best quality Shire pipeweed known as “Longbottom Leaf”.
X X (mark of one Diccon Goatleaf, carter of the Bree-lands)
Eadwacer of Dunland, factor of Saruman the White

Also, in TT, in "Flotsam and Jetsom", we are told that the Longbottom Leaf found by Merry and Pippin in Isengard had the date 1417 on the barrels.

For the names of the months, I have used the Bree names for those letters originating in Bree, and the Shire names for those originating in the Shire.

And I have followed The Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad, in locating Hardbottle in the Southfarthing.

Rating: G
Summary: Pippin tries to fit in at the Great Smials.
Author’s Notes: In my Shire-universe, Thain Ferumbras III abdicated the Thainship to Paladin the year that Pippin was 15. Concerned about the unpleasant atmosphere at the Great Smials that had prevailed in the years that Ferumbras’ mother Lalia was the Took, Paladin and Eglantine sent their children to live with relatives while they settled into the Great Smials and began making some changes there. One year later, they brought the children there to live. In this story, Pippin is 16, which is the equivalent of a 10 year-old among Men. Also, there are references here to some of my other stories, particularly "Consequences of a Fall", “The Dwarf Dagger”, “Moving Day”, and ”A Sight to Remember”.

Pippin stepped out of the coach after his father had assisted his mother and sisters down. He stood for a moment and gazed at the Great Doors of the Great Smials, and shook his head. This was supposed to be a homecoming, but it did not feel like one. He had never been anything at the Great Smials but a visitor. Now he was going to have to live here.

His parents, Pearl and Pimpernel started up the steps, but Pervinca turned back. "Come on, Pippin!" she snapped.

He sighed. But he did not say anything. Pervinca was no happier about this move than he was. He followed her reluctantly.

A servant waited by the huge doors, and flung them open on his father's approach, and the family went inside. The servant took his father's cloak, and then those of the rest of the family. "Thank you, Timmon," said Paladin with a smile. Timmon smiled back, and then smiled at Pippin as he placed Pippin's cloak on a hook by the door.

Pippin nodded, and said "Thank you,” as well, though his own smile was somewhat tentative.

He turned with surprise to see his father leading them towards the South Wing of the Smials. That wasn't where the Thain's apartments were, he thought. The Thain's quarters had always been in the West Wing.

But his father was explaining as they walked. "Your mother and I decided not to use the traditional Thain's quarters. The rooms Mistress Lalia used as The Took will need to be completely refurbished before anyone else lives there and we've had no time to do so. And Cousin Ferumbras continues to live in the rooms he always kept." When Ferumbras had abdicated as Thain, he had become rather reclusive. His health was not what it had been, and he seldom left the rooms he had always occupied before and after he had become Thain.

Pippin felt relieved. He had not been looking forward to living in the rooms where Mistress Lalia had always been. They were crowded and stuffy and musty, and filled with her presence. He supposed that his parents must have felt the same way. And his mother and father had been here a whole year now-- surely if they had any intention of moving into those rooms, they would have done so by now. He noticed Pervinca and Pimpernel exchanging a glance of relief as well, while Pearl leaned over and kissed her father's cheek. "Thank you, father," she murmured.

If anyone had any reason to be glad not to have to stay in those rooms, it would be Pearl. Pippin gave a shudder, as he remembered that summer when he was twelve, and Pearl had witnessed the horrible accident that led to Mistress Lalia's death.*

The corridor down which they passed now was lit from above by a series of skylights. There were a number of doors to either side, and Pippin recalled that this had led to the guest rooms for those visitors who seldom visited. It seemed that was no longer the case. At the far end of the corridor was a door larger than the others, and Paladin opened it wide, stepping back to allow Eglantine and the lasses to preceded him. He turned, smiled, and gestured for Pippin to enter as well.

Pippin looked about, puzzled. He thought he knew the Great Smials fairly well-- he'd spent many of his childhood visits seeking out places to hide, after all, to escape from Mistress Lalia's gimlet eye. But this spacious apartment did not look at all familiar.

However, the two upright figures on the settee by the hearth were very familiar. "Aunties!" cried all four Took children, as they rushed over to embrace their father's older sisters.

Pippin managed to squirm his way between the two elderly hobbitesses, and leaned against his Aunt Peridot's side. "Auntie Peri! Auntie Prim! I've missed you so!"

Aunt Primrose patted his head with a chuckle, but Aunt Peridot pulled him closer and dropped a kiss on top of his head. "I've missed you, as well, Pippin."

After the reunion with the aunties, Pippin would have been content to stay in Auntie Peridot's comfortable embrace, but Eglantine said, "Come now, my chicklets! Don't you wish to see your new home?" and both the aunties got up to accompany the family, as Eglantine showed off the family quarters: the sitting room; the small family kitchen, for when they were in the mood to prepare their own meals; a small sunny room where Eglantine could write her own letters at her own desk; and a rather goodly sized dining room, for the times when the family wished to have their meals in privacy. And there was a large bedroom, clearly meant for the Thain and his Lady. The four children exchanged glances, and then Pervinca asked, “Where do we stay?”

Their parents laughed, and led them back to the door to the corridor. They went out, and opened the first door on the right. “These are your rooms, Pearl,” said Paladin. There was a sunny little sitting room, and an open door that led into a bedroom. Pearl gave an exclamation of delight, and stepped inside.

The next door down was Pimpernel’s room. It was just a bedroom, but a very spacious bedroom, with a large window looking out over the East Garden. Next to it was a similar room for Pervinca. Past it was the family bathing room, and then Paladin opened the door to the room that he designated for Pippin. Pippin entered with his eyes wide. There was a comfortable bed, a spacious wardrobe, a washstand, a comfortable nightstand and an armchair next to the bed. Beneath the large window was a spacious desk. Beside it was a set of bookshelves, still empty. “All mine?” Pippin asked in astonishment. Back at Whitwell, he and Pervinca had shared a room.

“Across the hall are several guestrooms. Your mother and I thought you might like the one directly across from you to be Merry’s room when he visits.”

Pippin looked up at his father with a grin. “Merry told me he’d visit. And so did Frodo!”

Pippin looked at it with shining eyes. It was a bright sunny room, and he could easily imagine filling it up with his things. A room like this might even make having to stay at the Great Smials worthwhile.

Two weeks later he was well on the way to revising that opinion. Yes, the room was wonderful, and when he could sit back upon his bed and daydream, or maybe play on his fiddle as a light breeze stirred the curtains and the sound of birds outside his windows accompanied him, he could forget about the other things for a while.

But when he went out into the rest of the Smials, it was not nearly so pleasant. There were his lessons for one thing. At Whitwell, he’d had his earliest lessons from his sister Pearl, and then for the last couple of years, he’d had lessons from his father. When he stayed at Brandy Hall he had lessons from Merry’s own tutor, Uncle Dinodas. Best of all was visiting Bag End and having his lessons from Frodo. But now that he was living here, his father was too busy to be his teacher. So two hours after luncheon, everyday except Trewsday and Highday, he went to one of his adult Took cousins for lessons. Each of those days except Hensday, he was to have lessons with Cousin Isembrand; on Hensday, it was with Cousin Fortinbard, who taught sums and figuring. He was Fortinbard’s only pupil on that day, and he always felt dreadfully dull and witless, though usually he was pretty good with numbers, after luncheon they seemed to put him to sleep. But it was his other lessons he dreaded most, because he was not the only pupil, but he was the only lad. What made it even worse, two of those lasses were his cousins Opal and Garnet. Opal was the same age as he, and never looked at him without an expression of snide amusement. Garnet, who was somewhat older, completely ignored him, even when common manners meant she should speak to him. The other two lasses in the class were older still, and thought all of the rest of them mere babies. Cousin Isembard seldom chided the lasses for whispering or giggling together, but often reprimanded Pippin for inattention, reminding him that he needed to pay attention if he was “going to be Thain one day”, a phrase Pippin was quickly learning to loathe.

The only lad anywhere near his own age was Ferdibrand, who was two years older than Pervinca. Ferdibrand spent a lot of his time with the town lads in Tuckborough. Most of the rest of the lads at Great Smials were several years younger than Pippin. And the working lads, many of whom were Pippin’s age, were too busy most of the time to play with, and when they weren’t would never think of including Pippin, who was the Thain’s son! Pippin thought enviously of Frodo’s friendship with Sam, and with the easy ways of Brandy Hall, where not so much was made of the differences between gentry and working class.

Then there were mealtimes. The Thain’s family often took first breakfast, elevenses, and tea, in their own quarters. But second breakfast and luncheon, as well as supper, was usually taken in the main dining hall. At second breakfast, people came and went, getting their food from one of the several sideboards around the room. It wasn’t so bad. Pippin would slip in early, sometimes with Pervinca, they’d quickly eat and leave. But at luncheon, Pippin found himself at the children’s table—a table filled with giggling lasses and younger children. He was the oldest lad, and there was no one to talk to, as his sisters were all at the tween’s table. But supper was worst of all, for then he had to sit at the High Table with his parents, under the eye of everyone in the hall, and worry about whether his manners were holding up to inspection.

And then there were the servants; everywhere he went they seemed to be around. Some of them paid him no mind, and some of them looked at him with pity, and others actually seemed to be afraid of him! Once or twice he’d offered to help with some small task, and had been looked at with horror. “Oh no! Master Pippin, that would not be proper at all, thankyouverymuch.”

One Sterday, after a particularly miserable luncheon in which he had found himself sitting across from Opal and Garnet, who kept staring at him and whispering behind their hands, he left before the meal was ended, and instead of going to his lesson, he found himself heading in the direction of his Aunties’ rooms. He simply could not face having to write an essay about the Postal Service in the same room with those two lasses. He was sure that Cousin Isembrand would report to his father that he’d missed his lesson today, but he was far too miserable to care.

He knocked on the door, and when Aunt Peridot opened it, he flung his arms around her waist in a fierce embrace. “Why Pippin!” she exclaimed. “Come in, dear! I am surprised to see you this time of day.” She led him into the small parlour and gestured for him to sit down on the settee. She sat down next to him. Pippin was relieved. Aunt Primrose might have sent him on to his lessons, but not Aunt Peridot. “Where is Auntie Prim?” he asked.

“She is helping your mother today. They are doing an inventory of the linens with Mistress Heather.”

He looked up sharply, and then his eyes fell, and he nodded, blinking away tears he had not realised were threatening. “I don’t like it here, Auntie! I’ve neverliked it here. I miss the farm! I miss Brandy Hall! All the time I was in Buckland, I missed mother and father and wanted to be home, but then I’d remember that home wasn’t home anymore. At least at Brandy Hall I was with Merry! And there were lots of other lads. There are nothing but lasses here,” he looked at his aunt as she raised one eyebrow. “Well, almost nothing but lasses." He bit his lip and slumped down. “I just don’t like this place. It is crowded and—and stuffy!”

Pippin looked into her eyes, startled. She rarely called him anything but Pippin unless she was very, very serious.

"Because that's where father was born. Grandfather Adalgrim and Grandmother Periwinkle lived at the farm and had their family there. That's where you grew up."

"That's not all the reason, though, my dear. You see, your Great-great-grandfather Gerontius was not well pleased with some of your grandfather's behaviour. Even though he had come of age, he still managed to get into the sort of trouble one expects from a tween. Even worse, he often led the younger cousins into trouble with him. The Old Took sent Adalgrim to Whitwell to get his influence away from the younger ones. But Adalgrim enjoyed the hard work of farming, and once he got married to your grandmother, who was an astonishingly respectable lass who did not stand for nonsense, he quickly settled down into being a responsible hobbit. He was told by his grandfather that he could return to the Great Smials now that he'd learned his lesson, but to everyone's surprise, he chose to remain on the farm.

Probably at some point, he would have retired and moved us back here. But the year that your father was three and your Aunt Esmeralda was born, something dreadful happened." She stopped for a moment, and got a faraway look in her eyes, a very sad look. Pippin patted her hand, and she smiled down at him wistfully.

Pippin thought for a moment of his family history. "Was that the year Aunt Pearl died?"

"She was thrown from a pony," said Pippin. He'd never heard more on it than that.

"She was. But there was more to the story than that. We were visiting here at the time, and Lalia, who at that time was not the Took, nor even the Thain's Lady, but merely his daughter-in-law, made some dreadful accusations and said some horrible things to Pearl. In her distress, Pearl tried to ride home by herself. That is when the accident happened."

"He was only a baby. I don't think he ever knew all the details; our parents never spoke of that time to us." She reached over and smoothed the curls on his head. "But Primrose and I never forgot. Do you understand now why the family did not move back here? Why your grandparents never again set foot here?"

"Yes..." said Pippin, though he was puzzled. "But..." He was not sure if it would be right to ask the question that came to him now. After all, he didn't wish to make his Auntie feel badly.

"I married. You never knew your Uncle Heribald; he died before you were born. I met him in Hobbiton, at one of Cousin Bilbo's famous parties. He was my third cousin twice removed. And he was a Took of the Great Smials. He knew nothing of farming-- he assisted the Thain with the accounts. He was willing to try, for my sake, but I knew he would be miserable. And so I moved here with him. But I was the one who was miserable. By that time, Lalia was the Thain's Lady, and she wanted everyone to know it. When I was expecting your cousin Heribert, I went home for a visit. I was very tempted to just stay. But I knew that I could not abandon my husband.

It was Primrose who decided she would move here to be with me and bear me company. Our parents were at first very much against it, but when they saw how much it would mean to me to have her support, they relented."

"Not so bad as you think. We made frequent visits to others, back to Whitwell, and also to Buckland, for as you know, Primula was our dearest friend, and her son Frodo was almost the same age as Heribert. When we were here, we mostly kept to our own apartment, and seldom went to dine in the main dining hall, or spent much time in the common areas. We tried to keep mostly out of Lalia's way, but when we did encounter her, Primrose gave no ground, and always gave her a look that reminded her that we knew of her cruel words to our sister. So she avoided us as well when she could, out of her own guilty conscience."

Pippin sat quietly for a while, leaning into her side and allowing her to smooth his curls. Finally he looked up at her. "I suppose that it is not as hard for me to live here as it was for you. I still do not really like this place, but my family is here with me. And it will be nice to see more of you and Auntie Prim." He sighed.

She beamed at him and hugged him close. "That's my Pippin!" she laughed. "I thought I might practice my lap-harp. Would you sing for me while I play?"

He felt much better after his talk with Auntie Peridot. She had gone back with him when he faced his parents to confess his truancy that afternoon. He’d been sent to his room to think about it, but he could hear her quiet voice speaking to his parents as he closed the door behind him. Later that afternoon, his father brought him his tea on a tray, and told him that they had arranged for his lessons with Cousin Isembrand to be changed. He would now have them after elevenses, and alone.

Still Pippin felt lonely and at loose ends. One day he had skipped luncheon to avoid sitting with the “jewelry” as Pervinca had labeled Opal, Garnet and their older sister Amethyst. He was feeling decidedly peckish, so he made his way to one of the kitchens. In early afternoon things should be quiet enough that he might manage a raid on the larder. He was sure a bit of bread and cheese and maybe some fruit would not be missed if he were careful. Of course, he knew he could simply ask one of the cooks for something, and they’d oblige, just because he was the Thain’s son. But for some reason that felt wrong—more wrong than a larder raid, at any rate.

He slipped in quietly, and stole along against the wall to the door that would lead to the larders. There were several servants and cooks in the kitchen, but most of them were having their own luncheon, while a few were washing up. But none were paying attention as he slipped through the door. The short passage led to the wine cellar and the root cellar on the right, and on the left were three larders. He went all the way to the back, to the smallest one. He put his hand on the door to open it, and realised it was ajar. At the same time he heard a small sound within.

For one brief terrifying instant, he thought it was a rat. But he soon understood what it was. With three sisters he was familiar enough with the sound of a lass weeping. He hesitated. After all, he had no idea who it was.

He opened the door. By her clothes, she was one of the servants, older than he was, but still very young—maybe a tween. She did not see him at first, huddled in her misery as she was. He took out his pocket handkerchief and held it out.

She looked up in panic, and when she saw who he was, her face went utterly white. “Oh! Oh, Master Pippin, I’m so sorry!” She scrubbed and her face with the back of her hand, ignoring the handkerchief, and backed up against the wall as if he were a goblin.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly, kneeling down beside her. He offered his handkerchief again, and she stared at it in confusion. “Here.”

She finally took it, and wiped her eyes, and then blew her nose. She started to hand it back to him, and then looked at it in dismay. Pippin chuckled and shook his head.

“Just give it to one of the laundresses and tell her you found it lying about. She’ll just think it fell out of my pocket.”

She gave him a rather watery and uncertain smile. “That’s very clever, Master Pippin.”

He gave a cheeky grin. “It is, isn’t it?” He sat down next to her. “It hardly seems fair, you knowing my name when I don’t know yours.”

He sat down next to her. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Thistle.” He rummaged in his pocket, and pulled out a couple of toffees wrapped in twists of paper, and offered her one. She took it reluctantly, but then unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth as Pippin did the same with the other one. She smiled again, this one a bit happier than the first.

“IF you don’t think me too nosy for asking, Thistle, why are you in here crying?” His brows drew together sternly, “Has someone been unkind to you?” His tone of voice, had he only known it, sounded remarkably like his cousin Frodo.

“Oh, no, no, sir! Well, not to speak of. It’s just, well, I’ve only been here a few days. I don’t know anyone very well, and they don’t speak to me much, and I miss my family! But they were so pleased when I got this position. They said I would have a good future here! But it’s awful lonesome without my mam and dad and my brothers…”

“Since you are so new yourself, you might not know, but I’ve only lived here a couple of weeks myself.”

“Well, my father’s been Thain for a year, but I’ve been spending that whole year in Buckland with my cousin.”

“Buckland!” Thistle’s eyes grew wide. From her expression he could have told her he’d been living on the Moon.

He nodded. “My parents wanted to get settled and make some changes here before my sisters and I came to live here. I like it in Buckland; Merry is my best cousin, and there are lots of other lads in Brandy Hall. But I missed my mother and my father and my sisters dreadfully the whole time.” He patted her on the shoulder. “So I do know how you feel.”

She nodded. “I think you do, sir!” She sat forward, and put up her hand to tuck some of her hair back under the kerchief she wore. “I had better get back to the kitchen before they start to wonder where I’ve been.”

Pippin nodded. “That might be best.” He stayed where he was as she stood up. He gave her a smile and a wink. “I’ll stay here for a little while.”

“Oh, thank you, Master Pippin!” She smiled down at him. “Mayhap I will like it here after all.” She slipped out. Pippin waited till he heard the outer door to the passage close, and then he stood up to look through the shelves and see what he could find to eat. Ah! There were some pears.

Great Smials might not be the best place in the world, but it was where he lived now. He supposed he might as well make the best of it. He rubbed a pear on his sleeve and took a juicy bite.

*Mistress Lalia's accident was documented by JRRT in one of his letters, Letter #214. The details and circumstances in this story are entirely my own invention.

I often dream of hobbits, but it's very, very rare that any of those dreams turn into actual stories. Mostly they don't make any sense at all when I wake up and actually think about them.

But last night I had this dream, and it worked out quite beautifully, as I dreamed of this little scene with Sam and one of his children. It needed very little embellishment to turn it into a real story.

Sam sighed and looked out the study window with longing. On such a fair day as this, he longed to be out in the garden with Frodo-lad, with his own hands in the dirt. But that would have to wait till these letters were done. Well, when this one to the new Head of the Goodbodies was done, he'd give himself a small reward and write his letters to the Thain and the Master next. It was still in the line of his mayoral duty, but at least his letters to Pippin and Merry could be plain and friendly-like. He didn't have to be so cautious and formal with them, anyhow.

The soft tapping low down on his study door was a welcome intrusion. It had to be Robin. Tommy was still young enough that he did not remember to knock.

The door cracked open carefully, tiny fingers appearing at the edge, before a curly head followed. Robin's brown eyes were wide with astonishment. "How did you know it was me, Sam-Daddy?"

Sam gave a little cough to hide his amusement. Wouldn't do to give away his secrets. "Well, dads just know these things sometimes."

Robin rushed in, a bit of slightly crumpled paper in one chubby little hand, and presented himself to be lifted up to his father's knee. Sam plopped him in his lap and said, "What brings you here, Robin-a-Bobbin'?" His children had never been forbidden to interrupt him when he was busy with his mayoral duties, but such interruptions were supposed to be only for things of importance. For the youngest of his brood, however, the definition of "important" was rather nebulous. Robin grinned and thrust out the paper he held.

The scrap of cheap paper that Rose-lass used for her younger brothers' and sisters' lessons was somewhat crumpled and smudged from the charcoal sticks used to write upon it. At six, Robin was still a bit too young to be learning his letters, but when his sister Ruby started, he insisted he was old enough, too.

Sam took the paper and looked at it. Thirteen children had taught him not to make wild guesses. There was an arrangement of several rather wobbly circles. One had a couple of dots in it and a curved line, so it must have been a face of some sort and the largest of them in the center had a childish approximation of the letters S-A-M, more or less. He didn't think it was supposed to be his own portrait, but he would not risk hurting the child's feelings if it was.

Robin took it back, and in smoothing it, succeeded in smudging it a bit more. He held it up and looked at it happily. "It's Sam the Turtle." He looked up at his father seriously. "I named him after you."

"So I see." Sam tried to keep his smile neutral, conveying interest and approval, rather than amusement.

Now Sam blinked in surprise. While he did tell the younger children some of the tales from the Red Book, he tried to avoid the parts about Mordor. He usually waited until they approached their tweens before he began to tell them of those harsher parts of the story.

Robin nodded. "Yes, sir. See, I heard Merry and Pippin and Fam and Goldie the other day. They were talking about it. Fam said Uncle Pippin told him that Mordor did not have any food to eat or good water to drink. Merry and Pippin and Goldie said they knew that. They were saying how you and Uncle Frodo didn't have anything to eat or drink, and you must've been awful hungry and thirsty."

Sam felt tears spark behind his eyes, and blinked them away. He sighed. "Yes, Robin, it's true that near the end there, there wasn't any food or water left." He would have to have a few words with Merry-lad, Pippin-lad and Goldie about little pitchers and big ears. They should have known Robin was within earshot-- Faramir Took was another matter. He'd never had to worry about younger brothers and sisters, as he was the youngest of Pippin's brood. He supposed he might mention it to Pippin though, the next time he saw him.

Robin patted his father on the arm. "But that's all right. See, Sam the Turtle, he can carry some water and some food on his back, and take it to you there," he said seriously.

The mental image of a large turtle with a pitcher of water and a sack of food upon its back steadily walking alongside his Master and himself through the parched land suddenly intruded upon his thoughts, and the incongruity of it made him laugh aloud.

Sam gave him a fierce hug. "No, it's not funny, Robin-lad, but it makes me very happy to think of, and that makes me laugh. I wish that your Uncle Frodo and I did have a Sam the Turtle with us then! It's a very good idea, and I can't think why we didn't think of it at the time."

"That's all right, Daddy. I'm sure you had lots of other things to think of then." He held out the picture again. "Do you want to keep Sam the Turtle?"

Sam took it carefully. "Thank you very much, Robin. I will keep him and he'll make me smile."

Robin leaned into his father's embrace, and then turned his face up to kiss Sam's cheek. Sam returned the kiss on top of Robin's unruly brown curls.

"I will go now, Sam-Daddy, so you can finish your Mayor stuff. But I thought Sam the Turtle was important."

His son padded out, closing the door carefully behind him. Sam watched with a grin, and turned to look at the picture again. Next time he found himself dreaming of the Black Land, he'd just think of good old Sam the Turtle...

Written by request for Grey Wonderer, a tribble (300 word fixed-length-ficlet) about Rusty Cotton--

(For those who don't know, Rusty Cotton is my OFC, who has appeared in a few of my stories, including this: Whatever Happened to Rusty Cotton?" This tribble fills in a little gap.

Fredegar Bolger looked over the recruit who stood eagerly before him, ready to strike a blow against the Pimple and his Ruffians. He gestured to one of his lieutenants. “Tom!” he called.

Tom turned and looked closely, then his eyes widened. “What, for mercy’s sake are you doing here?” he exclaimed angrily.

“You think I’m going to stay there while these bullies overrun the Shire?”

Freddy watched the two cousins, both red in the face, shouting at one another, and shook his head. Now that he attended more closely, he could see that in spite of the lad’s clothing and the hat, that it was indeed a lass.

“You think I don’t know that?” The lass put her hands on her hips and thrust her face right into her cousin’s. “I don’t care! The whole Shire is dangerous right now! The difference is I can do something!”

“That’s enough!” Freddy’s sharp tone silenced them. “You forget that it is not a decision that either of you have a final say in! I am the one in charge here!”

Freddy stared at the lass. He’d seen that determined expression before. And suddenly he remembered Pippin, firmly dealing himself into the Conspiracy.

"Whatever is the matter, my old friend?" Gandalf pulled his attention away from the hobbits dancing by the bonfire and glanced down at the hobbit by his side.

Gerontius sighed. "I've gone and lost my shirt studs again! They were a gift from my mother, as well, though thankfully not this year's gift."

"By the way, Gerontius, I must thank you again for my beautiful gift. I do not believe I have ever received a birthday gift before." Gandalf took the wonderfully carved pipe from his pocket and admired it once more.

"What? Never?" Gerontius looked shocked. "I know that you told me that among the other races the gifts are received by the byrding rather than given. Did no one ever give you a gift on your own birthday?"

Gandalf laughed. "My birthday? If I even have such a day it is lost in the mists of time. I certainly do not know when it might be!"

The hobbit gave his friend a dubious look. "I cannot believe you are so old that you do not know your own birthday! But even so, to never have had a gift before?"

"I know you received gifts as well, Gerontius. I wish that I had brought one for you."

"Pah! Not necessary." He dismissed it with a casual wave of his hand, and then his attention was drawn to his shirt sleeve once more. "Although a set of studs I could not mislay would be useful." He chuckled. "Well, shirt studs or no, Gandalf, I can't miss a chance to dance with the fair Adamanta Chubb." He trotted away, leaving the wizard leaning thoughtfully on his staff.

The Dwarf-king waved a hand at his counselors. "Leave us that I may speak with Tharkûn alone."

The other Dwarves filed out obediently. Thrór rose from his elaborately carved chair at the center of the table, and walked down to the end, where a finely crafted glass carafe held wine so red as to be nearly black. He poured some into two goblets of gold, and proffered one to Gandalf, motioning him to take a seat.

Gandalf shook his head. "Little enough news in the world now; all the Wise are watchful and wary of this brief time of peace, while simple folk think that things will ever be this way. It takes scarcely a generation of peace to bring forgetfulness."

Thrór nodded. "For Men, a generation is far too short. Elves forget nothing, especially grievances."

"Ah! I know. Dwarves can remember their grievances very well also." He looked at his guest thoughtfully. "If you have no news, then why did you come?" He asked bluntly.

"It was on my way. And yet I have a purpose, frivolous though you might think it."

"Can it be that you are going to allow the Dwarves of Erebor to repay the debt of honour we owe you at last?" For Thrór's father Dain had been slain by a dragon, a young firedrake, which had come upon him in the Iron Mountains. Gandalf had retrieved the body of the slain Dwarf-king at no small peril to himself, but he had refused any repayment.

"I have it in mind to make a small gift to a friend of mine who lives West of the Misty Mountains. And I would like to assist in its making."

By the time Gandalf had finished up his business at the Lonely Mountain, taken counsel with Thranduil in Mirkwood as the Greenwood was now coming to be known, and then stopped to report to Saruman at Isengard, very nearly a year had passed since he had left the Shire. It was with a sigh of relief that his weary feet brought him across the Brandywine at Sarn Ford, and he could breathe again the clean air of the Green Hills of the Tooklands.

It was on the morning of the thirtieth of Forelithe, in the year 1231 as the Shire-hobbits reckon these things, that he found himself once more rapping upon the Great Doors of the Great Smials. He was aware of the hidden watchers, and the not so hidden, who were finding excuses to stare at him. Some of the adults, he was sure, with suspicion, but the children would be glad of him and of his fireworks.

He was led to the Thain's apartments, where he found Thain Fortinbras at second breakfast with his family. Gerontius leapt from his seat and rushed to greet him. "Gandalf! How good to see you!"

Gandalf knelt and returned his small friend's warm embrace. "I am most pleased to see you as well, Gerontius Took! I have a birthday present for you." He drew a small box from his pocket and handed it to Gerontius.

The hobbit grinned with delight. "Oh Gandalf! A gift! And you even remembered to bring it today instead of tomorrow!" He opened the box, and was startled into a burst of laughter at the sight of the wonderfully wrought diamond shirt studs that glittered there.

"I hope that I shan't lose these," he laughed, "for no one will give me any now, I have lost so many! These may be the last pair I ever get."

But he could not. He gave Gandalf a puzzled look, for it simply was not done for a hobbit to criticize a gift.

Gerontius looked taken aback, but looked at them and, whispering also, for he did not wish his curious family, who were watching avidly from the table, to overhear. "Edro!"* They instantly fell open.

With a delighted laugh, Gerontius set them each into a shirt cuff. Then he attempted to close them. They fell opening again. And again.

Gerontius did so, and without his touching them in any way, they fell closed with a click.

"You must promise me that you will never reveal the words to any but your heir."

Gerontius grinned and nodded. "And may that day be not too far off, Gandalf, for I'm to announce my betrothal to Adamanta Chubb tomorrow!"

"Are you now? Perhaps I shall have to be in the Shire for your wedding." He glanced down at Gerontius, and suddenly had a vision of a great many young hobbits standing around him. He blinked and the instant was gone, but he knew the seeing for a true one, and he smiled. "Oh," he said artlessly, "I am quite certain that your marriage will be a fruitful one," and had the satisfaction of seeing Gerontius blush.

**Tefnin means "closed" as an adjective according to the Hisweloke - Sindarin English dictionary ; I could not find the word for "closed" or "shut" as a verb. If any experts in Sindarin would like to help me out with that it would be much appreciated.

[AUTHOR'S NOTES: The magical diamond shirt studs are canon: "Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered?' (The Hobbit, Chapter 1, "An Unexpected Party")

I wanted some reason for the Dwarves to feel indebted to Gandalf, as it seems clear that he never had much in the way of possessions, and so it might be difficult for him to buy the diamonds from them. I thought I might have to make it up out of whole cloth, but lo and behold, I found a tiny little thread in the ToY on which to hang my idea: 2589 Dain I slain by a dragon (Lord of the Rings, Appendix B, The Tale of Years) It's in my mind that this dragon might have been a young Smaug, and that this encounter was what whetted his appetite for Dwarven treasure. At any rate, recovering Dain I's body seems both like something Gandalf would do, as well as being something that the Dwarves would feel they owed him for.

Also, according to the ToY, there was not much going on in the years I chose, meaning that Gandalf might very well have the time for leisurely visits to the Shire.

Author: Dreamflower
Title: A Moveable Feast
Rating: G
Theme: Hit the Books
Elements: A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
Author's Notes: In this story, Frodo is almost 38—this is a few weeks before his birthday (24 years old in "Man" years ), Merry is 24 (15 years old in "Man" years), and Pippin is 16 (10 years old in "Man" years).
Summary: Frodo experiences one of Tuckborough's quainter customs for the first time.
Word Count: 6, 030

"Do you mean to tell me, Frodo, that you've never been to the Tuckborough Moveable Feast?" asked Merry in astonishment.

"No," Frodo said. "You know how Bilbo avoided the Tooklands while Lalia was in charge. And I have never happened to be in Tuckborough at the right time since then." He held up a shirt and looked it over before folding it and tucking it into his pack. "Of course I have heard all about it," he laughed. "Next to Yule, I think it must be Pippin's favorite occasion."

Merry rolled his eyes. "I know it is!" He chuckled and added, "He's got good reason, after all! I've only been to one a couple of times; I'm not often in Tuckborough in the early autumn either, but they are certainly occasions that I remember fondly." He took a deep breath and sighed happily. He glanced over at Frodo who was picking up a well-thumbed book, ”A Journey Through the Breelands by Calimac Brandybuck". Frodo flicked through the pages with a smile, and then dropped it on top of the neatly filled pack. He pushed it closed, and fastened the straps.

"Yes. It's always been one of my favorites, ever since Uncle Dinny first allowed me to take it from his top shelf."

Merry grinned. "I know. Remember how you and I used to play at journeying to Bree as Calimac did?"

Frodo laughed. "I do indeed. Of course, our journeys never took us so far that we couldn't return home for the next meal."

"Of course not!" Merry answered with a chuckle. "We had our priorities straight when we were small fry!"

"I trust we still do," said Frodo, hoisting up his pack. "Shall we be off? It's a long trek to Tuckborough, and we do want to arrive before all the food is gone!"

Merry darted across the passage to snatch his own pack, and followed Frodo out. They stopped long enough for Frodo to turn the key in the front door. "Sam!" he called. Although the Sun was barely showing her face, Sam was already hard at work.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo?" came the answer from the other side of the lilac bushes, and soon followed by Sam himself, holding a pair of clippers. "So you're off now, sir?"

"Yes, Sam. Here are the spare keys. Let yourself into the kitchen if you need anything, or if there is an emergency."

"Thank you, sir." Sam carefully tucked the keys into his pocket. "You and Mr. Merry have a nice tramp, then. I hope you enjoy the Feast. It's a right treat!"

"You've been to the Moveable Feast, Sam?" Frodo was surprised. The Gamgees rarely ventured forth from Hobbiton.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo. They was having it one year when we were over there a-visiting with Aunt May."

"Ah yes! I had forgotten you had kinfolk in Tuckborough. Well, we should be back on Sterday, but do not worry if we stay over another day or so past that."

"Yes, sir. Take care, sir!" Sam went back around the side of the smial with his clippers, whistling a jaunty tune.

Merry and Frodo passed down the walk to the road, but they'd soon be cutting cross-country. The journey was far too long by road, but that way they should arrive just in time.

Pippin felt as though he had been waiting forever! Not only was it the day of the Tuckborough Moveable Feast, but this year Frodo and Merry were coming to visit, and would stay a while until it was time for them all to go back to Bag End for The Birthday. And Frodo had never been to the Moveable Feast before.

This was the first time he'd get to see his father open the Feast, as well. Last year had been the first year his father was Thain, since the old Thain Ferumbras III had been ill and given the title to his father. Pippin and his sisters had been sent away for a while until Paladin and Eglantine had settled into the Great Smials and their new duties. Pippin had spent nearly a year in Buckland with Merry's family. But he'd come back to the Tooklands at Lithe, and was trying his best to adjust to life in the Great Smials.

But if Merry and Frodo did not come soon, they'd miss the opening of the Feast! He fidgeted and gazed back down the road, trying to see past the throng of hobbits still coming in his direction.

"Merry! And Frodo!" He embraced each cousin enthusiastically in turn. "Where did you come from? I was watching for you!"

Fastened to stakes, one at each side of the road, were two long yellow ribbons. They met in the center of the road where they were tied in a huge bow. Thain Paladin made his way over to the bow to the cheers of the assembled hobbitry.

"Ladies and Gentlehobbits! Welcome to the Tuckborough Moveable Feast! In the Year of Shire Reckoning 1148 the Shire was just beginning to recover from the dreadful dearth of the Fell Winter of the year before. The Tooklands had a good harvest that year, yet still the stores were depleted and many hobbits were still in want. Some hobbits thought perhaps it was too soon to celebrate the harvest; that it would be wasteful and disrespectful of those who had been lost during the awful winter before. But Thain Isumbras III did not agree. He thought that our people deserved a chance to express their joy and gratitude for our deliverance.

To make sure that the food was not wasted, and that those less fortunate were not left out of the celebration, he devised the first Moveable Feast, so that all could share the bounty!

It was so well-received that the hobbits of the Tooklands have repeated the occasion every year since." The Thain paused, and then looked around at all the assembled hobbits. "I trust you came prepared!"

There arose a clatter of noise, as suddenly hundreds of hobbits lifted up plates and began to bang on them with spoons or forks. Frodo looked confused, and Merry looked dismayed.

Pippin grinned. "I came prepared for you both," he said, lifting up a sack. Plates, forks, spoons and mugs for all three of us!"

"Then since we are ready," shouted the Thain, "let the Feast begin!" He reached over and tugged on the bow, so that the ribbon came apart, and hobbits began to stream into town.

Frodo took the tin dishes Pippin proffered to him. "I knew that we were supposed to go from place to place to eat, but I did not realize that we carried our own dishes!"

Pippin shook his head. "With so many hobbits, no one has enough dishes to go around, and no one would have the time to wash them all. There are bins near every stop to scrape the plates if there are any leftovers. And you can rinse your plate at one of the town pumps every so often."

Frodo watched as hobbits streamed out over a wide area, and as he, Merry and Pippin followed the crowd he could smell all sorts of delightful aromas. As they entered the outskirts of the town he saw that clumps of hobbits were gathered in different areas, and he could see the smoke of cookfires.

The Feast started at one o'clock, just in time for luncheon, but it would continue the rest of the day and into the night, covering tea, supper and late supper as well. Truly it was more like one continuous meal!

Pippin led the way to a cluster of cottages on the Eastern side of the rode. There was a cookfire attended by several hobbits, and a large table where the food had been placed.

"Frodo," said Pippin in his cousin's ear, "remember we'll be eating our way all through the town! Don't take too much to begin with or you'll miss the treats at the end.

As the cousins approached the table, a hobbit came up with a large shovelful of barley ashcakes. He slid them onto the table, and hobbits were lined up to take them, hot out of the embers as they were. There were not a few burned fingers! At the other end of the table was a crock of freshly-churned butter, and a few spreaders. Frodo slathered a goodly sized lump of the butter on his barley cake, and began to eat it as he and Merry followed Pippin across the road to another cookfire and another similar table, this one serving ember-roasted eggs.

And so the crowds of hobbits progressed, in a zigzag fashion from one side of the road to another, enjoyed roasted vegetables at one stop and slices of smoked pork at another. One family was serving bits of sausages on sticks, which Frodo, Merry and Pippin took over to toast at the nearby fire. Another family had potatoes baked in their jackets, and yet another had bowls of cabbage slaw and crocks of cucumber pickles.

Frodo was quite relieved when the next stop brought them to a table watched over by three young lasses. There were several pitchers of water and juice and there were pots of tea as well. He gratefully filled his mug with water, and then after finishing the water, filled it again, this time with fragrant peppermint tea.

Frodo began to see the wisdom of Pippin's advice. They had scarcely passed the northern outskirts of Tuckborough and still had most of the town before them. He was already beginning to feel full.

He could tell there were still crowds ahead of them, but he did not see the smoke of cookfires, and they would soon be in the part of town where the shops began. "Do the shops serve food?"

"Some of them do—we'll find treats at the cheesemonger's," answered Pippin, "and also at the baker's— the bakery always passes out miniature gingerhobbits. But most of the shops sponsor games or entertainment on Feast day. There's bobbing-for-apples at Brownlock's emporium, and there's usually an egg-and-spoon race at the mercer's. All sorts of games by the shops, and the prizes the winners get are tickets which they can use as discounts at the sponsoring shop.

Frodo cheered Merry and Pippin on in the egg-and-spoon race (which was won by a Brockhouse from Tookbank), and then went to the Bouncing Bunny (as the Leaping Hare was popularly known) for an ale. Beer, ale and spirits were the only things not free during the Feast, in order to lessen the possibility of scores of inebriated hobbits roaming the town. The taverns and inns were packed, nonetheless, and Frodo saw the Thain sitting with Odovacar Bolger and Ferdinand Took. He took his own beer over to them.

"Please join us, Frodo," said Paladin affably. "So you finally escaped the attentions of my son and my nephew?"

"They were busy with the games," said Frodo, "so I thought I'd ease my thirst! The Bunny has a fine brew." He lifted his mug, and took a deep draught.

Frodo laughed. "I think that Isumbras III was a brilliant chap! However did he think of all this? And isn't it expensive?"

"Well," said Paladin, "it has changed over a few generations. In the original Feast, hobbits who had something to spare joined together to share with those who had less. But it was from the beginning open to all, so that no one would feel that they were getting charity. Over the years, it's become more and more elaborate and more of an occasion to attract outsiders into Tuckborough. But what you see at the north end of town was much as it was back then—a few families get together to serve as many as they can. Then when they run out of food, they will join the procession through the town. It is an expense of course, but like Yule, most families that participate save up for it over the year. And for the less prosperous families, the cost is cut by banding together with their neighbours."

"The feasts are more elaborate at the southern end of town," said Odovacar. "The families there often vie to throw more lavish spreads than their neighbours."

Paladin laughed. "But they can't out-do the Great Smials! That's where the Feast will end, with a marvelous Late Supper, followed by music and dancing."

"Speaking of music," said Ferdinand, "I had better move along, if I want to sample some more of the fare before the crowds begin to head to the Great Smials. I'll need some time to gather up the musicians for a little practice." Ferdinand was a fine piper, and much in demand.

Frodo sipped his beer and passed on some of the gossip from Hobbiton, and listened to Odovacar's fond complaints of his wife. He adored Rosamunda, but she was somewhat of a spendthrift when it came to gowns and fripperies.

Frodo shook his head. "I'm watching out for your son and your nephew tonight, remember? I need to keep my wits about me!" He laughed, and so did Paladin, who pretended to be alarmed.

"What are you waiting for then!" He said, making a droll face. "You may need to go see if Tuckborough is still standing!"

"I think you are right," he said. He headed out to see if he could find Merry and Pippin. He did not expect they would have gone far without him. He knew how much they all had looked forward to enjoying this occasion together.

Frodo found Merry right away; he was in his shirtsleeves and cheering on two lads who were arm-wrestling in front of the butcher's shop.

Merry pursed his lips. "I beat that red-haired lad over there, and the apothecary's apprentice. But the blacksmith's apprentice beat me." He scowled slightly, but did not say more. Merry hated to lose, but he also did not want Frodo to think of him as a bad sport or a poor loser.

Frodo glanced at the two who were arm-wrestling now. "Is that tow-headed lad the blacksmith's apprentice? If so, it seems hardly fair to let him compete in your age group, Merry! He's bigger and stronger than some adults."

Merry looked gratified at Frodo's words, but said nothing. He shrugged into his weskit and jacket, and picked up the bag of dishes, which had been entrusted to him for the nonce. "We'd better go get Pip," he said. "After the two of us took part in the potato race, he went off to bob for apples over at Brownlock's."

"And how did you do in the potato race?" Frodo asked. In the potato race, partners raced together, tossing a potato back and forth between them as they ran. If they dropped the potato, or failed to keep throwing, they were disqualified.

"We won our heat," Merry said. "Pip didn't miss once; even though we weren't the fastest, we kept our potato going the whole way! I was really proud of him!"

Frodo laughed. "Pip's got nimble fingers!" he said. They were approaching the Emporium. A large vat of water had been set up in front of the shop, and apples floated there, waiting for the young hobbits to snare one with their teeth. But instead of a crowd of hobbit fry bobbing their heads in the water, the children were all standing about looking solemn. An adult was kneeling down next to one of them. It was Pippin, and he seemed to be far wetter than merely dunking for apples could have made him.

Mr. Brownlock looked up in relief. He was glad to see Frodo and Merry. "I am not quite certain myself," he said, "I was getting ready to call time on this round, when I heard some of the children shouting. I saw young Peregrin here, coughing and choking. He hasn't been able to tell me what happened yet."

Merry was bending down, taking a towel that one of the Brownlock's clerks brought out, toweling Pippin off, and rubbing his shoulders and patting his back.

"I saw it!" said a lass. She shrugged off the arm of an older lass who was trying to hold her back. "I saw 'em! There was two other lads, and they crowded up behind 'im, and the bigger one shoved his head down and held it there for a minute! Then when he" she gestured at Pippin, "started to struggle, they run off."

"I'm Posy Rushlight; we come from Little Delving to have the Feast with our cousins."

"That's all right. Thank you, child, for speaking up." Frodo beamed at her with warm approval in his eyes, and her face lit up.

"No, it wasn't. Mr. Brownlock, don't you think Miss Posy here deserves something for speaking out?"

Carlo Brownlock nodded, and took a slip of paper from his pocket. He bent down and gave it to the lass. "Here, my dear! When the Emporium is open tomorrow, you bring this ticket with you. It's worth a penny, and you may spend it as you like."

Frodo turned his attention to Pippin now. Merry had put his own jacket around Pippin's damp shoulders. Frodo picked Pippin up; the lad was still trembling, and the three of them walked away. "Pippin, your father is over at the Bunny. Do you want me to fetch him for you?"

Frodo and Merry exchanged a look, and then Frodo took them down a narrow side street, and sat down with Pippin on the steps of a stationer's shop. There were no crowds there, and the shop was closed. "Pippin, who was it?"

He sniffed. "I'm sure they were only joking. Their jokes just aren't very funny."

Pippin looked down at his toes. "Please, please don't do anything! It would make Mother feel so dreadful if she knew!"

Clovis and Cado were Pippin's first cousins on his mother's side of the family, and they had made a habit of bullying Pippin since all of them were very small.

Merry sighed, and looked at Frodo. "He's right. Aunt Tina would be really upset. And it's not like it would do any good to tell their father. He always says 'Lads will be lads'."

Frodo pursed his lips. "I'm not sure that it's a good idea to stay silent, Merry. That sort of prank is not only not funny, but is vicious and dangerous. Still, if you think that it will do no good, I'll be guided by you, and will say nothing to Paladin or Eglantine. You know them better than I do." But, he thought to himself, if the Bankses were at the Great Smials, he'd keep an eye on them while he was here, and if he saw them doing anything else, he'd have a word or two with them himself.

Merry had his own thoughts on the subject. Pippin didn't want him to tell Uncle Paladin or Aunt Tina, well, fine. But that did not mean he couldn't have a quiet word with Pearl, Pimmie and Vinca. They'd make sure the Bankses didn't have a chance to get anywhere near Pip. And if he got the chance to get the two of them alone, he'd make them sorry!

"Well," said Frodo briskly, "the day is getting no younger! What do you say we continue our Feast, and see if we can find some tea? I'm sure it's getting close to teatime!"

Pippin's stomach chose that moment to let out with a rumble. He looked down and giggled. "It is teatime!"

Merry laughed and slapped Pippin on the back. "That's our Pip! More accurate than a pocketwatch!"

The homes of more prosperous hobbits were on the southern end of Tuckborough, large smials with spacious gardens, some of them half-house and half-smial, lining the road that led to the Great Smials just beyond the southern outskirts of the town.

There instead of cookfires and neighbours banding together to supply a single item of food, tables were set up on lawns and spread with lavish teas, attended by servants and sometimes the tweenaged daughters of the homes, while the matrons greeted the guests graciously.

Pippin walked between Frodo and Merry now, Merry's jacket still draped over his shoulders, his curls beginning to dry. He had put the entire incident behind him and was smiling and waving at the people he knew as they went along.

"You are the expert on the Feast, Pip," said Frodo. "Where should we take tea, then?"

"I think the Lightfoot's!" he said decisively. "Mrs. Lightfoot makes wonderful seedcake! And her strawberry preserves are amazing! Besides, Pimmie and Vinca are good friends with Jasmine Lightfoot, and they are helping her and her mother serve the tea!"

Pippin led them past half-a-dozen homes with tables set up and delicious aromas enticing them. On the right side of the road was a long low white house with a wide veranda. It was a house and not a smial, but the roof had been laid with turves of grass instead of thatching, so that it more closely resembled a hole. A flagged path led through an open gate festooned with ribbons of many colors. Mrs. Lightfoot stood near the gate, and welcomed them warmly. Two long tables were on the lawn, one of them beneath a large spreading chestnut tree festooned with lanterns. It was set with snowy white linen, and chairs were all about it. Some hobbits were already seated and eating, others were carrying loaded plates to it.

The other table was set up near the veranda, and was spread with quite a bounty of food. There were dainty sandwiches of radishes or cucumber or cress; there were platters of young vegetables, and stuffed eggs, and biscuits of both the sweet and savory variety. There was a large plate of seedcakes that Pippin eyed with approval, and a towering display of fairy cakes, frosted in all the colors of the rainbow. Young Jasmine was pouring out the tea, and Pervinca was presiding over a punch bowl. Merry saw Pimpernel coming out with a platter of cheeses, and bounded over to help her.

"Thank you, Merry!" she said. "I am glad of the help, but you look as though you have something to say. Has Pippin been in trouble?"

"Not the way you think, Pimmie" he said, as he gallantly took the large tray. In a low voice, he quickly told her of what had transpired.

"Pippin won't let us tell your parents," he said. "He doesn't want to worry Aunt Tina."

Pimmie's eyes had flashed when she heard of what her Banks cousins had done. "He's right. She'd be angry, but also really distressed! It always makes her feel bad when those two pick on Pippin, as if it's her fault! But thanks for letting me know. I'll pass it on to Vinca and Pearl. We will make sure they don’t get another chance to bother Pip. They are only staying until the day after tomorrow."

Merry was relieved. "That's good. Frodo and I are not leaving until after that, so they shouldn't have any chance to do something else if we all keep an eye on them." He placed the platter on the table with a flourish.

"Thank you, Meriadoc!" Pimpernel said. She bestowed a cousinly kiss on his cheek, and he blushed bright red.

Frodo, Merry and Pippin filled their plates and found seats at the other table. Some of the hobbits that had been there when they arrived had already left by the time they made their way there, so they found that they had a corner all to themselves.

They set to with a will, and had soon emptied their plates and their mugs; they took their leave of Mrs. Lightfoot, and Pimpernel waved good-bye as they headed out the gate.

There were still several dozen houses or holes to walk past, but the three cousins were sated, and were not even a little tempted by the lovely smells wafting out across the road.

But there were still plenty of hobbits coming along behind them—the food would not be wasted.

Two lads and a younger lass who were walking ahead of them stopped and turned around. Fatty Bolger, his sister Estella, and their friend Folco Boffin looked pleased to see them.

Fatty was munching on a candied apple on a stick. Folco had a bag of sugar biscuits he'd been sharing with Estella. He proffered some to the others, but only Pippin took one.

They walked together the rest of the way to the Great Smials, discussing all the things they had done that day, though Pippin kept quiet about the apple-bobbing incident. Finally they arrived at the immense hill in which the Tooks made their ancestral home.

In the huge field east of the road, directly across from the Smials, several huge pavilions had been set up, and cookfires bloomed. They could see many hobbits bustling about with the business of setting up the final Feast of the day. They spotted one hobbitess who seemed quite busy giving instructions to all and sundry, standing with one hand on her hip and the other busy pointing at what yet needed to be done.

Pippin took off. "Mother!" he called. Eglantine turned around in time to catch her son's exuberant embrace, and bent to return it.

"Hullo, Frodo," she said. "Thank you for watching over my scapegrace son today!"

"He's been very well behaved today, and has been quite informative about this quaint Tookish custom," Frodo said with a twinkle in his eye. "Especially considering how many sweets he's consumed."

Eglantine rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me! He is going to be fairly flying about the Smials for days! But it is a special occasion, and thank goodness only happens once a year."

She frowned down at her son briefly, and said "Why are you wearing Merry's jacket?"

Pippin's eyes grew wide, but Merry answered smoothly, "He got a little too wet during the apple-bob, Aunt Tina."

She bestowed another smile on her nephew. "Well, thank you Merry, for making sure he didn't get a chill." She looked over the entire group, and chuckled. "I think all of you are in need of a wash-up and a brush-up before the supper begins! Pippin, love, show our guests to their rooms, would you?"

Although all of them knew quite well where their guest rooms were, they allowed Pippin to lead them off just as if they did not. Inside the Smials, Fatty and Estella headed for their Uncle Ferdinand's apartment, with Folco in tow, and Frodo and Merry followed Pippin as he led them to the rooms they always used when they were guests of the Tooks. Merry had a small guest room right across the hall from Pippin's own room, while Frodo, as an adult and Head of the Bagginses, rated a set of rooms located near Merry's room.

Frodo retreated to his rooms with a sigh of relief. He enjoyed his cousins' company immensely, but the day had been crowded and full of bustle. It was a relief to have a few moments alone. He passed through the small sitting room to his bedroom, where he found a fresh ewer of water on the washstand. He washed up and changed his shirt and combed his hair. He was just brushing up his toes when he heard the knock. "Come in, Merry and Pip!" he said.

Their appearance too, was much improved. Frodo reached over and tugged at Merry's collar, and then bent down to fasten one of Pippin's shirt buttons that he had missed. "Well, shall we go and see what the grand finish for this Feast is like?"

The largest of the pavilions was set up for the Tooks and their houseguests, numbering a couple of hundred this night. Frodo was shown to a place at the table with the Thain and his Lady, seated between Paladin's two older sisters Primrose and Peridot. Merry and Pippin found themselves a place at the children's and tween's table. Merry spotted Cado and Clovis at one end, and steered Pippin to the opposite end of the table. He bent to whisper in Clovis' ear as he passed, "I'm watching you." Pippin did not notice, as he was busy waving at another friend at that moment.

Merry could not help but smirk as he saw the older Banks lad turn pale. Then his smirk turned to a grin as he saw Pimmie sit on one side of Cado and Vinca on the other side of Clovis. Pimmie turned and said something too, and now both the brothers were pale and looked discomfited.

Once they were seated, however, Merry put the Bankses out of his mind. The servants began to bring the food, and it was delicious and varied. There was creamy carrot soup, and roast beef with mashed parsnips, and warm yeasty rolls of bread, and stuffed mushrooms and several other delights as well. Pudding was an apple crumble, and for filling up the corners there were plates of cheeses, pickles and savoury wafers.

Frodo found himself sated long before the filling up of corners stage was reached. He sipped lightly of the excellent elderberry wine that was being served to the adults, and listened politely to the reminiscences of the two elderly hobbitesses. They had been good friends of his mother, and it was a bittersweet pleasure to hear their stories of her youth. For a moment his mind wandered to Pippin, and he swept his eye over that table. His gaze briefly landed on the Banks brothers; he still was half-convinced that Paladin and Eglantine should have been informed of the incident, but he would honour Pippin's wishes in spite of his misgivings.

The meal ended, and the hobbits began to leave the pavilion and head out into the now-starlit evening to the sounds of the musicians warming up their instruments for the dancing. Frodo spotted Cado and Clovis. They seemed to be lurking behind one of the poles holding up the pavilion, and he wondered what mischief they might be plotting now. He went over to them, and the guilty expressions they turned to him steeled his resolve to speak to them.

"I know what you did to Pippin in town this afternoon. It was not a joke and it was not funny; do not try to tell me that it was. I will be keeping my eyes open while I am here, and I expect the two of you to give Pippin a wide berth. Do you understand me?"

Frodo treated them to another moment of his silent gaze, and then giving a satisfied nod, he walked away.

An instant later, the two brothers, who were trying to avoid being seen by anyone, saw Pearl coming in their direction. They bolted.

The music had started now, and sets of dancers had begun to form in the wide space between the pavilions. The first dance was "The Happy Hob", and it was a vigorous and breathless dance. Merry danced with Pimpernel and Pippin with Pervinca. This was followed by "Circle of Joy". This was one of Frodo's favorites, and he found himself in the circle between Pearl and another hobbitess he did not know. He partnered Aunt Primrose in "Exchanges" and then dropped out of the dancing to just watch.

He soon found himself at the mercy of several young hobbits clamoring for a story, so he sat down upon the gnarled root of an old oak tree and began to tell the exciting tale of the Great Eagle Thorondor, and how he had helped the Elf Fingon to rescue his cousin Maedhros from the evil Lord of Angband. He glanced up to notice that Merry and Pippin had joined the crowd of hobbits at his feet.

Frodo thought for a moment, and then grinned, and told the story of Gandalf's first meeting with the Old Took, who was not so very old at the time, and was engaged in a bit of tweenaged mischief for good measure!

He left the group of youngsters laughing, and began to make his way to the Smials. He was unsurprised to find Merry and Pippin rushing to catch him up. Merry was probably just as tired as he was—they had both set off early, after all. Pippin seemed to be full of energy, hopping about and running ahead only to stop and watch impatiently. But Frodo was sure that he had to be exhausted as well after such a busy day.

They followed Frodo to his room, and Pippin asked "Can we stay with you tonight, Frodo?"

Frodo was mildly surprised. They had mostly outgrown asking to sleep with him; Merry especially thought he was too old for that now. But he truly did not mind, as it reminded him of when they were younger. Still, they did not have as much time together as they once had now that Frodo was Master of Bag End. He nodded.

Merry went to fetch his and Pippin's nightshirts and dressing gowns, and Pippin went into the room with Frodo.

"Thank you for not telling on Cado and Clovis, Frodo. I really think they were just joking. And it would have made Mother so upset!"

Frodo knew that if his little cousin was admitting to that much, that he had been far more than a "little bit" scared, but he didn't say anything, and Pippin, looking to change the subject, picked up the book that Frodo had unpacked. He looked at it curiously. "This looks interesting. Would you read some of it to us?"
"Anything to avoid sleep, Pip?" Frodo asked with a chuckle. He grinned at Pip's pleading face. "Yes, you insatiable Took, I will read a little bit of it tonight."

Merry returned with the nightshirts, and soon all three were tucked up in Frodo's bed, the lamp lit and the Moon glowing through the window.

"It was the first day of Halimath in the year 928 when I drove my cart East on the Great Road, heading for Bree with a cartload of Buckland's finest apple brandy and produce from the Marish…"

Bilbo picked up the dustcloth, and then put it down again. How ridiculous! he told himself! Bag End was as spotless as it was possible to be. He could see his reflection in the brass vase on the mantel, and there was not a smudge anywhere nor even a book out of place! He picked up a sofa pillow, fluffed it up and then put it down in a different spot. No, no, that wasn’t better at all! He moved it back to its original position, and then tweaked it so that it was straighter. Perfect.

He went to the window for the dozenth time this morning, but still there was no sign of a pony trap coming up the road towards Bag End. They had said they would arrive before luncheon, and here it was, nearly one!

Luncheon! He bustled into the large dining room, seldom used unless he had many guests. But today and tomorrow was a very special occasion, and so he had laid the large table already with the finest china and silverware. There were only four places laid, all near the head of the table. One place was different than the other three: a small, but heavy silver plate with a high rim etched with a border of gamboling lambs, a small silver spoon, and a small mug of silver with two handles, engraved on one side with an ornate letter "B" and on the other side with a duckling wearing a bow upon its neck. There was no chair at that place.

From there he went into the kitchen: creamy mushroom soup already simmering at the back of the stove, stewed apples, a pork roast nearly done to a turn, potatoes in their jackets baking in the embers…what else needed doing?

A sudden rap on the door sent him flying from the kitchen to the front hall, and he flung upon the door with a grin. "Drogo! Primula! and little Frodo!"

"I thought we'd not make it by one, Uncle Bilbo," said Drogo, proffering his hand for a hearty shake.

Bilbo smiled at his favorite cousin as he gripped his hand and patted it fondly. "You've a good ten minutes to spare, Drogo."

"Unca Bibo!" crowed the little faunt in his mother's arms, reaching his own out to be taken. Primula laughed and allowed Bilbo to take the excited child.

Drogo caught Bilbo's eye. "I must go out to the trap. Hamfast is bringing out our things before he takes the pony trap down to the stables; but with little Frodo, we have a good deal of gear to bring in, including his high chair. I'm going to give him a hand."

Bilbo and Primula took Frodo into the sitting room, and heard the bustle in the hallway as the various travelling cases and other paraphanalia were brought in.

"That's quite all right, Master Hamfast. You brought in practically everything else. How is your good wife Bell? And your little lad Hamson should be very nearly out of faunthood by now? What is he, five?"

Distracted from his worries about propriety by parental pride, the gardener answered, "The lad's just turned six! And he's got a little brother now, Halfred, as is almost two."

"You don't say! Well, that is good news! Thank you for bringing up our things, Master Hamfast."

Soon the family were all seated about the table in the dining room, Frodo in his high chair was pleased with his special dishes, and all of them were enjoying a fine luncheon.

After luncheon, little Frodo was put down for a nap. Worn out by the long two-day journey from Buckland and sated by a fine meal, he easily succumbed to slumber.

Back in the sitting room the adults sat about and enjoyed a good gossip, as Primula and Drogo filled Bilbo in on all the doings of Buckland, while Bilbo recounted the goings-on in Hobbiton. The couple also presented Bilbo with their birthday gift for him: a fine silver inkwell and matching penknife.

Frodo wakened in time for tea. It was a fine tea, and Frodo was even allowed to have a bit of very milky tea in honor of the occasion. He managed to have a fine time with the fairy cakes, and his face and mouth were a positive rainbow of colours.

Bilbo laughed. "I wish Cousin Calla was here to capture that sight for all time! It is a shame there's no magic way to make a picture of such moments!"

Drogo chuckled as Primula led the little one off to wash his face. "It would be a fine thing for us fond parents and doting uncles to have, but just think of how he would feel about such a thing when he becomes a tween!"

Supper was a lighter meal: more of the delightful mushroom soup, served with yeasty rolls and a salad.

Bilbo begged the privilege of putting little Frodo down for the night, so Primula offered to do the washing up. Bilbo led the little one to his parent's guest room, where a truckle bed had been set up for him, and washed him up and put him into his little nightshirt. Then he sat down in the rocking chair with him.

"All right, Frodo. Let me think a moment…Ah! I have just the thing…"Once there were two little hobbits named Tip and Tulip. They were brother and sister, and they lived in a cozy little smial with their mama and their papa and their auntie. One day when it was Tip's birthday, his auntie took him out to find mathoms for his mama and his papa and his sister… "

But Frodo was sound asleep before the story came to its gentle end. Bilbo stood carefully and leaned down to tuck him into the little bed. He was just pulling up the blankets snugly beneath Frodo's chin, when Primula peeked in the door. "Ah! You did get him to sleep! I was afraid that he'd be far too wound up tonight," she whispered.

"Tip and Tulip do the trick every time," Bilbo whispered back. "Good night, my dear! I'm going to have a sniff of air and a smoke before turning in."

"I imagine Drogo will join you." She gave Bilbo a peck on the cheek. "Good night, Bilbo!"

First breakfast was in the kitchen: toast with butter and strawberry jam and porridge with honey and cinnamon, stewed fruit, tea for the adults, and milk for Frodo.

Primula soon had Frodo cleaned up and dressed in sturdy playclothes that nevertheless showed her fine hand with a needle. Little bumblebees were stitched across the yoke of his shirt, which buttoned into his blue breeches.

Bilbo and Frodo went out into the garden hand-in-hand, but Bilbo let go as they began to explore. He wanted Frodo to feel free to pick flowers even if it might damage the beautiful borders one which Hamfast had worked so diligently. The flowers would come back, but a lad only became a faunt once in his life, after all!

Frodo did yank up a mum, a snapdragon, two asters and some lavender. But he continued toddling down the path towards the gate, so Bilbo hurried to keep up with him. Along side of the road he plucked up a late dandelion that was quickly denuded of its fluff, milkweed and goatweed. He held the "bouquet" up critically. "Will Mama like it?" he asked.

"Good. I hafta find something for Papa now." He bent down at the side of the road and looked intently. "Dere's a bug, Unca Bibo! Papa likes bugs."

Bilbo looked down and shuddered at the sight of an uncommonly ugly pest with many legs. He'd no idea what it was, but he was sure that his gardener would know. "Well, Frodo, I think that your Papa might like the bug, but would your Mama like for your Papa to have it?"

Frodo looked up at him thoughtfully. "No," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Sorry, bug, you can't come live with my Papa. Mama wouldn't like you."

A moment later, Frodo suddenly darted across the dusty road, nearly giving Bilbo palpitations as he rushed to catch up with the child's unexpected progress. Once more, Frodo was digging in the dirt. He came up with a stone. It was nicely shaped, almost perfectly round, and had pleasing streaks of brown, black and white. Frodo handed it up to Bilbo. "Papa will like this!" he exclaimed.

Bilbo gave the stone a little rub with his pocket handkerchief to shine it up a bit, and handed it back to the lad. "There you are, Frodo-lad!"

"Yes, it is! Now we have something for your Mama and your Papa, so we will go back to Bag End now.

Frodo allowed Bilbo to hold the flowers, which were rather bedraggled by now (but that is part of the tradition of such offerings) so that he could hold Frodo's hand. The dart across the road had quite alarmed Bilbo.

At the door Bilbo handed the child back the flowers. He dusted the child off a little, but he was still grimy. His feet were damp with dew, and his head as well, as he had shaken it from the leaves onto his dark curls.

Primula and Drogo were waiting in the sitting room. Frodo hid his little offerings behind his back, and Bilbo gave him a gentle push.

His parents smiled down at him, and he ran over to the settee, and thrust the flowers at his mother. "For my birfday, Mama!"

"Oh, Frodo! They are beautiful!" She gave him a hug, and buried her face in his curls to hide her tears of pride. Frodo suffered her attentions for an instant, and then pulled away and turned to his father.

Drogo took it and inspected it carefully, and then gave Frodo a fierce embrace. "It will be precious to me always!"

Frodo allowed his father to pull him up onto his lap. He looked up at Bilbo. "I din't get you a present, Unca Bibo!" he said with dismay.

Bilbo laughed. "That is all right, Frodo. I was your helper. I do not need a present!" He bent down. "But I do have a present for you, my lad!"

He went over to his desk and picked up a package; it was large and flattish and wrapped with brown paper and string.

Frodo tore into it in delight, and gave a squeal of pleasure. "A book! A storybook!"

Primula looked at Bilbo doubtfully. "Are you sure he is old enough to take care of it?" she asked.

"It is sturdily made and well-bound. And the pictures are quite colourful. They are stories about Tip and Tulip, Frodo!"

"Well, I do believe it is time for me to prepare second breakfast," Bilbo said, and turned to head into the kitchen, followed by Primula who wished to find a vase for her flowers. Drogo took Frodo to give him a wash-up, and then led him into the kitchen where the adults all bustled about the business of preparing eggs and sausage and scones and fried potatoes and other such good things.

Frodo sat on the floor in the corner and looked at the beautiful pictures in his book, and wished he knew what the words said. Then he looked up at the adults and sighed. He had a present for Mama and Papa. He needed one for Unca Bibo!

Primula turned from taking up the sausages, so that she could set the plate on the kitchen table when her eyes fell on the picture book…abandoned. She put the platter down with a thump, while the fork went tumbling to the floor as she gasped. "Where's Frodo?"

Drogo turned from fetching the cutlery and noticed the kitchen door was ajar. "He's gone outside!"

"Here I am, Mama!" crowed a little voice from the middle of the vegetable patch. He came marching out proudly, his hands filled with some of the Gaffer's prize taters! "I got a present for Unca Bibo!"

Bilbo looked at the lad, his blue eyes shining proudly out of a very grubby face—the child was dirt-coloured from head to toe. He walked unsteadily up to Bilbo and held up his prize: Bilbo's own potatoes from his own garden. He knelt down in the dirt next to the child with no regards to the knees of his own breeches, and took the offering with a smile. "Thank you very much Frodo! We shall have these potatoes for our supper tonight! They are a wonderful present!"

But as they went back inside, Bilbo wondered with no little trepidation what he would tell his gardener!

The custom of becoming a faunt on a hobbit-child's third birthday is described in JRRT's Letter #214:

"Giving gifts: was a personal matter, not limited to kinship. It was a form of 'thanksgiving', and

taken as a recognition of services, benefits, and friendship shown, especially in the past year.

It may be noted that Hobbits, as soon as they became 'faunts' (that is talkers and walkers:

formally taken to be on their third birthday-anniversary) gave presents to their parents. These were

supposed to be things 'produced' by the giver (that is found, grown, or made by the 'byrding'),

beginning in small children with bunches of wild flowers. This may have been the origin of the

'thanksgiving' presents of wider distribution, and the reason why it remained 'correct' even in the

Shire for such presents to be things belonging to or produced by the giver. Samples of the produce

of their gardens fields or workshops remained the usual 'gifts given', especially among the poorer

The idea that faunthood officially ends on the child's fifth birthday is my own. And you will note that the title for the story is a quote from this portion of the letter.

Part of the dialogue came from one of the drabbles in my drabble series about Drogo Baggins, "A Decent and Respectable Hobbit", found on this archive:

Bilbo guided three-year-old Frodo into the room, as his parents watched. The faunt grinned, hands behind his back: face shiny; hair on head and feet damp; clothes askew; traces of mud on his breeches.

"For my birfday, Mama!" He thrust out his right hand: in it, a ragged bouquet, equal parts fall garden flowers and weeds. Primula took them, hugging her lad. Bilbo saw her tears of pride.

Frodo held out his left hand--a small stone, round and shiny, striated brown, black and white. "For you, Papa!"

Drogo took it, embracing his son. "It will be precious to me always."

Leaning heavily upon her walking stick, Belladonna went into the mathom room. She had not been in this particular room in seven years. It had been meant to be another bedroom, but it was rather small, and when no other children had come along to fill it up, it had gradually turned into another mathom room.

Most of the items stored in this particular room were clothing. Belladonna gazed about at the stacks of boxes filling the room. The room was not dusty nor musty—Mrs. Button, who took care of the housekeeping for the Bagginses now that Belladonna's own health prevented her from doing most tasks herself—dusted and aired all of the unused rooms on a regular basis.

First she hobbled over to a large oak wardrobe, and pulled open the doors; tears sparked in her eyes as she looked at all the clothing hanging there, smelling of lavender and other herbs. Oh, Bungo! she thought. I still miss you so much.. She gave a deep sigh. She really should have done something about these clothes years ago. But Bilbo could not have worn any of them. There had been a time when he and his father had been much of a size, but Bungo had shrunk over the years…as had she. And she did not believe she could have borne to see anyone else wearing them.

She reached in and took out a cloak of rich velvet; it was of a wine color so deep as to be nearly brown. He had worn it to the wedding of his cousin Fosco, not long before his last illness overcame him. She drew it forth and laid it aside. There were many of his favourite waistcoats as well. He had been very fond of fancy waistcoats, a conceit his son had inherited. She took forth several of his favorites. And there was a jacket of golden velvet—one which he had not worn since Bilbo was a child. She recalled that she once had a redingote made of the same material, (which she later gifted to her niece Amaranth Brandybuck). The two of them had looked quite smart together-- he in his golden jacket, she in her redingote…

Bungo had only been eighty. Not old for a hobbit, really. She felt a sob trying to force its way past her throat, and she drew a deep breath and denied it. She had made the decision to lay her mourning aside, and she would abide by it.

Bilbo had been crushed by his father's death. He was only three years past his majority. Belladonna followed the old customs, and had retained the Family Headship, although part of her had longed to give it over to her son and follow her husband beyond the circles of the world. But she could not do that to her lad, so bowed down by his own grief, and she had struggled on. She was, after all, daughter of the Old Took himself.

But the struggle was nearly ended. Her breath came less and less easily, her legs swollen and her feet painful, and Mistress Rose Greenhand, who had long been the family healer had confirmed Belladonna's own suspicions. The same illness that had laid both Bungo and Belladonna low during the Fell Winter, the illness that had nearly claimed both of them when their son was still only a young tween, had permanently damaged their health, as it had many other hobbits of their generation—those that were spared at the time.

She had not plied her needle in such an ambitious project in a long time, but Bungo's young cousin Dora, who would come of age next year, was willing to help her, especially with the cutting. Bilbo's gift would be from both his parents, enfolding him in their warmth and love long after they were gone…

The guests had been few in consideration of their hostess, whose health was no longer robust. Each had gone away after the Birthday Supper well-pleased with the gifts they had received.

"I've one more, Bilbo dear," she said. "But I wished to wait until we were alone. I suppose that's selfish of me."

"Not at all, Mama," Bilbo replied, smiling at her as he took the parcel. It was rather soft and large—clearly an item of clothing. He carefully untied the ribbon and drew away the muslin wrapping. His eyes grew large as he held up the magnificent dressing gown. It took him only seconds to recognize the bits of rich fabric which had been pieced together.

Tears came to his eyes and he rose to go to her side and embrace her. "Thank you, Mama. It is beautiful, and it looks to be quite warm."

"I am glad that you like it, my son." Belladonna smiled brightly at him, and hoped he did not realise that this was a farewell gift.

In the end, she rallied, and stayed a few months longer. But one spring day in early Astron, Bilbo entered her room with her morning tea, looking quite smart in his dressing gown. She was always pleased to see him in it.

It took only one look at the smile on her peaceful face to know that she had left him. Hands trembling, Bilbo set the teacup down on the nearest surface and approached her bed. Tears went unnoticed as he dropped a gentle kiss on top of her head. "Say hello to Papa for me, Mama," he whispered.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was inspired by the following pictures from the upcoming film of The Hobbit, and which were posted in lbilover's LJ:

(Written for the "Yet Hope Remains" comment-fic community, for belleferret's prompt, "Pre-Quest, Quest or Post-Quest, Frodo and Sam, the little things in life".)

Before...

Frodo wakened to sunshine and birdsong, and was briefly confused until he realised he was in his room at Bag End, and not in Brandy Hall. The excitement of his adoption party was over; friends and kin had left. This was his first day at Bag End as a resident and not a visitor. He grinned as he got out of bed, and went over to the washstand. The water on his face was cold, and took the last of sleep from his mind. He pushed aside the gauzy curtains, and thrust his window open to let in the late spring breezes.

He heard a cheery whistling below his window. The sandy head of the gardener's young son looked up with a smile like sunshine. "Hullo, Mr. Frodo!" he said shyly.

"Hullo, Sam," he replied. "What are you doing so early in the morning?"

"The Gaffer give me this bed to tend for my very own," he said. He gestured at the bedding plants at his side: violas, pansies, marigolds. "I'm going to fill in between the bulbs with these," and he gestured at the daffodils and tulips already blooming beneath the window.

"Frodo! Breakfast" came Bilbo's voice through the door.

Frodo looked down at Sam. "I think I will enjoy seeing this every day beneath my window."

Sam blushed to the tips of his ears at the praise. "Thank 'ee, Mr. Frodo."

~~~~~~~~~

During...

Frodo woke to the chill of a late afternoon wind at his back. Sam had risen quietly, so as not to disturb him no doubt. But he'd not reckoned on the sudden lack of warmth being more disturbing than noise. Frodo turned very carefully over, so as not to waken Pippin and Merry who lay on his other side.

He saw Sam tending the fire. Gandalf sat next to it, silently puffing on his pipe. At the edge of the encampment he spotted the stocky form of Gimli on watch. The other Big Folk in the Company still slept on.

Sam felt his regard and turned to give him a smile and a nod, "Good morning, Mr. Frodo," he mouthed.

Frodo nodded at him. "Good morning, Sam," he returned silently.

He watched as Sam began the process of preparing "supper-breakfast" as Pippin had dubbed the evening meal before they began the night's tramp. Porridge. Sam had put the oats and water in a pot among the embers that morning before they went to sleep, and now he was doling out a portion of the dried fruits they carried, as well as some nuts the hobbits had foraged the evening before.

Frodo raised up on one elbow. "That smells delicious! We are very lucky to have you, Samwise Gamgee," he whispered.

Sam smiled back, blushing at Frodo's words. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo."

~~~~~~~~~~

After...

Sam woke to the sound of whimpering cries. The faint light of stars and moon illuminated the room with a cool blue light. He felt the warmth of Rosie at his back, sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted. Elanor had been teething and driving her mother to distraction. He sat up carefully so as to not disturb her, and realised that the door to their room was cracked open, and the cries did not come from the baby's cradle at the foot of their bed.

He got up and slipped into his dressing gown. It was too fine for the likes of him, but it had been a Yule gift from Mr. Frodo. He did not bother to light a candle, but went out and down the passage to Mr. Frodo's room. Sure enough, his master sat on the edge of his bed, rocking Elanor and softly singing an old Shire lullaby:

“Evening has fallen, the Sun’s in the West.
The nightbirds are calling, the Shire is at rest.
Peaceful the night and gentle the breeze,
In cot and in smial, the folk take their ease.
High above the Stars are kindled,
Kith and kin within are nestled,
Safe from harm
In loving arms,
Find slumber deep,
Fall into sleep,
May joy find all your dreams,
May only joy find your dreams…”

Sam watched quietly from the doorway, but Frodo soon felt his regard, and looked up at him.

"I'm sorry, Sam! I had hoped you would sleep. I thought perhaps I could soothe her and get her back to her cradle without waking you."

Sam shook his head. "Nothing for you to be sorry for, Mr. Frodo. I'm only sorry as she woke you."

"I wasn't really sleeping," he said, but his eyes returned to the baby in his arms, and Sam saw the light of love in them as Frodo seemed to drink in the sight of her like a hungry thing.

Looking at his master, so gentle with this golden child, Sam felt his own heart twist with love for the both of them. "You're a very good 'uncle', Mr. Frodo," he said.

Frodo looked up at him with a smile that went all the way to his eyes, his cheeks turning red with pleasure. "Thank you, Sam."

Title: The First Night Out of Bree
Rating: G
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Aragorn-Strider, Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Sam
Words: 542
Warnings: Some very cherished fanons turned on their heads.
Disclaimer: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to Tolkien. I own none of them, though some of them own me.
Summary: Strider finds himself with four rebellious hobbits on his hands.
Author’s notes: Celeritas' prompt was "Bust your favorite (or least favorite) fanon." So I set out to do that, beginning with one I know she likes to bust, and busting one of my own favorites, as well as a couple of others, plus I threw in a bit of obscure and discarded info from the History of Middle-earth which I won't identify. Have fun guessing.

Strider took a deep breath and let it out very slowly to stifle his sigh of frustration.

"No, no campfire. We are too close to Bree still, and there may be other things than Black Riders after us."

"But it's bloody cold," said Pippin.

Merry gave his cousin a nudge. "Language, Pip," he muttered.

Pippin ducked his head, and muttered something rebellious under his breath.

Frodo said in a tightly controlled voice, "How are we to sleep in this cold?"

Their guide shook his head, and then said "Why, you sleep together and share your body heat and your blankets, of course!"

Four pairs of horrified brown eyes turned their gaze to his face.

Frodo's normally fair face turned bright red with anger. It made the normally unnoticeable little wart on his chin, as well as the small white lock by his left temple stand out in the moonlight. In a very tightly controlled voice he spoke very slowly. "We. Are. Not. Faunts!"

"I never said you were, Mr. Baggins." His own patience was being sorely tried by their obstreperousness. "What has that to do with anything?"

"Only the very young among hobbits sleep together, unless they are a married couple!"

Strider blinked. "I have it on no less an authority than Gandalf that this was often a custom of hobbits in the past. Surely what was done once can be done again for practicality's sake."

Frodo snorted. "Perhaps, when we were scarcely more than a savage clan roaming about in the Wild. We are a civilised people now, and have no use for such archaic practices."

"Well, you have such a use tonight," Strider said firmly. "So you may either be warm together or you shall most assuredly shiver separately." He looked each hobbit in the eye, making sure they understood he was serious.

"What about you?" asked Merry.

"As I shall be keeping watch, it is best that I not be too comfortable." He jerked his head towards the stream that ran past the clearing where they proposed to sleep. "I am going to the stream to clean the soil of the day from my face and hands, and then I will keep watch." He gestured towards Bill. "Master Samwise, there is journeybread and dried fruit in the pony's saddlebag. I suggest you make Bill comfortable and pass out the rations. And then you should all try to get some rest. If we can get far enough tomorrow with no signs of pursuit, perhaps we can have a fire tomorrow night."

He walked downhill about half a rod to the stream where he sat on his haunches and splashed cold water on his face and cleaned his hands as best he could. Then he took out his knife and cleaned his fingernails and scraped away at the stubble on his chin as best he could with cold water and no soap. Just because a Ranger roamed about in the wilderness did not mean he had to look any more disreputable than necessary. He would be glad of a hot bath and soap when they reached Rivendell. Not to mention clean clothes!

When he returned to the clearing, the hobbits were still muttering and grumbling about the lack of a fire and hot food, but they had at last settled down together. It was very clear that they were not at all happy to be sleeping in a pile.

Rivendell was a long way. Confound Gandalf leaving him with this bunch!

Author: Dreamflower
Title: House of Mirth
Rating: G
Theme: Potluck (from the September '11 "Hit the Books" challenge)
Elements: Book Title-- House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
Author's Notes: Several references to my personal fanon—some are explained more fully in the End Notes.
Summary: Fond memories of Crickhollow…
Word Count: 1,087

"What was it like here when we were children? In many ways nothing like it is now. It was much smaller then. Originally there was only a kitchen, a small sitting room, a little room used as a study, two bedrooms and a bathing room. When our fathers lived here as bachelors after they'd come home from abroad, that was all. They built a wing for Da and Mum after they married, and another for Uncle Pippin and Auntie Diamond after they were wed. The original two bedrooms became guest rooms, and nurseries were added as we children began to come along…oh, you mean what was it like!

Well, child, I suppose as you are marrying Cousin Fosco, you want to know all the family stories. I can understand that, dear! Our family can be rather overwhelming…

Perry and I were very young when we moved into Brandy Hall, but our earliest years were here. I can remember Da and Auntie Diamond working in the herb beds, and in the stillroom where Auntie Diamond made her medicines. Mum mostly kept the house herself at that time with the help of Mrs. Bluebell, who came in to help most days with the cleaning and baking. She baked the most delicious little cakes, with berries and cinnamon in them…"

"Uncle Pippin taught me to climb in that old oak by the gate yonder. Don't look at me like that! I assure you I was young and bold enough as a lass. I daresay I could still climb it if I cared to! Shall I freshen your tea?"

"Mostly I remember how happy we were here. We'd spend the evenings by the fire, sibs and cousins huddled together like so many puppies, listening to our fathers tell us tales! Oh, such stories they told, not only of their famous adventures, but of the mischief they got up to as lads, and tales of the wonders they had seen out in the Wide World. Occasionally we'd have visitors from afar: Uncle Legolas and Uncle Gimli visited at least once as I can recall, and there was the occasional Ranger. What? The Edict? Ah, well, we are in Buckland here, and not truly a part of the Shire unless it suits us—listen to me, I sound like I still live in Buckland, when I've lived over in the Westmarch for years. Hending and I are very happy there, being near neighbors to Elanor and Fastred, but when I come here I just feel like a Bucklander. Our most frequent visitors were Uncle Sam and his family, of course. I can recall Uncle Sam reading to us out of the famous Red Book—the original of course, though I know you've seen the copy we keep up at Brandy Hall.

Then Granda Sara passed, and we Brandybucks had to move up to the Hall; and after that was the Great Flood of '33 and then old Thain Paladin passed and Uncle Pip and Auntie Diamond and Prim and Pet and Pansy and Faramir all moved to the Great Smials. It was dreadful in a way, Perry and I missed them awfully. But then Mum and Auntie Diamond came up with the idea of the family retreats, and we'd gather here for a couple of weeks twice a year, early spring and late summer, usually, depending on what was going on in the Shire and abroad. Sometimes, as when we had the King and his court in Arnor, we only had one retreat a year. And then of course, there was the year we went South…

As we grew up and married and our families grew the place got more and more additions. I don't believe it will ever rival Brandy Hall or the Great Smials, or even Bag End. But it's grown into far more than the simple cottage it started out as."

"What is my favorite memory? Oh my… to be honest, I think it was the few occasions when I would come upon Da and Uncle Pippin, just the two of them talking and jesting as if they were tweens. They didn't know I was watching and listening, as they would speak of Cousin Frodo and smile as they remembered him. As a child, I always had the notion he could see us and was helping to make us all as happy as he could. Silly of me, but it did seem that his presence was here."

"No, dear, no, Cousin Frodo was gone before Da and Mum were wed, so none of us children had the chance to know him. I think he only ever spent a few days here—the one night before they all left on their Quest, of course, and then I think he stayed here about a week or so right after Uncle Sam and Aunt Rose wed. And I believe one other time after that, for just a short while, before he sailed away."

"Have you read the Red Book yet? No? Well, you can start on the copy at Brandy Hall while you are here in Buckland. After all, you need to know more about the family whose line you are restoring! You've no idea how much it meant to my father, to know that Uncle Freddy and Aunt Angelica were going to restore the Baggins name."*

"Ha! Yes, it is a long story. But worth reading. And you will find out why I am called 'Auntie Wyn'. I hope you will come to some of the family retreats here and make some of your own memories!"

"Of course Dilly and Merry** will keep up the retreats, even though they will be living here permanently. They know that's why Da and Uncle Pip gave Crickhollow to them when they left the Shire."

"Welcome to the family, Amalda. It's about time we had an infusion of Goold blood once more. I know how proud Uncle Freddy would be if he could see his grandson getting married tomorrow. I'm so glad we had the chance for this little talk, dear. Did it help calm your nerves?"

"I'm glad! You get some rest and we will all see you as a beautiful bride tomorrow!"

* In "my" Shire universe, Fredegar Bolger married Angelica Baggins. They named their older son Folco Baggins-Bolger. But with the approval of the Convocation of Family Heads, their younger son was Filibert Bolger-Baggins and then dropped the Bolger when he came of age, so that the Baggins family name would not die out. His son is the Fosco of this little monologue.

**"Dilly" and "Merry" are Niphredil Brandybuck Gamgee and Merry Gamgee, who were married in "my" Shire. Niphredil was quite a bit younger than Meriadoc's two older children, Simbelmynë (who was called "Wyn" after Éowyn) and Peridoc (who was called Perry).

(This story was written to promote b2mem's 2012 challenge for "Back to Middle-earth Month" beginning on March 1. The challenge will use Bingo prompts. Check out the community for details.)

How, you might wonder, did such a thing as BINGO find its way to Middle-earth? Perhaps the better question is, how did BINGO find its way to us from Middle-earth. Here is recounted the little known story of how the game was created by Bilbo's Uncle Bingo Baggins!

(A/N: Bilbo and Siggy are 18, which is about the same maturity as a human 10-year-old; little Falco, at 5 is about the same as a human 3-year-old.)

“28 Astron, S.R. 1308
1 Cedar Lane
Overhill
Dear Bungo and Belladonna,
On Monday, the 15th of Thrimidge, we shall be celebrating the occasion of little Falco's fifth birthday with a small party. I very much hope that your family will consent to grace the occasion. We look forward to seeing the three of you.
The party will begin at 2 o’ clock of the afternoon, and will continue through tea and supper, but as you are close family, we would be pleased to have you join us the day before and stay the evening with us.
Little Fosco is especially looking forward to seeing his cousin Bilbo.
Your fond sister-in-law,
Chica Chubb- Baggins”

We would be most pleased to join you for little Falco's special birthday; however, I must ask if your hospitality could extend to one more. Young Bilbo's cousin, my nephew Sigismond, is spending a month with us, and will be our guest at that time. If you do not object to our bringing the lad along, we will be glad to attend.

It is hard to believe Falco is leaving his faunthood already! Why it seems no time at all since we attended his Naming Day!

We look forward to seeing all of you on Sunday the 14th. Tell Bilbo that his Uncle Bingo has invented a new party game for the occasion!

"Siggy! Guess what!" Bilbo bounded into his room and landed on his bed with a bounce. His cousin was sitting on the floor, whittling a whistle.

"No. Mama's making preserves with the strawberries. I believe we are having sticky buns for afters. And I smelled mushroom stew cooking while I was talking to Mama." Bilbo sat up with a gleam in his eye. "We are invited to my cousin Falco's fifth birthday party! You are to come with us!"

"There will be a lot of other cousins there! Most are younger, I admit. But some of them are near our age." He grinned. "But best of all, Uncle Bingo comes up with the most interesting party games! Mama said he's invented a new one just for this party! Uncle Bingo is a lot of fun!"

Bilbo shook his head. "I don't believe you have—no, wait—he was at my fifth birthday party! Do you remember?"

"No, I don't. I was only just five myself at the time. I remember Grandfather was there, though."

"Yes, he was," Bilbo replied. "I remember he showed us his magic diamond studs that the Wizard gave him. Anyway, Uncle Bingo lives in Overhill, so we don't see him that often, but he comes up with some splendid games for his parties!"

Siggy held up the whistle he'd been making, and blew a sharp blast. Then he grinned. "Well, I have my gift for your cousin! What will you give him?"

Bilbo gave Siggy a sour look and put a finger in his ear. "I don't know yet. But you'd better not let Mama see all those shavings on the floor!" Then he grinned. "I wonder how Aunt Chica will like Falco's whistle?"

In the event, Bilbo chose the leather ball Siggy had given him for his own fifth birthday. "You don't mind do you?"

Siggy shook his head. "Of course not! You haven't played with it in a long time have you?"

The Sterday evening before the party the lads packed up overnight cases, as they would be leaving directly after first breakfast Sunday morning. It was only a short drive in the Baggins family pony trap to Overhill. They arrived in time for elevenses, taking a repast of bread, cheese and fruit as they rode, rather than stopping for second breakfast.

After elevenses, they presented the little byrding with his gifts. Tomorrow on his birthday, he would be the one giving them out, but today was his day to receive them. He was pleased with the storybook from Bilbo's parents, loved the ball, and was delighted with the whistle, which he began to tweet loudly all over the smial.

Aunt Chica sent them outside, and Falco forgot all about the whistle as his older cousins played catch with him. Soon enough they were called in to luncheon, and afterward Falco was taken to the nursery for a nap.

Overhill was a small village, but Siggy had never been there before, so Bilbo took him about the town to see the sights, such as they were. Siggy had some pocket money and stopped in at the local bakery, where they picked up a couple of apple pastries. The baker had day-old bread rolls for sale, four for a farthing, so they bought some and went to the village duck pond to feed the ducks, and then meandered back to the hole in time for tea.

By the time they got there more of the family guests who'd be staying over had arrived. Bilbo and Siggy were pleased to see that their Took cousin Adalgrim (whom everyone called "Chop") had arrived with his mother, who was a Baggins. Chop was a good ten years older than Bilbo and Siggy, but he was a favorite of the younger crowd. Bilbo's Aunt Linda and Uncle Bodo Proudfoot had also come with their little son Odo, who was only four.

Odo and Falco were taken by Falco's nursemaid to have their tea in the nursery, where they would also take supper and be sent to bed after, so that the byrding would be well rested for his big day on the morrow.

At most hobbit gatherings the hobbits would have gathered in small groups for after supper conversation; some would go outdoors for a sniff of air and a pipe, others to the parlor; older teens and tweens would huddle in groups for their own gossip, and perhaps a game of some sort. But Bingo Baggins had a passion for party games, most especially parlour games, and all ages and sexes were expected to participate. While the occasional gaffer might grumble at "childish nonsense", Bingo's enthusiasm usually spread to his guests, and the games he invented were enjoyed by all.

This particular evening the guests foregathered in the sitting room, where Bingo passed to each guest a card. Each card had his name written at the top: BINGO. Below was a grid of five squares by five squares. The one in the center was crossed out. In each square was a random number. He then handed each guest a handful of buttons, as he explained the directions.

"I have a bowl filled with the numbers on your cards. Every card is different, though some have some of the same numbers. I will pull a number from the bowl at random and call out the number. If you have that number, place a button on it. The first person who covers five squares in a row—whether horizontally, vertically, or diagonally—should shout out my name so that the round will stop, and will be the winner of the round. The center square is considered a "free space", so everyone will start out by covering that space with a button!"

Bilbo thought it sounded interesting, and he and Siggy examined one another's cards. "We have some of the same numbers," said Bilbo.

Siggy nodded. "But they aren't in the same place, although they are in the same row." The lads carefully place a button on the center space.

Uncle Bingo looked around the room to make sure that everyone was following his instructions. Then he reached over and pulled out a number.

Bilbo was at first disappointed, for the first four draws, none of his numbers were chosen. But soon he was happier, as three numbers in rapid succession were covered on his card.

They played several rounds, and Bilbo was disappointed to come close, and yet always, it seemed, someone else would call out his uncle's name before he was able to get the final number.

Finally Uncle Bingo said: "This will be the last round, and this time we will keep playing until someone fills their entire card."

The play continued, Uncle Bingo calling out number after number, and Bilbo's began to feel a hopeful thrill, as he kept putting more buttons on his card. He only had one number left—it was a "63" beneath the letter "G"… number after number was called, and he began to despair when he heard his uncle call it out.

"BINGO!" he yelled, "Uncle Bingo! I mean," he blurted, his face red at his breach of manners.

But his uncle just smiled. "Well, Bilbo, you have won the prize this evening." He handed him a small book—it was a book of stories about Bandobras Took!

His uncle ruffled his curls, something that Bilbo would normally feel quite indignant about, as he thought himself too old for such liberties. But he was too pleased to worry about it. "That is quite all right, Bilbo! I am glad you enjoyed my game so much."

There was some conversation after, as Aunt Chica provided some light refreshment before her guests sought their beds.

Bilbo found himself sharing a bed with Siggy and two of his Bolger cousins, Rudivar and Herugar, and the four of them discussed the new game.

"I really like it," said Siggy. "I'll bet the folks at Great Smials would enjoy it."

The next afternoon the party began at two when the rest of the guests who had not stayed overnight began to arrive. The teens and tweens soon began a spirited game of kick-the-ball. Across the lawn, the younger fry, including the byrding, were being led by Uncle Bingo in some sort of circle game. The adults wandered about, watching the younger ones at their pastimes, and those who had been there the night before told of Bingo's new game. There was much curiosity about it among the newcomers.

After tea, little Falco passed out his gifts to the guests. Bilbo received a small box of letter-paper. He thanked his young cousin, who tugged him down to whisper in his ear: "I wanted to give you something better. I had a splendid lizard in a box with holes for you, but Mama said no."

"That's quite all right," Bilbo whispered back. "I'm afraid my Mama would not like me to have a lizard in my room."

After supper, Bilbo's father volunteered for story-telling, and the younger children all gathered around Bungo's feet in the nursery, and Bilbo could hear him begin a story "Once there were two little hobbits named Tip and Tulip, who were brother and sister. They lived in a cosy little hole with their Mama and their Papa and their Auntie…"

But everyone else crowded into the sitting room for another chance to play the new game, which some were beginning to call by the name of its creator. Bilbo did not win this night, but Siggy did win one round. When the two of them went to bed that evening, they were full of plans to make their own sets of cards so that they could play when they went home.

Uncle Bingo's game became very popular throughout the Shire for several years, but when the Fell Winter came, games and frivolity were the last thing on most hobbits' minds, and by the time people were ready for parties once more it had quite fallen out of fashion.

Years later, as Bilbo was preparing to retire to live among the Elves at Rivendell, he came across a small cloth sack tucked away at the bottom of a drawer. In it was the set of cards he had made long decades before, as well as buttons and numbers for the drawing. On a whim he decided to take it with him.

At Rivendell, he showed it once to Elladan and Elrohir and the Lady Arwen, explaining it to them, and was surprised when they thought it would be fun to introduce among the Elves. Erestor was quite taken with it, and later made another set, with cards far finer and more durable than the ones Bilbo had made, with special discs, kept in a finely carved box. This was gifted to Bilbo on his one-hundred-and-seventeenth birthday, and was taken by him to the West when he sailed. It was said that the Lady Celebrian became quite fond of playing it, and it often featured at afternoon gatherings in her home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's Notes: The hobbit birthday customs are a blend of quasi-canonical information from Letter #214 and my own personal fanon. Most of the characters can be found on one of the Family Trees, with the exception of the Bolger children. They are supposed to be the children of Bilbo's Aunt Belba and her husband Rudigar Bolger.

Author name: Dreamflower
Recipient's name: Linaewen
Title: A Horse is a Horse Of Course
Rating: G
Request: I would like a story about a misadventure Boromir has during his 110 day journey to Rivendell. It can be either serious or humorous, or somewhere in between!
Summary: Boromir recalls part of his journey north to Imladris to Merry and Pippin as they float down the Anduin.
`I have myself been at whiles in Rohan, but I have never crossed it northwards. When I was sent out as a messenger, I passed through the Gap by the skirts of the White Mountains, and crossed the Isen and the Greyflood into Northerland. A long and wearisome journey. Four hundred leagues I reckoned it, and it took me many months; for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood. After that journey, and the road I have trodden with this Company, I do not much doubt that I shall find a way through Rohan, and Fangorn too, if need be.' (FotR, Book II, Chapter VIII "Farewell to Lórien") My thanks to Shirebound for finding this quote for me!
Word Count 1,822

Merry looked at Pippin, who shrugged. Then both turned their eyes to Boromir, who had been silent for hours, ever since they had left Lothlorien. Right now he was muttering to himself.

Both the hobbits had a good idea of what was bothering the Man, and it frightened them. But if they could distract him, perhaps he would be able to ignore the Ring's silent call.

Pippin could think of only one thing. He began to sing. Pitching his voice carefully, so that it would not carry far he began with a traditional Buckland tune...

When I was a lad so free
I had no cares to worry me,
Save what to drink and when to dine,
On the banks of the Brandywine!
On the banks of the Brandywine!
Save what to drink and when to dine,
On the banks of the Brandywine!

Boromir turned to them for a moment startled at first and scowling. But they smiled at him and his face changed and he gave them his own brief smile. As Pippin sang, they could see the tense muscles in his neck and back begin to relax. He returned to his rowing with renewed vigour. Merry grinned at Pippin, and mouthed "Well done!" to him, before joining in the song.

Merry faded out after a few songs. Pippin sang on until his voice was ready to give out, and he was exhausting his repertoire of songs. Finally he stopped as he finished the last verse of "Nob o' the Lea".

"Boromir," said Merry, "you've been rowing ever since we left Lothlorien. Let me take a turn."

"Thank you, Merry." Boromir put down the paddle, and made room to exchange places with the hobbit.

The Elves had provided paddles especially designed to make rowing easier for the small folk. Merry took one up, and dipped it in the water; he was surprised at how well it worked-- he had feared that the extra length and angle of the paddle would make rowing awkward. But he realised that there was no awkwardness at all, and it actually felt more comfortable than rowing his own boat on the Brandywine. Trust Elves to know what they were doing. He soon relaxed into the rhythm, and they glided easily down the Anduin.

Boromir stretched his arms, and Merry and Pippin could hear his shoulders pop. "Ah!" he said. "This is not so difficult as walking, but my arms are not used to this form of exercise in a long time. Not for the first time do I wish we had horses!"

"You said you lost him at Tharbad. I thought perhaps the horse drowned in the ford."

Boromir chuckled, but his face had turned quite red. "No, he did not. When I said that I lost my horse, I meant it quite literally!"

Pippin gave him an intent and interested look, making his eyes as wide and expectant as he could, the look of one settling in to hear a good story.

"Ah, Pippin! You are wheedling stories again. You are quite good at that. Well, I suppose as you have entertained me for so long with your singing, that I should tell you what happened."

Boromir nodded. "So first I shall begin by telling you that he was not properly speaking my horse..."

"I left Gondor with Star-- he was named for the white blaze on his forehead. He was otherwise black, and his proper name was 'Southern Star', but of course I called him Star. I could not imagine making the journey without him, but he was an older horse. I remember Faramir asking if he were up to the adventure, as he had seldom travelled very far in recent years. I was quite sure that he would be.

My brother was quite right. The journey was indeed difficult for the old fellow, and he was limping by the time I arrived at Edoras. The head groom gave me disapproving looks, and told me that his joints were swollen and he would need a good deal of rest. Prince Theodred, the King's son, who was a good friend to me at one time though we had seen little of one another in recent years, gave me my pick of three horses. One was a bay gelding; Theodred told me that he was good over long distances and had a very steady gait. Another was a white mare; she too, was known for her endurance over long distances, and to have a placid nature and was good with strangers. The third was a beauty, a roan stallion. Theodred told me that he too had a lot of endurance and strength as well as speed, but was young and untried and very spirited.

I was impressed with all three, but I confess I was influenced by the fact that I had only ever ridden stallions since I had come of an age to ride to war. War horses are almost always stallions, and I simply could not imagine riding a gelding or a mare. Perhaps it was vanity-- after all, I was not riding into battle, I was simply making a journey. A more seasoned animal with a quieter nature would probably be a better choice. Nevertheless, I chose the stallion, whose name was Fulgrim. I rode him around the paddock, and down the training field, and I did notice that he needed a firm hand, but I saw no reason why I could not handle him."

"Fulgrim liked to be given his head, and when I realised how swift he was, we made excellent time across Rohan. Still, he could be skittish at odd things. He stopped short at a puddle and very nearly threw me over the pommel. And he balked at the Fords of Isen. I had to dismount and lead him through. I was beginning to wish I had chosen the mare when I was only a little way beyond Rohan's borders. And I found myself missing Star mightily.

The further we went, the more skittish he grew. An unexpected bird call or even a strong wind causing a branch to move would make him put his ears back, and his eyes would grow wild. I kept telling myself that at least he was faster than walking, and that when I came to civilised lands I would trade him in for something more placid. Riding an old plowhorse would have been less nerve-wracking, I do believe.

And Fulgrim hated to get his feet wet. At every little stream or creek, I had to lead him through. I found myself hoping that any rivers we came across would have bridges. Alas, you know how well that hope was answered. We came to the Greyflood late one afternoon. Fulgrim had already begun putting his ears back before we ever even saw the water, but merely heard it splashing over rocks in the distance. I decided to halt and make camp on the near side, waiting until morn when I was more rested to deal with the crossing. Fulgrim clearly thought he had won some sort of victory when we did not approach the riverbank, and was in a fairly good mood that night.

The next morning I doused my campfire and saddled him up and led him towards the river. He started to balk, and stopped completely at the edge of the water. For the longest time he would not move however hard I pulled. Finally, just as I was near to completely losing my temper, I took him by the headstall and tugged. He took a step, and then another reluctant step, and another. Slowly, ever so slowly, we made our way across the Ford. We were almost across and I had congratulated myself that the worst was nearly over.

Then, suddenly, and with no warning whatsoever, he reared, pulling my hand free, turned tail and fairly bolted back the way we had come. One of his front hooves clipped me, stunning me and setting me down in the water. The next thing I recall were hands pulling me from the water. Apparently my shouts-- and I am embarrassed to say, my curses-- had roused a woodcutter and his sons who were working nearby. They hauled me out, dried me off and tended the knot on my head.

"Sorry I am to tell ye, my lord," the woodcutter said, "but yon horse is long gone. We saw the tail end o' him disappearin' into the wood like sommat was after 'im."

Luckily I did not lose anything important: my foodstuffs and my spare clothing, and of course the saddle and the tack. But I was carrying my sword, my horn, and the scrip with my money and other more necessary items on my person.

I spent a day or so with the woodcutter's family, and they helped to reprovision me. I paid them well for the food they gave me, and they were pleased enough. And I suppose that I gave them an amusing tale that would last for months.

But that, Pippin, is how I came to lose my horse. I can only hope that he made his way back to Rohan. Although given his distaste for crossing water, I am sure it would have taken a long while. I have to say, one of the many reasons I would have preferred to take the Gap of Rohan is that it would have given me a chance to see my old friend, Star, once more.

Pippin and Merry were both laughing heartily at Boromir's description of his mishap, and he seemed pleased that he had made them do so.

Pippin amiably changed places with his cousin, and both of them felt pleased that they had helped to dissipate the ill mood their friend had been in. Boromir was looking at them with a fond smile.

Then Boromir began to bite his nails, and to stare at the boat ahead of them, the one with Aragorn...Sam...and Frodo...

His cousin Adalgrim turned and waved; little Esmeralda occupied his other arm. His daughters and wife were already in the waggon, and Periwinkle was eyeing her husband impatiently.

Adalgrim went down the path to the gate, and Bilbo turned to Drogo. "Won't you stay and have a snifter of brandy with Siggy and me?"

"Thank you, no, Bilbo. Dora wants to go check on Dudo; since little Daisy came along Laurel has had less time to attend on her husband. I should escort Dora home and I might as well stay once I'm there."

Bilbo drew his eyebrows together disapprovingly. "Dudo takes advantage of you all. And he runs poor Dora ragged."

"I know that even in poor health your brother does not need to take such advantage of you all. He is not nearly so helpless as he thinks."

Drogo changed the subject. He loved and respected Bilbo very much; he was his favorite older cousin as well as Family Head. But Dudo was his brother and it made him uncomfortable to defend him to Bilbo. "At any rate it is time to take our leave." He hugged his older cousin. "Thank you very much for my gift!" He held up a book bound in grey leather. "I look forward to reading it." He embraced Bilbo briefly. "Happy birthday again, Bilbo!"

Dora came up behind them. "Thank you very much for inviting us, Cousin Bilbo! And thank you for the lovely stationary." She too embraced Bilbo. "Many happy returns! It was a lovely party."

They started to leave, and then Drogo turned. "By the way," he said, "do you know when the Brandybucks will be leaving Hobbiton?"

"Uncle Gorbadoc means to herd his clan east after elevenses tomorrow. I am sure you can catch Primula at The Ivy Bush in the morning if you wish to farewell her." There were far too many Brandybucks for Bilbo to host them all at Bag End. And most of his Took relations had not stayed over.

As the green door closed behind them, Bilbo turned to his study and the Took relation who had stayed over. Sigismond and Malva and their children had actually come a few days early; Bilbo had enjoyed having little Rosamunda and Ferdinand about. They loved his stories and their childish laughter was nice to have around the hole. But they too, would be heading back to the Great Smials in the morning.

Siggy was ensconced in one of the armchairs by the hearth, thumbing through a book when Bilbo entered.

"Myrtle went to check on the children, and then she plans to retire for the night. So it is just the two of us again."

Bilbo smiled and went to the cabinet near the study door and took out a little key. Normally it was not kept locked, but with children in the hole it seemed a wise precaution-- especially today when there had been so much running in and out and so many children and tweens. "Care for a snifter of brandy? Buckland's finest apple brandy-- Uncle Gorbadoc's gift for me this year."

"Tit for tat," Bilbo chuckled, as he poured the brandy into two snifters. He crossed the room and handed a snifter to Siggy as he took the armchair across from his cousin. He raised the glass. "To sixty!"

"To sixty!" responded Siggy, as they sipped to the toast. "Now we are both the same again. But I am still the older!"

"By a month!" Bilbo laughed. When they had been children, that month had loomed much larger in their minds than it did now, and was sometimes the subject of childhood arguments when Siggy attempted to assert his authority as the "older" cousin.

"Looks like more than a month now," said Siggy, studying his cousin's face closely. "You look a lot younger than I do."

Bilbo chuckled. "I don't think so, Siggy! Or if I do, it's the bachelor life. I don't have a wife and children to give me grey hairs."

Siggy smiled. "Perhaps that's it. Or perhaps it was your Adventuring that's kept you young."

"You know, I will never understand why Gandalf chose me for his burglar. I am quite sure one of you Tooks would have been a much better choice."

"My father may have been a Took, but my mother was a Bunce, who can be every bit as er, well..."

"Conventional. Yes, as conventional as the Bagginses. But the Bilbo I remember was every bit as adventurous and curious as those of us who had the Took surname! Remember the time we helped Chop steal Gandalf's fireworks? Or the time we went to the Woody End with little Rory to search for Elves?"

"Or the time the two of us tried to knock out all our teeth in order to collect farthings for them?"

Siggy stifled a guffaw. "I will never forget the look on your father's face when he finally understood what we were doing!" There was a brief silence as the cousins enjoyed their brandies and their pipes. Finally, Siggy said, "What happened, Bilbo? You became so serious and set in your ways. We were all completely shocked when you took off with those Dwarves and Gandalf."

"But you were in the Great Smials. You had plenty of other people to help one another with the difficulties. We were on our own here, and it was a very solemn time. Afterwards, I decided to put my childhood behind."

"But then Gandalf came along..." Siggy prompted. "You know, we were all so worried about you. But I will never forget the look on Longo's face-- or Otho's for that matter-- when you came back right in the middle of things! And Lobelia! My word! Her eyes were fairly bulging out of her face!"

Bilbo laughed. "It's funny now, thinking back, but it wasn't funny then! All I had been looking forward to was a nice rest in my own hole. To come back and find that Bag End was being auctioned off bit by bit, with my hole destined to fall into young Otho's hands was almost more than I could bear!"

They sat in companionable silence for a while, smoking their pipes simply relaxing together. Bilbo looked at Siggy and wondered-- he had not thought of it before, but his cousin was right. Sixty was scarcely middle-aged, yet he saw more lines of worry on Siggy's face than his own. And he recalled earlier in the evening Rory Brandybuck's comment that the two of them looked much the same age. Perhaps, he thought, I will be one of those 'well-preserved' hobbits who excite so much envy among their contemporaries. He was not sure if it was a compliment or not; thinking about it left him unsettled.

Siggy studied Bilbo's face, and thought how little it had changed outwardly-- and yet he could see a much more profound change in his closest friend. The Tookish sense of mischief and curiosity that had been nearly snuffed out of Bilbo by the trials of the Fell Winter had returned; there was once more a twinkle in his eye that Siggy had sorely missed. And yet in other ways he was more solemn and serious even than he had been before he left, concerning himself with ancient histories and questioning traditions that had long been unquestioned in the Shire. He was more learned than he had been-- although always of a scholarly bent as had been his father before him, he studied things that weren't really considered any of a hobbit's business, and spoke of strange ideas, such as the notion that something of a hobbit lived on after death, as a person, and not merely in the memory of his loved ones.

Every now and then, Siggy would get the notion that perhaps his cousin might take off into the blue again one of these days. But, no, Bilbo seemed far too happy now as Master of Bag End. Surely one Adventure was enough for a lifetime.

"Well, I am going to take my rest, now, Bilbo." Siggy rose and Bilbo did, too. "I am sure that Malva will want to get an early start home. The children get fractious when they are away from home too long, you know!"

And as Siggy made his way to his guest room, Bilbo went to check the locks and bank the fires. It had been a long day.

Author: Dreamflower
Title: In the Cove
Rating: G
Theme: lazy summer
Elements: fixed-length ficlet: 299 words
Author's Notes: This is more or less an expansion of a drabble "First Lesson" that I wrote a few years ago for the 20_rings community.
Summary: Young Frodo has an important task: teaching his little cousin Merry to swim...
Word Count: 299

Saradoc had his arm around Esme's shoulders as they looked out the window at their lads, Frodo with little Merry riding his shoulders. Sara grinned as he could see them laughing as they went on their way, but Esmeralda had worried furrow in her brow. He leaned over and kissed it away. "They will be safe, love. And every Brandybuck must learn."

Merry's giggle was infectious as Frodo bounced him along on his shoulders. "I'm going to swim, Fro!"

Soon they came to their destination: a little cove that thrust out from the Brandywine, quiet and shallow, it was within a grove of alders that leant dappled shade to the edges of the water. Yet there was enough sun to keep the water pleasant on a hot and lazy summer day. There was no current here, and at its deepest the water came no higher than Frodo's chest.

The lads shed their clothes, and Frodo waded out a few feet and knelt upon the soft sandy bottom. Arms wide, he coaxed: "Come on, sprout!"

He waded to his cousin's outstretched arms, and Frodo took the little hands firmly in his.

It took a few attempts before the little feet were able to swing out behind and Merry kicked wildly, splashing them both. Sputtering, they laughed.

"Almost, Merry, almost!" Frodo drew him around and pulled him by both hands as his feet kept kicking. "It will take a few more lessons than one!"

It was the first lesson, but not the last in that lazy summer. By the end, Merry was swimming as though born to it.

Author: Dreamflower
Title: Standing Stones
Rating: G
Theme: Upon the Hearth
Elements: "a sudden tree or standing stone"
Summary: Bilbo and young Frodo come across an astonishing sight in the Northfarthing.
Word Count: 1,055

"Uncle Bilbo, what are they?" Frodo asked, his eyes wide in astonishment. He had been enjoying this camping trip with Bilbo, their first since Frodo had come to live at Bag End permanently. They had trekked up to the wild moors of the Northfarthing, and now they had come across this incredible sight.

There they were, stones taller even than Gandalf, much taller, twenty or more, arranged in a circle. A few had fallen over, and some of them had another large flat stone laid across the tops in pairs, giving the appearance of a rectangular doorway. The widest and highest one had a hole bored in the center of the stone lintel and faced directly east as they came upon it.

Bilbo went forward, his neck craned up, his eyes bright with curiosity. "I read of these! They are called 'menhir' or 'standing stones'. Ferumbold Took described them in his book about the Bullroarer. Bandobras and his people made camp near here after routing the goblins from the Shire. I had no idea we were anywhere near the place!"

"I don't know, Frodo. Ferumbold speculated that they might have been built by Elves, but after having seen Rivendell, I doubt that. The works of Elves endure, unless destroyed by some calamity. These stones are old and worn and falling into ruin. I suspect they were put here by Men, perhaps from the time of the Kings or even earlier, though I have no idea what they were built for!"

"How do you suppose they built them?" Frodo could not shake the sense of awe they struck in him. He could not imagine hobbits ever making such a thing; such a feat, such a strange feat!

Bilbo stepped forward and placed one hand on the nearest of the stones. "If my eyes do not deceive me, they are made of good Scary granite. Yet Scary is many leagues from here! I cannot imagine how such immense stones could have been carried so far!" He stepped between the stones and into the circle, and Frodo followed him.

Bilbo shrugged. "The Brandybucks say there are such stones near the mounds of the barrow-wights."

Frodo nodded. "Yes, I recall that." Tales of the barrow-wights were told to frighten young hobbits at the Harvest festival. He remembered when he was just a young fry, huddling in delightful terror as his older cousins told such tales in the night as they huddled by the bonfire. Aunt Esme had not approved of tales about the barrow-wights, but that had never stopped them.

The two hobbits made a quiet circuit of the circle. Many of the stones seemed to lean and loom over them, but there was never the sensation that they might fall over-- they seemed remarkably solid and well-planted in the earth.

They were silent, for it seemed a place made for silence, and when they returned to the place from which they had started, they went out between the stones through which they had entered.

"A most remarkable experience," said Bilbo, looking back. "I wish we could learn more about how they were built."

"We'll make our camp near here," said Bilbo. "It's late in the afternoon, and somehow I don't wish to leave this place just yet. But tomorrow we shall go to the Greenfields and see the battlefield."

"I think it is near teatime," said Frodo. This pronouncement was punctuated by a distinct gurgle in his middle. The tween blushed and Bilbo laughed.

"My parents always said they could tell time by the rumble of my stomach when I was a tween-- clearly you also have this remarkably useful ability."

With quiet efficiency the two set up their camp and built their fire. They had no tent-- Bilbo preferred to sleep beneath the stars, and truth be told, so did Frodo. Frodo went to a nearby stream to fill their little teakettle, and by the time he returned the fire was crackling cheerily. Bilbo had gathered a couple of long green sticks to serve as toasting forks, and they made a nice meal of bread and sausages. Then Bilbo threw together the ingredients for a stew into a covered pot and placed it among the embers for their supper.

They talked quietly for a while. Bilbo was hoping to get back to Hobbiton in plenty of time to plan their Birthday Party, and discussed their guest list. Frodo was looking forward to the Brandybucks coming-- he had not seen Merry since they had all been at the Great Smials for Midsummer. Then Bilbo drew out his small journal, one that he carried with him during his travels, and began to write. Frodo did the same with his sketchbook, and began a drawing of the stones, but both of them gave up their efforts as the light began to dim, and the sky grew purple.

Bilbo called Frodo to come and enjoy the stew, and he told a few stories of his Adventure as they ate. The sky grew darker, and the fire began to die down to mere embers.

Bilbo turned in alarm, but then gave a gasp of astonishment. There, perfectly framed by the hole above the entry stones shone Eärendil, seeming all the brighter for being surrounded by the stone. The two hobbits stood and stared until gradually the star had risen too high to see through the hole.

"I can't say that I know it, lad, but somehow I am certain of it all the same." And he put his arm around Frodo's shoulders, and they stared at the stars until they were weary and ready for sleep.

Dreamflower's Mathoms II by Dreamflower