Of Birthdays

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Bilbo & Frodo reminisce on their birthday

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

"Yes, yes, thank you for coming. It's very nice to see all of you again," I hear myself say as I greet the guests whom are latecomers to my ... the party. As much as I love my birthday parties and spare no expense toward them, it seems that lately it has been the same dull routine, year after year, like everything else in the Shire. I, like the next hobbit, enjoy traditions, but this is becoming almost dreadful! Every year the same hobbits are invited. And every year, the same ones show up--it makes finding an appropriate birthday mathom such a chore lately, especially for the adults, since there have been very few children born into the family as of late.

I feel as if I have been giving the same birthday speech year after year and in more recent years, I hear the same prattle in return about how I don't look my age ... about how well preserved I am--as if I were an aging bottle of the Old Wineyards. And of course, year after year the same humongus cake is served; the number of burning candles adorning it the only thing changed.

I hear a sudden shrieking amongst my numerous guests and turn to see what the commotion is. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is going on about something or other. She is pulling at the arm of her five-year old son, Lotho, dragging him away from his rather large piece of cake. The boy seems to be a very messy eater, cake crumbs lining the front of his vest. But how on Middle-earth did he manage to get such a large piece of it in his hair? I mean really, a lad that age should have developed some manners by now!

Then again, this is Lobelia and Otho's son I am referring to. The same hobbits who were distinctly not invited to the party, but showed up anyway. As much as I wanted to, it would have been very impolite of me to have refused them entrance, not to mention the ruckus Lobelia no doubt would have caused.

Oh well, they'll be surprised when they see the extra birthday mathom I had to scrounge together for them. Nothing says 'Happy Birthday' quite like a set of jarred pickled eggs, now does it? Perhaps they'll get the hint next year.

Not really interested in whatever hullabaloo my most ghastly of relations is squawking about, I start to turn away when suddenly something comes flying through the air and hits Lobelia smack dab in the middle of her beak-nosed face. She lets out an even louder shriek and with a crying Lotho in tow (who is being forced to leave his cake), runs across the Party Field toward the tent where the wash tubs are set up. Otho is currently nowhere to be seen--probably trying to break the lock on my door in order to get at my silver spoons inside Bag End.

Ah, now that my line of vision is no longer obstructed by so odious a hobbitess (if one can even call her that) I spy the source of the cake projectiles and I laugh. It is the other birthday lad. He is being held firmly in his father's lap being admonished in a loving tone, while his mother attempts to pry the chunks of cake from his hands and clean the smears of jam, crumbs, and frosting from the chubby little cheeks at the same time. A futile effort I must say, but as all new parents, Drogo and Primula will learn. Funny thing that coming from me, a life-long bachelor.

I watch as the now one-year old hobbbit babe waves his hands around, the tiny fingers of one hand smashing down upon the smaller version of birthday cake placed special in front of him. I sigh--only a single blue candle adorns his cake. I quickly find myself smiling in return as Frodo spots me with his big blue eyes and gurgles happily when he recognizes me. He laughs joyfully when I approach, clapping his little hands together in glee. "B'bo!" he squeals in delight.

"Thank you, my dear lad, that was most kind of you to get rid of the unwanted guests," I say, bending to kiss the top of his dark curly head and inhale the fresh scent all infants are blessed with. "I've been trying for years, but I guess you didn't want them here either for my- ... for our party, now did you?"

For 78 years, Halimath 22nd has been my birthday and mine alone. Now it seems, I must share it with this little imp. But I would rather share my birthday with this one small hobbit than with anyone else in all of Middle-earth ... or in all Creation.

* * * * *

How odd it is to not share my birthday anymore. Although, I am pleased to not have to partake in a humongous gathering of well-meaning hobbits. As much as I enjoyed our combined birthday parties, Uncle Bilbo always held such large, grand parties, the likes of which the Shire will never see again. I always preferred a much more quiet and intimate affair shared with those loved best, not the whole of Hobbiton or the Shire.

It decidedly feels odd enough though to finally sit here in Bag End with only those whom are most dear to me. It is so quiet, compared to long ago. There are no children running rampant to discover where the birthday mathoms are being hidden. There is no giant birthday cake alight with well over a hundred candles. There is no music to be heard or lights to be seen hanging from the branches of the Party Tree. The Party Field remains vacant and there is no noise save the evening chatter of the birds and insects. There is no Bilbo.

Many of my relatives are shocked, wondering why I refused to go into mourning this past year. Why should I? Bilbo's not dead, he is just gone ... disappeared from the Shire. They are even more shocked that I hold a party in his honor.

I know Bilbo and I continue to share the same birthday, but for my entire life, a shared birthday is all that I have ever known on this day--however comfortably or uncomfortably celebrated it was. Now, I am celebrating alone.

No, not alone.

I look up to see Merry, Pippin, Fatty, Folco, and Sam all raise their glasses in toast of the Hundred Weight Feast. "Happy Birthday, Frodo!" they shout out.

I raise my own glass in toast. "Happy Birthday, Uncle Bilbo ... wherever you may be."

~The End~

Out on a Limb

By: Elemmírë

Summary: A tale in which Frodo remembers the first time he tried to climb a tree.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Author's Note: Written for Marigold's Challenge #27 in which each story had to include references to all four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. There was also a unique element for each author; a time of day in which the story should be set. Mine was Dusk.

As the others remaining in the Fellowship took their long-earned rest upon the cool grass, Frodo found himself looking around in wonder at the beauty of Lórien surrounding him. Sam came to stand beside them and both hobbits felt they were seeing the world anew. These cherished woods of the Elves were crisp and full of bright color and yet, were also timeless and did not appear to have faded or changed when compared to the rest of Middle-earth. Frodo felt a peace here that he had never known before and for the first time since the Fellowship’s arduous journey from Rivendell had begun, the burden of carrying the One Ring eased greatly.

When Sam proclaimed his marvel that he felt like he was inside of a song, Haldir smiled and bade the two small hobbits to follow him further up the hill. As the trio walked, Frodo suddenly came to a halt. The South Wind was blowing his curls and gently rocking the tree branches overhead, but what caught his attention were the distinctive sounds of the waves of the sea and the call of sea-birds.

Frodo frowned. If ever there had been a great sea here, its beaches were long since washed away and the race of sea-birds long gone as well. He remembered other times he had dreamed of the sea; he had heard the soothing sound of the waves, somehow knowing the water belonged to a vast ocean he had never set eye upon before. This time, however, the sounds felt more familiar to him and they were clear and distinct, making his dreams seem muted and washed-out.

As quickly as the South Wind had carried the sounds from what Frodo would later learn to be from far-distant shores, the cries of the sea-birds faded and Frodo hurried to catch up with Sam and Haldir. He knew without a doubt that Sam had not heard the sounds of the sea or the birds, for he did not question Haldir about them.

They walked through the two circles of trees surrounding the lush green hill, until the Elf came to a halt below a towering tree in the very center of the inner ring of golden mallorns. This tree was the tallest Frodo had ever seen. He craned his neck as far back as it could go, trying to see the topmost branches, and spied a gleaming white flet nestled securely more than two-thirds of the way up the great tree. Surely Haldir did not wish for them to follow him up there!

Haldir grabbed hold of the ladder integrated skillfully with the bark of the mallorn and began to climb in haste, as the sun headed into its final downward journey past the horizon.

Remembering the long climb the hobbits had made up the flet the night before (and how much they had all disliked it being their bedroom), Frodo sighed wearily but set himself to follow the lithe form of the Warden of the March, Sam climbing beneath him. Still looking up at the tree top, the Ringbearer accidentally placed his hand against the trunk of the tree instead of the sturdy, yet elegant ladder leading upward.

He had never noticed the trees of the Shire to have ever felt this way to him, he realized as he stroked the smooth bark. Not that he had ever really had the inclination to climb them, as hobbits generally did not like heights and so did not climb trees as a rule. Although, there had been that _one_ time, Frodo mused as he carefully followed Haldir up the ladder. It seemed rather silly now, of course, but at the time ....

* * * * *

"Frodo!" The voice of Bilbo Baggins echoed throughout the trees of the Bindbole Wood. Earlier that afternoon, he had given his young nephew permission to explore the edge of the tree line surrounding their campsite, while he prepared supper. It was now rapidly approaching dusk and Frodo was nowhere to be seen, despite his earlier promise to stay nearby.

"Oh, sticklebacks! Where is that boy?" Bilbo muttered, his ample stomach growling in hunger. He cupped his hands around his mouth to help amplify his voice. "Froo-doo!"

Meanwhile, Frodo frowned in consternation at his current indisposition. He hadn't meant to get stuck up in the large tree ... he had only been pretending after all. The nearly 22-year old hobbit lad looked down from his precarious perch, gulping when he saw how far below him the ground really was. He hadn't intended to climb up so high but now, he didn't have the slightest idea on how to get back down. "Oh, why did I do this?" he moaned, and silently cursed the Took blood in him.

Well, the situation could be worse, he thought. At least there were no orcs to set fire to the trees like in his uncle's adventure. Speaking of Bilbo, Frodo heard his uncle's summons and soon could see the elder hobbit walking amidst the trees far below him.

"Uncle Bilbo is going to be so upset with me for this." Frodo was convinced that Bilbo would never take him anywhere again until he came of age in eleven more years.

"Frodo?!" Bilbo was starting to become worried that there was no reply to his calls when suddenly, one came.

"I'm here, Uncle!"

Bilbo turned around in a circle, eyes searching in the dwindling sunlight. Oddly enough, it almost sounded like Frodo's voice had come from above him. "Now is not the time to be playing games, Frodo, not while our supper's growing cold. Now where are you, my boy?"

There was a rustling of branches from above.

"I'm up here, Bilbo," Frodo managed to squeak out. He hugged the bending tree limb tighter to himself, watching a few of the green leaves drift down ... down ... down at his shifting movement.

Bilbo glanced down at the swirling leaves that gathered at his feet, then looked upward.

"Oh my! Frodo, whatever are you doing up there, my lad?" he called out, knowing full well that hobbits do not like heights. He could attest to that himself after his journey with Gandalf and the Dwarves many years ago.

Bilbo shaded his eyes against the rays of the setting sun and surveyed the situation far overhead. Frodo was very high up indeed, almost in the topmost branches of the tree. The slight tweenager was sitting hunched over, perched far out on one thick bough, which seemingly looked sturdy enough. His arms and legs were wrapped around the tree limb, holding on tightly for dear life.

Frodo gave his guardian a sheepish smile. "Well, as I was walking, I found myself thinking about how tall the trees are here. Then I remembered part of your story about your adventure with the Dwarves--"

"Which part, Frodo? I've told you many," Bilbo pointed out. He had a feeling he knew exactly where this was heading to. He sighed, thinking he should have made it more abundantly clear to his young heir that he had most certainly not enjoyed his foray climbing either the overly tall trees bordering the Misty Mountains, or the oppressive forests of Mirkwood. After all, neither occurrence had been his choice exactly.

"The part when the Dwarves made you climb the trees in Mirkwood to look about .... I've never climbed a tree before and I was curious. ... I was pretending to be you on your adventure," Frodo explained, his voice rising in panic over his predicament. "One thing led to another ... and here I am. I didn't mean to climb up so high. I need help, Bilbo! I tried, but I cannot get back down!"

Bilbo forced himself not to chuckle at his spirited nephew's imagination. Instead, he held his hands up to placate the boy. "Calm yourself, Frodo-lad. Panicking won't help you any. Just climb down the same way you went up. That's how I did it, long ago."

Frodo glanced nervously at the branch below him. "I-I can't," he stammered. "It's too far. I cannot reach it."

"Nonsense," Bilbo admonished. "You were able to reach it in order to climb up that far. You just need to slide further back towards the trunk is all. Whatever possessed you to go so far out on a limb anyway?"

"I was wondering if there were any butterflies above the tree tops, like the ones you saw in Mirkwood. As I was climbing, I didn't realize how far I'd gotten ... anyway, I thought I might have seen what looked like a cocoon. It turned out to be just a dead leaf though. I really did not mean to climb up so high, Uncle," he apologized once more.

Berating himself for doing such a stupid thing in the first place, Frodo inched his way backwards until his bottom hit the thick trunk of the tree. At one point his breeches got hung up on the bark and he heard the fabric rip, much to his embarrassment. He felt the cooler air of early evening hit his hot, sweaty skin.

With encouragement from Bilbo, Frodo let one leg dangle below him, searching for the tree limb with his bare toes. He felt nothing but air beneath him and chanced a look downward. The branch was just beyond the reach of his foot and he grew dizzy when once again, he saw the ground far, far below. What had he been thinking? Hobbits didn't like heights! His panic increased once more. He was going to be stuck up in this tree for good.

"I can't, Bilbo. I'm going to fall!" Frodo clutched onto the tree limb with all his might. He vaguely wondered what the odds of the possibility of an Eagle flying overhead at that moment to rescue him were?

"No you won't Frodo," Bilbo said. "I'm not going to let you fall." He could see that Frodo was now shaking in true fear. He began to remove his weskit in case he was forced to climb up after his nephew. "Just calm yourself and listen to me, lad. I want you to do exactly as I say."

Via much coaxing and patience, Bilbo was able to direct Frodo to finally summon the courage to swing his left leg over the branch and dangle by his hands. Frodo let go to bring both furry feet to come to a rest on the branch below his former perch, hugging his small arms about the great trunk for balance. The young tween followed his uncle's instructions to the letter and the closer he got to the ground, the less frightened of falling he became. However, as Frodo was shimmying down the last few feet of the knobby trunk, his toes missed their foothold altogether in the dim light as the last rays of sunlight were setting. With a shriek, he tumbled downward, feeling the rough bark of the tree scrape his bare hands and legs, making them bleed.

Bilbo caught him and set him down upon the grass. Never before had Frodo so much enjoyed the feel of good solid earth under his bare hobbit feet. Not for the first time that evening, the little hobbit wondered how Bilbo had managed to cope with being forced to climb the giant trees of Mirkwood at the Dwarves' insistence. His uncle had made it sound so easy in his stories despite admitting he too, had been scared of heights like any other hobbit.

As Frodo pondered this new curiosity, Bilbo checked over his cuts and bruises, wrapping the worst of the bloody scrapes in clean pocket handkerchiefs, before hugging the lad close to him.

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Frodo cried, burying his head into his uncle's shirt.

Bilbo patted the small back gently. "There, there," he reassured. "It's all right, Frodo-lad. You're safe now and I'm so proud of you."

Frodo looked up, wiping away his tears with one handkerchief-wrapped hand. "Y-you are? Why?"

After all, Frodo thought to himself, I'm not very brave like you, Bilbo.

* * * * *

Frodo took a short break in climbing up the ladder after Haldir. He tightened his grip around the rung he was currently holding onto and risked looking back down at the ground. It was now far below him and he swallowed nervously before resuming his ascent, Sam following him ever faithfully.

Twenty-eight years later, as he continued to ascend the giant mallorn, Frodo could still easily remember Bilbo’s words to him in the Bindbole Wood, just as if the old hobbit had said them yesterday.

Bilbo had smiled at him and had given a firm nod of his curly head. "I am proud of you,” he had said. “It takes a special hobbit to face a fear. You will find, Frodo my lad, that there is a seed of courage hidden in even the most fattest and timid of hobbits. It is often buried very deeply, just waiting for some final and desperate danger to make it grow. You are not a timid hobbit by any means, lad, and your seed of courage is not buried as deeply as others ... nor are you very fat at all," Bilbo had chuckled, giving his nephew's flat tummy a poke.

"Even though you were scared of the height, as most hobbits are, you climbed the tree anyway to see what you could. But in the end, you also had the courage to try to come back down again.”

Frodo grasped the next elegant rung and pulled himself up, smiling. Oh, if Bilbo could only see him now, climbing a tree that was easily twice the height of any in the Shire.

Despite his uncle’s well-meaning words, Frodo had come to the conclusion that he really hadn’t liked being up so high up after his one-time foray into tree climbing after all. He somehow had found (and still did) that attribute to be reassuring, as he was often very different from a normal hobbit in many other aspects and characteristics.

Looking eastward out over the land of Lórien, Frodo and Sam took pleasure in the refreshingly cool air that breezed against their faces and ruffled their curly hair. Frodo felt like he was in a wooded hall made from the purest of gold. The warm golden rays of the setting sun washed over the land and the surrounding mallorn trees, bathing their already golden leaves in such pure light. The rustling of the leaves was like music to his and Sam's ears. In the distance, the hobbits could see the sparkle of water where the peaceful, soothing waters of the Nimrodel met the mighty Anduin River.

Frodo’s gaze fell to the land beyond the river and all of the golden light vanished suddenly, leaving him in the Middle-earth that he knew. The land was flat and empty until it rose in a dark, dreary wall. The sun that lay on Lothlorien had no power to enlighten the shadow of that distant height.*

Mirkwood. All his childhood, Frodo had listened to his uncle’s tales and dreamed of taking his own journey someday. Looking out at the legend of old, Frodo was suddenly glad that the Fellowship had not traveled to such a dark-looking, ominous place, although Moria had been just that and more. A question from Sam broke his contemplation.

“What are you thinking about, Mister Frodo?”

Frodo turned to look at his long-time gardener and friend. “I found myself wondering if during his adventure, Bilbo had been able to see the beauty of the Lothlórien wood from his perch in the trees of Mirkwood … if he was able to see the light from the darkness that resides there.”

The two hobbits stood atop the flet with Haldir and continued to revel in the pristine, clear beauty around them, until the last rays of the sun disappeared as she sank below the skyline. Somehow they knew that they would never see such a sight in all of Middle-earth ever again. Even the Elven realm of Rivendell had not felt as such to them during their stay there. Haldir was content to let the hobbits stay atop the flet as long as they desired, not minding if their arrival to the city of Galadhrim was now delayed until after dusk.

"I wish one of these mallorns could grow in the Shire, Mister Frodo," Sam remarked quietly. "It's ... it's just so different from any type o' tree we've got growin' there. It feels so much more ... alive. Like when life first began and the whole world was brand new ... and everything was still good in it."

"I know, Sam. I know." Frodo replied, reaching his hand out to lay it against the smooth bark once more before they descended back down the ladder to the soft earth waiting below.

The End

* Direct quote from J.R.R. Tolkien's, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, "Lothlórien"

The Storyteller

By: Elemmírë

Summary: During the Long-Expected Party, Bilbo reflects on 60 years of storytelling. Movie-verse mostly.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Author's Note: This was written for Marigold's Tale Challenge 30, in which I had to include the following elements: Bilbo, the Shire, an important task, & a troll.

The very first time Bilbo Baggins had ever shared his tale of unexpected adventure of journeying with Gandalf the Grey Wizard and thirteen Dwarves, was in the year 1341 S.R. on the return journey home to the Shire. Even after all Bilbo had faced during his Adventure, he had found it a bit overwhelming at first to sit in the grand Hall of Fire in Rivendell, legendary home of the Elves. The Elves, headed by Lord Elrond, had listened to him spin his tale in the enormous hall with polite courtesy and even amusement, most especially at his thwarting King Thranduil's imprisonment of the Dwarves. Bilbo didn’t know why, but he hoped that none of them suspected his glossing over the fact of exactly just how it was that he had been able to hide so effectively from their brethren Elves ... and much to his content, none of them asked. Well, Lord Elrond and Gandalf had been whispering in the corner, but he had managed to avoid their questions during his all-too brief stay in Rivendell.

Avoiding the Man child's questions had been exceedingly more difficult, if Bilbo remembered correctly. It had been ten-year old Estel, the heir of the Dúnadain being fostered by Lord Elrond, who had requested more and more of the exciting story during Bilbo's stay. Every spare moment the boy had, he could be found tagging along after the little hobbit, pestering him with endless questions much to his poor mother's dismay. At first Bilbo had been a little wary ... for although hobbit children were curious (the Tooks especially), they were not as outspoken as young Estel seemed to be. Bilbo soon warmed up to the boy and was more than happy to answer his seemingly never-ending questions. Bilbo even missed Estel tagging about when he was off having his lessons. It was then that Bilbo realized he had a knack for storytelling and even enjoyed doing so. His mother, Belladonna Took would be proud. His father, Bungo, would be less so--a strictest Baggins he was, proper, respectable, and totally predictable to the last. Bilbo often wondered what his dear departed father would have thought of his Adventure.

After he had returned to his home of Bag End in the Shire (and reclaimed it from the dreadful Sackville-Bagginses), Bilbo had been plied by his numerous relations of his quite extensive family. They had all been flabbergasted that he, a highly respected and the most predictable of Bagginses, would just go off and have an Adventure. Blame, of course, was immediately placed upon Gandalf the Grey, and the conjurer of cheap tricks (and fireworks) was officially declared a "Disturber of the Peace."

Culpability was also placed upon Bilbo's own deceased mother, Belladonna Took! The large Took family was, of course, known throughout the Shire for their impulsive, bold, and daring nature, but to have some go so far as to say that Bungo Baggins should never have married Belladonna Took in the first place, was utterly unacceptable to their only son. Others completely shunned him altogether--to his surprise, Bilbo had found that he really didn't care or miss those particular hobbits. Unfortunately and much to his regret, it had not been the Sackville-Bagginses who had refused to have anything more to do with him. In fact, they seemed to bother him more than ever, as they were after Bag End relentlessly, having narrowly missed inheriting it when Bilbo was presumed for dead.

So it was much to Bilbo's surprise when invited to celebrate Yule with his Took relations at the Great Smials that year, it was actually requested of him to share his story. The plea had come from the youngest of his Brandybuck first cousins, who was also the youngest of Gorbadoc Brandybuck and Mirabella Took's seven children, 21-year old Primula Brandybuck. Primula had heard the rumors that Cousin Bilbo had gone on an Adventure and she thought it would make a splendid fireside tale.

Bilbo had found he could not resist the little lass with the pretty blue eyes and lightly freckled nose and he had quickly become the center of attention at the party, surrounded by a group of wide-eyed hobbit children of all ages, ranging from faunt to tween. Bilbo could remember with distinction each little hobbit (and some older ones) that had plopped down at his feet to hear all about his exciting Adventure, much to their parents' displeasure or amusement. In addition to 21-year old Primula, there had been several of her older brothers and sister: 25-year old Dinodas; 28-year old Asphodel; and 31-year old Dodinas. Primula had even wrested her one-year old nephew, Saradoc, away from his father so he could hear the story too, even though the lad could barely talk yet. Knowing just how much his youngest sister was proud of being an aunt, Rorimac and his again pregnant wife, Menegilda, let Primula dote upon their lad ... within reason that was.

Being at the Great Smials, there had been a healthy contingent of Took lads and lasses as well that had joined their more reluctant Brandybuck cousins for the story that promised Adventure. There had been 25-year old Ferumbras II, the future Thain; 13-year old Adelard; three-year old Rosamunda, holding a one-year old Ferdinand; eight-year old Paladin; and his sisters, 11-year old Petunia, and five-year old Esmeralda among many others.

Much to Bilbo's amazement, the little ones had sat enthralled for hours as he unraveled his tale and the tradition had continued ever since. For the first time since he had returned to the Shire, Bilbo had felt useful again and wanted. Whenever there was a large gathering of hobbit children, it was always demanded of Bilbo to tell a story from his Adventure--even on his own birthday!

The only ones who would not request a story of him were those of Baggins descent. In fact, Bilbo had been such a hit at Yule and other occasions that he had taken it upon himself to gather the young Bagginses around him, along with his Brandybuck and Took cousins, at what had been his 52nd birthday party.

His Baggins cousins including Dora, Dudo, and Otho especially had scoffed at him for sharing such nonsense. The little ones, Ponto, Porto, Peony, and Daisy had all listened well enough and thought it all a simply fantastic story … but that was it. None of them believed that Bilbo had really experienced any of those things he told about. One would have to be mad to leave the idyllic Shire in search of the unpredictable world of the Big Folk.

Only 34-year old Drogo had seemed to show any interest in the tale, until it was determined that he wasn’t really paying any attention at all to Bilbo. He was instead captivated by young Primula’s beauty, although she was twelve years younger than he and nowhere near of age yet. Bilbo had observed over the years that the only time Drogo would linger near those gathered to listen to his story, was whenever Miss Primula Brandybuck was in attendance. Drogo was a shy hobbit and would sit quietly next to her, hoping to catch the lass’s pretty blue eyes. When Primula was closer to being of age, the two were more formally introduced to each other and they both fell madly in love and married soon after Primula came of age. Little did they know that their coupling would eventually result in one of the greatest hobbits ever to grace the Shire.

The years passed and Bilbo continued to tell his tale to those that asked and were eager to listen. However, the Master of Bag End had yet to meet his biggest admirers. When the youngest member of the Baggins clan became captivated with his honorary uncle, Bilbo was more than delighted. Beginning when little Frodo was a faunt--that is a walker and talker--he would follow his uncle around, always demanding a story. After the lad’s parents drowned tragically, Bilbo’s numerous tales were one of the few stabilities and securities left in the young orphaned child’s life. For Frodo, Bilbo’s tales of Adventure and the Dwarves, Elves, and Men in them represented a fantastical life outside of the Shire and more importantly, the means to pretend and imagine and try to forget his misery and woes. Frodo was still a Baggins however, and while he believed in the existence of the Dwarves, Elves, and Men, he half-believed other parts of the tale, such as Gollum … until he found them to be quite true in an Adventure of his own, also prompted by Gandalf the Grey.

Bilbo’s second biggest admirer was none other than his gardener’s youngest lad, Samwise Gamgee. For whatever reason, the little lad had become enamored with everything and anything to do with the Elves. Little Samwise enjoyed Mr. Bilbo’s other tales as well, but the stories involving the Elves had always been his absolute favorites and he was so naïve that he believed just about anything the old hobbit told him ... or appeared to anyway.

The more he told his tales, the more Bilbo found he enjoyed sharing them--and the less he cared about what others thought of him for doing so. He no longer cared if he was believed or not. The important task of sharing his knowledge of the world of the Big Folk took precedence. Although the hobbit children may not have believed his adventures, they were made to realize that there was another world outside of the Shire. And over the years, his storytelling skills grew until he’d honed them into a fine art. For all the rest of his peculiarities, “Mad Baggins,” as he’d become to be known, also had the reputation of being the finest weaver of tales in all the Shire, an aspect which Bilbo grew to be proud of over the years.

It went on this way for over thirty years. The group of small faces sitting eagerly at his bare feet would change every decade or so, as the little ones grew older. Eventually, they became either disinterested or disbelieving, but there was always a new batch of hobbit children flocking to him to take the previous generation’s place, listening to the seemingly fantastical stories he wove with rapt attention.

The night of his Long-Expected Party was no different. After he had welcomed all 144 of his and Frodo’s guests and the party was in full swing, Bilbo sat himself down on a bench placed before a large blanket that had been laid upon the grass for this purpose. In front him sat a group of the youngest hobbits present at the party and he looked them over with a keen eye. His listeners were comprised entirely of young children and faunts. The eldest didn’t look to be over ten-years old.

Bilbo sighed. Usually he had a much bigger gathering than this, but he supposed the thrill of a seeing a fabled wizard and chasing after firework butterflies were far more exciting fare tonight for the older teens and tweens. Those that weren’t busy spying on Gandalf’s every move, were dancing merrily in the throng of hobbits as the band began to play a popular tune, 'Flaming Red Hair.’

Bilbo cocked one eye at the various young Tooks, Brandybucks, Burrowses, and Hornblowers sitting before him. The Bracegirdles hadn’t arrived yet, otherwise the number of listeners would have been doubled. As gossip and rumor would have it, he had heard that Mrs. Bracegirdle had been rather productive within the last decade.

“I suppose you’re all waiting to hear my story about the trolls,” Bilbo said, crossing his arms and staring down at the children gathered at his furry feet.

Nearly a dozen pairs of brown, green, and hazel eyes shined brightly with excitement, tiny hands clenched together tightly in anticipation, and the little, brown curly heads nodded eagerly.

Bilbo smiled down at the children and unfolded his arms, bringing his worn hands to rest upon the thighs of his black velvet breeches. He cleared his throat with as much drama as he could muster, causing a young lass in the front row to giggle.

“Very well, then. It all began a long time ago when the famed and powerful wizard, Gandalf the Grey, came knocking at my door as I was having my morning pipe. …. That’s Gandalf over there, by the way,” Bilbo made sure to point his friend out to the children. “It was the most beautiful, glorious day there ever was in the Shire and so I naturally greeted him a cheerful 'Good Morning' …..”

As Bilbo wove his seemingly magical tale about his adventure with the wizard and Dwarves to the little ones sitting before him, the children sat enraptured. Bilbo had commanded their full attention--a dragon could have swooped down upon them and they wouldn’t have noticed, they were concentrating on his every word so.

"So there I was, at the mercy of three monstrous trolls! And they were all arguing amongst themselves about how they were going to cook us. Whether it be turned on a spit or whether they should sit on us one by one and squash us into jelly ...." *

Bilbo nearly broke his rhythm when he saw the horrified expressions on the little ones’ faces sitting before him. It was the same reaction he'd gotten for the past sixty years and it still made him want to chuckle. He finished his tale, ending with how Gandalf had tricked the three trolls into arguing until sunrise, thus turning them into stone forever. Young eight-year old Myrtle Burrows let out a gasp, her brown eyes widening while her younger brother, five-year old Minto, sat with his mouth hanging wide open, a dumbfounded expression on his round face.

Bilbo felt a thrill of excitement rush through him, making his heart beat faster. In only a few hours time, he would be well on his way to seeing those three trolls again as he set off at last on his long-awaited journey.

The story of the three trolls was his most favorite part of his Adventure to tell and through the years, it seemed to be one of the tales that the hobbit children liked best. The excitement he had felt just moments ago quickly faded as Bilbo realized that this was the very last time he would be sharing the telling of his adventure to the hobbit children of the Shire. After the children thanked him and gave him hugs, he watched them scamper off in the direction of the food tables set up yonder. Sadly, there was not one full-blooded Baggins to be held amongst them. Frodo had held that position for a long-time running and he had reached his Coming of Age today. As it were, only Frodo and his cousin, Porto Baggins, would be the only two males able to pass on the dwindling family name in its original, un-hyphenated version.

“After tonight, there will always be a Baggins living under the Hill at Bag End,” Bilbo whispered to himself in reassurance.

He had seen Frodo hanging around earlier when he first began the tale of the three trolls. Even at his Coming of Age, his nephew couldn’t resist listening in for a short time. Bilbo smiled, knowing that if Frodo had not been whisked off by Merry and Pippin to join in the dancing he would have found a seat nearby, despite his having heard the story countless times before since he was a faunt.

For a fleeting second, Bilbo near regretted the choice he was making. In his mind he heard Gandalf’s words from earlier that afternoon, " … he’s very fond of you.”

“And I of him,” Bilbo whispered. Frodo was the one thing he would miss most about the Shire--the one hobbit who had the unknowing capability of keeping Bilbo here forever if he would only ask. Frodo would never ask his uncle to stay though; he saw just how much Bilbo longed to see the Outside World again and the lad could deny his uncle nothing. The old hobbit had given him so much by adopting him and had had to give up certain things in return. No, Bilbo knew that Frodo would never ask him to give up his dream of adventuring again--Frodo would only wish to join him, but Bilbo knew the lad better than he thought and would not ask him to join him. Frodo was still too much in love with the Shire to comfortably leave it yet to go with him. Maybe someday ….

“Stop it! Frodo will be alright, for goodness sake!” Bilbo told himself firmly. He couldn't help but worry over the lad and he hadn't even left yet. If Bell Gamgee were here, she'd laugh and tell him that worrying was the mark of a true parent, however one came to be so.

Bilbo scanned the throng of hobbits and saw Merry directing where the extra-large birthday cake should go before fetching young Pippin away from his fiddle-playing with the band. Hmm, now what were those two up to? And where is Frodo? He is almost always on the tail of their antics, reprimanding them … or sometimes helping them.

The two wayward first cousins were lost in the crowd as the dancing resumed and Bilbo’s attention was caught by a new sight. Shy, quiet Samwise Gamgee was dancing with the apple of his eye, Miss Rose Cotton. Bilbo observed the young couple dance--Sam’s initial awkward movements becoming more graceful and sure as he twirled his lass around and around. Rosie positively beamed with joy.

Those two will make a fine married couple someday soon, provided Samwise garners the courage to ask for her hand, Bilbo thought. Frodo will take good care of them ... as they will of him, I'm sure.

Ah, there he was! Bilbo spotted Frodo sitting at one of the tables taking a break from dancing with his cousins and friends. He was rosy-cheeked and laughing, chatting merrily with the Gaffer as the old gardener sat down beside him with pipe and ale in hand.

“Must have put poor Samwise into his current predicament,” Bilbo muttered, shaking his head at the seemingly endless spirit the lad possessed. Frodo had come a long way since he was orphaned over twenty years ago and Bilbo felt a touch of pride that he had had a hand in helping to raise who he considered to be the finest hobbit in the whole Four Farthings of the Shire.

Bilbo sighed, his fingers running absently around the magic, gold ring in his pocket. His wanderlust had grown too strong and he could no longer stay here and Frodo could not follow. Not right now anyway ... maybe someday in the far future.

He wondered if he would ever meet the lass who would catch Frodo’s eye, or the many children they would have together. No, he knew he wouldn’t unless he returned to the Shire (which he fully doubted he ever would). He wanted Frodo to have that life denied him more than anything else in all of Middle-earth. He wanted Frodo to be happy and not want for anything.

Frodo looked up at that exact moment and Bilbo caught his nephew’s eye, smiling wistfully in return. It would be up to Frodo now to continue the important task of telling the tales.

~The End~

*Direct quotes from Peter Jackson's film, 'Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring' (Extended Edition)

A Piece of the Pie

By: Elemmírë

Summary: The hobbits encounter the Middle-earth equivalent of pizza for the very first time.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Author's Note: This tale is based on the following Shirebunny: In either Minas Tirith or Edoras, the hobbits are introduced to spaghetti ... or pizza. I hope it's not too corny!

“This isn’t right, sirs.” Sam stared down at the plate set before him dismally.

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked. He shifted forward on the cushioned bench to better reach the Big Folk-sized table.

The four hobbits had been on their way back to their guest house in the Sixth Circle after spending the day pleasantly walking about the White City. They had been walking by this particular eatery when the owner, who had been taking a bit of fresh air, saw them and bade them to come inside for dinner on the house. Merry and Pippin, who had both eaten there before, heartily dragged their cousin and Sam inside the establishment that specialized in certain types of food from Dol Amroth.

Sam eyed the odd fare with caution. He was familiar with all of the ingredients and it seemed edible enough. However …. “This here dish we were served, Peasant’s Pie. I mean, you and Misters Merry and Pippin are gentlehobbits, along with being knights and lords now.”

“You’re a lord of the realm now too, Sam,” Merry pointed out. He removed a triangular slice from the circular pie resting on a wooden board on the table in the midst of the four hobbits. He winced as the hot, melted cheese burned his fingers, bringing them to suckle in his mouth after having successfully transferred the slice onto his plate.

“Just try it,” he said. “You’ll like it. Faramir introduced Éowyn and I to this particular dish while we were recuperating in the Houses of Healing. I think he was hoping to cheer us up some.

“It’s called Peasant’s Pie because a long time ago in Dol Amroth, the poorer people would make a sort of doughy flatbread and cover it with their leftover scraps of meat or vegetables in order to make a meal. They would add bits of leftover cheese to melt over the top of it all and cut it into slices like this to eat. The dish eventually became very popular when a noble of importance tried it and found it to his liking. Faramir said that when the Itali family immigrated here to Minas Tirith, they brought the perfected and honed recipe with them and opened this eatery. Although they make many other traditional dishes from Dol Amroth, the Peasant’s Pie has become the most popular item on the menu.”

Sam shook his head. “Well it don’t look like any sort of ‘pie’ to me,” he stated. The supposed pie was round and had a thick crust around the edge, but the resemblance ended there. The rest of the dough was thin and covered with a layer of tomato sauce, then a hardy helping of shredded cheese had been sprinkled liberally over the top and cooked until it all melted together.

“I’m just happy it’s round!” Pippin said around a mouthful of the slice he had bit into. He thought the dish would fit in well in the Shire, where most things were round, from hobbit architecture to hobbit bellies.

Frodo frowned. “Pippin!” he admonished sternly.

Pippin, who was contemplating asking the cook for the recipe, wiped a dribble of tomato sauce from his chin. “What?”

Frodo stared pointedly at the knife and fork lying unused at the sides of his young cousin’s plate.

“But Frodo, this is how you’re supposed to eat Peasant’s Pie.” He lifted the slice with his hand and took another bite of the point of the triangle to demonstrate. He had to be quick before the triangle flopped downward and all that wonderful melted cheese slid off onto his plate.

“Besides, I only have one hand to use and you seem to be having a wee bit of trouble yourself, dear Cousin,” he retorted congenially.

Pippin’s left arm was in a sling. The same arm that had been dislocated when the troll fell on him during the Battle at the Black Gates, had been mildly sprained during sword practice a few days ago.

Ever the proper gentlehobbit, Frodo continued to try to cut his slice of Peasant’s Pie with his knife and fork, but he was having great difficulty managing the Man-sized utensils with his right hand. The muscles were cramping, as they often seemed to do towards the end of the day, and Frodo had trouble retaining his grip on the knife with his maimed hand, with its stump of a finger.

Sam offered to help his master and friend however, Frodo Baggins was determined as ever. If he could make it all the way to Mt. Doom in Mordor, he could accomplish this relatively simple task. He pretended he did not hear Merry whisper to Sam that Aragorn had expressed that the hobbits try not to help Frodo with things of this nature … that using his hand was the best form of therapy for regaining his former strength and dexterity.

Pippin merely grunted, “Stubborn Baggins,” for all to hear as he happily chewed another bite of his slice of Peasant’s Pie. Frodo ignored him and concentrated even harder, his inherent determination and resolve coming to the fore.

By the time Merry, Pippin, and Sam had finished their second slice of the pie, Frodo was barely through the first. Frustrated, Frodo eventually gave up and laid his knife and fork down on the table with as much decorum as he could muster, before picking up the triangular slice in his hands himself. He had to admit, Pippin was right … this was the proper way to eat Peasant’s Pie.

Both Frodo and Sam were surprised at just how delicious their dinner tasted and complimented the cook when he came by their table to check on them. The cook (also owner of the eatery) was not very tall for a man, maybe reaching 5 ½ feet in height. He had an olive-skinned complexion and thick, wavy dark hair like Frodo’s, that was nearly black in color. He had a big round belly that would make any hobbit proud and wistfully reminded Frodo of his long-dead father. The cook also had a long, neatly-trimmed mustache that curled up at the ends and he spoke with a heavy, but pleasant accent.

“Gooda evening, Master Hobbits. Did you-a lika your dinner?” he asked jovially, wiping his flour-dusted hands on his white apron.

“Oh yes, thank you very much,” Frodo replied, as they all shook their heads in agreement. "It was most delicious."

The hobbits soon learned that the cook was named Cimino and was the grandson of the original Itali family to own the eatery since it had been established in the White City. He and his wife, Julia, journeyed yearly to Dol Amroth to visit with family and make trades and arrangements for some of their more rare ingredients used, to be delivered to Minas Tirith. The couple had already been in Dol Amroth during the War when the occupants of the White City had been evacuated. They were very pleased to be back home and even more pleased to find that their establishment had not suffered much damage in the attack by Sauron’s army. They were one of the few businesses that had been able to open rather quickly in the aftermath.

“Would you-a lika another pie?” Cimino asked. The appetite of the Ernil i Pheriannath had become legendary in the city and it was rumored the Prince of the Halflings had an unfathomable stomach. Apparently, all of the hobbits shared this trait for the 16-slice pie was gone in no time, though they were but the size of children.

The hobbits nodded eagerly in response, four sets of curly hair bouncing with the movement. Cimino invited them to the back kitchen to show them how the pie was made, much to their delight. They were quite surprised to discover how the dough attained its round shape.

The four hobbits watched in apprehension and awe as Cimino tossed the semi-flattened dough into the air, giving it an expert twirl. The dough soared higher and higher into the air with each throw until Sam thought it would surely hit the ceiling. With each toss, the dough stretched and flattened further, beginning to form its pleasantly round shape.

“I’m not sure I enjoy seeing my dinner being thrown up in the air as such,” Frodo whispered to the others.

Sam nodded in agreement. “Aye. Meanin’ no disrespect, but what if he drops it?”

“Oh, I asked him that once,” said Pippin, who out of the four, was the only one to have ever watched Peasant’s Pie being made before. “Cimino said he never drops it.”

After the dough was shaped, Cimino brought it to a wooden table. Standing on low stools, the four hobbits were able to see high enough as tomato sauce was ladled onto the flat circle and spread, until every inch of the dough was covered with it. Cimino scattered some pieces of a sliced green pepper, along with some bits of sausage atop the dough, before covering all with a layer of a special shredded cheese … which the hobbits learned was called mozzarella.

“You can put different items onto the pie, Mr. Cimino?” Sam queried.

“Oh yes-a, my friends. Meats, vegetables, different cheeses. I-a maka the pies with meat-a-balls, sausage, and a special imported meat, called pepperoni. I-a can puta peppers, olives, onions, tomato, or-a mushrooms on it too. I cover everything with the mozzarella and bake it in mya brick oven.”

At the mention of mushrooms, the four hobbits’ eyes brightened considerably and they looked at one another eagerly, licking their lips as Cimino slid the finished pie onto a large, wooden spatula and into the hot brick oven.

* * * * *

A week later, Legolas and Gimli, having finished making their rounds of the city to assess the extent of the damage for Aragorn (now King), joined the four hobbits at Cimino’s establishment. They had never eaten there before, but were eager to sample the fare the little ones had so highly recommended.

The Elf and Dwarf came upon their hobbit friends kneeling on the benches of a large booth. The four were chattering animatedly and it was a pleasure to see them all so happy and carefree, especially Frodo, after all that had happened to the Fellowship.

Gimli sat alongside Merry and Pippin, whilst Legolas joined Frodo and Sam’s side of the wooden table. There were two large pitchers of ale on the table and four large circles of baked flatbread dough with tomato sauce and cheese, one in front of each hobbit. Sam’s was plain with cheese on it, as he found he liked his pie just as he had tasted it that first time the best. Merry’s was topped with chopped onions, green peppers, and bits of sausage. Pippin’s held thinly sliced circles of the imported pepperoni meat. Frodo’s, was naturally covered in a healthy, hobbity helping of mushrooms.

To the other patrons, it was a comical sight--these barefoot, child-sized creatures each with their own large 16-slice Peasant Pie in front of them, kneeling in their seats and stretching over the table in order to reach. Legolas and Gimli knew better, however, and that appearances could be very deceiving. They fully expected every crumb of the strange food to be rapidly devoured and then hear the high-pitched voices pleasantly clamor for more.

The hobbits offered their companions ale and slices from their pies, but Gimli just had to ask what in Middle-earth were they eating. Although familiar with the ingredients, he had never seen the like before.

“A piece of pie,” Pippin replied in his Tookish lilt, while chewing with a very full little mouth.

To Gimli’s Dwarf ears, it sounded like, “A pizza pie,” which is how he introduced the delightful dish to his fellow Dwarves when they came to help repair the White City.

~The End~

Author's Note: The foundations for pizza were laid down by the early Greeks, who first baked round, flat breads and topped them with olives, spices, and potatoes. This flat bread eventually made its way into Italy, where poor peasants, would add tomatoes, various leftover scraps of meat and vegetables, and bake it. Today's traditional pizza with tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese came later on in history, during the late 1800s in Italy. It was brought to America by Italian immigrants, who settled in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut ... and has been loved ever since (although it didn't really catch on in the rest of the country until after WWII).

This story was right up my alley, as I love pizza and I live in the section of the state of Connecticut in which several towns and cities were settled heavily by Italian immigrants. Some of the oldest original brick ovens can be still found in use here and traditional Italian pizzerias can be found in nearly every town (and very few of those pizza chain places that claim to make pizza). Yes, traditional pizza is a very big thing in CT and NYC ... where it is almost considered sacriliege to eat your pizza with a knife and fork. A Hawaiian-style pizza or clams casino is about as crazy as we get around here, although some places are starting to branch out a little more. I'm sorry, but pizza is just not the same in the rest of the country, save for Chicago's deep dish. I hope I don't start a pizza war; LOL!

The cook, Cimino and his wife Julia, were inspired by my own Italian grandmother and her family name.

Thanks for reading!

On the Giving of Pipes

By: Elemmírë

Series: Lord of the Rings

Summary: Frodo receives his very first pipe. Frodo is 25 & Bilbo is 103 (16 & 65½ in Man years).

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Author’s Note: I work as a Respiratory Therapist and as part of my job I am an advocate for smoking cessation. Therefore, I cannot honestly believe I wrote this tale! But, it was an idea that wouldn't let itself go unwritten, but I would let it be known that I am not promoting the use of tobacco in this story. That said, I hope you all enjoy!

Every year, Frodo always received two birthday presents from Bilbo, just as his uncle received two presents in return as they shared the same birthday of Halimath 22nd. Per hobbit tradition, one could receive a gift upon their birthday only if it were presented in person before noontime of that day. The expectation of receiving was limited to second cousins or nearer kin, and to residence within 12 miles†. Bilbo had always made sure that Frodo received two gifts, regardless, claiming that the first present from him was in honor of the lad's birthday and the second mathom was in honor of his own birthday. It was quite convenient since they were born the same day.

The second gift was most usually given to Frodo during their joint-birthday party when Bilbo handed out the rest of his mathoms to their party guests. Not one to always follow hobbit tradition, Bilbo often gave Frodo the lad's birthday present after the noon hour or even the next day after their party, when it was just the two of them again.

This morning, Frodo had received what he thought of as a very special gift from his uncle. It was the same gift that every hobbit lad received from their father on their 25th birthday, but Frodo perceived his new rite of passage to be more of a trial for him. In his opinion, Bilbo had gone above and beyond the norm and Frodo loved his uncle all the more for it.

After elevenses, Bilbo had summoned Frodo to the sitting room, biding him to sit down next to him on the plush sofa. In the old hobbit's lap was a long, flat object wrapped in a dark green, silk drawstring bag.

"You're twenty-five years old today, Frodo-lad ... and it's time you learned a tradition that has been passed down from fath- ... from generation to generation since Tobold Hornblower first cultivated the first pipeweed in the Shire." Bilbo faltered, giving his nephew a half-hearted smile. He had almost said, 'from father to son,' as his own father, Bungo Baggins, had once told him long, long ago during this very same ritual. Bilbo didn't want to make his orphaned nephew any more uncomfortable than he obviously already was. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, Bilbo thought. Nonsense, he's got to learn sometime, hasn't he?

Frodo looked down at his furry feet, pretending to smooth out a non-existent wrinkle in the fabric of his fine linen breeches. He had not been looking forward to his 25th birthday at all. It was considered to be the first milestone in a tween lad's life and one of the most important things that a father taught his son. Turning twenty-five and learning the art of smoking pipeweed for the first time was just as important as being able to order a half-pint of ale at the local pub--something else Frodo would have to do with Bilbo instead of his own father, when he turned twenty-eight. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate his uncle's efforts, but Frodo was keenly aware of his father's absence in his life on these particular days more so than ever.

Without any further ado, Bilbo thrust the gift he held into his nephew's fidgeting hands.

Frodo, of course, already knew what was inside ... or so he thought. He pulled open the drawstring of the silk bag and withdrew a long square case made from a rich, dark wood. The case was polished to a high sheen and bore his initials on the lid in gold script. Frodo lifted the shiny brass latch, opened the box, and gasped. Inside was not one pipe, but three! They lay in a neat vertical row, each nested in the red velvet lining of the case. Before the tween could say anything, Bilbo explained.

"This first pipe here is the very same one that my father gave to me when I turned twenty-five years of age. It seems so long ago now ..." Bilbo gave a slight chuckle before continuing in a more serious tone. "This pipe is very special. You may say that it has become a family heirloom of sorts, for this pipe stems all the way back to my great-grandfather--your great-great grandfather--Balbo Baggins. He gifted it to Mungo, his first-born son, on his 25th birthday, and it has been passed down through the Baggins family ever since."

Bilbo's voice became choked up with sentiment as he continued, for there was once a time when he thought he would never have been able to continue this tradition. Just as his father had once done 78-years earlier, Bilbo lifted the pipe from its berth in the case.

"And now, I am handing it down to you, Frodo my lad. I hope that someday if you choose to marry, that you will hand it down to your own first-born son." Bilbo placed the pipe into his beloved nephew's hands.

Frodo gazed at the ancient pipe he held. Balbo Baggins' pipe was made of briar, as were most hobbit pipes; briar wood was naturally resistant to fire and readily absorbed moisture. The bowl was round in shape and had been treated long ago with a half-and-half honey/water mixture, thus creating a burn-resistant barrier within the bowl. The long stem was also made from treated briar wood, its mouthpiece overlaid with a black, porcelain-like material that shined when the light reflected off it. There were intricate carvings and scrollwork all along the stem, which culminated in the Baggins' family crest etched into the outside of the round bowl.

Most young hobbit lads learned to smoke using a pipe made from a very fine white clay. Clay pipes were considered of a lower quality. Those clay pipes that were not, were made in a labor-intensive process that required beating all air out of the clay; hand-rolling each pipe before molding it; piercing it with a fine copper wire to hollow out the stem; and then carefully firing the pipe. Frodo knew that clay pipes were traditionally un-glazed and they burned hot in comparison to those made from wood. Lesser quality clay pipes were also intended to be disposable after several uses and were sold cheap enough for those hobbits without means to be able to enjoy the smoking of pipeweed.

Frodo didn't know what to say as he gazed on this piece of family history that he now held in his hands with the utmost care. "I-I am to smoke with this?" he squeaked out. "It seems too priceless to use."

Bilbo shook his head of graying curls. "I was just about to get to that, Frodo. You are right; this is not a pipe to be used simply for the everyday enjoyment of pipeweed. I will teach you using a different pipe, same as my father did with me. Only once you are very proficient, will I allow you to smoke with this pipe--and only one time mind you--and using the finest pipeweed in the Shire. It has been family tradition to smoke this pipe only on very special occasions, such as a birth of one's child."

Bilbo's voice suddenly took on a wistful tone. "The last time I ever smoked this pipe was the day you were born, my lad, on my 78th birthday." The old hobbit then gave a most rueful chuckle. "I had a difficult time getting it back from Otho after my Adventure. It nearly took a direct missive from the Thain himself for him to give it back to its rightful owner."

Frodo laid the pipe back into its velvet nest with reverence. He stared down at the two remaining pipes in the case. "And these others?" he asked, growing more curious as his melancholy was forgotten for the meantime.

"Ah, yes!" Bilbo found himself growing more excited with anticipation. So far, this was all going much better than he had dared hope for. He prayed the next pipe would not upset Frodo too much. He gestured to it, where it lay beneath the Baggins' family pipe. "Do you not recognize that one, Frodo?"

The longer he stared at the second pipe in the case, the more familiar it looked to Frodo. It was carved from cherry wood and with a sudden clarity he envisioned a pair of hands tamping down the memorable-smelling pipeweed into the smooth bowl before lighting it. Frodo glanced up quickly at Bilbo, who sat watching in silence. Frodo returned his gaze to the study of the pipe. He saw in his mind's eye the pipeweed start to burn slowly.

A large hand shook out the flint while the other hand lifted the pipe upwards. Frodo could hear the long, deep breaths being taken, drawing the air and smoke through the long stem. He could smell the rich, pleasant scent of the familiar pipeweed--Old Toby it was, the finest pipeweed in the Shire. Frodo could hear a deep, hearty laugh ....

... and suddenly he was back in Bag End, sitting with Uncle Bilbo in the parlor. Frodo lifted a trembling hand and brushed his fingertips against the bowl of the pipe, tracing the grain of the cherry wood. The family crest of the Bagginses was etched into the wood, but the paint outlining it had been worn away long ago.

"I know this pipe ...." he whispered forlornly, his sadness once again coming to the foreground. "This was Dad's favorite pipe. He would smoke it every night after supper; he would sit in his chair while Mama would do her sewing and mending and I played on the rug in front of the hearth." Frodo let out a tight little half of a laugh. "When Dad finished smoking his pipe, I knew it was time for my bath ... and then off to bed with a story or two."

He looked up at Bilbo, tears in his eyes. "B-but Dad lost this pipe. Mama gave him another one for her birthday. They died the following year."

Bilbo rose from his chair and moved to sit down on the sofa next to his nephew. He placed a hand on the lad's shoulder in support. "Do you remember when you were taken home after your parents were laid to rest?" He asked in as gentle a manner as possible.

Frodo nodded. Even thirteen years later he could recall many details of that emotional day quite vividly.

Bilbo continued softly. "When your Uncle Rory and I were cleaning out your father's study, we found this pipe. It had fallen deep into a corner behind where his desk was. For some odd reason, I had remembered it was Drogo's favorite pipe ... and one he'd been given by his own father when he was your age. Old Rory said that I should keep it and give it to you on this day ... and so, here it is, dear boy."

Frodo was overwhelmed; he did not know what to say. He hadn't much of his father's personal belongings to remember him by, save for a few cufflinks and cravats. Nearly all of his parents' things were being held in storage in two of the locked mathom rooms at Brandy Hall and no one, save the Master of the Hall or Frodo accompanied by his guardian, were allowed to enter those rooms without express permission. All of the items in the mathom rooms would legally become Frodo's to do with as he pleased the day he came of age on his 33rd birthday.

Frodo wiped away the few tears that had strayed down his cheeks.

Bilbo placed an arm around his heir's shoulders, hugging him close. After several long minutes, he pointed to the third and final pipe in the case. "And what of this one, my lad? Do you know what this one is?" he asked, trying to restrain the sudden burst of excitement in his voice.

Tearing his eyes away from his father's pipe and his mind away from the bittersweet memories, Frodo examined the last pipe in the case. It was quite different from the other two, although it was made from briar wood as was the first pipe. The stem of this particular pipe was quite long--much longer than the other pipes in the case, who stems were also long, but a more respectable length. Such a long-stemmed pipe was only the sort found to be used by a very rich hobbit indeed ... and his uncle was one of the richest hobbits (if not the richest) to be found in the Shire. Some hobbits also believed that the longer the shank of the pipe--that is, the connection between the stem and bowl--the better the smoke.

He cocked his head, studying the pipe at a different angle, but the answer remained elusive. The only information he could glean from the unusual pipe was that it had been Bilbo's from the insignia etched into the scrollwork of the bowl and stem, and he stated as such to his uncle.

"You are quite right, Frodo my lad. This is one of my pipes but, it is a very special pipe to me and one that I want for you to have." Bilbo sighed, staring down at his former pipe. "There are very few hobbits who would understand the significance of this particular pipe ...."

Frodo frowned at his uncle's vague words. What significance could this pipe have played in Bilbo's life? As he examined the pipe closer, trying to figure out the mystery, he remembered suddenly the opening words of his uncle's tale of Adventure. 'By some curious chance one morning long ago in the quiet of the world ... I was standing at my door after breakfast smoking an enormous long wooden pipe ....'

" ... wooden pipe that reached nearly down to my woolly toes--which were neatly brushed, of course--when Gandalf came by*..." Bilbo's real voice intoned into Frodo's memories.

Frodo's eyes lit up and sparkled with sudden recognition. "Gandalf!" he exclaimed. "This is the pipe you were smoking when Gandalf called on you and you bid him, 'Good Morning!'"

Bilbo laughed, happy to see Frodo coming fully out of his melancholy mood at last, especially when the lad joined in his laughter. "Ah, I knew you would figure it out, Frodo! You are too bright and sharp a lad to let much slip by you. Yes, this in indeed the pipe I was smoking that began my Adventure with Gandalf and the Dwarves. You have always shown such spirit, my boy, that I want you to have it and no one else."

Bilbo removed the long-stemmed pipe from the case and handed it to his nephew before taking his own everyday pipe out of his pocket. His fingers touched upon the magic ring, also in his pocket, and he unconsciously gave it a quick rub.

Frodo accepted the pipe and the pouch of Longbottom Leaf that Bilbo also presented him with. He listened carefully to Bilbo's step-by-step instructions and followed his uncle's example as they both filled the bowls of their pipes with the leaf and lit them with a striker.

"It is good practice to get used to holding your pipe by the stem and not the bowl as you smoke it," Bilbo instructed. "Depending on the make of the pipe, the bowl can become uncomfortably hot while you smoke. Clay pipes, even of the highest quality, are especially prone to do this, so always be careful of your fingers, my dear boy."

Frodo studied the way his uncle held his pipe and imitated him perfectly. He gave a little smile as Bilbo nodded his approval.

"Now, pipe smoke is not usually inhaled, Frodo my lad. It is merely brought into the mouth and then released." Bilbo demonstrated the technique with an ease born of over seventy-five years' practice.

Once Frodo got the hang of smoking the leaf without inhaling it into his lungs or coughing on it, Bilbo even tried to teach him how to blow a smoke ring.

"It is normal to have to relight a pipe periodically, Frodo," Bilbo explained as he puffed out a spectacular smoke-ring. "If the pipeweed is smoked too slowly, this will happen more often. If it is smoked too quickly, then excess moisture can be produced. This can often make a gurgling sound in the pipe, but using a good pipe cleaner can be used to dry it out."

Whether it was due to the pipeweed or something else entirely, Frodo felt himself relaxing more and enjoying his first pipe with his uncle. If Dad could not be here to teach him, then he was glad that out of all his relations, it was Uncle Bilbo that now held the honor.

After they finished their smoke, Bilbo showed Frodo how to tap the embers of the spent leaf out of the bowl of the pipe and clean it thoroughly before putting it away. Frodo learned that he should clean his pipe with regularity as a cake of ash would eventually develop inside the bowl. Bilbo told him this was good for controlling the overall heat of the pipe, but if the layer became too thick, it needed to be scraped down in order to obtain a proper smoke.

Bilbo also gave him a short dissertation on how to maintain the various pipes so they would keep for many more years, along with how to choose the proper pipeweed. After placing Gandalf's pipe--as it was now known--back into its velvety berth, Frodo closed the lid of the box and placed it carefully on the end table next to the sofa before enveloping his beloved uncle in the most heartfelt of hugs he could muster.

"Thank you, Bilbo," Frodo whispered, choked with emotion. "I will treasure them always."

Bilbo patted his nephew's back lovingly, amazed at how quickly the years had passed and that his dear nephew was now almost fully-grown and would be of age before he knew it. When Frodo pulled away, he removed one final pipe from his pockets and pressed it into the tween's fine-boned hands.

"Another one? But you have given me too much already!" Frodo sputtered, flabbergasted.

"I know, Frodo-lad. Those pipes are all very fine ... but they are also all very special and as such, are not to be smoked often. I know that you will treasure them and take good care of them so they endure, but you will need a pipe for everyday smoking," Bilbo explained patiently.

Frodo gave a dubious look at the pipe he held in his hands. "Is there a story behind this one too?" he asked.

Bilbo gave him a sad smile this time, for this was the hardest story of them all for him to share with the boy. "Yes, there is. When Old Rory and I were going through the papers in your father's study, Saradoc happened upon the beginnings of a crude, unfinished pipe locked away in a desk drawer. At first we all thought Drogo was trying his hand at whittling himself a new pipe. Your father's sister, Dora, enlightened us however.

"Your father was so very happy and thrilled to have a son at last that soon after you were born, he began to make this pipe as your mother nursed you, having come across the wood during a business venture." Bilbo felt himself choke up as he spoke the next words. "He had once told Dora that it was never too early to start ... he wanted to give you a pipe on your 25th birthday that he himself made. This was the first pipe your father ever tried to make on his own."

Frodo felt his own tears threatening to fall once more and this time, it was he who placed an arm around Bilbo's shoulders, encouraging the old hobbit to continue his story.

"Since it was decided you were to stay at Brandy Hall for the time-being, Saradoc took the pipe with him and in his spare time, he finished whittling it. As you know, Merry soon came along and between raising you both and furthering his duties as future Master of Buckland, Saradoc never got around to completing the pipe. I'm sorry to tell you that he ... well, he forgot about it, Frodo-lad.

"During their Spring cleaning this year, Esmeralda came across it and she and Saradoc had it sent here with a letter of explanation and a request that I be the one to give it to you as your adoptive guardian. While you were off visiting your cousins in Buckland last month, I carved the Baggins seal into the bowl of the pipe and had it treated and enameled."

The pipe Frodo held was smaller than the others and had a shorter stem. As he examined it, he observed it to be a straight-grain pipe--the grain lines in the bowl of the pipe were even and parallel with one another, the mark of a pipe considered to be of the highest quality in terms of promising an excellent smoking pipe. The entire pipe was carved from cherry wood, his father's preferred choice when it came to pipes.

The mouthpiece of the stem was covered in a shiny blue enamel and the Baggins family crest was inlaid with gold and silver, etched into the round bowl. It was a fine pipe for everyday use and Frodo was very pleased that all of the father figures in his life had had a hand in making it.

"I know this day must have been very hard for you, Frodo. I know you wish it could have been your own father to gift you your first pipe and teach you the art of smoking it. I'm so sorry, my dear lad.

"I remember learning the first time from my own father long ago, and I cannot imagine what it must be like for you."

Frodo merely smiled and held Bilbo close. "It is all right, Uncle. I'm glad it was you ... and now I will have something to cherish that my father had a hand in making for me--all my fathers," he added shyly.

Bilbo just shook his head in amazement. Frodo was a very special hobbit indeed, the finest in all the Shire.

* * * * *

When Frodo and Bilbo sailed West with Gandalf and the Elves to the Undying Lands, the only pipe Frodo brought with him was his own father's cherry wood pipe. He left the others behind to his most dearest of friends and cousins.

On his 33rd birthday, Pippin Took received the pipe Bilbo had smoked over eighty years before at the round, green door of Bag End when he greeted Gandalf the Grey. The mysterious wrapped package containing the pipe had remained in the possession of the new Master of Bag End until that day, along with two notes: the first containing instructions when Sam was to give the pre-wrapped present to Pippin; the second, a note to Pippin explaining the pipe's history written in Frodo's own hand.

When Pippin had unwrapped the special pipe and read the note, he was grateful to now be the proud owner of a piece of Shire history. He duly smoked it in honor of his beloved cousins and the wizard, Gandalf, who had become a dear friend during days now long past. Before he left the Shire for one last trip to Gondor, Pippin in turn bequeathed the pipe to his first-born son, Faramir Took.

In another shakily written letter, Frodo had told Sam how dear he was to him and that as the new Master of Bag End, he should have a new (or rather old) pipe befitting of that title. Practical Samwise Gamgee had been without words when his wife, Rosie, presented him with a box Frodo had left behind for him, only to be opened after Sam was declared his sole heir. Inside the red velvet lined case that now bore Sam's initials was the centuries old Baggins' family pipe, handed all the way down from Balbo Baggins himself.

At first, Sam had tried to give the pipe to Porto Baggins, now family head of the dwindling family name. Sam had told Porto that he did not feel right owning what could possibly be the oldest heirloom of the Baggins clan.

Seventy-three year old Porto had only shook his head and easily handed the pipe back to Sam. "If Frodo meant for me to have this pipe, then he would have passed it along to me when I was bequeathed with the family headship. No Sam, Frodo meant for you to have this pipe. He felt that strongly about you he did."

Sam had only smoked the pipe twelve times before he sailed to join Frodo in the Elven lands--one for each hobbit child born since receiving the special heirloom. Sam in turn, bequeathed the Baggins' pipe to his own first-born son, Frodo-lad.

Lastly, the pipe Frodo had smoked on for many years--the one made by Drogo, Saradoc, and Bilbo--went to Merry Brandybuck. After enjoying one last smoke with Bilbo the eve before the Fellowship departed, Frodo had left the pipe behind with his uncle in Rivendell before taking up his quest to destroy the One Ring in the raging fires of Mount Doom in Mordor. He had not wanted such a very special piece of his life lost out in the wilderness. Once he remembered he'd had it, Bilbo gave it back to his nephew, but Frodo had never been able to smoke it again; his lungs were too damaged from the poisonous fumes of Mordor to ever be able to fully appreciate the joys of pipeweed ever again in the Shire.

He wanted Merry to have the pipe in remembrance of their fathers and uncle. During what was his last visit to Buckland (mainly to visit his foster guardians and his parents' graves) Frodo had left the pipe behind for Saradoc, Merry's father, to find with a note attached to it. When Merry had returned from seeing Frodo off at the Grey Havens, Saradoc had given the pipe to his son, sadly recounting the story of its creation to his son.

Merry had never smoked it. Instead, the pipe rested in a place of honor on his parlor mantel; he brought it with him whenever he visited Drogo and Primula Baggins' final resting place overlooking the Brandywine River atop a small hill**. He would sit, holding the pipe in his hands, and tell them all about their only child's bravery, unflagging spirit, and the most kindest heart he ever knew. When he left the Shire a final time with Pippin, Merry left the pipe behind on the cold stone of the silent grave.

~The End~

†From J.R.R. Tolkien's Letters, #214: Receiving of Gifts-- this was an ancient ritual connected with _kinship_. It was in origin a recognition of the byrding’s membership of a family or clan, and a commemoration of his formal incorporation. (anciently, this apparently took place shortly after birth, by the announcement of the name of the child to the family assembled, or in larger more elaborate communities to the titular head of the clan or family) No present was given by the father or mother to their children on the child’s birthdays (except in the rare cases of adoption); but the reputed head of the family was supposed to give something, if only in token.

*Paraphrased from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit, Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party

** Refers to another tale of mine, 'Tending' posted at SoA.

Author's Note II: Much of the information on pipes and the smoking of them came from Wikipedia and also other various sources on the web, dealing with modern pipe-makers and pipe shoppes.