Chapter 1: An Unusual Introduction

The man awoke from a heavy doze and at first did not know where he was or what had woken him. He had been many weeks on the road, alone and in strange country, looking for a mysterious land that he had begun to fear did not exist. Though he had slept, he had not slumbered deeply, for one ear was ever tuned for the sound of pursuit or ambush. He was startled now to discover that he allowed himself to sleep so soundly, until the room came into focus and he remembered where he was.

Imladris. Rivendell.

He had arrived in the grey morning and had been instantly escorted to the private chamber of Elrond Halfelven, where he had spoken to the elf lord. The Council that followed was most revealing and gave him much to think about, but reflection on all that he had learned and seen could wait for a new day.

He stood and went to the balcony, reveling in the long, open-walled terrace and the panoramic view of the forest-covered dell. The waterfall was hidden from his view here, but it was no less part of the scenery, its presence felt through the faint sound of its spray and the sharp, crisp scent of the water. The moisture hung cool in the air, carrying the fragrance of the flowers and pine-wood into the room. The sun had set a half-hour before and twilight shadowed the curves of the room, the rising moon peeking through the sheltering trees, which whispered with the wind.

The man breathed deeply, feeling perhaps for the first time in his short but laborious life a sense of calm and peace. He felt almost as though he could remain in this tranquil haven forever, if the pull toward home and duty were not so strong. Still, he did not have to be rushing off now and he lingered on the balcony, feeling the smooth wooden beam of the rail under his hands and the soft licks of wind upon his face, and let the serenity wash over him, his face upturned to the silver moon.

A light knock sounded on the door. “Captain Boromir,” beckoned a muffled voice.

With reluctance, Boromir turned his back on the tranquility outside and crossed the room to answer the call. He found there Erestor, the elf who had greeted him when he arrived early in the morning. “Captain Boromir,” the elf repeated. “I see I have not woken you. Did you rest well?”

“I did,” Boromir said, “but I am not long from waking, in truth. I fear I fell into bed having removed only my travel gear.”

“No fear in that,” Erestor smiled kindly. “You have earned your rest from what you told us of your travels, and now it is time to dine. The pre-dinner bell has sounded. I have come to escort you to the dining hall.”

Pre-dinner bell. So that was what had awoken him, though he could not recall hearing it. The man stepped into the corridor and bowed shortly in his appreciation. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Erestor. I would not have known what to do otherwise.”

The man followed the elf through the corridors. Everywhere they went, the sound of the waterfall could be heard and the aroma of pine wafted after them, filling them with peace and harmony. Yes, Boromir thought to himself, he could stay here a while, perhaps even—

“MERRY!”

A sudden, frantic shout ripped through the calm of the house and the man tensed, instinctively prepared for whatever might come, his hand reaching for his sword only to find that he had left it in his room. He whirled around all the same and tried in vain to peer down the adjoining corridor from whence the child’s cry had come. Erestor merely laughed.

“Peace, Boromir,” said Erestor. “That is one of the hobbits, searching for his friend.”

“The child’s cry is urgent. Are you sure his friend is not injured or otherwise in danger?” said Boromir while his mind raced with what the elf had said. One of the hobbits. He had met three at the Council. Could this be one of them or yet another? Frodo and Bilbo the first two had been named. He did not catch the name of the third, who interrupted near the end, yet surely that could not be this ‘Mary’ for whom the child now called.

“From what I have come to know of them in the past four days, I am sure that all is well,” Erestor assured.

“How many are there?” Boromir asked, still poised for action should the need present itself.

“Four altogether, not counting Master Bilbo. I believe that call to be one of the two younger ones. I could not tell you which one exactly; they all are difficult to tell apart. Frodo is marked an Elf-friend and so his light shows him for who he is. Bilbo has lived here for a time and is well-loved, not to mention grey-haired. The other three all look the same to me, I fear,” said Erestor, as another call rent through the air.

“Merry!” said the voice, a note of desperation in it. The call was closer now and a moment later, the hobbit to whom it belonged came into the corridor. He peered first up one way then down toward them. When he saw the others, his face split into a dazzling grin and he dashed toward them.

Boromir couldn’t be sure, but he thought this was a different hobbit than the ones he had seen that morning. This creature’s curly hair was chestnut in color and when he came closer, the man could see that the eyes were bright green and full of sharp attention. His skin was not as pale as the Ring-bearer’s, nor was it as dark as the third’s.

The hobbit stopped just before them, craning his neck up to look at them beseechingly, smiling charmingly. He glanced at the man, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, before turning his full attention to the elf. “I’m sorry,” he began in a most unusual accent, “but which one are you again?”

“I am Erestor,” the elf said and Boromir grinned under his beard. So the hobbits could not tell the elves apart either.

“Oh. Very good. Have you seen Merry? He was supposed to meet with me back in our room so we could go down to dinner together, and the bell has sounded and he isn’t there,” the hobbit said, the desperation back in full force. He looked truly concerned. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he looked even more startled and worried than he had before.

“You are worried for your companion?” Boromir guessed, not missing that the hobbit had referred to this Mary as a ‘he’. Hobbits must reckon names differently than Men do. “We are in the House of Elrond. I am sure nothing ill has befallen him.”

This did little to assuage the hobbit and he continued to look up at them with distress. “That scamp!” he exclaimed, startling the man now. Erestor continued to smile gracefully.

“Pardon?” Boromir said. Had he heard correctly? Perhaps it was the accent.

“He snuck down there without me!” the hobbit exclaimed, working himself up into quite a state of panic. “He’s down there right now taking all the seedcake! There won’t be any left!”

“Um,” was all that Boromir could manage at this declaration. It was not what he had expected to hear. He had naturally assumed that some dire fear was plaguing the little one, but he was only worried about being late to dinner.

“Master Peregrin,” Erestor said now. After the hobbit’s outburst, he had finally been able to identify the one to whom they were speaking. The servant-hobbit would not be so crass. Erestor turned to the man and said, “This is Boromir, man of the South.”

The little one graced the man with a smile and bowed politely. “Peregrin Took at your service, but you may call me Pippin.”

“Boromir, son of Denethor, at the service of you and your family,” Boromir returned, bowing in turn.

“I’m sorry to rush off so quickly, Boromir,” Pippin said, “but I must find my cousin and stop him from hogging all the best food.” He bowed again and was about to dart around them when another call came from the corridor from whence the hobbit had first appeared.

“Pip! Where are you?”

Pippin’s shoulders sagged in relief at the voice. “I’m here Merry!” he called, his voice pitching up painfully as he yelled down the passageway, causing the man and elf to flinch. It was everything Erestor could do not to cover his ears. Sometimes, it really didn’t pay to have Elven hearing.

A few moments passed and another hobbit appeared. His brown hair was lighter in shade and his eyes were grey, but beyond that, Boromir could see no difference. “There you are,” he admonished. “I get to your room and you’re gone. I was beginning to think you’d gone ahead of me.”

Pippin looked insulted. “Well of course I didn’t. I said I’d meet you here and here I was and you weren’t. It’s very rude not to be somewhere when you say you’re going to be there, Merry.”

“Well if it’s so rude, why weren’t you there?”

“I was there, I just finished saying so. Do you ever listen to what others are saying or are you too busy listening to yourself to give others any mind?”

“I can’t help but to hear you, as you’ll prattle on tirelessly until I do.”

“I do not prattle on.”

“You do too.”

“I do not.”

“You do too. Just ask Sam. He’ll tell you and you’ll believe him, won’t you. You’ll believe anything he says, but you won’t believe me, your own cousin.”

“Sam doesn’t lie.”

“He lies plenty.”

“He refrains from mentioning. That’s hardly lying.”

“Really? Like how he refrained from mentioning that he found mushrooms for dinner tonight, so that Frodo would have a chance to get to them first?”

“There’s going to be mushrooms? And he didn’t tell me?”

Erestor cleared his throat and the hobbits turned to look at him. They had clearly forgotten that they had company and Merry had yet to notice the man at all. He did now and gave him the same curious look that Pippin had earlier.

“Hallo,” he said.

“Master Meriadoc, this is Boromir, son of Denethor, man of the South,” Erestor introduced.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck at your service,” Merry said with a bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you to be sure, but I’m afraid we must be going. I was just about to tell my cousin here, had he not interrupted me with his fanciful accusations, that Sam has just gone to round up Frodo to dinner. We’ll be allowed to eat together tonight and Sam said he’s advised the elves in the matter of hobbit food, including those most delectable mushrooms.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. He told me about the seedcakes,” Pippin intoned mournfully, then his features hardened with resolve. “Let’s go, before Frodo gets down there and takes it all for himself. He’s very greedy that way, as you know.”

They walked away, leaving an amused elf and dazed man behind. As they went, Pippin began their previous conversation, and the man marveled that the little one was even able to recall it. “So where were you, Merry? I waited and waited for ever so long.”

“One whole minute?”

“No, I waited longer than that. Three minutes at least and you were late. It’s quite rude to be late, you know. I know you know, since you’re the one who told me, and here you are, late!”

They turned the corner and disappeared from view. Boromir stared after them, not sure what to make of it all. Beside him Erestor said, “I anticipate the next few weeks to be quite lively. They are a merry folk.”

“Merry!” the man exclaimed, understanding the name at last. He then shrugged sheepishly at his outburst but the elf laughed.

“I had the same thought at first. Shall we go down to dinner?”

“We won’t be sitting anywhere near them will we?”

“Not if you want your food to remain on your plate long enough for you to actually eat it,” Erestor said with a laugh. His laughter deepened at the man’s puzzled look. “With time, you will understand that as well.”

Erestor led Boromir to the hall and sat them as far from the hobbits as he could.

To be continued…

GF 6/30/06

A/N: This chapter contains references to "With Their Heads Full of Dreams" as well as fanon events previously mentioned in more detail in "Mid-Year Walking Trip" and "In Darkness Buried Deep". It should not be necessary to have read those stories to understand this one. :)

For Dreamflower, who wanted an explanation of hobbit mealtimes.
 
 

“…especially after dinner, which they have twice a day if they can get it…” ~ The Hobbit, An Unexpected Party

“And laugh they did, and eat and drink, often and heartily, being fond of simple jests at all times, and of six meals a day (when they could get them).” ~ FOTR, The Prologue

Chapter 2: Tea with Hobbits

Sam carried a laden tray into the courtyard garden and set it down on the round stone table. Merry and Pippin peered at the tray, which was filled to the edges and piled high with water-biscuits, meat slices and cheese squares. As fine as the food of the elves was, the hobbits had to admit this was more like it.

Pippin licked his lips and reached for a cheese square. Sam cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow at the tween, stopping his hand in mid-air. Pippin pouted. Sam raised the other eyebrow.

Heaving a much put-upon sigh, Pippin sat back down and waited for the others to arrive, hoping that would be soon. Beside him, Merry chuckled. “I will never tire of seeing that,” he said.

“Stuff it, Merry,” Pippin muttered.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Merry gloated and reached for the cheese square that Pippin was eyeing. Sam reached over and smacked his hand away. Merry pulled it back, looking wounded and betrayed. “Ouch! Hey now!”

Pippin threw his head back and laughed heartily, filling the courtyard with his mirth. “Good one, Sam! If I had known that worked on him too, I wouldn’t have worried the other night.”

“Stuff it, Pippin,” Merry grumbled.

“It’s only until Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo get here, and they were right behind me,” Sam said, not looking the least bit apologetic.

He sat across from the cousins as Bilbo and Frodo stepped into the garden, Frodo carrying a tray of tea things. Behind them trailed Glóin and Gimli. Glóin also carried a tray, this one covered with thick slices of what appeared to be cake. Frodo and Glóin sat their trays on the table next to the first one and Sam stood again to hand out the plates and teacups.

“I’ve brought company lads,” Bilbo said cheerfully. “Have you met my good friend, Glóin? He was one of the dwarves who traveled with me on my adventure, don’t you know? And this is his son, Gimli. Glóin, Gimli, these are two my youngest cousins, Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took. They are my first and second cousin, twice removed either way, and Merry is actually my first cousin twice removed, twice over.” Merry beamed with pride; he was the only one there to be directly related to Bilbo, as well as Frodo, three times. Bilbo continued, “And you both met Sam at the Council.”

“Ah, yes, the Council,” Merry intoned, turning serious, “to which he wasn’t invited.”

“I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?” Sam said, pouring out the tea now.

“No,” Merry and Pippin said together. Sam poured them just a little less tea than everyone else.

Glóin, being long familiar with the ways of hobbits, thanks to his friendship with Bilbo, had advised his son to keep quiet should any of the following topics come up: genealogy, hobbit history and folklore, food, and just about anything that he did not quite understand. Food would be an unavoidable topic, seeing as this was tea and the dwarves had brought with them rum cake, which the hobbits had never eaten before. But the other topics were to be avoided, or detracted from, at all costs. Hobbits tended to be long-winded and encouraging one of them to speak about something of which they were passionate and expecting to have a short conversation was tantamount to sticking one’s head in a dragon’s mouth and hoping not to get bit. So they stood back, only bowing at the introductions, and said nothing else until Bilbo motioned for them to sit.

“Have a seat, lads, have a seat,” Bilbo said, sitting next to Frodo and Sam.

The dwarves sat on the third bench and Glóin nodded gravely. “Thank you kindly for inviting us, Bilbo,” he said, turning to the younger hobbits, who were eyeing the food hopefully while sneaking questioning and hopeful glimpses at Sam. “You young lads might not know this, but dwarves have taken up the custom of tea since our introduction to Bilbo. We usually have cakes or other forms of pastries.” He indicated the tray he had brought. “That there is our very finest rum cake, prepared by myself and my son. We made sure to make enough for ten dwarves, which should feed five hobbits.” He winked and at his bidding, Merry and Pippin no longer had to hold back.

They reached for the food, eagerly taking firsts of everything, including the rum cake. The others followed their lead, but Sam and Frodo hesitated on the cake. Frodo took a piece to be polite but Sam eyed it warily.

“Is it spicy?” he asked. His first and, up until today, last experience with Dwarven fare was not something he would easily forget, nor necessarily want to repeat. While delectable and delightful in every way one could wish for, the food had been too spicy for his tastes and had given him strange, if fascinating, dreams. At his side, Frodo paused, waiting for an answer, while across from them, Merry and Pippin were already licking their fingers and eyeing the cake for seconds.

“Spicy?” Pippin said. “It’s not spicy.”

“We heard about what happened the last time,” Glóin said with a spark in his eye, recalling the tale. When Nar and his sons had returned to the Lonely Mountain with Bilbo after the old hobbit’s eleventy-first birthday, that was among the first stories Nar had told them. “The receipt does call for some spices, but we left them out. It should be safe for young hobbits to eat.”

Sam took a piece then but held back tasting it until Frodo dared a little nibble. At Frodo’s nod, Sam cautioned a bite from his own slice and found the taste both sweet and tart. The cake was soft, melting in his mouth before he could even chew, the sweetness of it lingering in the back of his throat. “It’s very good,” he said. “Why is it called rum cake?”

“Because it’s full of rum,” Gimli answered. “It’s a strong brew on its own, but it burns off in the baking.”

“Brew?” Merry said. “Like cooking sherry?”

“No, much stronger than that,” said Bilbo, who had tasted the hard drink a few times before. “It’s not a drink you lads should try alone, or in large quantities.”

“If all of the rum burns off, then how can the cake be full of it?” Pippin asked, munching on his other food while he eyed the cake greedily.

Gimli and Glóin laughed sharply and winked at each other. “This is a poke cake,” Gimli explained. “After it finishes baking, you poke little holes in it and then pour more rum over it. It absorbs into the cake very quickly.”

“You’ll have to give the receipt to Sam so he can make it when we return home,” Pippin said.

“We don’t have rum in the Shire, Pip,” Merry reminded.

“They can give Sam the receipt for that too, and his Gaffer can brew it,” Pippin said, nodding. He had it all figured out.

“I think you should go easy on the cake, Pippin,” Frodo cautioned with a pointed look at Merry, wondering just how much rum the dwarves actually poured into the cake.

Merry nodded. He would keep an eye on Pippin and make sure he didn’t eat too much of the cake, if only for the reason that he wanted some more for himself.

After that, they got down to the all-important business of eating, and no one spoke again until Boromir happened upon them while on his afternoon walk. He strolled down the garden path and smiled warmly at the diners. “Why is it that every time I see you, you’re eating?” he said to Merry and Pippin, whom he had begun to run into at random times throughout the day since the night of their first meeting.

“That’s easy,” Merry said. “Every time you see us, we’re hungry.”

“And every time you see us, it’s mealtime,” Pippin continued.

“How is that?” Boromir asked, not noticing as the dwarves hid winces and groans of dread. “You must eat four or five times a day then.”

“Six, to be exact,” Merry said and waved to the last, fourth bench. “Sit and join us. We’re having tea.”

Boromir sat, looking at the table and the now half-filled trays of cake, water-biscuits, cheese and meat. “This looks like more than just tea,” he said as Sam stood and poured him a cup of the drink.

“Sugar or honey?” Sam asked.

“Neither, thank you,” Boromir said, accepting the cup, which had been made to hobbit size and was two times too small for his hand. Sam handed him a plate before sitting down but the man did not attempt to fill it, putting it aside. He would eat later at dinner. “Do you really eat six times a day?” he asked incredulously, looking the hobbits over one by one. Sam was the heftiest hobbit there, but even he didn’t look like he could eat that often; most of his weight appeared to be muscle. Then again, he had heard that the hobbits had lost much of their girth on their journey to Rivendell.

“Indeed we do,” Pippin said enthusiastically, all thoughts of the rum cake temporarily cast from his mind. “There’s first breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, tea, dinner, or supper as some call it, and second supper. Oh, and afters of course, mustn’t forget that. It’s the most important one, you know.”

“That’s eight meals,” Boromir pointed out.

“No it’s not,” Sam said. “Afters is really a part of dinner or second supper.”

“But not both?” Boromir asked, thinking that still brought the count to seven meals.

“No,” Frodo answered. “If you are only having dinner, then you have afters with that. If you have both dinner and second supper, then you only have afters with second supper. I believe the Big Folk call afters ‘dessert’.”

“So, some hobbits don’t eat both meals?” Boromir asked. This must be why these hobbits said they only eat six times a day. They must not eat this second supper. “They’re optional then?”

It was all Glóin could do not to smack himself on the forehead, and then reach over and smack the man equally. Gimli, however, had to admit to himself that he was morbidly curious about what his father had warned him against, and he did something then that his father would never let him hear the end of. “Perhaps a full explanation of your dining customs is in order,” Gimli said, making a point not to meet his father’s heated glare.

Immediately, the hobbits’ faces lit up with joy and both Merry and Pippin jumped up, eager to share their knowledge. Merry was faster than Pippin however, and so Pippin had to sit back down, settling on filling in anything Merry might forget. Merry stuffed his hands into his breeches pockets and wet his lips eagerly before starting.

“It’s a widely known fact, though many hobbits will tell you its nothing more than folklore, that hobbits did not always have six mealtimes,” Merry began, and the others nodded along with this. “In our wandering days, of which we know little about it is true, it is widely rumored that we only ate, as unbelievable as this might sound, a sparse three times daily. It was not until the Fallohide brothers, Marcho and Blanco, requested from the High King of Fornost for the right to settle west of the Brandywine, thus founding the Shire, that things began to improve.

“Almost immediately, a fourth meal was added, so that hobbits could now enjoy, when they wanted them – which was almost always – breakfast, elevenses, luncheon and dinner. Elevenses was created to be eaten at the eleventh hour of the morning, hence it’s name, and is not so much a meal as it is a snack, to tide hobbits over the long gap between breakfast at seven and luncheon at one. The positive results were noticeable within days. Hobbits were happier and had more energy to till their gardens and build their smials and were generally more even-tempered, and everyone agreed that elevenses was a fine idea.

“After a few more years went by, however, it became clear that there was yet another gap to be filled, that being the one between luncheon and dinner at six o’clock. Five hours is quite a merciless amount of time for hobbits to go without food, especially when they are toiling all day, so Blanco, a most ingenious and resourceful hobbit, decided that another snack meal would not go amiss. Thus, tea was created.”

Boromir lifted an eyebrow at this and glanced again at the trays, heaped with food. This was a snack?

Merry continued. “Things went on in this manner for many hundreds of years and hobbits all but thrived, and couldn’t be any happier with things as they were, not wishing for them to change in the slightest. Now, it must be said that hobbits are generally resistant to change and so do everything they can to avoid it, even when they know that sometimes change is for the best. But there is one thing that hobbits will never protest a change to, and that’s when it creates more opportunities to eat.”

“This is my favorite part,” Pippin interjected.

“I don’t know. I rather like the part about tea,” Sam said. He didn’t always have opportunity to enjoy second breakfast or elevenses, but he always had tea in the shade of the back gardens of Bag End, and often times, Frodo would join him. He had a fleeting thought to what would come of this tradition once the Quest was over and they returned to settle in Crickhollow, but he let the thought fall instantly from his mind, not quite able to worry about things here in Rivendell as he might have elsewhere.

“Well, I know Frodo likes this part,” Pippin said with a wink.

“Indeed he does,” Bilbo agreed. “I’ve often thought that if not for the—”

“Shh!” Merry instructed hastily. “You’re going to ruin it.”

“Sorry,” the others apologized while Frodo attempted to look innocent.

“Now, as I was saying,” Merry said, “three hundred years ago, when Isumbras the Third took over the Thainship from his father, Isengrim the Second, who was ailing in his later years and could not keep up the responsibilities of being both the Took and the Thain, he took it upon himself to solve a problem that had long plagued him throughout his life.

“You see, Isumbras the Third was not only a hobbit of immense knowledge and ingenuity, but he was also an incredibly late sleeper. No matter what anyone did to wake him on time, he simply could not open his eyes until far after the breakfast hour. As such, he was always having to eat alone and he usually ate leftovers that were kept warm for him in an oven, and so it never tasted to him quite as good as it should have. So he decided—”

“Here it comes!” Pippin squealed, his voice shaky with excitement.

Merry spared him a cautious glance before continuing, “He decided to create a second breakfast, to be served two hours after the first, so that he would always be on time for it.”

“Very well told, Merry,” Frodo said. Being a rather late riser himself, by habit more than need, he had always appreciated the concept of second breakfast just a little more than other hobbits.

“Thank you Frodo,” Merry said and continued with his tale. “As you can imagine, there were plenty of other hobbits who also rose from bed late and they too were suffering the same hardships as the Thain. They rejoiced his decision and the custom spread faster than gossip. A second breakfast meant not only more food to eat, but more hobbits needed to cook it and those seeking work, for whatever reasons, now had it. Those that did rise on time for first breakfast found that they simply could no longer enjoy life to its fullest without a second, and it became a permanent and integral part of our days.”

Merry bowed and the hobbits clapped. Gimli picked his jaw up off the floor and Glóin looked at the sun, wondering how long hobbit custom demanded they had to stay before they could leave without being rude or causing offence. Surely, they had to wait at least until the food was gone, and when Glóin looked back down, he was pleased to see that the other four hobbits had continued to eat while Merry had been talking. There were only a handful of water-biscuits and four slices of rum cake left. Pippin was eagerly licking more crumbs of cake from his fingers. Pippin caught Glóin watching and tipped him a wink before reaching for another piece of cake.

“You forgot the part about second supper, Mr. Merry,” Sam said.

“There’s more?” Boromir asked, having forgotten his initial confusion about dinner and second supper in light of everything he had just heard.

“Indeed there is, but it really isn’t a part of the last story,” Merry said. “You see, during times of celebration or holidays, hobbits often, but not always, will have a grand dinner, which takes place after the regular dinner, and which marks the end of the evening and celebration. However, since the traditional hour of second supper is eight in the evening, and most hobbits do not care to be cooking and cleaning so late, it’s become the custom to have one large dinner at the regular hour, which we call a feast. Enough food is prepared to last for both dinner and second supper, with the dishes being washed as they’re used, usually by trouble-making children. This is why it is always so important to be on your best behavior whenever such an event is about to take place.”

“And how many times have you had to wash dishes?” Frodo asked with a knowing smirk.

“Not as many times as you, I’m sure,” Merry said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Frodo said. “I got away with quite a lot in my day, and you and Pippin were always getting caught. I only had to wash dishes twice.” While it was true that he had been caught more times than that, most of those instances did not take place near enough a feast as to make the punishment feasible.

“And how much is a lot?” Bilbo asked.

Frodo only shook his head. “Trust me, Uncle, you don’t want to know.”

“Only twice?” Merry asked, sitting down and taking the last piece of rum cake. “When were those?”

“The time you broke your arm and the time I left you stranded at Milo’s house, so really, in a way, those were your fault,” Frodo said.

“How were those my fault?” Merry demanded.

“Because you followed me when I told you to stay at home, and because you’re clumsy and because you’re a whiner, or you used to be,” Frodo said.

“That’s beside the point,” Merry said. “And I never whined. And I wasn’t clumsy! The ground was wet. Anyone could slip on mud.”

“I didn’t,” Frodo pointed out.

“Sam did once!” Merry said, pointing at the startled gardener. “He broke his ankle.”

“I sprained my ankle and it was ice, not mud,” Sam said.

“Same thing.”

“How are ice and mud the same thing?” Frodo laughed.

“Because…” Merry stalled, searching for an answer. “Ice is on the ground and when it melts it makes mud.”

“What?!” Frodo exclaimed, as Pippin broke into uncontrollable giggles, and Bilbo and Sam laughed. “Now you’re starting to sound like Pippin.”

“Hey!” Pippin said.

“You never answered Mr. Frodo’s question, Mr. Merry,” Sam pointed out with a grin. “How many times have you had kitchen duty?” Sam had never had to wash dishes, though he had helped a few times.

“Well, I know Merry and I have had to wash dishes together at least eight times,” Pippin said. “I’ve had to wash dishes without him about five times, and I believe his solo count is three times.”

“Thanks a lot, Pip,” Merry muttered as Bilbo, Frodo and Sam continued to laugh. The others looked on, perplexed but amused by the conversation.

Merry grudgingly reached for the last water-biscuit and popped it into his mouth. A half-second later, Gimli and Glóin were on their feet. “It’s a pleasure having tea with you,” Glóin said with a bow. Gimli mimicked him and they left as soon as Bilbo rose to see them off.

Boromir remained behind with the others, who were beginning to sober from their conversation and were helping Sam clean. “Kitchen detail,” he said, more to himself than the hobbits. “Not a bad idea. I once had to polish every sword in the Tower armory by myself. That took days.”

“Are you a good swordsman, Mr. Boromir?” Sam asked.

“I should think so,” Boromir commented. “I’m the captain general of my regiment. If you wish it, Frodo, I could train you and Sam, to prepare you for the road ahead. It would not be advisable to set forth on so dangerous a road without some knowledge in swordplay.”

“Could you train us too?” Merry asked. “If we’re allowed to go, we’ll need to know as well.”

“Please?” Pippin asked.

“I suppose it would be wise to have some form of training,” Frodo said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind, Boromir?”

Boromir looked at the halflings, Merry and Pippin watching him with pleading eyes, and smiled. “It would be my pleasure. We’ll start in the morning at sun up.”

“Sun up?” Pippin asked. He turned to Merry and whispered, “But we’re still asleep at sun up.”

Boromir chuckled. “Very well then. How about after first breakfast?”

“That will work for us,” Merry said, “but not for Frodo.”

Frodo slapped Merry playfully on the shoulder. “After first breakfast, it is,” he said with a nod to Boromir. “Thank you for the offer.”

Boromir bowed and left the Little Ones to their cleaning up.  

Just after midnight, a frantic cry woke Merry from a deep slumber. He sat up and a moment later was racing into Pippin’s bedchamber. He dashed to the bedside as Pippin thrashed about in a dream and shook the younger hobbit awake.

“Pip! Pippin!” Green eyes blinked up at him and Pippin clung to him desperately. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“Oh Merry, it was so awful,” Pippin said. “There was this chicken but it was really Isumbras the Third, and he had your arm in his beak and he was making you wash dishes with mud, and… and… and he took away second breakfast!”

“How much of that rum cake did you eat, Pippin?” Merry asked.

“Six slices.”

“Good night Pip,” Merry said and went back to his slumber.

To be continued…

GF 7/3/06

A/N: Many thanks to Tancred for his invaluable information on swordsmanship and to Dreamflower for finding me some very useful websites to use as research.  

For Periantari, who wanted to ask the hobbits: Does your bare hairy feet bother you in snow? Do you have to brush your foot hair?

“…but they seldom wore shoes, since their feet had tough leathery soles and were clad in a thick curling hair, much like the hair of their heads, which was commonly brown. Thus, the only craft little practiced among them was shoe-making…” ~ FOTR, The Prologue

Chapter 3: Foot Notes

The days passed at a leisurely pace, one blending into the next with an almost indiscernible flow of time. Elrond, Erestor and Gandalf watched from afar as the hobbits interacted with the residents and guests of the Last Homely House. There was no doubt that the hobbits brought much cheer and mirth wherever they went. The elves who worked in the kitchens soon began to look forward to the hobbits’ visits, for they preferred to fetch their food themselves rather than have it brought to them, and in this manner they both learned and shared many cooking tips and practices. The gardeners found they had an attentive audience whenever they ventured into the gardens, and the artists, musicians, and crafts-makers soon realized that they had four new pupils eager to learn the secrets of their craft.

Perhaps the biggest surprise for everyone was how quickly and readily Boromir became acquainted with the hobbits. When the man first arrived, he had been stern and formal in his bearing. While he still carried himself with the stately air born of a lifetime of noble grooming, he allowed that formality to melt almost instantly when in the hobbits’ company, preferring to follow their example of laughter and jesting in casual settings. The formality returned only when he was training the hobbits in swordsmanship, or swordshobbitship as they called it.

After offering to train them, he realized he needed to learn much more about their natural physical abilities than he had learned thus far. He found a perfect opportunity to do so while they played a game later that afternoon. They called the game dodge ball, and it consisted of throwing a ball (a canvas sack stuffed with hay) at each other and trying to dodge it. The hobbits played the first few rounds together until Frodo and Sam opted to sit out. Then Merry and Pippin went about, conning everyone they could find into joining in a ‘friendly game of aim.’

Boromir watched from a second-floor balcony, taking mental notes on all he saw. He was immensely impressed with their aim, which was deadly accurate, as those who were conned into playing soon found out. They were lithe, nimble, and quick on their feet. When their volunteer victims tired of the game, the hobbits then switched to hide-and-go-seek. During that game, Boromir learned that the hobbits were as silent as elves in their passing and they could disappear within seconds at need. When he went down to join in a game, it took him nearly a half-hour just to find one hobbit, Pippin, who admitted to cheating once by moving when he heard the man approaching.

After dinner and the now necessary afters, Boromir went to his room and began devising training sessions for the hobbits. By the time they joined him after first breakfast the following morning, he had the first two weeks of training planned out and had even gone to the swordsmaker to request to have wooden swords made for the hobbits, modeled after their barrow blades in design.

They met in the training room on the first floor. The room opened on one side to the courtyard garden, on the other side to a small, shaded sitting area with a fountain and many seats placed around it. He greeted the hobbits kindly and then swiftly ordered them to line up. He knew he could not drill them as tirelessly and stringently as he would a company of soldiers, but he demanded their attention and obedience every bit as much as he did his troops. When they were standing attentively, if not at attention, Boromir began his speech.

“We are going to train based on your strengths, speed and cunning, but we are also going to train based on your enemy’s strengths, size and power. You will be much shorter and smaller than most of the opponents you will come up against. That can be an advantage or a disadvantage based on how you use it. I think that because of your size, you will be better able to make your way in and around the enemy during the chaos of battle without much notice. They will be looking upward, toward any of us Big Folk who are with you, assuming us to be the real threat. As such, I think a more aggressive fighting style would be to your advantage. You could cut through an enemy line before they even realize that you are there.”

The hobbits shared hesitant glances at this last comment but remained quiet.

“However, you will learn first a defensive fighting style. You never know in what kind of situation you will find yourself, and being familiar with both fighting styles will be an asset. It never hurts to know how to parry with the enemy. The downfall of defense, for you, is that your opponent can quickly overpower you. As such, you will be learning how to turn a defensive stance into an aggressive one as quickly as possible.

“Any fighter can be good with his weapon. To truly master your weapon takes years of dedicated practice. We only have weeks, if that. We will practice every morning here and I expect you each to put in at least an extra hour in the afternoons with anything you feel you need more practice. I will not brook insolence, tardiness or lack of dedication. While you are here, you will do what I say when I say it if you are to become good with your swords. Any questions?”

Pippin nodded. “When do we eat?” he asked.

Boromir smiled. “If I understand everything Merry said yesterday, we’ll be eating at nine and eleven. However, you will only be allowed fifteen minutes for each meal, so I suggest you eat quickly.”

“No need to be making that suggestion to Mr. Pippin,” Sam said with a grin, to which Pippin readily agreed.

“Very well. Let’s get started,” Boromir said.

Since the wooden swords were not finished yet, Boromir spent the first morning going over basic military commands, such as attention, at ease, about face, forward march and dress down. The about face gave them the most problems. They could turn without a hitch, but bringing their feet back together so that the toes were in line was hit and miss. Once they were familiar with the commands, he drilled them until second breakfast, correcting their footwork when necessary.

“Why do we have to learn this?” Pippin asked while they ate. “We’re not going to be marching with an army.”

“It’s to get you used to listening to commands,” Boromir said. “It’s also for coordination. It will help you when we begin swordplay.”

After the meal, which the hobbits privately thought was rather sparse, Boromir spent the rest of the morning giving the hobbits general information on the importance of breathing during sword movements. “Inhale during recovery, when you’re retreating or resting, or when you are setting up your next movement. Exhale when you strike or are actively defending yourself. For example, when you lift your sword to parry, breathe out. When you draw your sword back, breathe in. If you breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, it will help to keep you cool in the heat of battle.”

Footwork was also crucial at all times, both to increase power and speed in the strike and to maintain balance. “Are all of you right-handed?”

“I’m left-handed sir,” Sam said.

“That can be a disadvantage. When you lead with your left, you leave your heart exposed to an enemy strike. However, it can be an advantage as well. Fighters are used to strikes coming at them to their left side, or from their opponent’s right. They will have to adjust quickly to a strike coming from the opposite side, or it will be their folly. When we practice later, you will find that you are often turning out of your opponent’s strike, while the rest of us are turning into it. As such, we will need to train you a bit differently and we’ll want to pair you with one of the others at all times, to better protect your left side.

“Now, as I was saying, your power is with your strong hand, which means you must lead with your weak side. You always want to step first with your left foot – Sam, that will be your right foot – so that when you step forward on your opposite foot, the power and speed will be in your strong arm. The drills we learned today, and will continue to practice every day that we are here—”

“Every day?” Pippin asked.

“Yes, every day.”

“Even Highday?” Sam asked.

“What is Highday?” Boromir asked.

“It’s our traditional day off,” Frodo explained. “Hobbits don’t work on Highdays, or most of them don’t. If they do, they stop at noon. Only the proprietors of the inns continue to work; it’s their most profitable business day. Instead, most of them will then close early on Sunday, which is their slowest day.”

“Interesting,” Boromir said. “In that case, we will train on Highday since we end at noon anyhow. Now, as I was saying… What was I saying?”

“‘The drills we learned today, and will continue to practice every day that we are here,’” Merry quoted.

“Thank you Merry. You will understand how important the drills we learned today are when we begin to practice with the wooden swords—”

“Wooden swords?” Pippin interrupted. “But we have real swords.”

“We will train with wooden swords until you know what you’re doing. You may have real swords, but you have yet to use them,” Boromir said.

“Strider gave us a bit of training a few nights on our travels, when he thought it was safe enough,” Sam said. “He said we should always hold the blades in front of our faces, being as that’d be the most vulnerable to attack, due to our height and all. Poor Mr. Pippin couldn’t sleep at all the night he told us that.”

“There was a rock poking me in the back,” Pippin defended.

“Then why didn’t you just move?” Merry teased.

“Because I knew how scared you were and I couldn’t leave my Mer-Bear to himself,” Pippin said.

“So I’m Mer-Bear again?” Merry asked. He hadn’t heard that nickname in many a year.

“As I was saying,” Boromir said, raising his voice above the cousins’ banter. “We will be practicing with wooden swords. Your hand-eye coordination is not in question, nor is your sure-footedness. However, you must still learn how to combine the two so that you use minimum movement and energy during an engagement while maximizing your strength and speed. After all, speed and power won’t get you very far if you cannot stay on your feet or if you tire yourself out with unnecessary movements,” Boromir pointed out.

They paused again for elevenses, after which Boromir tested them on what he had taught them so far, setting them another half-hour of drills, followed by an oral examination of all he had told them. The oral examination soon became a question-and-answer session, as the hobbits began asking their own questions, and they did not end the session that day until luncheon.

Boromir had spent as much time observing the hobbits as teaching them that first day, and he learned that barking orders at them was not the way to go if he wanted results. When he shouted a command, the hobbits withdrew, becoming timid and hesitant. By watching the way the hobbits interacted with each other, he discovered that offering words of encouragement when a drill was completed incorrectly or praise when it was performed accurately worked far better than hollering.

Boromir knew that the servings at the meals were most likely not to the hobbits’ usual standards, but he did not want them indulging their appetites and becoming too full or lazy to train the rest of the morning. By the end of the first day he was glad for this decision, for the hobbits insisted, no matter how much he attempted to politely refuse, that the man eat with them at every meal. At Frodo’s suggestion, they let the man set his own plate and they were satisfied to do so as long as he took at least one of each item on the table. At elevenses, he discovered that as long as he nibbled at his food to make it last the entire meal, the hobbits were less likely to worry that he wasn’t getting enough to eat.

The wooden swords were ready for their second session. After a half-hour of drills, he launched directly into the basics of swordplay, reminding the hobbits continually about the importance of proper footwork and breathing. They spent that day working on balance, breathing exercises, and such elementary things as sword grip and how to draw and sheath the sword without looking at the scabbard; Sam and Pippin especially were prone to do this.

The hardest thing to try to get across to the hobbits was teaching them to relax while maintaining a fighting stance. “If you remain tense at all times, you risk injury to yourself. Not only that, you will waste energy, you will be slower in your movements, and you will not have the flexibility needed to engage your enemy successfully. You must remain relaxed at all times.”

“You expect us to stay relaxed when orcs are flying at us at full charge?” Frodo asked dubiously. It seemed an impossible request.

“Especially then,” Boromir said. “Think about it. If they are flying at you at full charge, then they are most likely not relaxed. Let that work to your advantage.”

On the third day, he began to teach them how to parry. He demonstrated the various parry positions after their drills while they sat and watched. “Always parry with the flat of your sword, not the edge. To parry with the edge risks damage to the blade. It can even be broken, which is the last thing you want to happen in battle.”

Again he stressed the importance of proper footing and when the hobbits began to practice the first series of parries, they learned why. Boromir watched them intently, correcting or adjusting their footing between each position and letting them practice both with the incorrect and correct footing to learn the difference. Once the hobbits could parry efficiently, which he estimated would take about four training sessions, he would begin teaching them how to advance and engage an enemy using dummies that Glóin and Gimli had kindly volunteered to build.

Frodo and Merry were the quickest studies, attentive and fast to pick up on the subtleties of the hand movements and foot stances. Frodo possessed a surprisingly natural grace with a blade, and Merry took the extra time to get the movements right. Sam was hesitant, not at all certain that he really wanted to know how to slay another living creature no matter how foul, yet at the same time he was determined to learn all that he could, his master’s safety ever foremost on his mind. He cast his timidness aside and followed Boromir’s instructions to perfection.

Pippin, however, had suddenly become easily distractible and he was prone to asking questions that would then distract the other hobbits from their practice. Even Merry likening the parries to an odd sort of dance did little to make Pippin pay more attention. Now that they had their swords in hand, even if they were only wooden ones, he found the repetition of the various drills to be tedious and dreary, not at all as exciting as he had been imaging swordplay to be. He wanted to start off learning how to battle Ringwraiths, like Strider had done at Weathertop, and was impatient with the more rudimentary skills required to become that proficient.

Boromir did his best not to lose patience with the lad. After the glares he received after his first scolding, delivered after the third time Pippin had parried with his sword edge, he was none to eager to repeat the experience. Frodo’s glare in particular could pierce through the toughest hide with just an angry glint of his blue eyes. Boromir returned to offering encouragement and he had to admit that Pippin was at least more eager to do what he asked, if not more attentive. Yet despite all that, Pippin was learning at a steady pace, practicing with Merry in the afternoons when he wasn’t off filling his corners in the kitchen.

Boromir bit back his rebukes and his crossness at the lad’s behavior, but he was not certain how much longer he could continue to do so. He was not used to having to repeat himself, often more than once, or stopping to answer queries that could easily wait until after the session to be asked. Worse of all, it was slowing their sessions considerably, and his lesson plan was being delayed.

On the fourth morning of their lessons, Boromir decided to begin the session differently. He waited until the hobbits were lined up in their usual order, Sam at the left with Frodo next to him, then Merry, and lastly Pippin at the right end. He called them to attention and walked down the line, checking their form. He stopped in front of Pippin, who was fidgeting ever so slightly. “We’re going to do things differently from here on out,” Boromir began. “During the lessons, none of you are to talk. You will watch and you will listen, and you will follow your commands as they’re given without hesitation.”

He did a left-face and marched down the line. His boots clinked against the marble floor sending up soft, reverberating echoes to bounce off the walls. Clink. Clunk. Clink. Clunk. He reached the end of the line, did an about-face and returned to stand in front of Pippin, who was trying desperately not to move, his lips clamped tight against the questions Boromir could see swimming behind his busy eyes.

“All questions will be held until the end of the session,” Boromir said and was surprised when it was Sam who broke attention first. He turned his head sharply to find that Sam’s shoulders were shaking with barely contained laughter, his lips pulled back in a smirk despite his efforts to hide it. “Do you have something to say, Sam?”

Sam flushed at being caught and told out. He regained his composure with some effort and returned to attention, then cautioned a meek, “Begging your pardon, Master Boromir, but are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

Boromir considered the question, puzzling it over. He saw no reason why it wouldn’t be a good idea. The end of the session was traditionally the time for questions.

“I think,” Merry said, hesitant at first to speak until Boromir lifted an encouraging eyebrow, “that what Sam is trying to say is that it might be best to allow questions during the sessions, rather than waiting until afterwards to get them all at once.”

“I agree,” Frodo said. “I know that our asking questions can be distracting for you, but it would be prudent to allow us to continue to do so. If we can ask the questions as we think of them, it will prevent us from performing the movements incorrectly.”

“I will be watching you all closely,” Boromir assured, “checking your form and footwork.”

“Yes, as you always do,” Merry said, with a sideways glance at Pippin. “It’s just, sometimes, it’s better to let us ask questions as our concerns come up, rather than letting them build up over an extended period of time. After all, a dam can only withstand so much pressure before it bursts.”

“Aye, and when the dam does burst, there’s no stopping the water nohow,” Sam put in. “Anything lying in its wake will be laid waste.”

“Our sessions are not progressing as quickly as I would hope,” Boromir said. “If we can prevent distractions and interruptions, we can get through the next two sets of the parries today, which will get us back on track with the lesson plan. We are a half-day behind.”

“I understand that, and we wish to learn just as much as you wish to teach us,” Frodo said, sharing a wary glance with Merry, “but we also wish to remain dry.”

“I don’t follow,” Boromir said.

Merry sighed and dropped all pretense, speaking plainly. “Just ask Gandalf or Strider what it’s like to be bombarded by an endless stream of questions spoken in rapid Pippish. You might actually find that you prefer drowning.”

“And he won’t forget a one, if that’s your hope,” Sam said. “He’ll remember them all and keep them in his head, and gather up more as the morning passes most like.”

“Not to mention that not being able to ask the questions as he thinks of them will distract him far more than anything else,” Frodo said. “It’ll only slow us down more.”

“Really?” Boromir asked, his plan shattering before he even had a chance to implement it. “You think so?”

“We know so,” Merry assured and tilted his head toward his younger cousin. “If you need proof, just look at him right now. Do you think he’s heard a single word of what we just said?”

They all looked at Pippin and found the lad still attempting to stand at attention, his feet moving restlessly and his fingers grabbing and releasing the seams of his breeches. His eyes were looking intensely at Boromir’s boots, and Boromir imagined that he could see the questions piling up behind those active green orbs. Out of curiosity, Boromir marched up the line and back down, observing the Took the whole while. Pippin’s eyes followed his boots with such intensity that Boromir suddenly wondered if the lad wasn’t feeling well. Only his friends’ nonchalant observation kept him from entertaining that thought for long. This was clearly something they were used to seeing.

To prove his point, Merry fell out of line and stood in front of his cousin. “Pip?” he said, waving his hand through Pippin’s vision. “Where did you go, Pigeon?”

“I am not a pigeon,” Pippin said irritably, the much-loathed nickname calling him back to the present instantly. For a moment, he forgot where he was and half-expected to look up to find Pervinca standing there, smirking down at him. Instead, he found Boromir, Sam and Frodo watching him intently. “What?”

“That’s what we were wanting to know,” Frodo said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Are we allowed to ask questions then?” he asked, glancing up at the man hopefully.

Knowing he would soon regret this, Boromir nodded. “You may ask your questions.”

“Well, it’s just, I was thinking,” Pippin began.

Merry grinned impishly. “Were you now? That is never a good sign and only ever leads to disaster.”

“It does not,” Pippin retorted indignantly. “Besides, if I’m thinking, it’s your fault.”

“Way to go, Mer-Bear,” Frodo said, grinning now also. He could never resist an opportunity to rib his cousins a little, particularly his Merry.

“My fault?” Merry said to Pippin, wisely choosing to ignore Frodo. The only way to get out of Frodo’s cajoling unscathed was to pretend that he had never spoken. “Why is everyone trying to blame me for everything?”

“But it is your fault,” Pippin insisted. “Remember last night after our baths? You said, ‘isn’t it odd how all these Big Folk walk about in boots all day?’ and then you said that Frodo once wondered how Gandalf’s feet never suffocated from being bound up all day and night.” He peered up at Boromir, biting uncertainly at his lower lip. “Well? Do they?” he asked.

“Do they what?” Boromir asked.

“Do your feet suffocate in your boots? Why do you wear boots? Is something wrong with your feet? Is that why they don’t suffocate, because they don’t work right to begin with? Does it hurt to walk on them? Do the boots help to make it not hurt so much? Is that why you make so much noise when you walk, because your feet don’t work right, or is it the boots, or both, and if it is the boots, do you wear them in combat? How can you sneak up on someone making such a racket?” Pippin shot off the questions in such quick succession that Boromir only understood every other word.

“Well,” Boromir said, trying to sort out everything he just heard. Something about boots and feet, of that much he was certain.

“See what we mean now?” Merry said, with no small amount of smugness.

Boromir nodded. He most certainly did understand their words of caution now. He shuddered to think what the barrage would have been like had he made Pippin wait until the end of the lesson.

“Perhaps if you asked each question individually,” Boromir suggested, making the other hobbits grin while Pippin continued to regard him with intent.

“Why do you wear boots?” Pippin asked first, figuring the response might well answer the rest of the questions he had.

“Why do I wear boots?” Boromir repeated, regarding the hobbits’ bare, hairy feet. “Why don’t you?” he returned.

“Why would we?” Merry asked, answering the question fully as far as he was concerned. “We’re not trudging through mud or snow, or trying to make our way over ice.”

“What does that have to do with boots?” Boromir asked.

“That’s the only reason a hobbit would need for wearing footwear,” Frodo explained. “Mud boots have a wide sole, nearly four times the surface of a hobbit foot, and it’s not really a boot so much as something you strap onto your feet. It’s to keep you from sinking into the mud, and it’s only something the hobbits along the Brandywine have use for, especially those as live in the Marish. The spring rains make the land there incredibly muddy and difficult to walk through. They can also be used for walking on snow, on the rare occasion that snow piles up high enough to make walking through it impossible.

“Ice shoes also aren’t what you would consider shoes. Again, you just strap them onto your feet. They’re more foot-sized and have cleats on the underside to dig into the ice so you can cross it. Most hobbits, though, find no need to walk across ice. Besides, if the river or stream is small enough to freeze, then it’s also usually small enough to jump over, or you could always go to the nearest bridge like you would at any other time of the year.

“There’s also gliding shoes that are particularly popular in Buckland. The River is too wide to freeze over completely, but the inlets and wading pools aren’t. The teens and tweens like to play games on it, usually some version of kick ball; but again, such hobbits are rare.”

“You’ve never played kick ball until you’ve played it on ice,” Merry added with a gleam in his eyes.

“So you never wear shoes?” Boromir asked. “Not even during your journey here?”

The hobbits shook their heads. “No sir,” Sam said. “I can only imagine they’d be rather awkward.”

“So why do you wear boots?” Pippin asked again, not about to be deterred. “Don’t the boots mess up your foot hair?”

“I don’t have foot hair,” Boromir answered.

The hobbits positively gaped at him, then Sam’s face melted into compassion. “You lost your foot hair so you wear boots to hide your feet,” he guessed sadly. “It’s not something as you should be ashamed of, Master Boromir.”

The others readily agreed and Boromir could only stare at them, flabbergasted. Could this conversation get more bizarre? “I’ve never had foot hair,” he said. “Men-folk do not have foot hair. Neither do elves, dwarves or even wizards.”

“None at all?” Pippin asked in disbelief, as though he found the concept too foreign to entertain.

“Well, most of us do have a little bit of hair on our toes, but otherwise our feet are bare,” Boromir informed.

“Is that why you have a beard then?” Pippin asked.

“Yes,” Boromir said, even though he did not know what exactly the hobbit was asking or what beards had to do with a lack of foot hair. He figured it was safer not to ask; he could handle only one strange topic at a time.

“And that’s why you wear boots?” Merry asked.

“No,” Boromir said. “We wear boots, shoes or other forms of footwear to protect our feet from the elements or from injuries such as you would get from stepping on sharp objects.”

“Why would you be stepping on sharp objects?” Sam asked.

“We don’t do it on purpose,” Boromir said. “Sometimes we can do so by accident, if we are not paying attention.”

“Why wouldn’t you be paying attention?” Merry queried.

“If we are occupied with something else, or carrying things, or rushing through the streets,” Boromir gave examples.

“You shouldn’t go rushing through streets if your feet are so sensitive to hurt and folk leave sharp things for you to be stepping on,” Sam advised. “They should be more mindful to sweep up such objects.”

“Those are good points,” Boromir conceded, unable to think of any other response.

“It doesn’t sound like something that happens very often,” Frodo said, coming to Boromir’s rescue. “I suspect such accidents are rather rare and the boots are more to protect the feet from everyday wear.”

“Yes, thank you, Frodo,” Boromir said with relief.

“You mean, those boots are made just for walking?” Merry said, leaning down to get a better look at the footwear.

“So then there is something wrong with your feet,” Pippin said, glad to at least have that matter settled. “You wear boots to make your feet hurt less.”

“There is nothing wrong with my feet,” Boromir insisted. “They are perfectly functional on their own, but the feet of Men are not so tough as those of hobbits. If we walk too long on a hard surface, they are prone to blistering.”

“Your entire race has this ailment?” Sam asked, and Frodo hid a laughing smile behind a hand. A light dawned behind Merry’s eyes, but the understanding quickly turned to a mischievous glint. Pippin had returned to observing the man’s boots.

Boromir closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, where he was developing a small headache. He really needed to end this conversation and begin the lesson. “It is not an ailment,” Boromir explained. “Our feet serve us exactly as they should, and I’m sure if we spent a lifetime walking about barefoot, they too would become as tough and impervious to the elements as your own.”

“And then your foot hair would grow in?” Merry asked with a grin. “Perhaps wearing the boots rubs it off before it can grow.”

“Do you really think so, Merry?” Pippin said, too intent on the boots to notice Merry’s too-innocent expression. “Maybe that’s why they don’t suffocate either.”

“My feet do not suffocate,” Boromir said. “They are perfectly happy inside my boots.”

“They never get hot or itchy?” Frodo queried.

“They do get hot and sweaty sometimes,” Boromir had to admit. “Usually when I’m training or after a battle.”

“Your poor feet,” Pippin said.

“It’s no different than sweating anywhere else,” Boromir pointed out. “Now, if we’re done with this line of questioning…”

“How do you know that elves, dwarves and wizards don’t have foot hair?” Pippin asked next. “Have you seen their feet? Do you ever not wear boots? I’ve never seen a foot that doesn’t have hair on it before.”

“That would look odd,” Merry confirmed. “Why don’t you take off your boots, Boromir? Then we can see for ourselves if they’re deficient or not.”

“My feet are not deficient, and I am not taking off my boots. We are supposed to be training,” Boromir said. “Now, we ended on the fourth parry position yesterday. Let’s go over the first four again for a few times and then we’ll move onto the next set.”

“Do your boots even come off, begging your pardon,” Sam put in now. “We’ve never seen you out of them. If they do get sweaty during training and such, wouldn’t you be wanting to take them off afterwards?”

“He probably can’t take them off,” Pippin figured.

“Of course he can,” Merry said. “It’s just another article of clothing after all. They’re not glued to his feet. Are they?”

“No,” Boromir answered. “Now, the first four positions.”

“Well, if you can take them off, why don’t you?” Pippin asked.

Boromir took a deep breath and began to answer, but before he could speak, Frodo stepped forward. Boromir let his breath out in a sigh of relief. Finally, this whole foolish business will be put behind them.

Frodo placed a hand on Pippin’s shoulder and gave his cousin a consoling look. “Now Pippin, don’t be rude. Clearly, Boromir feels inadequate about his feet and doesn’t want us to see them. Let’s show some respect.”

Merry widened his eyes at the man and gave a small, nearly indiscernible shake of his head, attempting to warn him off. ‘Don’t react. Ignore him,’ his eyes said, but the man had yet to learn the meaning of hobbit-eye communications.

“I do not feel inadequate about my feet,” Boromir insisted.

Frodo turned to him next, continuing to give that same sad, soothing, understanding expression. “It’s all right Boromir. You don’t have to explain. We understand if you’re embarrassed. What with your feet being hairless and weak-soled, it’s no wonder you don’t want to show them off.”

“I don’t care if anyone sees them,” Boromir persisted. “They don’t embarrass me in the slightest.”

“You don’t have to do this, Boromir,” Frodo continued and patted the man’s arm. “Like I said, we understand. We won’t pry anymore.”

“There is nothing wrong with my feet,” Boromir said. “Look, I’ll show you.”

“Not here,” Sam cut in, hurrying to stop the man as he bent down to remove his footwear. “In the garden. We don’t want your feet to blister.”

“They won’t blister by me just standing here.”

“Still, it never hurts to take precautions,” Merry said and grabbed one of the man’s hands, while Pippin took the other. They commenced to pull him out of the training room and into the courtyard garden. When they were in a sufficiently grassy area, they let his hands go and all four of them looked up at him expectantly.

“Well?” Frodo said with a wicked little grin. “Are you going to go back on your word?”

“The Men of Gondor never break their oaths,” Boromir informed and sat upon the grass. Far too conscious of the four sets of eyes watching his every move, he wondered just how he had so blindly and willingly stepped into this trap. He unlaced the bindings of his boots and slid them off.

“What are those?” Pippin asked, pointing at the odd white material that covered the man’s feet.

“Those are socks,” Boromir informed.

“You wears boots and socks?” Pippin asked, disbelieving. “No wonder your feet suffocate.”

Boromir did not bother to correct this perception and slid the socks from his feet. The resounding ‘ooh’ that met his naked feet was enough to make him blush, and when the hobbits leaned over for a closer look, he blushed as red as a strawberry. Apparently, this conversation could get more bizarre.

“So that’s what a foot looks like with no hair,” Merry intoned. “It looks awful bony and pale, meaning no disrespect of course.”

“Look,” Frodo said, pointing. “He does have little tiny hairs on his toes.”

“That is so odd,” Merry said with what sounded like awe.

“No wonder they would get cold,” Pippin said. “And look at his soles. They’re so soft-looking. No wonder they blister.”

“Still, it would have its advantages,” Frodo mused. “It’s a bit of a chore sometimes to have to brush the tangles and dirt from your foot hair. It does tend to get quite knotty and full of grime after a long day,” he informed Boromir. “When it snows, the snow can accumulate and form icicles on top. You have to put a bucket of warm water and a pile of towels by the doors in cold weather. The water melts the ice, and the towels, obviously, are needed to dry the feet. Even in the spring, during the raining season, you have to keep towels at the door. You never go through as many towels as you do in the winter and spring.”

“Is that so?” Boromir asked, still trying to move past how awkward this was.

“It is,” Sam agreed. “My sisters used to do a fair bit of business during the wet months. Kept us in coin while I wasn’t so busy with the garden.”

“Have you ever walked barefoot in the grass, Boromir?” Pippin asked now.

“I can’t say as I have,” Boromir said. “There are no grassy knolls in my city.”

“Everyone should walk barefoot in the grass,” Merry informed. “It’s quite invigorating. Stand up and take a few strides.”

Merry and Pippin again grabbed his hands and tugged on them, prompting more than helping the man to stand. With the hobbits still watching closely, Boromir walked up the lawn to the tree about ten yards away, turned and walked back. The grass blades prickled his feet, sending odd sensations up his legs and lower back, but overall he found the grass smooth and soft and very invigorating indeed. He stopped in front of the hobbits and wriggled his toes in the turf.

“This is quite nice,” he said, smiling now despite himself.

From the other end of the courtyard, Gimli stepped into the garden from a corridor and walked toward them. He had noticed the hobbits standing about and wondered why they weren’t in their training. Then Boromir came into view and he noticed that none of them had any weapons. For the second time, his curiosity got the better of him. “This doesn’t look like a training session to me,” he said.

“Oh but it is,” Frodo assured. “We’re teaching Boromir the meaning of Highday and conducting a little experiment at the same time.”

“An experiment?” Gimli said. “What sort of experiment?”

Pippin leaned toward Merry and whispered in his ear, “With that long beard of his, I bet he doesn’t have any hair on his feet or his legs.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Merry accepted. “If I win, I get your dessert at dinner tonight.”

“And if I win, you have to get the dwarves to make more rum cake,” Pippin said.

“Don’t you just want my afters?” Merry asked hopefully. He didn’t particularly want Pippin to consume any more of that rum cake if it could be helped. “What if they can’t make any more cake?” he pointed out.

“Well, if they can’t, then I’ll have your afters,” Pippin amended.

“Deal,” Merry said, silently hoping that either he would win or the dwarves had run out of rum. Then he turned to Gimli, who was just now noticing that Boromir was not wearing his boots. “The experiment is simple. We are determining who has the strongest feet. You will need to remove your boots to participate.”

“And why would I want to do that?” Gimli asked, looking at them each as though they had lost all sense.

“Because,” Frodo said, “we don’t think Dwarf feet are as sturdy as the feet of Men.”

Gimli snorted righteously at this. “They are much sturdier, I can guarantee you of that,” he said. “We spend our days hauling rock and carving stone.”

“Well, that would give you stronger backs and hands,” Merry conceded. “Not necessarily stronger feet though.”

“Is that what you think, lad?” Gimli said. “I’ll show you who has the stronger foot.” He sat on the ground and promptly removed his footwear as the hobbits leaned over to observe their new subject. A musky, pungent odor wafted up toward them, and they had to step back a pace to protect their noses.

“Well, we know who has the stronger smelling feet,” Sam whispered sideways to Frodo so only his master could hear.

The dwarf’s feet were much meatier than the man’s, wider along the arches. They were even, to Pippin’s surprise and Merry’s relief, much hairier than Boromir’s, though still nowhere near as hairy as the hobbits’. The soles were tougher in look, with the scars of many healed calluses showing through under rough skin.

“I think the win goes to the dwarves,” Merry said as the hobbits stood from their inspection.

“Now wait a minute,” Boromir said, feeling insulted. “His feet have been scarred and mine haven’t. How does that make his feet stronger?”

“No use arguing the facts, lad,” Gimli said. “Our feet are accustomed to hard labor, and yours are not.”

“Marching forty miles a day isn’t hard labor?” Boromir challenged.

“It is when you’re carrying a hundred pounds of stone up steep and narrow passages,” Gimli shot back. “Besides, those scars are older than you are. I haven’t had calluses for years now.”

“And you did just say as your feet blister if you walk on them too much,” Sam pointed out, looking down worriedly at the man’s bare feet. “Mayhap you should put your boots back on.”

“My feet are fine,” Boromir said, feeling both indignant and silly for having this conversation in the first place. If his father ever heard about this…

Gimli wasn’t the only one to have noticed this odd gathering in the courtyard, and now Elrond, Erestor and Gandalf came out to join them. “Are you enjoying yourselves this fine morning?” Elrond asked his guests, not missing the way the hobbits’ lowered their gaze to watch his feet as he approached.

Pippin beamed up at them shamelessly, and Gandalf could all but smell the mischief pouring off of him and his cohorts. “Tell me, Lord Elrond, if elves are so light and swift of foot as you all claim to be, what’s the need for you to wear boots? Do you have mangled toes or something of the sort?”

“That must be it,” Merry said. “They have mangled toes. They’ve spent ages of the world leading everyone else to believe that they’re the most graceful and beautiful race on this earth, the Firstborn and all that, and they did it by hiding their one ugly feature.”

Sam’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at this. Were Merry and Pippin seriously going to attempt to con the Lord of Rivendell into removing his boots? It was bad enough when they conned the other elves to play dodge ball, but this was nearly unfathomable. Surely, Frodo wouldn’t let this continue. He looked to his master, the pleading question in his eyes. Frodo nodded.

“All right lads, we’ve had our fun,” Frodo said. “We do need to get some training in this morning and that won’t happen while we remain out here. Besides, I doubt very much that the elves’ feet can be any uglier than Gandalf’s. He is ancient after all. I suppose it goes without debate that the dwarves have the strongest and prettiest feet, after hobbits of course.”

A minute later, Gandalf, Elrond and Erestor were sitting on the grass, fervently removing their footwear. After much observation and debate, in which more of the residents and guests of the House gradually joined in, it was decided that Gandalf’s feet had the knurliest toes, the elves' were the fairest, the dwarf’s were the most fragrant (to put it kindly), and the man’s were the softest. The hobbits’ feet, of course, were declared the best all around.

To be continued…

GF 7/10/06

Timestamp meme. For Shirebound, who requested a follow up to “Foot Notes”.

What did Gandalf, Elrond and Erestor think of the hobbits tricking them out of their boots?

The Feet Have It

6 Blotmath, 1418 SR
Rivendell

Erestor entered the Lord’s private study at Elrond’s beckoning. “Good morning, my l—” he started to greet Elrond but was stopped short at the sight before him.

Elrond Half-Elven, Lord of the Last Homely House, renowned healer of the West, keeper of Vilya, the Ring of Air, sat on his balcony, crown on brow, robes flowing – and feet bare. Elrond looked at his toes and wriggled them, an expression of perfect seriousness on his ageless face.

“Good morning, my lord,” Erestor finished, recovering swiftly. “Is there danger afoot?” he couldn’t help asking.

“In all my years of living, I have never once given my feet any consideration,” Elrond replied, his stern expression softening with a smirk at Erestor’s joke. “Yet where would we be without our feet? They take us as little or as far as we wish to go, as slowly or as quickly as we wish, whether we carry nothing but ourselves or bear some great burden. Feet are rather remarkable things.”

Erestor nodded, the only response he could think of to this impassioned speech.

“It seems a shame that they do so much and yet are eternally hidden away,” Elrond continued. He looked up to find Erestor still standing at the edge of the balcony. “Sit. Take off your shoes and let the wind sweep over them. It is a marvel.”

Erestor opened his mouth to reply but then thought better of it. One joke at his lord’s expense was dismissible. Anymore than that, and he would be putting his foot in it. He took a seat on the bench and slipped off his shoes. He sat back and watched the forest, the morning sun warming his feet in a most delightful way. The wind tickled the fine hairs on his feet, a soothing feeling indeed.

“We should be angry with Bilbo for never telling us about this,” Erestor said blissfully. He found the concept of anger quite foreign at the moment. He wriggled his toes and closed his eyes.

“I don’t think Bilbo gives much thought to his feet either,” Elrond said. “It was the youngest one who started yesterday’s proceedings.”

“That isn’t what I heard,” Erestor said. “Pippin was the one to broach the subject, but I was given to understand that it was Frodo who ran with it.”

“Frodo?” Elrond said. “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“As am I,” Gandalf said from behind them. He had let himself in after his knocks had gone unanswered. “Bilbo had many reasons for naming Frodo his heir. Their shared wiliness was but one of them.”

Gandalf sat between Elrond and Erestor on the bench. He leaned back and stretched out his legs, his grey robes hitching up to expose his booted feet.

“Don’t you want to take off your boots, Gandalf?” Erestor asked. “This is delightful.”

Gandalf frowned. He was still sore about the outcome of the foot judging contest. “My knurled and mangled toes won’t offend your flawless digits?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes despite his gruffness.

“I am fairly certain no one said anything about mangled toes,” Elrond said. “At least yours aren’t fragrant, as are Gimli’s. Our toes will happily sit alongside yours, so long as we aren’t obliged to smell them.”

At this generous invitation, Gandalf took off his boots. He then took matters one step further. He propped his feet on the railing, slouched back into the bench and sighed, his hands joined behind his head. Elrond and Erestor watched him for a moment before mimicking his posture. The result was so relaxing that several minutes passed in serene silence.

“I see now how hobbits have come to have such a laidback society,” Erestor said. “It is difficult to imagine getting up to do anything, except perhaps to eat, unless the food can be brought to us.”

Gandalf laughed, a deep, contented rumble in his chest. “You are beginning to sound like true hobbits. If you are not careful, you will start to sprout fur on your feet.”

“I rather hope not,” Erestor said. He sighed happily and lifted his face to the sun. “Are hobbits always so… infectious?” he asked, for lack of a better word.

They hadn’t noticed such a tendency with Bilbo. The old hobbit had immersed himself in Elven culture as soon as he came to retire in Rivendell. Except for that blasted golf course at the bottom of the ravine, which he has thankfully forgotten about over the years, he hadn’t introduced anything hobbit-like in the years he’s lived here. Not so with the younger ones. They have been here less than a month, and already they had the House looking for mushrooms, singing bawdy tavern songs and removing their footwear. ‘What would come next?’ he wondered.

“Hobbits are most inspiring creatures,” Gandalf said. It was from them, after all, that he picked up his habit of smoking pipeweed. “Their smiles and laughter inspire joy in all situations. Their persistence inspires you to do whatever you can to keep them from pursuing you to the ends of the earth. It was wise of you both to oblige them with their contest yesterday, or you’d be walking on eggshells for the remainder of their stay, never knowing when they might jump out at you with some assault upon your boots.”

“Erm, yes. Precisely,” Elrond and Erestor said. If that was why Gandalf thought they had succumbed to the contest, then they would continue to let him think so.

“Now, to business,” Elrond said. He put down his feet and slipped on his boots with reluctance. Erestor and Gandalf followed his example, their feet equally as hesitant to be hidden away again. “There has been no word from any of the scouting parties. It is my intention to send Erestor to the—”

BANGBANGBANGBANG!!

A loud and persistent pounding battered against the study door, causing them all to jump to their feet. The pounding continued, pausing only long enough for them to hear a desperate whisper. “Lord Elrond? Are you there? Let me in! PLEASE let me in!”

“Pippin,” Gandalf said unnecessarily. He opened the door and Pippin darted into the room. Seeing the door still open behind him, he yanked it from Gandalf’s grasp, closed it, and leaned against it, huffing and panting, a wild look in his eyes.

“Has something gone amiss?” Gandalf asked.

“Huh? What? No, nothing’s missing,” Pippin said, still whispering. “Just, don’t tell the others you’ve seen me!” His eyes darted about the room until they landed on the wardrobe. He dashed across the room and allowed himself inside the wardrobe before Elrond could offer permission for him to do so.

“So there is danger afoot,” Erestor said, grinning.

“Yes, but of what kind?” Elrond asked.

They found out soon enough. Outside in the hall, the near-silent patter of hobbit feet sounded upon the stone floors, and Merry’s voice called down the passageways.

“You come out, Pip! Don’t think that hiding will save your sorry arse!”

“Are you certain he came down this way?” Frodo’s voice could be heard asking.

“I’m certain,” Merry answered grimly.

The feet stopped every now and then, to allow their owners to peer behind curtains, around statues or in rooms, no doubt. The feet nearly bypassed the study when they stopped again and pattered back.

“Surely, you don’t think?”

“This is Pippin we’re talking about,” Merry said.

“Oh all right, but don’t make a spectacle,” Frodo said.

“That will be rather hard to do, Frodo. The little imp doused us, or have you forgotten already?”

There was no audible answer to this statement. A moment later, a soft knock sounded on the door. Exchanging glances with his companions, Elrond opened the door and they all gaped at the sight that greeted them. Frodo and Merry stood on the other side of the door, covered head to furry toes with honey and crushed pine needles. The hobbits smiled gamely and bowed.

“Hullo, Elrond, Erestor, Gandalf,” Frodo said, with all the gallantry he could summon. “Have you seen Pippin this morning by any chance?”

“I cannot say,” Elrond replied. He did not wish to lie, but Pippin was clearly depending upon his protection.

“Oh really?” Merry said, catching the elf lord’s meaning immediately. “I’ll tell you what you can say then.”

“Merry!” Frodo hissed. He pushed Merry back into the hallway, pushing a pitcher with some sort of liquid into his hands as he did so. Merry grabbed at the pitcher, nearly dropping his bag of whatever in the process. Frodo turned back around and, bowing to Elrond again, spoke rather louder than was necessary. “If you should happen to see Pippin before we do, please tell him that we are looking for him. There is a matter of some miscommunication we need to clear up with him. And you may also want to mention that coming to a swift conclusion to this miscommunication would be in his best interest.”

He turned, took back his pitcher and pushed Merry down the hall. Merry went with much reluctance. Elrond watched them as they went down the hall and rounded the corner that led to the dining hall. Their feet pattered on for a few yards more and then promptly stopped. The trap was set.

Elrond closed the door as Erestor went to the wardrobe and opened it. Pippin slipped out, breathing more normally but still looking about as one hunted by wolves. Gandalf towered over him, hands on hips.

“Well?” he asked.

“It was an accident!” Pippin exclaimed, his high-pitched tones ringing through the air with sharp clarity. Elrond and Erestor flinched but made no move to cover their ears. Pippin flapped his hands in agitation and looked up at his companions as though he were on trial and they were his judges. “I didn’t mean to get them! I was setting up a honey bomb for, um, someone, and they came along and I hadn’t had time to tether the string yet, and Merry stepped on it and pulled the bucket down on both of them, and then they looked up before I could get away, and they saw me and they started chasing me and now they think I did it on purpose and they’re going to get me!”

“You can’t avoid them forever,” Gandalf said.

“No, but I can avoid them until they’ve had a chance to wash up and not be so angry anymore and not want to get me,” Pippin said, a pleading tone in his hopeful voice.

“You plan to starve yourself until then?” Erestor asked.

“No,” Pippin said frowning. “Is that where they’re hiding?”

Elrond nodded. “They lay in wait for you on the passage to the dining hall.”

Pippin bit on a nail as he considered his dilemma. “Well, there is more than one passage to the dining hall. It is possible to get there before they’ve realized I’ve gone another way, and they won’t try to get me with so many witnesses. … But Sam’s still out there. He could be anywhere, and he’s a spy you know!”

Gandalf, Erestor and Elrond stood in silence as Pippin retreated to an inner debate. The hobbit rocked back and forth on his feet, eyes darting this way and that, lips moving silently as he worked out his many options, all of which seemed to lead him to the same conclusion. Finally, he gave a great sigh, shoulders slumping.

“They’ll get me anyway, won’t they?” Pippin said. “Best get it over with.”

“Are you certain?” Erestor asked.

“I am,” Pippin said. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and went to the door, where he stopped. He turned back around and with immense graveness said, “If I don’t make it to the dining hall, tell my parents I love them. And tell Pearl and Pimpernel that I’ll miss them terribly, and tell Vinca that I’ll miss her too, even if she is a shrew.” He turned the doorknob, opened the door and slipped into the hall.

They listened as his feet trudged slowly down the hall and turned the corner. There was a moment of heavy silence, then a loud squawk, a chorus of roars, followed by more screeches and yelps and pleas for mercy. The attack ended with triumphant laughter and a pitiful moan.

“We shouldn’t have let him go out there alone,” Erestor said, brow drawn tight in concern.

Gandalf laughed though. “And now you are being pulled into the hobbits’ dramatics. He’ll be fine. He just got back a bit of his own.”

“In what way exactly?” Erestor asked.

“Let us find out,” Elrond said. They headed out for the dining hall, but found the passage leading towards the hall empty except for milk and flour puddling on the floor and coating the tiles and walls. Honey and paste shaped footprints led the way to the dining hall. Elrond sighed inwardly at the mess that would need to be cleaned and wondered if it would be uncouth to demand the hobbits bathe outside before taking another footstep within the house.

They entered the dining hall to a buzz of excited chatter. The elves and other houseguests present were all craning their necks towards the hobbits’ table. There sat Frodo and Merry, covered in honey and pine needles but looking quite satisfied all the same. Across from them sat Pippin, covered in milk and flour, his brown curls looking white under the resulting paste. He looked satisfied too. Apparently, he had been fearing a worse sentence and was delighted to have come away from his punishment relatively unscathed.

“Excuse me, sirs,” came Sam’s voice from behind them.

They turned around and permitted Sam to pass them. Sam was spotless and carried three dry towels, which he handed to his friends. He then crossed his arms and glared at Pippin. “I’ve talked to the maids. They’ve agreed to help you clean up your mess.”

Pippin nodded. “Thank you,” he said, accepting his towel and wrapping it around himself.

Gandalf chuckled, and Elrond smiled. Erestor frowned. “It must be something other than the bare feet then,” he concluded and went to his own table to await the food, his stomach grumbling for the first time in decades.

GF 2/8/09  

As my (extremely unforgivably late) birthday mathom from me to all of you, I thought a little discussion of hobbits ages was in order. And it just tickles me that Pippin is the same age as me and he’s still considered a kid. Maybe that’s why I still feel like a kid myself so much of the time.

Thanks to Dreamflower for supplying me with the bare-bones outline for the story.

“I will not hide from you Master Peregrin,” said Beregond, “that to us you look almost as one of our children, a lad of nine summers or so… But I see that it is not so and you must pardon my foolishness.”  

“I do,” said Pippin. “Though you are not far from the truth. I am still little more than a boy in the reckoning of my own people, and it will be four years before I ‘come of age’, as we say in the Shire.” ~ ROTK, Minas Tirith  

“It seems clear that the Eldar in Middle-Earth, who had, as Samwise remarked, more time at their disposal, reckoned in long periods, and the Quenya word yén, often translated ‘year’, really means 144 of our years.” ~ ROTK, Appendix D

Chapter 4: Be Tween You and Me

Erestor, Lindir and Boromir were walking down the main corridor of the Last Homely House, the cream-colored marble walls glowing a pale yellow in the soft autumn sunlight. Lindir was headed toward the Hall of Fire to meet Bilbo, to help the hobbit with his latest composition. Bilbo wished to have a song more Elf-like for the next feast, and Lindir had promised to lend a hand, being a musician and songwriter himself.

On his way there he had met Erestor and Boromir, who were on their way to Elrond’s private chambers. They were to meet with Elrond and Gandalf to discuss the progress the younger hobbits were making in their training. Eleven days had passed since their sessions began and already signs could be seen of the hobbits slowly gaining the upper hand over their drill master. Last Highday, as the hobbits reckoned the days, they had tricked Boromir into an impromptu foot judging contest. This morning, again on Highday, they had wheedled an extended second breakfast picnic out of the Man of Gondor and had spent the time explaining at length to him the merits of stone throwing as opposed to sword fighting. Elrond and Gandalf wanted to ensure that Frodo and Sam would be ready for the Quest once the day of departure arrived, and that the man wasn’t simply indulging the hobbits because he did not know how to tell them no. 

As they maneuvered down the corridor, Erestor began a preliminary interview with the man, for he was interested in knowing what plans Boromir had for the training of the hobbits and he would not be able to remain in Elrond’s chambers to hear the full report. He was to venture out beyond Rivendell with a small band of elves to seek for news of the scouts and he would be gone for two days.

“How goes the training of the hobbits?” Erestor asked.

“I understand that the training with the dummies is going well. Tomorrow you plan to have the hobbits begin fighting each other,” Lindir supplied. Not being familiar with mortals, despite his long friendships with Bilbo and Elessar, he was curious to find out as much as he could about the man’s methods and the hobbits’ more rustic abilities while they remained in Rivendell.

“Not quite,” Boromir said. “That will be held back until the day after tomorrow. I have decided that a field test of the hobbits’ current skills are in order before we advance to the next level of their training. I will speak of that with Elrond today and see if it would be advisable to take the hobbits beyond the walls of the house, though I am certain there is no risk to the hobbits within his realm.”

“Field test?” Lindir prompted. “You will observe the hobbits in an environment similar to where they might find themselves in battle.”

“Yes, and no,” Boromir said and went on to explain. “They enjoy games, particularly the one they call hide-and-go-seek. My plan is take them into the woods just beyond the falls and let them hide separately. I will seek them and as I come upon them, they will attack me – if I do not seize them first. It will be up to them where to hide and to come up with what they believe is the best strategy to overcome me.

“The exercise will accomplish many things. It will tell me, by how they choose to attack, where they believe their strengths to be. They will not choose a form of attack with which they are uncomfortable. Once I know their strengths, I will be better able to determine the areas in which they still need more instruction and practice. This will allow me to design the training sessions to the benefit of each hobbit, and since they will soon be pairing against each other, now is the perfect time to do so.”

“An intriguing strategy,” Erestor commented. “It has been a long while since we have had to train any new warriors but we too have similar contests. Is this strategy used often by the Gondorian army?”

“It is but one of many,” Boromir affirmed. “I find the results to be most useful. Indeed I—”

He trailed off mid-sentence and came to an abrupt stop as they entered the Hall of Fire through the western passage, which was slightly hidden from the hall by a curve in the wall. There they found Bilbo, but the old hobbit was not alone.

During the day, the Hall of Fire was normally empty but there was upon occasion a resident or guest enjoying the peace and quiet to read or paint or sleep or just sit and bathe in the cool autumn sunlight trickling down through the opened ceiling. At night the light of the large fire filled every crevice of the circular room with glimmering hues of red and orange, the smoke rising through the opening in the ceiling to fill the night air with the crisp, sharp taste of pine. During the day, the hall looked altogether different. There were long shadows along the walls and the cool light pooled near the open vent. The hall echoed with every footstep, if the walker was not quiet, and even a ruffle of paper and the scratch of a quill sounded loud to ears accustomed to absolute silence. At night a place for merriment and delight, by day it was a place of reverence and serenity.

As it was mid-day, the hall was empty but for two figures halfway between the eastern and northern passages, on the opposite side of the hall from where the elves and man stood. Slumped in a chair beneath the mural of the first meeting of Beren and Luthien sat Bilbo, his grey head sagging to his chest. On his lap was a piece of curled parchment and in his hand was a fountain pen. Both were forgotten in the elderly hobbit’s slumber, and the pen was staining the parchment with an ever-increasing blotch of blue ink.

Standing in front of the sleeping hobbit, leaning over and peering at him critically, was the youngest halfling Pippin. As they watched, trying to determine what the youngster was doing, Pippin leaned to one side and then the other, tilting his head this way and that, as though he were attempting to look at Bilbo’s face from every conceivable angle. After doing this for many moments (and who is to say how long he had been doing this before their arrival) Pippin lifted his right hand and gradually extended a finger closer and closer toward the old hobbit’s wrinkled face. When Pippin was just about to make contact, Bilbo, without moving a single muscle, said, “Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to, Peregrin Took.”

Pippin jumped back as one caught with his finger in the cake frosting. His offending hand dropped to his side like a dead weight. Bilbo stirred and looked up at the younger hobbit. Pippin smiled sheepishly.

“What are you getting up to, Pippin? More of your tween foolishness?” Bilbo asked.

“I thought you knew what I was doing,” Pippin pointed out.

Lindir approached the hobbits, deliberately walking with heavy steps to announce his presence as he rounded the fire pit towards the hobbits. Erestor continued on his way and Boromir followed despite being rather curious himself about what the young hobbit had been doing. However, before they could get more than a few steps into the hall, Bilbo straightened completely and with a glance and a nod in their direction, requested them to remain. So instead of hastening to Elrond’s office (they really were early anyway), they followed Lindir and greeted the hobbits. Pippin was unperturbed by their appearance and continued to look expectantly at Bilbo, waiting to hear the old hobbit’s guess of what he had been doing.

Bilbo shifted position in his chair, moving his weight from his left hip, which had gone numb, to his right hip. He cleared his throat, his frown deepening as he noticed the blotch on his parchment, which the elves and man could now see had writing at the top, thankfully safely away from the stained area.

“Did you know what I was doing, Bilbo?” Pippin asked, impatient.

“I knew you were doing something mischievous and that was enough,” Bilbo said. “You could have been a dear while you were at it, though, and put my pen away for me.”

“You shouldn’t fall asleep with a pen in hand, Cousin Bilbo,” Pippin informed unhelpfully. “You could have stained your breeches and that’s the worst sort of stain, or so Sam says. I actually find blueberry preserve to be a rather pesky stain myself, especially when you are trying to remove it from the lace trimming that your sister is planning to use for the dress she is making before she can get home and catch you at it.”

“You have a sister?” Boromir asked.

“Three: Pearl, Pimpernel and Pervinca, but Vinca’s the worst of the lot,” Pippin answered. “Catch me she did, but I was lucky to a point. She had just spent the better part of the day with Everard –” and here he scrunched up his face like he was smelling something foul “– and she was in very good spirits. So instead of slapping me upside the head or punching my arm or twisting my ear, she grabbed me by the collar, tossed me into the hall and slammed the door on my face. And what does Da do about it? He makes me sew all that lace, once it was properly cleaned, onto her dress. Then she gets all upset because I didn’t do it right, but that’s her fault for going along with it. I’m not a sempstress after all, I don’t care how much she says my hands are small like a lass.

“They aren’t, are they Bilbo? Ev has big hands and so do all the other lads, but they’re never teased about them, or teased at all. Mum said that hand size isn’t important, but I think she only said that to make me feel better about mine being so small.”

“Hand size?” asked Erestor. He had not heard of this postulation before, but then Bilbo would have no need to bother with it.

Pippin nodded and held up his hands for the others to see. “There’s something about a lad’s hand size that tells a lass how good of a husband he’ll be, but Vinca’s never explained it to me, and Pearl and Pimmie just say that it isn’t true and not to worry about it. You’re an elf. You’ve been around forever. Do you know what it is?”

Erestor and Lindir both shook their heads. They had a guess but if the youngster didn’t know what it was, they weren’t going to share their speculations and risk shocking the poor lad. Boromir looked down at his own hands with great approval.

Pippin turned to Bilbo. “Do you know, Bilbo?” he asked, then looked at Bilbo’s hands. “Is that why you were a bachelor all those years? How big are your hands? Frodo’s hands have been described as dainty, now that I think about it. Yet Great Uncle Dinodas and Great Uncle Dodinas have regular sized hands, and they’re both bachelors too.”

“Really, Pippin,” Bilbo admonished. “That’s nothing more than tom-foolery. Your other sisters are right. You should not be concerning yourself with such nonsense. Now let us speak of more civilized things, shall we. Pervinca is betrothed to Everard Took?”

“Yes,” Pippin replied, his dissatisfaction showing on his face once again. “They started courting in Astron, and by the time we left they were planning their wedding for next summer. I still think she went to the witch in Waymeet and poisoned him, I don’t care how much he says he’s not under any spell.”

Bilbo and the others paused at this. While the others were trying to make sense of this statement, Bilbo thought hard back to the Birthday Party. “I thought Everard would be courting Melilot Brandybuck,” he stated, for they had shared several dances at the party.

“I wish. Then I wouldn’t have to gag every time I saw him and Vinca practically sitting in each other’s laps and kissing, or holding hands and making moon eyes at each other,” Pippin said, close to gagging just thinking about it.

“Moon eyes?” asked Boromir. He had never heard the expression before, but he had seen many young lovers together so he thought he knew what Pippin was talking about.

Pippin nodded. “Yes, moon eyes.” He then proceeded to mimic a star-struck lad swooning at his lass, and somehow managed to still look disgusted by it all.

Erestor and Lindir smiled kindly, Boromir nodded in understanding, and Bilbo laughed uncontrollably. He was soon grabbing at a stitch in his side and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Not until he noticed Pippin glaring at him with hands on his hips was he able to gain control of himself again.

“I do not find this particularly funny,” Pippin said. “Ev is a good friend of mine, and he has no idea what he is doing, stepping out with Vinca like he is.”

“Now I know it might feel disturbing to a young tween like yourself,” Bilbo started, “but once you find your own lass, you’ll be making moon eyes of your own. I remember Everard to be a very capable and intelligent young lad. I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. What I don’t know is what you were doing just a while ago. You’ve sidetracked from the issue long enough, Pippin. You distracted these fine fellows from their work and I believe they are owed an explanation.”

Instead of explaining his earlier actions, Pippin said defensively, “I am not all that young. I'm plenty old enough to start courting. I am twenty-eight after all.”

“Twenty-eight?” Boromir asked, amazed at this revelation. He had always thought that Pippin was but a child. He admitted so now.

“I am a child,” Pippin said. At Boromir’s puzzled look, he elaborated, “Hobbits don’t come of age until they are thirty-three.”

“Thirty-three?” Boromir said, believing even less than before. The elves remained quiet. They had heard all this before and after all, to them, their guests were all children. “How does that work? And what is a tween?”

“I am a tween,” Pippin said. “The tween years are your twenties, between childhood and your coming of age. It’s a wonderful age to be. You’re almost expected to cause trouble and be mischievous, and folk aren’t quite as hard on you as they would be otherwise. Though they can still get rather testy, and about the most silly things. Like this one time, at the Harvest—”

“You are evading the topic at hand yet again, Peregrin,” Bilbo said, though not without a note of humor in his voice. “What were you doing here by yourself, watching me sleep?”

In the time that Boromir had known the hobbits, he had come to expect anything of them. While he still thought them to be largely innocent, the nature of their innocence has changed. The hobbits might not be worldly wise, but they were wily and cheeky and would stop at nothing to get whatever they truly wanted. Pippin in particular was capable of such feats as to leave the man boggling for hours afterwards, and the young hobbit never passed an opportunity to ask questions or tell you exactly what was on his mind. If the man had thought he was finished being surprised by the youngster, he now found he was wrong. For the first time since meeting him, Pippin was overcome with shyness and was utterly speechless. The lad suddenly found it difficult to meet Bilbo’s keen gaze, and he switched between looking furtively at Bilbo and staring down at his own feet; his mouth was clamped tightly shut.

“Pippin,” Bilbo encouraged. “Whatever it was, lad, you can tell me.”

Still Pippin hesitated. He snuck skittish peeks at Erestor, Lindir and Boromir, as though he was hoping one of them might say something and rescue him from his awkward predicament. When they remained silent, Pippin shuffled his feet and fidgeted with the seam of his breeches as two red spots flushed hot on his cheeks. At length, he spoke.

“Merry, Frodo and Sam were talking last night,” Pippin began. Many of Pippin’s explanations began in this manner, and Boromir had a fleeting thought that his friends should really refrain from speaking while in Pippin’s presence. “They said you sleep a lot and that you have more wrinkles than you did before and that you looked older and all that, more like a gaffer should look. I couldn’t really remember – what you looked like before, I mean. I don’t really remember you all that well, truth be told. I know all of your adventure and all the stories that folk say about you, and what Frodo and Merry and Sam tell me about you, but I don’t really remember you for myself. We got here that one night and we were so worried for Frodo, and Sam was nearly beside himself. Then we saw you, and Merry and Sam were so relieved, calling your name like it was a song. Not that I needed that to tell me who you were. I knew you were you when I saw you but that was only because you couldn’t have been anyone else as you were the only one to have left the Shire before us. I do have some memories of you, but only a few and so I couldn’t really remember like they did. So I was just standing here right now trying to remember and to see the differences that they saw.”

He stopped as suddenly as he started, then looked up at Bilbo hesitantly.

“Well, I am glad that you are too curious for your own good then,” said Bilbo. If he was shocked by anything Pippin had just revealed, he hid it well and only reached out to pat Pippin on the hand. “You and I shall have to spend more time together while you are here then. You might not remember me but I certainly remember the little faunt who thought he’d rescue the goose stuffed into my feather pillow. You even tried to glue the feathers back together to resemble a goose.”

Pippin’s mouth quirked upward at that. “I did that?” he asked.

“Indeed you did, and many other such wonderful things,” Bilbo said. “I would also enjoy more gossip of your parents and sisters. I have missed so much, I do not feel I will ever get caught up again.”

Pippin beamed cheerfully. “I shall like that, and I don’t care what Frodo and Merry say. I think you still look very well-preserved for 128.”

“You’re 128?” Boromir asked before he could stop himself. He was beginning to catch the hobbits’ tendency to blurt things out before thinking them through. His father would be appalled at such behavior. Faramir, on the other hand, would find it humorous. Boromir attempted to make amends. “I do not mean offense, Master Bilbo, but I would never have thought you to be so advanced in your years.”

“Advanced,” repeated Bilbo, testing the word on his tongue. “That’s a very fancy way of saying I’m ancient.”

“He wasn’t calling you ancient, Bilbo,” Pippin said. “He was calling you old.”

“Untruths both,” said Erestor, now with a teasing grin. “For you are neither ancient nor old but as young as a new day just before the dawn.”

“Then that’s why my joints are always so stiff and sore,” joked Bilbo, “for dawn is often quite cold here.”

“That they are,” came Merry’s voice from the east passage, which led outside to the corral and the stables.

After Merry had finished his afternoon sword practice session, he had gone in search of Frodo and Sam. He had found them in the paddock walking Bill and had helped them to feed and coddle the pony, who was looking much improved for his time spent here. If the pony had been intimidated by the gallant and majestic horses when they first arrived, he no longer was and he talked to them eagerly as Sam led him back to his stall. Now Frodo and Sam trailed behind Merry, and Frodo was looking at Bilbo with concern.

“Are you not feeling well these mornings, Bilbo?” he asked.

Bilbo waved a hand dismissively. “I was only having a joke with my friends and your master-in-arms. He did not believe I was 128, nor that Pip is twenty-eight.”

“How old did you think they were?” Merry asked as he, Frodo and Sam stood next to Pippin. All the hobbits waited with curiosity for an answer.

“Among the elves, Bilbo is only considered to be mere months,” said Lindir, “and you younger halflings would be only days or weeks.”

“If only that were so,” Frodo said with a wistful smile. “I would give anything to be so unaware again.”

“So how old do you think we are, Boromir?” Pippin asked.

Boromir considered them each in turn, both in stature, appearance and demeanor. Over the last couple of weeks he has become quite familiar with his pupils, and he felt, up until a few minutes ago, that he had well guessed their ages. Now he was far from certain, but there was nothing for it but to answer the question honestly. “Pippin I thought to be no more than eleven for that is the age that boys begin training in arms among my people. Bilbo I thought to be in his sixties. You others I figured could be no older than sixteen or seventeen, though I admit that has more to do with your manner than your appearance.”

Bilbo’s opinion of the man greatly improved in that moment. Imagine, he was but only sixty or so to him. The younger hobbits, on the other hand, were far from pleased, though if Merry was offended it was only on behalf of his friends.

“Eleven?” said Pippin, clearly insulted. He did not act like an eleven-year old! He remembered how he acted at eleven, due in large part to his family constantly reminding him, and he did not act like that anymore! He didn’t!

“Seventeen?” said Frodo. His expression and tone were such that his thoughts on being considered a mere child could not be determined by any of them, except perhaps Bilbo.

“How old are you then?” Merry asked the man. His tone was casual enough, and his expression would have been innocent if not for the glint of humor, and not a mild amount of retribution, in his eyes. “If I had to guess, based on the grey hairs at your temples that you try to hide by combing your hair like you do, and the grey in your beard and the small wrinkles on your forehead – an unusual place for wrinkles I might add – then I’d say that you’re past middle age and are nearing seventy.”

Pippin couldn’t be sure, for the man had become impossibly still at this declaration, but he was almost positive that he saw the man’s left eye twitch.

“Seventy?” Boromir asked at length in a measured voice. “I look seventy to you?”

“Well certainly no younger than sixty,” continued Merry with a wink at Bilbo. If Bilbo had been flattered at the man’s guess of his age, then Boromir was far from pleased. Rather than risk the wrath of the man’s bruised ego, Merry turned the heat off himself by saying, “What do you think Sam?”

Everyone turned expectantly to Sam, who very much resembled a startled deer ready to bolt. The looks of amusement on the three eldest did not help. Erestor, Lindir and Bilbo were very much enjoying this exchange, though for different reasons. The elves saw little difference between such minute numbers and Bilbo always enjoyed being witness to the cleverness of his younger cousins and of Sam. Though the years had changed them all, they were all still quintessentially the same, sharp as nails and quick as lightning.

Sam stepped back instinctively and partially shielded himself behind Frodo. He didn’t like the way Boromir was looking at him, as though his next words very well could be his last if spoken unwisely. “Well, Mr. Merry, I reckon if Master Boromir thought as we were so much younger than we are, then he can’t himself be as old as all that. I’m thirty-eight myself.”

“And I am fifty,” supplied Frodo with a bemused look at his cousin for having put Sam on the spot. When he saw Boromir's expression change from rage to amazement once again, he elaborated. “Yes, fifty, though I look much as I did when I came of age, and came into my inheritance.”

“The Ring,” Bilbo elaborated at Boromir’s inquisitive look. “Which is why I still look rather ‘well-preserved’ as Pippin puts it. Merry I believe is thirty-six.”

Now they turned toward Boromir, who was quickly processing this information. In years, Sam was closest to his own age, being but two years younger, and Merry was a year Faramir’s senior. Yet both hobbits were only a few years past their coming of age and would be considered young adults among their own kind. While he and Faramir were far from their majority – an age many soldiers never lived to see – they were far from being thought young. Among his fellow Men, they were considered approaching the middle years, and it said something of hobbit constitution that for them middle age was reached between sixty and seventy years. But he did not have wrinkles, not visible ones at any rate, and he had only a few grey hairs which could be easily pulled when they grew long enough to become noticeable. Really, Merry was exaggerating by a fair amount.

He caught himself musing overly-long, absently stroking his beard, while the hobbits waited patiently. Merry looked rather smug. Boromir pulled his hand away from his face and smiled kindly at the others. “I am forty this year,” he stated, and he did not overlook Frodo’s and Merry’s quickly-masked shock. Sam and Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, Sam clearly relieved to be let off the hook. Pippin tilted his head, and his mouth worked in the way it did before he was going to ask a question or ten. Boromir, now familiar with the warning signs, braced himself with a slow intake of breath.

Pippin’s questions were not for him however. He turned instead to the elves and asked, “How old are you then? Do you even keep count after so many years have passed? And what years do you count? Earth years, as determined by the passing of the seasons, or your own Elven years, because Bilbo told us that your years are longer than ours. Or do you count both years, so that you have two different ages? I think I would count by Elven years rather than seasonal years because numbers just rather fall out of my head when they get any higher than 150 or so. I couldn’t imagine having to count to upward of 10,000. Do you have birthday parties? Do you have cake at your parties? The dwarves make this fabulous rum cake—”

“Pippin,” Merry interjected, his tone trying. He was sick of hearing about that blasted rum cake. If he never heard of rum cake again it would be far too soon, and he was beginning to dislike the dwarves for ever having made it. Whatever had begun the long strife between dwarves and elves all those ages ago, he was certain that rum cake had something to do with it.

Boromir smiled inwardly and waited to see how the always-calm elves would respond to this sudden barrage. As could be expected, Erestor smiled kindly and jovially, and did not appear the least bit ruffled. Lindir, on the other hand, was not entirely unaffected.

“10,000,” he mumbled to himself, so softly only Erestor could hear. “No elf is that old. Arda isn’t even that old. 10,000.”

“That is quite a list,” Erestor said, sparing a sympathetic smile for his friend. “We count by our own years, though we can, at need, reckon our age in your years as well. For me, I am approaching the end of my forty-second year, or nearly 6,045 of your years, and Lindir is but twenty-five, or 3,600.”

“Twenty-five? So I’m older than you,” Pippin beamed at Lindir. “We can be tweens together. Since I’m older, I’ll have to show you the ropes of the business. There’s all sorts of things we can do. We can hang streamers in the dining hall, that will be delightful and very pretty. Or we could put whipped cream in water skins and hide them under the cushions of Elrond’s seat so when he sits down the cream flies all over the place. Oh! And the next time Gandalf falls asleep, we can put some honey in his palm and then tickle his nose with a feather. He’ll slap at his face in his sleep and the honey will get all in his beard.”

“I cannot believe you would consider doing such a thing to Gandalf,” Merry said and didn’t have to add the ‘without me’ that itched to jump off his tongue for everyone there to understand his meaning.

Pippin winked conspiratorially. “We’ll need a look-out, and who better than you? We’ll also need someone to sneak the honey from the kitchens. Sam can do that. They’ll never suspect he’ll want it for trickery.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Sam said. “Don’t you go getting me in the middle of any more of your conspiracies.”

“But this one will be fun,” Pippin prompted and turned back to Lindir. “It’s all very simple really, but it’s quite thrilling all the same. There’s always the risk of getting caught, and that adds to the thrill all the more.”

“Tooks speaking of thrills. How the earth does tremble,” came the very voice of whom they were just speaking.

Having missed Boromir and Erestor for their meeting, Gandalf and Elrond had come in search of them to find out what was delaying them so. They were not surprised to find Boromir surrounded by jesting hobbits, looking both bewildered and on the brink of laughter. Even Erestor was ready to laugh gleefully, and Lindir looked to be considering something very carefully. At the sound of the wizard’s voice, every one of them suddenly became quite serious and unassuming.

“Elrond,” said Erestor, rising gracefully to his feet. Lindir and Boromir rose beside him. “We were on our way to you when we were rather distracted. I do apologize for our tardiness.”

The hobbits smiled up innocently at Elrond and Gandalf.

“And of what thrills were our young companions speaking that held you so enthralled?” asked Gandalf.

“Oh, nothing of any great concern,” said Erestor. He and Boromir said farewell to their friends and followed their lord to his chamber.

Once all the big folk were gone, Merry turned to Pippin and said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Pippin nodded eagerly.

“Do you feel that?” Frodo said, teasing. “The earth just trembled.”  

Merry and Pippin squatted behind the fern, completely hidden from view of the courtyard garden. Lindir did his best to crouch to their level. He did not look very certain about all this, but he had to admit he was rather interested to see if it would work. Pippin whispered near silently, but loud enough for the elf to hear without any problems. Merry peeked through a gap in the ferns, keeping vigil on their target.

“Now, remember, just spread enough of the honey onto the palm to coat it,” Pippin said. “You don’t want it pouring all over the place after all. Then use the feather to just lightly graze the face. You don’t want to be too obvious about it, or you’ll wake him.”

Beside him, Merry nodded. “He’s asleep. He sleeps with his eyes open, so don’t worry about that,” he whispered to Lindir, who nodded.

“Very well,” said Lindir. “I shall return shortly.”

“Good luck,” said the hobbits.

They gathered at the gap and watched as the elf diligently crossed the courtyard, making not a single sound. Lindir paused just short of the bench where Gandalf lay asleep and looked about for witnesses. Seeing none, other than the two he knew to be hiding behind him, he leaned over and carried out the instructions to perfection. At the first attempt with the feather, Gandalf twitched his nose and mumbled incoherently. At the second attempt, Gandalf used his un-sabotaged hand to bat away the offending feather.

“Here it comes,” said Pippin, still whispering.

“Third time pays for all,” Merry agreed as Lindir flicked the feather over Gandalf’s nose a last time. Gandalf woke suddenly and wiped his honey-covered hand in the elf’s face. Merry and Pippin, safe behind the fern on the other side of the garden, howled with laughter.

“You fell for it!” said Pippin gleefully. “He fell for it, Merry!”

“See? I told you having a younger cousin is fun,” Merry said, and the two hobbits jumped up and dashed away before either the elf or Gandalf could think of coming after them.

Lindir stood in front of Gandalf, honey dripping from his eyelashes, down his cheek to his chin and onto his dress robe, astonished that the hobbits had been fooling him and not the wizard the whole time. He felt rather foolish indeed for having ‘fell for it’ as they said.

Gandalf just chuckled and handed the elf a handkerchief. “Never trust a Took or a Brandybuck,” the wizard advised and left the elf to find a basin in which to wash his hands before the dinner bell. As he passed by the open window of Elrond’s chambers, he spotted several elves cleaning cream from the walls and floors, and Elrond scowling at his chair. Gandalf chuckled anew. Rivendell would never be the same.

GF 9/2/06

In “Tea With Hobbits” Boromir refers to a time he was punished and had to polish all the swords in the Citadel armory by himself. That story can be found in my GamgeeFest Keepsakes, chapter 16, A Valiant Deed.

For XtremeFrolicker, who wanted to know: Why do the hobbits need to be so silent when they move? It's seems like some sort of adaptation, but what is it for?

“[Hobbits] possessed from the first the art of disappearing swiftly and silently… and this art they have developed until to Men it may seem magical. But Hobbits have never, in fact, studied magic of any kind, and their elusiveness is due solely to a professional skill that heredity and practice, and a close friendship with the earth, have rendered inimitable by bigger and clumsier races.” ~ FOTR, The Prologue

Chapter 5: A Dangerous Game

“Look! He’s waking up!”

“Thank the stars!”

“Are you all right, sir? Please be all right.”

“How many fingers do you see?”

“He might be able to answer if you stop waving your hand about. You’re going to make him ill.”

“Let’s give him some breathing room, lads. Merry, go get Elrond. Pippin, put your hand down.”

“No sir, don’t try standing up or you’ll… pass out again.”

“At least he passed out on the bed this time.”

“Pippin.”

“What?”

“Go get Elrond.”

“I thought Merry was going-”

“Go. Get. Elrond.”  

Six hours earlier…

The hobbits met Boromir that morning in the Hall of Fire and followed him out of the east passage where a trail led around the back of the house. The trail was lined with flagstones and bordered with verge and trellised vines. It wound its way down the shallow hillside until it leveled out and widened at the stables. The trail continued around the paddock to the far end of the corral and passed under the pines of the forest, narrowing again as it led straight and sure through the trees. Pine needles crushed underfoot, filling the air with their crisp scent.

The morning was chill and the wind stung at their faces and sent shivers down their arms and legs. The hobbits wrapped their cloaks tight around them, the cloaks getting caught in the wooden blades strapped around their waists. They looked around in wonder though they knew their destination well; they had been to the waterfall and its pond before this, but never with the intention to train. They knew not what Boromir’s plans were and they cast about for signs or clues of what was to come.

A mile into the woods, the trail widened again so that they could walk two abreast, and the trees dropped away at either side, revealing the waterfall and the pond. They could hear the waterfall wherever they went in the Last Homely House but here at its base the power of the rushing water was nearly deafening to their sensitive ears. The spray of the fall was blown about by the wind, adding to the chill of the morning, and they pulled their cloaks tighter still. Sam stayed close to Frodo’s side.

“Are you sure you’re up to this sir?” he asked his master quietly. Frodo had not said so, but Sam could tell from the shadows under his eyes that he had not slept well.

Frodo nodded, resolute. “I’ll be fine, Sam.”

Boromir continued to the water’s edge, the spray of the waterfall like a cloud of mist behind him, the ripples it created in the pond came to the bank like small waves. He turned toward the hobbits and motioned for them to line up in front of him. Like them, he wore his practice blade at his side but he removed his cloak for his tunic was thick and heavy, enough to protect him from the cold.

The hobbits lined up in front of their instructor, just as they would were they in the training room. Sam scanned his surroundings with one quick glance. He had not been here as often as the others, only once in fact, and then he had studied the foliage that grew near the water’s edge and the base of the mountainside. He eyed the pond wearily, hoping their exercise today would have nothing to do with water, especially if his master was not at his full strength.

Boromir called the hobbits to attention and drilled them briefly to warm them up. He brought them to attention again and peered down at them.

“We have been at our lessons for about two weeks now,” he began, hands clasped behind his back. He began to pace before them, his voice rising clear and stern over the roar of the waterfall; he was accustomed to speaking to large crowds of warriors and could project his voice with ease. “You have learned much in a short amount of time and are now ready to begin dueling against each other. Dueling will help to hone the skills you have learned as well as pinpoint the skills you still need to develop. Most importantly, it will get you accustomed to facing an opponent.

“Before we advance to that stage of your lessons we will test what skills you have learned thus far. The test will be simple.” Boromir stood before them again and waved an arm to indicate the forest around them. “I am the enemy, you are the prey. I will give you a half-hour to find a suitable hiding place and then I will come for you. In that time, you are to devise a defense attack against me based on what you have been taught so far. If I catch you or overcome you, you are dead. You will return to the pond and wait here for the end of the contest. If you defeat me, then you win the match and you will return here to wait with the others. Any questions?”

“Can we help each other?” Pippin asked.

“This is an individual match. We will have a group match near the end of your training, if you wish it. For now, you are to find places to hide as far away from each other as you can, but you are to remain within a hundred yards of this pond and you are not to climb the cliffs. Once you are hid, you are to stay there until either I find you or you see me and can execute your plan of attack,” Boromir said, adding this last instruction with a smile at Pippin. He had not forgotten the halfling’s confession to moving during their last game of hide-and-go-seek, and he did not wish for the contest to last all day.

“We can choose any kind of defense we want?” Merry asked.

“Yes, anything you think will give you the advantage.”

“What if you can’t find us?” Frodo asked next.

“The contest will continue until all of you have been found and have had your chance to duel with me,” Boromir said, “even if that means it takes all day for me to find you.”

“Master Boromir, I don’t believe my master’s feeling very well,” Sam said, watching Frodo closely. He could see Frodo swaying ever-so-slightly on his feet, almost as though he were being pushed by the wind as a bough in the trees. “He didn’t rest well last night.”

“I’m fine Sam,” Frodo said patiently, wishing his friend had kept quiet. Now his cousins were watching him with concern and Boromir was frowning down at him. “Honest. I am only tired. I’m well enough for a contest.”

“If you’re certain,” Boromir said, questioning. He would gladly wait until the following day and give the hobbits a day of rest if Frodo needed it, but in reality he knew that the hobbits were unlikely to find much opportunity for plentiful rest on the quest. If Frodo was willing to continue despite being weary, then he would be all the better for it.

“I am,” Frodo said.

“Very well then. You have a half-hour, until the sun rises over that peak,” Boromir said. He watched the hobbits as they turned and walked along the pond’s edge toward the far side of the forest. Pippin veered off first, then Merry. Sam and Frodo continued together, Sam reluctant to leave his master’s side. “Remember,” Boromir called after them, “you are to hide and fight separately.”

Before they disappeared into the cover of the trees, Frodo placed a hand to Sam’s shoulder and spoke a few words to him. Sam replied and left his master’s side as they gained the shelter of the pines.

When the sun peaked over the distant mountains, Boromir left the pond and approached the forest. He went first to where he had seen Pippin enter the woods and searched the ground for tracks, keeping his ears tuned for sounds of movement or breathing. The ground was dry for the autumn rains had not fallen yet and very few pine needles littered the earth. Here and there were berry bushes, some bearing red or blue fruit, others dormant, but none had dropped their leaves. No twigs lay upon the ground save a few. There was little to be disturbed by the movements of a small and lithe hobbit. Swift and light of foot, he had made no tracks upon the soil to follow or give a hint of his direction.

Boromir stepped lightly, remembering that Pippin had said he could hear the man the last time they had played this game, but in the silence of the woods, his footfalls echoed loudly even to his own ears. Only by moving slowly and deftly was he able to minimize the noise he made and that would simply take too long. He would not be able to gain the element of surprise on his prey but that would mean little in the end.

After a time he found a clue, a bent twig on a bush, freshly broken. He turned and followed the winding path of the trees in this new direction, his senses honed to any sign of pursuit. He stepped into a small clearing. The sun was now high enough to clear the treetops above, though the light had yet to reach the forest floor. The man passed through the clearing, his eye catching movement in his periphery near a bush that sat up against a boulder. He continued as though he saw nothing but slowly moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.

Boromir did not hear the attack so much as he felt it. The hairs on his nape bristled and his muscles readied instinctively for battle. He drew his blade and whirled around, sure he would find his opponent stunned into stillness. There was nothing there. He glanced up quickly to the bush and saw the lower branches quivering. Something had just left its cover, of that he was certain. He turned around in all directions, his blade at the ready. As he turned, he grew aware of something just behind him, but every time he turned around there was nothing to be seen.

This was familiar. Why was it familiar?

He lowered his blade, keeping it in front of him. He feinted to the right then quickly reversed his direction to the left and trapped Merry at the end of his sword. The hobbit jumped back lithely and easily blocked a strike but Boromir was ready for the block. He twisted his sword about the hobbit’s blade and pulled it from Merry’s hands. He then advanced, bearing down on the hobbit until he stood over him, the blunt edge of his sword raised in a kill position.

“You’re out, Merry.”

“That wasn’t fair,” Merry accused, rubbing the wrist of his sword hand.

“Battle isn’t about being fair,” Boromir said. “You kill or you get killed.” He sheathed his blade and helped Merry to his feet. “Had you attacked right away you could have stood a better chance.”

“I was trying to confuse you, and hopefully make you dizzy,” Merry explained.

“And you did confuse me, but then you allowed me to gain my bearings again. Take the advantage when you have it, Merry. Hesitate and it could very well be the last thing you do.”

Merry nodded and picked up his wooden sword. He handled it with ease. Already he could wield it as efficiently as one who had been dueling for years, but still he was reluctant to use it. Boromir knew this would be the greatest challenge with the hobbits and that was another reason for this contest – to get them used to drawing their blades against another person. So far they had attacked only dummies and even that had been trying for them.

“Go back to the pond and wait there,” Boromir instructed. “Try to think of a better defense while you are waiting. We will go over it again at tomorrow’s training.”

He continued his pursuit, not waiting for Merry to get out of view. He was one hobbit down, but it was not the hobbit he had been expecting to encounter. The halflings were more difficult to track than he anticipated and even walking back to the bush he knew Merry had been hiding behind he could see no trace of the hobbit’s path. He was now glad that he had taken Gandalf’s advice and had set a perimeter that the hobbits could not go beyond, otherwise the contest really would take all day.

Only twenty minutes passed before he came upon his next opponent. A rare footprint gave the hider away and Boromir was able to step around a small clump of trees to the brush on the other side, poking his blade into the foliage until he met resistance and Pippin squeaked. When Pippin was standing before him, brushing off his breeches and cloak, Boromir asked, “So, how did you lose?”

“You said we couldn’t move,” Pippin said, “and I could hear you coming but I didn’t know from which direction.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Boromir said. “You have a wall behind you and thick foliage in front of you. It’s a good hiding place, but not a good lookout point. How would you have attacked me?”

“Well, I was thinking of throwing dirt in your face and then running,” Pippin said sheepishly. He had not been able to think of anything better than that and he doubted in his ability to overcome such a seasoned warrior.

Boromir smiled kindly. “Not a bad strategy but you can’t throw dirt in the faces of all your enemies. We will go over some engagements tomorrow that you can practice. If you feel you need extra instruction, just let me know.”

“I will,” Pippin said and beamed up at the man. “But I still hid very well, didn’t I?”

Boromir laughed and patted the little one’s shoulder. “You did indeed. I doubt very much that the enemy would take so long to look for you halflings as I am. They would walk right past you and be none the wiser.”

He sent Pippin on his way back to the pond and returned to his hunt. He turned toward the cliffs, as that was where Frodo and Sam had entered the woods, and his hunt for Merry and Pippin had taken him in the opposite direction. Despite his instructions, he doubted that Sam would be very far from his master. If he could find Frodo, it would only be a matter of minutes before he found Sam, and vice versa.

Another half-hour passed before he found another footprint, but this one was too faint to give him any hint of who had made it and in what direction they were headed. Still, it was enough of a sign to tell him he was going in the right direction and he continued toward the base of the cliffs, the waterfall now tumbling loudly to his left, drowning out all other noise. He paused at the base of a tree and scanned the remaining foliage, his eyes and intuition all that were left to him. There were not many places here for even a hobbit to hide and he was at a loss as to where the last two halflings could be. Then suddenly he remembered Frodo’s question: what if you can’t find us?

A sneaking suspicion began to grow in his mind and Boromir raised his voice over the roar of the falls. “Frodo! You better not be wearing that ring!”

“Why not?” came Frodo’s voice just to the man’s left. Boromir wheeled around, not seeing Frodo anywhere.

“Well for one thing it isn’t fair,” Boromir said.

“I thought battle wasn’t about being fair,” Frodo said and now the voice was to Boromir’s right.

“It will not aid you against agents of the Enemy,” Boromir said.

“That’s not what you said at the Council,” Frodo pointed out.

“It’s against the rules,” Boromir tried now.

“No it isn’t.”

“Well, moving after you’re hidden is, and you must have moved if you heard me speaking with Merry,” Boromir said.

“I wasn’t hiding then. You said you would give us a half-hour to hide. You didn’t say we had to be hid within that time. I only just a short while ago realized that I had the perfect hiding place with me all along,” Frodo said, sounding smug and very pleased with himself.

“Wearing the Ring is cheating, Frodo. Now come out where I can see you.”

“I’m not wearing the Ring, and I can’t come out. You said once we were hid we were to stay there until you find us or we assail you,” Frodo said, laughing now. “Well, you haven’t found me yet and I haven’t assailed you yet, so I have to stay hidden.”

“Frodo,” Boromir started when a pine needle fell on his forehead. He reached up and brushed the needle away then looked up into the boughs of the tree. A blur of cloth passed over his vision and before he could react a cloak was covering his face. He heard a thump behind him as Frodo landed on the ground and by the time the man removed the cloak from his face the hobbit was gone.

Boromir pursued him. Frodo had left tracks where he landed and for a few feet beyond. Boromir headed in that direction and up ahead he could see the foliage moving where the hobbit had crashed through the branches. The man burst through the bushes and was hit in the chest by a hobbit running and jumping at him at full speed. Boromir tumbled over backward, falling onto his haunches but he was as quick as the halfling and he grabbed Frodo by the ankle before he could dash off again. They wrestled on the ground, rolling in the dirt as Frodo squirmed to get away. He nearly succeeded but the man was stronger and soon enough pinned him to the ground. They froze, both of them laughing and panting from the exertion.

“Very clever,” Boromir said. “I did not know that your kind could climb.”

“Most hobbits don’t like heights, but they don’t bother me,” Frodo said, catching his breath.

“I thought you were feeling tired this morning,” Boromir said, letting the hobbit go and helping him to his feet.

“I was but this has woken me up quite effectively,” Frodo said.

“I’m glad to hear you are in better spirits, but you still lost your campaign,” Boromir said, growing serious. “Why did you not draw your blade?”

“Well, if you hadn’t caught my foot, I might have,” Frodo said, that same reluctance in his eyes that Boromir had seen in the others.

The man nodded. He had a bigger job before him than he had originally thought. If the hobbits couldn’t bring themselves to actually use their swords when the time for battle came, then all their training would be for nil. So far, only Merry had attempted to parry with him. He wondered what Sam had up his sleeves.

He patted Frodo’s shoulder. “You did well, Frodo. You even used the noise of the waterfall to provide cover for your movements. A very impressive attempt. Now go to your cousins while I search for Sam.”

“Sam’s still hiding?”

“Yes. He is the last.”

Frodo nodded. “That makes sense. He was the spy of the Conspiracy. Plus he’s a gardener.”

The halfling walked away before Boromir could ask him to explain that last comment. What did gardening have to do with hiding? Unless… Yes, of course. Sam would know better than the others which bushes would provide the best cover and allow the best vantage points to spy his opponent. Which meant Sam could very well be watching him right at this moment, for Boromir was still convinced that Sam would not have hidden far from his master.

Boromir scanned the surrounding area and spotted a couple of bushes that he thought the gardener might feel were adequate cover. He headed toward the one closest to Frodo’s tree and was nearly upon it when he heard a whistling sound approaching fast to his right and all went black.  

“Look! He’s waking up again!” Pippin said excitedly.

The hobbits jumped up from their game of draughts and crowded around the foot of the bed as Elrond came to the man’s side. The elf lord placed a comforting hand on Boromir’s head, quieting the throbbing pain there. Boromir blinked up into the faces of the hobbits, dazed and confounded. How did they get back to the house? Why didn’t he remember the return journey? Why did his head hurt so much?

The hobbits looked at him, their faces full of worry and concern. Sam was the most distraught. He was wringing his hands together and looked ready to plead for mercy and beg forgiveness.

Sam. … Why couldn’t he remember catching Sam?

“Sam?” the man said and at this word the gardener broke and fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I’m that sorry, Master Boromir, honest,” Sam said frantically, as Frodo reached over and patted his friend’s shoulder reassuringly. “I didn’t think as I threw it that hard, and it were only a pinecone.”

“A very small, hard pinecone,” Pippin interjected.

“Now, Sam, didn’t we agree that the heads of Men must be as soft as their feet?” Merry said. “That would explain why they wear helmets to battle.”

“Elves wear helmets,” Pippin said.

“Well, they must have soft heads too,” Merry said. “No offense meant, of course.”

“None taken,” Elrond assured, placing a cold compress over the man’s head.

“Anyway, it’s not your fault Boromir failed to tell us this,” Merry continued. “He said we could use any defense we felt best to use and you did. And you won. You should be celebrating.”

“I nearly cracked his head open!” Sam cried, not at all in the mood to celebrate.

“You did not,” Pippin said with a flip of his hand. “Elrond said it was only a concussion.”

“Pippin,” Frodo said, a warning in his tone.

“What?”

“Why don’t you and Merry go find the attendants and let them know that Boromir is awake? He needs to eat something and Sam could do with some food as well. We’ll have our tea in here with Boromir,” Frodo decided, and Merry dragged a reluctant Pippin from the man’s room.

Boromir watched this all with confusion, the ache in his head growing more persistent by the moment. He attempted to sit up but Elrond firmly held him down, a good thing for even that small movement sent the room whirling about the man’s head.

“What-? What happened?” Boromir managed weakly.

Sam’s sobs renewed and he hid his face in his master’s shoulder. Frodo soothed him as best he could before explaining. “Sam threw a pinecone at you and it knocked you out. We tried to revive you but we couldn’t, so Pippin ran back here to get help. You’ve been out for about five hours now.”

“A pinecone?” Boromir said, disbelieving. He had been knocked out by a pinecone?

Elrond produced the object in question, placing it in the man’s hand. Boromir wrapped his fist around the pinecone, which was about the size of a small rock and nearly as hard and heavy. Then he reached up and gingerly touched the spot where the cone had landed just above his right temple, a place especially susceptible to pressure on any man's head. That whole side of his head was largely swollen and tender to the touch. He drew his hand away with a hiss and squinted at the cone, his vision in his right eye blurry around the edges. Then he looked at Sam, who was still sobbing into Frodo’s shoulder.

“A pinecone?” he asked again. “Why would you even think to throw a pinecone?”

“Hobbits have good aim and we’re sure at the mark,” Frodo answered for his servant, who was now hiccupping as he attempted to gain control of his sobs. “You said to use the defense we were most comfortable with and that would be it. A well-thrown rock will bring down a rabbit or squirrel or a low-flying bird, or even predators trying to get to your livestock if you use a sling.”

“I’m sorry!” Sam cried into Frodo’s shoulder. He peered up at the man, his face tear-streaked and eyes red. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, honest!”

Elrond tipped a mug to Boromir’s lips and helped the man sit up enough that he could drink the mixture inside. Within moments, the pain was lifting and Boromir was able to feel more compassionate toward the distraught halfling. The man waved his hand in what he hoped was a comforting, reassuring manner.

“You did as you were instructed Sam,” Boromir said. “Perhaps it was not such a good idea to have you hide after all. A line duel would have been better. Yes, next time, we’ll do that. Tell me, how did you all become so adept at hiding anyway?”

Frodo shrugged. “We just are. All hobbits can disappear and hide at need. Gandalf thinks it’s because we’re small. After all, a rabbit can hide more easily than a deer, and a deer more easily than an ox. But I think it also has something to do with the time before we settled in the Shire. It is a skill we would have had to hone when we were roaming the wilds.”

Merry and Pippin returned then, carrying trays of food. There were tea and crumpets for the hobbits, and a bowl of broth for Boromir.

“We’re back!” Pippin announced and Boromir’s headache returned full force.

“Yes,” Boromir muttered, “next time, we’ll try not hiding… And no throwing things. Definitely no throwing things.”

“Not even dirt?”

“Pippin.”

“I know, I know. Go get something.”

To be continued…

GF 10/9/06

The hobbits nurse Boromir back to health, in their own special way.

“The Shire at this time had hardly any ‘government’. Families for the most part managed their own affairs.” ~ FOTR, The Prologue, “Of the Ordering of the Shire”

“But the government of a ‘family’, as of the real unit: the ‘household’, was not a monarchy (except by accident). It was a ‘dyarchy’, in which master and mistress had equal status, if different functions. Either was held to be the proper representative of the other in the case of absence (including death).” ~ Letter #214

Chapter 6 – The Best Medicine

Sam began the next morning early, as he did all mornings. The elves had offered to see to all of the hobbits’ needs during their stay, but Sam insisted that it was his duty to care for his master and he simply could not fathom being waited on himself. So he slipped from bed and tiptoed across the room to his master’s bed. All that could be seen of Frodo was a tuft of hair poking out from the top of the bed sheets, and from his slow and even breathing Sam knew that Frodo was still deep in sleep, tucked in snug and warm as he should be.

Sam refilled the pitcher on the bedside table with fresh water and moved the wicker screen along the balcony, positioning it so it would shade his master when the sun rose. He leafed through the wardrobe and selected clothes for Frodo to wear, spreading them out at the foot of the long bed, then retrieved a fresh towel from the linen chest and set it by the pitcher. He made sure the ewer was clean and that there was fresh soap for his master’s use. The room now prepared for Frodo’s eventual awakening, Sam washed and dressed himself in his own room next door, then slipped into the massive hallway.

The Last Homely House was grey in the predawn light, despite candlelit sconces glowing on the walls beside every doorway and arch. Shadows loomed overhead and lurked in the corners, and even Sam’s near-silent footfalls echoed loudly in his ears as he shuffled down the passageways. The sheer size of this magnificent home had overwhelmed the hobbits when they first arrived, travel-worn and hungry, worried for Frodo and still in shock from their last encounter with the Black Riders. Then there were the Elves, luminous and graceful, both otherworldly and yet more deeply rooted to the earth than even the most at-home hobbit in his hobbit-hole. Sam had not known what to do with himself when he was first pried from Frodo’s side but he had learned much since that time.

He trotted around the bends, down the stairs and through the passages with ease, looking around with keen interest for there was always something new to discover if one looked close enough. He reached the end of one passage and entered the main kitchen, the only room in the house that was already alive with activity. The elves there were long familiar with all the hobbits by now and they knew to expect Sam in the early mornings before the others woke. The little gardener shared many of his Shire recipes with them, as well as learned some of their own. They smiled broadly when he walked in and greeted him good morning. Sam returned the greeting and climbed onto the stepping stool they had made available for him.

“And what will your Frodo be having for first breakfast this morning?” they asked.

“Actually, I thought I’d cook a wee feast for us and Boromir,” Sam said. “Lord Elrond says he’s got to keep off his feet, at least for today, so we decided we’d keep him company so’s he won’t get lonesome. That is, if he don’t mind us being around. What do you reckon a Man would like to eat?”

“It has been our experience that a Man will eat anything placed before him,” answered the elves.

“That don’t help me much, begging your pardons,” Sam said. “I was wanting to make him something he’ll enjoy especially.”

“I noticed that he did favor the sausage cakes we had his first morning here,” said one elf, who usually served the food. “He is also quite fond of berries and nuts.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully as first breakfast quickly formulated in his mind. “Very well then. I haven’t made hot cakes since we’ve been here, and those would go quite well with some of that berry sauce you make, if you wouldn’t mind showing me how to make it that is. That, and those sausage cakes. They tasted almost like small one-bite muffins, stuffed with peppered sausage, cream sauce and onions. The cream sauce was mostly just cheese mixed with milk, but you spiced it with something I couldn’t quite put my finger to. A small fruit salad and a bowl of nuts will round it out nicely, don’t you think?”

“We’re hungry already,” the elves agreed, “and we would love to learn of these hot cakes of which you speak.”

“You mean Mr. Bilbo ain’t taught you about those yet?” asked Sam, and they were soon preparing enough of the meal to feed the entire house.

By the time Sam and the elves carried the food to Boromir’s room, Merry and Pippin were already there, keeping the man company. The elves placed the food on the table near the center of the room and left after exchanging greetings with the hobbits.

Elrond was there also, administering to his patient, unwrapping the poultice from Boromir’s head. Sam was relieved to see that the swelling was already gone and only a small knot at the point of contact remained. Boromir smiled pleasantly at him around the long sleeves of Elrond’s robes.

“Morning sirs,” Sam greeted humbly before occupying himself with the food. He arranged the trays and bowls just so and fiddled with the serving utensils until Pippin joined him.

The younger hobbit eyed the food greedily. “Morning Sam!” he chirped. “Surely that can’t all be for Boromir.”

“For such a large person, he eats surprisingly little,” agreed Merry from Elrond’s side, where he was sniffing at the poultice mixture he was holding for Elrond. He grinned down at the man and continued cheekily, “It’s a wonder he doesn’t shrivel away and disappear. Well, since he’ll be lying about all day, at least we’ll be able to feed him properly. Food is the best medicine after all.”

Sam nodded in agreement and continued to fuss with the placement of the bowls and plates. From the corner of his eye, he saw Elrond place another poultice to Boromir’s wound and wrap his head loosely. Merry sniffed at the mixture again and assessed its contents. Pippin meanwhile was much more interested in smelling the food.

“How does he seem to you?” Sam asked of Boromir, speaking so quietly only elven ears could hear him from across the room.

“He’s excellent,” Pippin answered, not bothering to keep his voice low. “He slurs every other word and has no clue who he is, but other than that I’d say he’s feeling quite peachy.”

“What?” Sam exclaimed, his heart jumping into his throat even as Pippin and Merry dissolved into helpless giggles. “You’re both incorrigible,” he accused.

“Oh Sam, you should have seen the look on your face,” Pippin laughed.

Merry dipped a spoon into the poultice and tasted a small amount of the mixture before addressing Sam. “Have no fear, my friend. Our fearless leader is the portrait of health, aside from the gaping hole you knocked into his skull. He was just commending you on your good aim when Elrond arrived.”

“Indeed he was,” Pippin said. “What was it you said exactly, Boromir? ‘Tham throws tho thwell.’ He even teared up, but that could have been from the pain.”

Sam chuckled ruefully despite himself. “You pair of rascals,” he muttered, feeling much relieved. He cautioned a wary glance at Boromir, who was listening to this exchange with much amusement. “You’re really not upset sir?”

“Of course not. You were only doing what I told you to do, Sam,” Boromir pointed out, speaking with perfect clarity. “If anything, it was a valuable lesson for me. The next time I see a hobbit stooping for so much as a feather, I'll know to take cover.”

Merry put the bowl back on the medicinal tray with a decisive nod. “Fenugreek, feverfew and slippery elm,” he announced. “That would be for the pain and inflammation. There’s also mustard seed. That’s used for swelling. There’s something else also, but I can’t place it. It must be an herb that only grows here.”

“Do you know much of healing, Meriadoc?” Elrond asked with interest. During Frodo’s convalescence Merry had been too worried to show any interest in the healing arts that Elrond had used to rid his cousin of the Morgul blade. Boromir’s injury was not so dire and the hobbits were able to be their usual cheerful selves while the man recovered. Merry had come to help Elrond the moment he stepped into the room and he observed everything Elrond did with close scrutiny.

Boromir too was surprised at this revelation. He knew the hobbits well enough by now to know they could taste and identify the ingredients in any dish with little trouble. Naturally, they would be able to do the same with herbals, but he would not have guessed they would know of the herbs’ uses. “Are you a healer Merry?” he asked.

“I’m not formally trained but I know something of the art,” Merry answered. “I courted a healer for a time and she taught me much of the more common herbs that she used. I could guess more or less how to make some of the basic remedies but I would only risk doing so if there was no one more knowledgeable around. All I’m really good for is reciting what the herbs are used for. Take feverfew for example. It’s a very versatile herb and can be used for many things. I know it’s good for relieving muscles spasms and tension. It increases fluidity in the lungs. It works wonderfully for the appetite and relieves nausea and vomiting. It helps with arthritis, colitis, fever, pain, inflammation and female problems. However, I’ve never prepared it for anything except as a tea for pain. Right Sam?”

“That’s right sir, and a very fine tea you can make,” Sam affirmed.

“Females have their own problems?” Boromir asked.

Merry shrugged and joined Pippin and Sam at the food table. “Apparently so.”

“Not all lasses do but some can have all sorts of problems,” Pippin piped in knowledgably, “usually having to do with their cycle. Pervinca certainly has her share of them, and all of hers last all month long.”

“Goldie always has a time of it,” Sam said. “There were times she hardly wanted to get out of bed. When May was still at home, she could get away with that, but after May married she had no choice about it. Miss Camellia was always having to come over to see to her.”

“That’s… possibly more than I wanted to know,” Merry said. Pippin just rolled his eyes at him and reached for a sausage cake. Sam smacked his hand away.

“Had I known you had a passion for the healing arts, Meriadoc, I would have invited you to meet with the apothecary before now,” Elrond said as he prepared to leave, a rare smile on his lips, a result of the hobbits’ banter. “Whenever you have time to spare, feel free to come to the herbarium. There is much in there you may find useful.”

“Thank you, Elrond. I will,” Merry accepted happily.

Elrond excused himself from the room with a bow of his head. “I leave you to tend to your captain,” he said to the hobbits.

“We’ll take good care of him,” Merry promised.

“Yes, we’ve already cleared the room of all small projectile objects in case Sam starts getting itchy,” Pippin jested. “And when his amnesia clears up, we’ll come and fetch you straight away.”

“I have amnesia?” Boromir asked, hiding a teasing grin behind his beard.

“By the stars! He’s forgotten that he’s forgotten! It’s worse than we feared,” Merry exclaimed dramatically and ducked just in time to miss being boxed on the ear by Sam.

Elrond closed the door behind him and the hobbits turned their attention to the food. “Just let me put aside a plate for Mr. Frodo,” Sam said.

“Posh! If Frodo can’t be awake to get his own food, let him miss out,” Pippin said. He heaped a plate with sausage cakes and hot cakes, slathering the hot cakes with the berry sauce and sprinkling the nuts on top. He picked up a fruit bowl and carried them to Boromir. “Here you are! This will make you feel much better.”

“Thank you Pippin,” Boromir said. For once he felt hungry enough that the amount of food set before him did not look too daunting. “Where is Frodo?” he asked, waiting for the others before he ate.

“If I know my cousin, he’s asleep,” answered Merry. “Since there’s no training this morning, he’ll be taking advantage of it by sleeping in as long as he can, or did you forget the reason why he enjoys second breakfast so much?”

“Ah! Of course. I did forget. It must be the amnesia,” the man said with a wink.

The hobbits laughed, impressed by the stern man’s easy jesting, and Sam relaxed even more. He finished Frodo’s plate and set it close to the hearth to keep it warm. He prepared his own plate as Merry and Pippin pulled chairs close to Boromir’s bed and sat down, eager to dig into their meal. When Sam joined them, all talk ceased as they ate. Other than the various exclamations over the marvelous food, the room was silent.

When Frodo joined them two hours later, their meal was long finished, and Merry and Pippin were dramatizing the events that unfolded after Sam threw the pinecone. Frodo walked in to find Merry sprawled spread-eagle on the floor, his tongue lolling to one side, as Pippin dashed about him, doing a very convincing if somewhat exaggerated imitation of Sam’s fretful reaction. To Frodo’s relief, both Boromir and Sam were laughing nearly to the point of tears, a very welcome sight. Frodo had heard Sam tossing and turning last night before sleep took them both. He should have known that his cousins would find some way of making the situation more comfortable for his friend.

Sam brought Frodo his plate and they watched as Merry and Pippin concluded their reenactment with fanfare.

“I see you’ve practiced your acting skills since that play I wrote,” Frodo said when the performers took their bows after much applause. “Though I must say that Sam didn’t really start fretting until the elves arrived.”

“You tell it your way, I’ll tell it mine,” Pippin said and flopped down in his chair. “That was exhausting. I’m hungry. There’s enough first breakfast left to serve as a small second breakfast, don’t you think Mer?”

“Good idea, Pip. Besides, it would be rude to make Frodo eat alone,” Merry agreed.

Together Sam and Merry divvied the last of the food into small servings for second breakfast. Boromir only accepted a few items on his plate, being still full from first breakfast. He nibbled at the food as he had learned to do, and the hobbits were satisfied to see he was at least eating something. After such an injury as his, it was important that he keep up his strength.

The halflings were more chatty during this meal than they had been the previous one, as Boromir had also learned to expect. They were content to eat at their leisure and answer Frodo’s questions about their activities up to his arrival. Pippin happily filled his cousin in on how they had come about to reenacting the Incident, as he jokingly called it, and that led him to recalling the last ‘incident’ worthy of the designation: a fire that Merry started by accident.

“Now that is something to feel guilty about!” Merry quipped. “And I did feel guilty, for months and months afterward. Well, years and years, since Sam hardly spoke to me at all after that.”

“Should I have?” Sam asked, smirking. “I nearly took the blame for that.”

“True, true,” Merry conceded. “I did rather get you into trouble with all of that, but that wasn’t my point. My point was that my guilt then was far worse than your guilt now.”

“How can you say such?” Sam asked, mildly insulted despite the laugh waiting to erupt from his chest. “I nearly killed Boromir.”

“With a pinecone,” Pippin said, “that could hardly fell a squirrel. Who knew that you just happened to hit him in some sort of soft spot? Do hobbits have soft spots?” he asked Merry, reaching up to feel at his head randomly.

“I don’t think so,” Merry answered.

“All creatures have a soft spot,” Boromir said. He wasn’t about to explain that the 'soft spot' Sam’s pinecone had landed on was just a mere inch shy of a kill point. Considering how Sam had reacted the previous night, he thought it best not to mention it at all if he could. Still, he could not stand by – well, lay by – and let the hobbits think that the heads of Men were somehow more fragile than the heads of Hobbits.

Pippin was about to ask the man to explain his last comment when Frodo spoke up, looking pointedly at Boromir. “Besides, Merry’s fire wasn’t the last infamous Incident, Peregrin Took.” He turned his attention to his youngest cousin and grinned impishly. “I know you couldn’t have forgotten the night you, Ferdi and Everard mooned the Aunts.”

“I was drunk!” Pippin defended.

“Ferdi and Everard were drunk and you allowed them to give you ale, even though you knew perfectly well you were too young to have any,” Merry corrected.

“Yes, well… you streaked in front of all the Brandybucks,” Pippin accused.

“You streaked in front of all the Shire,” Merry returned.

“You told me to!”

“And you listened!”

“I was six!”

“I couldn’t be the last streak-runner in Shire history, Pippin,” Merry explained, overly-patient. “Besides, I was just passing on the tradition. Was it any fault of mine that you never had a younger cousin who you could pull the prank on? I hardly think so.”

“Just because Frodo told you that Berilac streaked at the Summer Feast just to give you something you could compete with him over, that is no excuse for you talking me into streaking at the Free Fair,” Pippin rebuked.

“Oh come on. It was funny. You had a good time of it.”

“It wasn’t funny. I was accosted by a pigeon while I was running and that’s why Pervinca still calls me that. Stop laughing!”

“You were not attacked by a pigeon, Pip,” Frodo said gently, trying desperately not to laugh. “Vinca just made that story up. It never happened.”

“It didn’t? Are you sure?”

Merry nodded, the only confirmation he could give. If he opened his mouth, he would lose all control and laugh hysterically. Pippin scowled at him, which only made Merry’s shoulders shake harder, tears now gathering in his eyes.

“Just you wait, Meriadoc Brandybuck. I’ll get you back for everything you’ve ever put me through,” Pippin vowed with righteous fervor. “You might not care if all the Brandybucks saw your bits and bobs but I know you better than you realize and I know just how to get you back, and I guarantee that you won’t come away from it unscathed like you manage to do everything else. Stop laughing!”

But Merry couldn’t stop. He was bent over with suppressed laughter, his face red and tears streaming down his face. He was clutching his side and slapping his knee, and Frodo and Sam weren’t helping matters. They were both laughing also, though Sam at least had the courtesy to hide his laugh behind his hand. Pippin crossed his arms and glared at his friends.

“It’s just not fair,” Pippin muttered. “You always get the better of any prank, even that dress prank that Frodo pulled on you. Because of that, you had to get even with him and that’s the only reason you even spoke to Willow in the first place.”

“Willow? Is she the healer of whom you spoke earlier? Are you married now?” Boromir asked, latching onto this last piece of information in an attempt to steer the conversation back to something he could understand. As entertaining and surprisingly informative as this last exchange had been, the hobbits had been speaking too quickly for him to interject any questions. Still, he noted that Frodo had succeeded in effectively changing the conversation from the pinecone incident.

“Married?” Merry squeaked through his tears. He sat up, wiped his face and forced his laughter to calm into hiccups. Finally, he regained control of himself and shook his head. “I should think not. I love Frodo fiercely and would do anything for him, but I don’t think I could have left a wife behind in the Shire. Rather I would have ditched the Conspiracy and done anything I could think of to keep him from leaving and having to carry this burden. At most, I would have accompanied him to Bree, since he was supposed to meet up with Gandalf. I would have been in a fine pickle when Gandalf never arrived. I suppose in the end, nothing much would have changed, except I'd have that much more to worry about.”

Boromir considered this. It was a strange thought, but an understandable one. Many soldiers became reluctant to leave home after they married, but left home they did if that was what their Steward demanded of them. “So none of you are married then?”

“No sir,” Sam answered. “None of us are so much as courting, not officially no how.”

“I thought Merry was courting a lady named Willow.”

“He was, but he isn’t anymore, not for the last couple of years,” Pippin clarified.

“Is it common for healers to wed in your culture, for it is not in my own,” Boromir asked.

“Most healers don’t court, but occasionally one will,” Merry said. “I enjoyed my time with Willow, such as it was, and I’ll always love her in my way, but it simply couldn’t have worked. The same for Estella, only I never courted her at all.”

“You could have,” Pippin said.

“Yes, but the timing wasn't right,” Merry said with a brief flicker towards Frodo; the Conspiracy was just beginning to form when Estella declared her feelings for him. “Gordi was about to propose. I couldn't do that to him. And what do you mean, Sam, that none of us are courting? What about your Rosie?”

“We ain’t courting sir,” Sam answered simply.

“Maybe not ‘officially’ as you put it but everyone knows, as they have for years, that the two of you are going to marry some day,” Merry said. “It’s as plain as a sunrise that neither of you will have anyone else.”

“She might have someone else by now,” Sam said, growing suddenly sad. “They probably all think we’re dead, going into the Old Forest like we did.”

“They wouldn’t think that,” Pippin said lightly, but it was clear that all the hobbits were afraid that this was very much what everyone did think of their fate. They sat solemn, each lost in his own thoughts, and Boromir could almost feel the chill settle over the room as their cheer faded. He looked between them with alarm. He had seen them in many moods and temperaments in the few short weeks he had known them, but he never thought to see them bereaved.

“Tell me of your Shire,” Boromir said, hoping to distract the little ones from their dark thoughts. “It sounds like a lovely homeland, full of green lawns and farms and flowering gardens. What else can you tell me about it? Who is your Steward?”

“Steward?” Pippin asked.

“Your ruler?”

“The Shire has no ruler,” Merry answered, “not like you mean it. We have The Rules, passed to us from the old king of Norbury and we keep them of our free will because that’s the sensible thing to do. We do have officials though, such as they are.

“There’s the Mayor, who we elect every seven years at the Free Fair on Mid-Year’s Day. The chief duty of the Mayor is to preside over banquets and feasts and other such important events. He’s also in charge of the post-messengers, an especially large responsibility for there are more post-messengers than there are any other occupation in the Shire, aside from farmers. The mayor is also responsible for the shirriffs, of which there are only twelve. The shirriffs go about the Shire, keeping the peace in theory but they usually just round up stray animals. Along with the shirriffs are the Bounders, who go about ‘beating the bounds’ and keeping the Outside world where it belongs. There’s at least fifty bounders at any given time, plus several other hobbits who can volunteer when needed to reinforce a certain expanse of the Bounds, should there be suspicious activity. The volunteers usually forget who they are, so little they are called upon.

“Then there’s the Thain, Pippin’s father, who is in charge of the Shire-muster and the Hobbitry-in-Arms, of which we have none except in times of strife, the last such time being over 100 years ago during the Fell Winter when wolves invaded the Shire. The Thain is also the master of the Shire-moot, a gathering of family heads that is called in time of emergency. The last such moot was so long ago that it’s hardly worth remembering. Uncle Pally’s real job is being The Took, heading the Took family, which is the largest in the Shire, and keeping order in and around Tookland, which includes the Green Hill Country and covers most of the southern part of the Westfarthing. He’s also a farmer and has several farms in Whitwell that he’s responsible for overseeing.

“Then there’s the Master of Buckland, my father. He’s in charge of all the affairs of Buckland and most of the Eastfarthing and the Marish, as well as the Brandybuck family. Since Buckland is bordered by the river on one side and the High Hay on the other, we have our own bounders that Father can instruct directly without having to wait for the Mayor for anything.

“That said, most disputes, when they arise, are settled within the family, or families if more than one is involved.”

“And if the families can’t resolve the dispute?” Boromir asked. He was awed by this glimpse of Shire life. For all that he had learned about hobbits, he still found it difficult to imagine an entire culture whose main interests were spent on eating, farming and letter-writing rather than battle and war. Such a peaceful place the Shire must be.

“It very rarely happens that parents cannot control their children on such serious matters,” Frodo said. “Should the parents be ineffective at resolving the matter, and the aunts, uncles and grandparents can’t help, then the family heads will get involved. It is usually the Mistress who settles such things, since her husband would likely be away on other business. On the rare occasion that her ruling is in doubt, the Master will reaffirm it when he returns. Should the Master be dead, then there can be no doubt as to the Mistress’s ruling and her word is the final law. Likewise if the Mistress is dead and the Master rules. The Master and Mistress of a family have more power than the Thain or the Master or even the Mayor when it comes to familial matters. If your family head says you have to be home by seven every night and avoid the inns lest you shame your family’s honor by running amok, then you get home by seven and avoid the inns.”

“All disputes are resolved so easily?” Boromir asked.

“Usually. Most arguments are family related, but there is the occasion where the dispute is outside the family,” said Sam. “If it’s children from different families having the dispute, then the parents of each family get together and make the children apologize to each other and they’ll decide together on a punishment suitable for each child. If the parents can’t agree, then the family heads decide it, and since the family heads are usually tougher about such things, the parents almost always come up with a solution. Same goes for older hobbits, only after a hobbit comes of age, it becomes the duty of the family head to settle disputes that can’t be resolved privately.

“If the dispute is over land rights or such, then it goes to the owner of the land to settle. In many cases, the owner is the same hobbit and it can be resolved very quickly. If a second owner is involved, then they just have to figure out the best way to settle matters so that everyone is happy. It is only in these matters that the Thain, the Master or the Mayor have to get involved and that very rarely happens, unless it involves their own family or land of course,” Sam finished explaining.

“Just like that?” Boromir asked, greatly impressed. Hobbits must have quite an orderly society.

“Not always,” Frodo said. “I have my lovely cousins, the Sackville-Bagginses, to attest to that. It’s a long feud that began when Bilbo returned from his adventure with the dragon, and I doubt very much it will ever be settled.”

“Weren’t they the ones to whom you sold your home?” Boromir asked, remembering the name from Frodo's account of his leaving the Shire at the Council.

“They were,” Frodo confirmed. “It couldn’t be avoided.”

Sam, Pippin and Merry clearly did not agree with this but they held their tongues. Pippin actually laughed. “There are many things that cannot be avoided around the S-Bs. Loathing. Sneering. Contempt. That look on your face like you’re smelling something foul and can’t quite place where it’s coming from. But they eventually go away and take their sneering with them.”

“They sound like a most unpleasant folk,” Boromir said.

“You have no idea,” Merry said and the hobbits commenced to tell the man all about the S-Bs and the likes of Ted Sandyman. They then went on to recount many of the more notable squabbles and foils of hobbit-kind. This topic entertained them through luncheon, when Elrond returned to check on his patient. The elf lord noted that the man was much more relaxed, despite his energetic company. He left the hobbits to their work and the afternoon quieted to games that the hobbits either knew or made up on the spot.

“I spy something that starts with a ‘t’,” Pippin said after a game of chess ended with Merry losing to Boromir.

“Tapestry,” Merry said, not even guessing.

Pippin gawked at his cousin. “Merry!”

“What? Whenever it starts with a ‘t’ it’s always tapestry, unless we’re outside and then it’s a tree,” Merry said.

“Maybe I spied something different this time. You could have guessed something else first, or let someone else have a chance,” Pippin complained.

“How about a riddle game?” Frodo suggested, distracting his cousins before they could start bickering again. “Do Men tell very many riddles Boromir?”

“Some enjoy the game,” Boromir said. “I have never been very good at them myself.”

“It’s a passion among hobbits,” Sam informed, “second only to food. All hobbits love riddles. Not all hobbits are good at them, but they still enjoy trying to figure them out. There are standard riddles that everyone knows, but it’s more fun when you make them up.”

“You make up riddles?” Boromir said.

The hobbits nodded. “Why don’t you try one?” Frodo suggested.

“All right,” Boromir said and thought for a time. “Five or ten, high or low…”

“Fingers or toes!” Pippin shouted before the man could finish. Boromir nodded and his friends congratulated Pippin on his good guess. “Now my turn. What has a tail like a cat, a head like a cat and feet like a cat, but isn’t a cat?”

“A kitten,” answered Sam. “What’s the best way to avoid hitting your fingers when driving in a nail with a hammer?”

“Go slowly?” Boromir guessed.

“No, you hold the hammer with both hands,” Merry answered. “What five-letter word has six left after you take two letters away?”

“Sixty. It becomes six,” Frodo said. “What is it that everyone requires, everyone gives, everyone wants but very few accept?”

“Advice,” answered Boromir, thinking of his father.

“Correct!” the hobbits applauded. “Very good, Boromir,” Merry encouraged.

“So, it’s my turn again,” Boromir said. He thought desperately of a riddle he already knew and finally came up with one that he thought was quite clever. “What is the closest relation the son of your father’s brother’s sister-in-law could be to you?”

“Yourself,” all the hobbits answered in an instant. “Your father’s brother’s sister-in-law would be your mother,” Frodo elaborated.

“Or it could be your brother, if say, you’re a lass,” Sam continued.

“Very good. Who’s next?” Boromir asked, disappointed and impressed that his riddle had been guessed so quickly.

“I’ll go,” Frodo said. “Some cogs are tigs. All tigs are bons. Some bons are pabs. Some pabs are tigs. Therefore, cogs are definitely pabs. True or false?”

“False. Some cogs may be pabs, but not all of them,” Sam reasoned. “Can you explain how long cows should be milked?”

“Until they run out of milk?” Frodo guessed.

“Until they get tired of it?” Pippin guessed. Sam shook his head.

“Can you explain how long cows should be milked,” Merry repeated to himself. Then he laughed and said, “The same as a regular cow.”

“Or a short one,” Sam said. “Your turn Mr. Merry.”

“Here’s a good one,” Merry began. “Today is Highday and I have recently returned from a trip. If I returned four days before the day after the day before tomorrow, on what day did I return? Pippin, you’re not allowed to answer.”

“Why not!”

“Because, it’s confusing enough that you’d understand it instantly,” Merry explained and ignored Pippin when he scoffed at him.

The others sat silently as Pippin fidgeted with impatience. Finally Frodo said, “It was Trewsday. The day before tomorrow would be today, which is Highday. The day after that is Sterday, so four days before that is Trewsday. Now here’s mine: lying there in the yard so neat was something very good to eat. It had neither flesh nor bone, but in 21 days it walked alone. What is it?”

“Well, if you’re a very sloppy farmer, it’d be an egg,” Merry answered. “Speaking of eggs, would it be more correct to say ‘the yolk of eggs is white’ or ‘the yolk of eggs are white’?”

“Egg yolks are yellow,” Boromir stated.

“Yes, so the correct answer would be…” Merry prompted.

“Neither of them,” Boromir said.

“Very good!” Merry exclaimed. “You’re not so bad at this.”

“Be that as it may, I think it best not to push my luck. Are there other sorts of indoor games halflings enjoy playing?” Boromir asked.

So the hobbits taught the man many rainy-day games and Boromir taught the hobbits a couple in his turn. Before they knew it, a knock sounded on the door and Bilbo came in followed by Gandalf, Glóin and Gimli, and attendants carrying trays of afternoon tea. Bilbo, Gandalf and the dwarves kept Boromir company after tea so the younger hobbits could stretch their legs and get some fresh air, but they returned shortly before dinner and they all sat to dine with the man in his room.

After dinner, Gandalf and the dwarves excused themselves, and Bilbo remained to entertain the others with the newest poem he was working on. Frodo offered his advice, and Sam and Merry also added their own bits. When Bilbo started to nod off, Frodo and Sam saw him to his room. Elrond returned one last time and nodded with approval at his patient.

“You have done well today,” he announced. “You may get up tomorrow and resume your normal activities, with the promise that you will rest immediately should you become dizzy.”

“We’ll make sure he rests, Elrond,” Pippin promised. “We’re very good at doing that.”

“So I have seen,” Elrond replied smoothly. “You bring much joy and laughter wherever you go. That truly is the best medicine there is.”

“After food, of course,” Pippin said.

“After food,” Elrond agreed. “I trust Boromir has been fed well today.”

“I think I’ll be needing to let the seams out on my pants before too much longer,” Boromir jested.

“It is time that your captain rest for the night. Say your good-nights as you will and then leave him to his slumber,” Elrond instructed before leaving.

Boromir smiled gratefully at his friends, sad to see the day end. Tomorrow, they would have to return to their training sessions, and Boromir was surprised to find that he dreaded the idea of it. He would much rather sit and enjoy the hobbits’ simply company than teach them to fight. The only reason he would continue to do so now was that the thought of these happy creatures finding themselves defenseless and at the mercy of the enemy was unbearable.

“Thank you for your good company today, my friends,” Boromir started but the hobbits weren’t ready to go. Merry retrieved a book that they had found in the library after tea, and he and Pippin climbed into the chair at the man’s bedside. The chair was large enough to seat them both comfortably, and once they were settled Pippin opened the book to a marked page.

“Just lie back and close your eyes,” Merry instructed. “We’re going to read you to sleep.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Boromir stated, touched at the sentiment. He had not been read to sleep in over thirty years, and he couldn’t fathom why the hobbits would feel the need to do so. “I can find sleep on my own.”

“But you’re not feeling well,” Pippin said. “Just lie back and let our soft soothing voices ease you to sleep.”

“Soft soothing voices?” Merry said, smirking. “Maybe you shouldn’t speak then, Pip.”

Pippin ignored this comment and cleared his throat. Seeing that they were intent on doing this, Boromir gamely lay down, pulled the bed sheets up to his chin and closed his eyes. Merry began reading a familiar nursery story, with Pippin playing the voices of the different characters, and Boromir slowly drifted away to a peaceful slumber.

To be continued…

GF 10/22/06

PS - Hobbits might be good at making up riddles. I am not, as Boromir's first attempt proves. All other riddles were found on the internet at justriddlesandmore.

For Dreamflower, who suggested that a discussion of gift-giving customs would be fun. This chapter isn't a barrel of laughs, I'm afraid, but I did my best.

“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.” ~ Letter #214 
 
  

Chapter 7: A Gift for the Byrding

The skies hung grey overhead as leaves of amber and scarlet rained down from the trees to cover the lawns of the courtyards. The wind blew crisp and cold, carrying the sharp scent of fires burning in the hearths throughout the Last Homely House. Elves sat inside, in the library, studies and parlors, or on benches lining the balconies where they could look out at the chill mid-autumn day and still be warm themselves. They read or painted or sang or talked quietly with each other as they so wished, enjoying the restful quiet of Rivendell, while outside a group of four hobbits, one man, a dwarf and a wizard stood around many emptied barrels of cider.

Boromir and Gloin placed various tall objects of wood atop the barrels: cups, bookends, blocks, sculptures of simple design. The hobbits bent to the ground, gathering small pebbles and stones, and Gandalf stood to the side, watching them all with a twinkling in his cunning eyes. All of them wore cloaks, scarves and caps against the cold, and their cheeks and noses were pink from the wind.

“You better hope none of those objects can be broken,” Gandalf said, his breath misting before him. “Those bookends you chose are over a thousand years old.”

“Lindir said we were free to use them,” Merry said.

“Did you explain the purpose for which you would be using them?” Gandalf asked.

“Sure we did. We told him we would be demonstrating our targeting skills,” Merry said. “He doesn’t mind if they get a bit scuffed up. They’re only bookends after all and they’re plain enough.”

“Still, maybe we should find something that isn’t quite so ancient,” Frodo said, wearily eyeing the simple pinewood bookends with an oblong base and crescent-shaped back. The bookends had no decoration but for their design and when they were placed back to back, the crescents came together to form a perfect circle with a hollowed oblong center that mirrored the base.

“Where are we going to find something less ancient here?” Merry pointed out.

“He’s got a point Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. “Still, maybe we should just use the wood blocks.”

“Those are too easy to hit,” Merry said.

“We do not have to hit them with rocks,” Bilbo pointed out. “We could use mud balls. It’ll be messy but mud is easier to clean than scratches are to buff.”

“Good idea Bilbo!” Frodo exclaimed.

“It’d be much safer too,” Boromir noted and everyone laughed.

The rocks were quickly abandoned and Merry dashed off to get a pitcher of water from the kitchens while Sam and Frodo trotted down to the stables to gather some dirt from the corral. In the meantime, the others continued to set up the targets, spacing them out from the targeting line in such a way as to maximize the degree of difficulty for each shot. When Frodo, Sam and Merry returned, they dumped the dirt on the tile floor of the hallway and slowly poured the water into it until the mud was the consistency they were looking for, moist enough to form into balls but hard enough that they wouldn’t fall apart in midair.

“That’s going to take some cleaning,” Sam said.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m sure there’s a mop and a broom around here somewhere,” Frodo said. “In fact, I know there are, after that prank Merry and Pippin talked Lindir into playing on Elrond.”

“Where is Pippin?” Bilbo asked now. “It’s odd for him to miss this.”

“I looked for him in the kitchens but he wasn’t there,” Merry said with a shrug. “He’s probably off having fun of his own somewhere.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to leave that lad on his own?” Gloin asked. He had a feeling that the young hobbit would be better off being supervised than dashing about the halls alone, getting into all sorts of mischief.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Merry advised. “However much trouble he can get into on his own is nothing compared to how much he can get into when I’m helping him.”

“Is that supposed to be reassurance then?” Gandalf said with a chuckle. “Perhaps it is you who needs to the supervision, if that’s the case.”

“You think so? Well in that case, supervise this,” Merry said and let a mud ball fly. It sailed through the air and hit a wood block that stood on the middle barrel in the first of four rows. The block tipped over and fell, taking a couple of the other blocks with it.

“Very good Merry,” Frodo commented, an idea forming in his mind. “This could be a new form of draughts, if we lined up the targets correctly and they were shaped like pins.”

“Only instead of rolling a ball at them, we’re throwing one,” Merry nodded. “That could be harder than actual draughts. That game is a terrible bore.”

“If we’re starting the contest, I suggest everyone get behind the line,” Bilbo said, shaking his head at Merry for beginning when their friends were still standing on the target field. The last thing they needed was another accident, though admittedly not much harm could happen with mud. But then, one might have said the same about pinecones until last week.

Boromir, Gloin and Gandalf repositioned themselves behind the line. Boromir stooped and made a few of his own mud balls, and Gloin and Gandalf got ready to keep score on pieces of parchment. Gloin scratched three lines next to Merry’s name. “Merry goes first then. Who’s second? Remember, you can aim for any item on any barrel, not just the ones closest to you. The further away, the higher the score.”

“The barrels in the front row count as one point per item,” Gandalf reminded. “The items in the second row are two points per item, and so on to the fourth row.”

“We won’t be able to be knocking over those bookends with mud balls,” Sam points out.

“The points will count toward the first person to hit them, but if anyone hits them after that, they’ll get equal points deducted from their score,” Merry suggest.

“Hazards,” Boromir said. “That should make things interesting.”

The others agreed to this condition heartily, each one feeling more competitive now that the game was starting. Merry especially had a gleam in his eyes.

“I’ll go next,” Frodo said. He rolled his mud ball between his hands, perfecting the sphere as he eyed the targets and calculated the best throw. The bookends were both in the third row and impossible to get to right now, unfortunately. He let his ball fly and knocked over two objects on a barrel in the second row instead.

“Four points for Frodo,” Gandalf said, and scratched four lines next to Frodo’s name.

“Show off,” Merry muttered, and Frodo smiled innocently as Sam prepared to go next.

The game was well under way by the time Gimli entered the second-floor hallway leading toward the courtyard and the spiraling staircase that would take him down to it. He could hear the sounds of the merry competition taking place, both the laughter and the encouragement, as well as the exclamations of success when a difficult shot was executed. He hurried his feet toward the staircase and in his haste he almost missed the small figure sitting against the bole of a tree that grew through the middle of the hallway floor. He looked back and blinked in surprise to see Pippin sitting there, his eyes closed as he listened to the contest below.

“Master Pippin,” Gimli said. “What are you doing up here, laddie? I figured you’d be right in the thick of things.”

Pippin opened his eyes and looked up at the dwarf. He shrugged and not a hint of his usual cheer could be detected. “I’m not much in the mood for playing right now.”

“Why ever not?” Gimli asked, curious to discover what could make a cheerful hobbit so glum.

“It’s my da’s birthday today,” Pippin said and sighed heavily. In his hands was a folded piece of rumpled parchment that he now twirled between his fingers. “He’s 85 now.”

“Is that a year of special significance to hobbits?” asked Gimli.

“No, he’s just 85,” answered Pippin.

Gimli abandoned all thought of getting to the competition and sat next to Pippin against the tree. He didn’t say anything at first and simply offered the comfort of his company until the third time Pippin sighed in the space of a minute. Clearly, the lad wished to speak about whatever was ailing him. Gimli cleared his throat and glanced sideways at the youngest hobbit. “Feeling a might homesick are you?”

Pippin nodded. “I was going to make my father some arrows for his bow,” he said glumly. “And this would be the year he gave me my own pipe.” He sighed again and drew his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees. “I wonder what they’re doing right now. Probably getting ready for the party tonight. Everyone in Tookland will be invited, and Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda will come. They would have brought Merry with them, and we would have had fun helping with the decorations and trying to sneak cupcakes and such.”

“That sounds like a wonderful time indeed,” Gimli agreed.

“I hope Sam’s not right, about them thinking we’re dead because we went into the Old Forest,” Pippin said. “I know Merry left his folks a letter. I was going to leave my parents one but then I found this at the bottom of my pack when we got here.”

He handed the parchment to Gimli. The dwarf took it and noticed on closer inspection that the parchment was quite wrinkled and battered. There was even a water stain where a corner had fallen off, leaving a jagged edge in its absence. When Pippin nodded, Gimli opened the letter and read the large, rounded script.

Dear Mum and Da,  

I had to go away with Merry and Frodo and Sam. I’ll be back shortly. Well, maybe not shortly but I’ll be back when I get home.  

Love,
Pippin.

Gimli grunted to hide his chuckle, then folded the letter and handed it back to Pippin. “I reckon Merry’s folks would share his letter with your parents,” he assured, and silently thought that Merry’s letter would be far more informative and helpful at any rate.

“I know, but I wanted them to hear it from me, so they wouldn’t think it was all Merry’s idea and I just went along with him like I always do,” Pippin said. “I didn’t want them to worry.”

“They’d have worried anyway, lad. That’s what parents do,” Gimli said.

“But that’s just it! It’s my da’s birthday and he’s at home thinking we’re dead, and we left the Shire just four days before my mum’s birthday and she didn’t have this to tell her I was all right,” Pippin said, his face crumpling as tears ran hot down his cheeks. He choked back a sob only to fling his arms around Gimli’s neck and hide his face in the startled dwarf’s tunic.

Gimli quickly shook his shocked panic aside. He lifted a hand to Pippin’s shoulder and gave it a couple of tentative pats. “There, there, laddie,” he muttered but couldn’t think of anything else to say. He hoped desperately that Pippin's cousins would notice him missing soon and come to find him. He had a feeling Pippin would be much better off telling all this to Merry than to himself.

Only his cousins never came. The competition continued undeterred downstairs in the courtyard, and slowly Pippin’s sobs ceased into hiccups. “There, there,” he repeated and patted Pippin’s shoulder a few more times. “If you’re missing your home and family that much, I’m sure Elrond could still find you escorts back to the Shire.”

Pippin straightened at that and looked at Gimli in horror, ignoring for the moment the tears and grime on his blotched face. “And leave Frodo? I could never do that,” he insisted. “I promised to stick by him to the end and I meant it, even if that means marching into Mordor myself. The only way I’m going home is in a sack. I just wish there was some way we could get letters back home to let everyone know we’re all right.” Then he pulled a handkerchief from his breeches pocket and wiped his face dry and blew his nose.

“Letters will be no easier to transport than a hobbit in a sack,” Gimli said lightly in his grumbling manner. “Elrond won’t send his people on such a journey to deliver a post.” They sat in silence for a while then, listening to the competition below. Merry was roaring with glee.

“I hit the hazard first!” he exclaimed and Pippin grinned to imagine the dance of triumph his cousin was likely performing.

“You only hit one of them Merry,” Frodo said coolly and a moment later he and Sam were cheering.

“Good shot, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said as Bilbo exclaimed, “That’s my lad!”

A few more minutes passed during which Gimli and Pippin listened to the contest. Pippin was smiling now but he looked no closer to getting up than he had before, and Gimli couldn't very well leave him there in such a mood. Then Gimli had a sudden thought and hastened to share it.

“You know, young master, Elrond might not send his people West just for the sake of a letter, but they are still going West to the Grey Havens. From talking to Sam, they often take a road through your country to get there. I don’t know when such an expedition will be heading out next. It might not be until all of this is over and you’re already back home.” He paused to make sure that Pippin understood this point before continuing. “However, should an expedition happen to set off before the Quest is ended, they might be able to carry a few letters to your home then.”

Pippin brightened immediately as hope returned to him. “You think so?” he asked. “Oh, I hope they send someone soon then. Do you think it’s likely? Do you think Elrond would agree to it? Elves don’t care much about the troubles of other folk. Even Gildor didn’t want to travel with us long, having his own business to take care of, and running away from Black Riders is much more important business than delivering a few letters.”

“I’d have that young Baggins ask, if I were you,” Gimli hinted with a wink. “No one seems able to tell that lad no.”

“That’s true,” Pippin agreed. “Even in the Shire, the only ones who ever told him no were the S-Bs, until he offered to sell them Bag End that is. Then they couldn’t say yes fast enough. I’ll bring it up to Frodo tonight. It’s a long shot to be sure, but it’s better than no shot. And speaking of shots…”

They stood up and went down to the courtyard, where the game was nearing an end. The others didn’t notice their presence until Bilbo knocked over the last block and Gloin and Gandalf were busy tallying their scores. Merry approached them, cheer in his face but there was also a hint of worry in his eyes as he took in his cousin’s rumpled appearance.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, throwing an arm around Pippin’s shoulder. “Thank you for rounding him up, Gimli. I’ve often said this lad needs his own shirriff to keep him from wandering astray. It seems like we finally found you one, and just in time too. Gandalf and Gloin are about to announce me as the winner.”

“You’re overly confident, cousin,” Frodo laughed. “I believe they will soon be announcing me as the winner.”

“And I believe that I’m in need of a short nap,” Bilbo announced, happily but tiredly. The game had been enjoyable but it had worn him out sooner than he would have thought.

“Maybe we could play again, now that I’m here,” Pippin said and the others eagerly agreed.

“You can take my place then, lad,” Bilbo said against a yawn.

Just then, Gandalf cleared his throat and looked at the hobbits, dwarves and Boromir from under his bushy eyebrows. “We’ve counted the scores and the winner is… Boromir.”

A shocked pause was followed by a whoop from Boromir and more shocked silence from the hobbits. “What?!” Merry finally exclaimed. “Boromir? Did you count correctly?”

“I’ve been around for over three thousand years, Meriadoc. I believe I have learned to count in that amount of time,” Gandalf chuckled.

“That’s not fair!” Merry argued. “He’s taller than us. He could hit the items in the back while we were still working on the ones in the front!”

“So it appears that hobbits don’t always have the advantage after all,” Boromir laughed, and everyone but Merry laughed with him.

Merry glowered and finally Frodo clapped him supportively on the back. “Come now, Merry-mine. Do we need to talk again about you being too competitive?” he began.

“This is a game, Frodo. You’re supposed to be competitive during a game,” Merry interjected. “Since Pippin wants to play, we’ll have another round, but to make it fair I think we should be allowed to stand on crates so we’re all at equal height. Then we’ll see who wins the next match.”

“In that case, it’s only right to have a representative for the dwarves,” Frodo said. “Gimli can take my place, if he wishes.” Frodo went to Bilbo's side and helped the old hobbit keep on his feet. “I’m going to take Bilbo back to his room and see him settled. I’ll be back.”

“Very good, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said and helped the others reset the targets.  

That night at dinner, as Merry celebrated his (narrow) victory over Boromir, the subject of birthdays came up yet again but for an entirely different reason.

Merry was sulking. He did not feel his victory over Boromir was as great as it could have been and he would have insisted on another rematch if his friends had let him. They were teasing him still as they passed the dinner rolls across the table for seconds.

“Is young Master Merry always so competitive?” asked Gimli with a sideways glance at the bristling Brandybuck. He noted that Merry was merely tolerating his friends’ teasing, and just barely at that, so Gimli assumed that Merry was not used to losing, or least losing gracefully.

The hobbits (except Merry) laughed heartily. “You have no idea,” Frodo said.

Even Boromir nodded. “From the way he approaches his lessons, and from all the stories I’ve heard over the last month, I’d say that Merry is quite the perfectionist, and perfectionists do tend to be quite competitive.”

“I just like things to be done a certain way,” Merry said with what dignity he could still muster.

“That he does,” Pippin agreed, a twinkle in his eyes. “Take that time at Vinca’s twenty-eighth birthday party for example. He absolutely insisted that the only way to rob Gordi of his breeches was to run up behind him and pull them down around his ankles, and that could only be done as soon as Gordi arrived and not a moment later or a moment sooner because that would be the only time that everyone would be looking at him. We succeeded, but can you believe Merry lectured me for nearly half-an-hour afterwards because I dallied and waited until after Gordi was done saying his hellos? I thought it would be better if Gordi at least be allowed to greet Estella first before we publicly humiliated him, but Merry didn’t agree.”

“The whole point of getting Gordi just as he walked in the door was that he would then have to greet everyone after being humiliated and he would have been too flustered to remember Estella’s name,” Merry said, ignoring everyone else’s laughter.

“Merry, they’ve known each other from faunthood,” Frodo chuckled. “I doubt very much Gordi would have forgotten her name.”

“Well, we’ll never know now, will we?” Merry said.

“Did you end up having to wash dishes that night?” Boromir asked.

“Yes, and Vinca made sure that all the plates were as dirty as possible,” Pippin said. “She even smeared a piece of the birthday cake all over a stack of clean plates.”

“Your exchange of presents must have been interesting that night,” Gimli stated, to which the hobbits only looked at him questioningly.

“Exchange?” Boromir said.

“We don’t exchange presents,” Sam said.

“But Master Pippin said earlier…” Gimli began.

“No, I just wasn’t clear,” Pippin interjected and hastily continued before his cousins could ask any further questions. He didn't exactly want them to know the reason he had been late to the competition. They had enough on their minds without adding his woes to them. “We don’t exchange gifts. The byrding, that is the hobbit whose birthday is being celebrated, does receive gifts but those are given by the day before the birthday, or at the latest by noon of the Day. The byrding then gives gifts on the Day and at the party to his guests.”

“And that’s not an exchange?” Boromir asked.

“No,” Pippin said.

“Interesting,” Boromir said. “Among my people, the birthday person only receives gifts, he doesn’t give them.”

“Not even at his birthday party?” the hobbits asked.

“The party is given by his family or closest friends. The birthday person need only show up and eat and enjoy the good company,” Boromir clarified. “The guests bring their gifts to the birthday person at the party and… What?”

Bormoir broke off immediately for the hobbits were looking at him with expressions of horror and shock. He wasn’t sure what he had said to upset them so but he had a feeling that it was going to be something complicated.

“The guests bring their gifts to the party?” Merry asked, as if he couldn't believe he had heard correctly. “They’re not opened at the party, are they?”

“Well, usually they are,” Boromir said, “unless there are a great many presents, then only the ones given by the immediate family are opened.”

For the first time since Boromir had met them, the hobbits forgot all about their food as they continued to stare aghast at the man.

Finally, Pippin gathered his wits and asked, “But what if someone can’t afford as good a gift as the others? He’ll be humiliated to have everybody see it.”

“Yet having his breeches pulled down around his knees is not humiliating?” Gimli asked with a short laugh. He would never understand the logic of hobbits.

“That’s just a prank,” Sam said. “It’s not a nice thing to do, but it’s nothing that he can help. What he chooses to give to the byrding though, that’s personal and if it’s not as good as what others could afford, it would be displayed and made known to everyone if it were opened at the party.”

“Why wouldn’t it be equal to the other presents?” Boromir asked.

“Well, a servant can hardly afford to give the same as a house-owner could,” Frodo answered.

“A servant wouldn’t be a guest though. He would be working if he's there at all,” Boromir said and didn’t realize his error until the hobbits’ expressions changed from horrified to mildly insulted. All except for Sam, who was unbothered by the comment, for it was as true to most hobbits as it was to men. Boromir amended his statement, “Or at least, that is the way of things in Gondor.”  

“Do you never give your servants anything?” Frodo asked out of curiosity.

“Honestly, I don’t even know most of our servants’ names, much less their birthdays,” Boromir admitted a bit shame-faced. “They are given extra stipends at the winter solstice.”

“Well that’s something,” Pippin commented politely. “Still, I can’t imagine taking a present to a party. That’s just beyond rude. The only thing worse than that would be taking a gift to a wedding. It’s considered grand-standing. You’re pretty much telling the byrding, or the newlywed couple, that you are more important than they are, not to mention that bringing the gift then leads to the unwrapping of the present in front of everyone, which also tells all the other guests that you think you’re more important than all of them and that your present is by far the best one to be given.”

“It’s incredibly presumptuous,” Frodo said. “Not even the S-Bs would dare to be so uncouth. Giving and opening gifts at the party is just not done.”

“Yet Pippin said that the byrding gives gifts to his guests,” Gimli pointed out.

“That’s different. The byrding is the one who throws the party, and handing out party gifts is part of that. No host worth his mushrooms would be caught at the door without a gift in hand,” Merry replied. “Those gifts are opened upon receipt, so as not to insult the byrding, and they are usually something that the byrding made or grew in his garden, or it could be a mathom.”

“Mathom?” Boromir and Gimli asked together.

“A mathom is somewhat you've no immediate use for but don’t want to be tossing away,” Sam explained. “Tossing things away is just wasteful really and it’s never done. Everything can be used for something. But as for mathoms, if you’ve room in your house, the mathoms are kept in their own room so as not to clutter up the rest of the house, or you could keep them up at the Mathom-house in Michel Delving; it's a sort of museum. Mostly, you just hold onto the mathom for a couple of years and then pass it on, and hopefully not to the same person as gave it to you!”

“What sorts of things do you consider to be mathoms then?” Boromir asked

“Just about anything can be a mathom. Swords and the like are the most common,” Merry said. “Those wouldn’t be given as gifts though; rather they would be heirlooms and they would be displayed in the home over the hearth or in the study.”

“Those are also the most usual display in the Mathom-house. Bilbo kept Sting there for years before he left the Shire,” Frodo added.

“A mathom you would give as a gift would be jewelry, clothing or other accessories, timepieces, small furniture such as tables or lamps, crockery, books or stationery. You'd give them to whoever would like them most or where they could do the most good,” Merry finished.

Boromir was again struck by the vast difference between hobbits and men. Men would never consider a sword to be an object of no use. The idea of giving away keepsakes and small treasures was also foreign to him. Even if someone had no use for their keepsakes and whatnots, they were often reluctant to let them go. The only time one might consider doing such a thing was when a child moved out and needed help decorating their own apartments. He didn't doubt that the same would be true for hobbits.

“So then what exactly are your gift-giving customs?” Gimli asked. “Among the dwarves, the birthday person gives the party – hires the help, prepares the food and entertainment – but as with men, he receives presents rather than gives them. Only friends and family are invited to the party, though servants can certainly be friends. Gifts are not expected from friends, though usually some small token of hand-craft is given. If the gift-giver is a clan-leader, the gift is expected to be more extravagant. If the gift-giver is a parent, grandparent or sibling, the gift is to contain a small gem.”

“Our customs are a bit more complex than that,” Frodo said. “As mentioned already, the byrding does receive gifts, but that can only be expected from relatives within six degrees of relation – your second cousins or closer kin. Because so many of the clans have long ago moved away from their folklands, an additional rule to this has been added, so that now you are only required to give a gift if you are of the necessary relation and live under twelve miles from the byrding. This is because gifts are to be given in private at the byrding’s home, which allows the giver to give a present that is both within their means and equal to their affection. Since they must offer the gift in person, this can only properly be done prior to the Day.”

“Frodo breathed a sigh of relief when the S-Bs moved to Southfarthing,” Pippin added with a laugh. “They’re what we call twelve-mile cousins. If they live even twelve miles and an inch from the byrding, they won’t visit to give a gift.”

“Which is why everyone tries to be twelve miles and two inches away from them when their birthdays approach, just to be safe,” Merry supplied.

“Also because they lived so far away, I was no longer required to invite them to my parties,” Frodo said with much relief. “They may not have meant it to be, but their moving away was truly the best present they ever gave me. But as I was saying, to be properly received, gifts must be given by the day before the byrding’s birthday. When a gift is given on the Day – and again, before noon at the latest – then it is usually given by a relative who had to travel further than twelve miles to attend the party.”

“But the gifts are never given at the party because that is disrespectful to the host,” Boromir supplied.

“Precisely, and the gifts are never displayed for that would defeat the purpose of giving them in private,” Frodo continued.

“Were these gifts also made or handed down, as the party gifts are?” Gimli asked, finding all this discussion of gift-giving to be quite mind-boggling. So far, he liked Boromir’s method of gift-giving best, next to his own of course.

“That’s the rule,” Merry said. “The only one who was in the habit of giving gifts that weren’t made, grown or handed-down was Bilbo. He didn’t earn the name Mad Baggins for nothing!”

“Do friends ever give gifts to the bryding or is it just relatives?” Boromir asked, as equally mind-boggled as Gimli. The hobbits had more rules for gift-giving than men did for engaging in warfare.

“If they want to they can, but it’s not expected,” Frodo said. “Servants are likewise not expected to give a gift, though they might cook their master’s favorite breakfast foods on the morning.” He grinned appreciatively at Sam, who blushed and fiddled with the crumbs on his plate.

“As for giving gifts, that depends on the hobbit’s age and station,” Merry continued. “Faunts and other young children give a gift of wildflowers to their parents. Juniors and inmates, those being older children or servants who live in the master’s home and so have no property of their own, are not required to give gifts, though they usually do anyway according to their means and affections. Again, such gifts were usually made or grown. Farmers and the like almost always give samples of their produce as gifts.

“The only hobbits who are expected to give gifts – and birthday parties – are the master and mistress of a house or hole. They must give presents to everyone under their roof or in their service, as well as nearby neighbors and their friends. Also, if anyone has done them a special service in the last year, they too are to be given a gift. 

“The party is a different matter, as we already stated. The byrding hosts the party, so he supplies all the food and entertainment. Party gifts are given to all those who are invited to attend. Most brydings choose to combine their birthday gift and the party gift into one present when they can. Should anyone be unable to attend the party, they are sent a token invitation with a gift of food or drink that is to be a sample of the party-fare.”

“Is that all?” Boromir asked after Merry stopped talking and none of the other hobbits ventured to add anything else.

“That pretty much explains everything,” Pippin said. “There are certain other traditions that come with certain milestone birthdays. A hobbit’s coming of age is of course a rather extravagant event. Other regions have their own traditions, right Merry?”

“Frodo and Sam swear that in Hobbiton, it’s a tradition that on a hobbit’s twenty-fifth birthday, his friends get him drunk and dress him in a frock,” Merry said.

“It is,” Frodo said simply.

“You never did that to Pippin,” Merry argued.

“But he already knew about it, sir,” Sam pointed out.

“Besides, Pippin was twenty-six before he could drink and there is no tradition for a twenty-sixth birthday,” Frodo added.

“I was nearly twenty-six when you put me in that frock,” Merry said.

“You’re the one who hounded me the whole visit to take you drinking,” Frodo said. “I’m glad to say you never hounded me again after that.”

“There’s also a lad or lass’s twenty-eighth birthday,” Sam interjected before Merry could begin the old argument again. “A lad or lass can begin courting when they turn 28, so that birthday is usually quite special. The byrding dances with all the lasses, or the lass with all the lads, who are also 28 or older and not presently courting. At the end of the dance, they kiss.”

“That’s not exactly the best tradition,” Pippin said, wrinkling his nose up at the thought of some of the lasses he’d had to kiss at his twenty-eighth birthday party. The others laughed with him and they went on to share many memories of birthdays past.  

Merry knocked on Pippin’s door later that night. When no answer came, Merry slipped inside the room and found his cousin standing on the balcony, wrapped in a fleece blanket two sizes too big for him. Half of the blanket trailed across the floor behind him, indicating the direction he had walked. Merry followed the tail of the blanket to the desk in the corner of the room. A blank piece of parchment and a lit candle sat abandoned on the desk.

“Pip,” Merry said. He stepped around the blanket and stood next to his cousin, looking out at the darkened landscape. A light snow was falling. “Sam says the snow won’t last. Tomorrow, we’ll have to get up early and see if there’s enough to play in before it melts.”

Pippin nodded. A moment later, he sniffled and Merry noticed then that he was silently crying. Merry expected as much, what with all their talk of birthdays; it had not escaped his attention what day it was. He draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulled him close.

“It can’t be helped Pippin,” Merry said quietly. “They might think we’re dead. At the very least, they’re steaming mad that we took off the way we did, but they’ll get on without us until we can get home and set everything to straights again.” They stood watching the snow for a while, Pippin silently weeping on Merry’s shoulder. Then Merry continued. “My father’s birthday was last month, the day we were camped at those stone trolls. Mother’s birthday is coming up in a few months. I thought about leaving parcels for them at the post master’s, to be delivered on the eve of their birthdays, but then I thought that might only hurt them more, so I didn’t do it. Now I wonder if I made the right decision. I can’t be sure about that. All I can be sure about is that Frodo needs us, and this is too important for regrets.”

Pippin nodded but his tears would not abate. Merry rubbed his back and shoulder and they watched as the snow grew thicker and heavier, falling faster so that it resembled a white flowing curtain.

“At least you won’t cause your father any headaches tonight,” Merry went on after a time. “Remember last year, you dropped that warm taffy on his feet and he had to shave off all his foot hair.”

Pippin snickered.

“And remember the year, you probably don’t remember, you were seven or eight and you had made Uncle Pally an ash tray but all it really looked like was a clump of lumpy baked clay.”

Pippin snickered again. “He still has that in his study. He uses it as a paperweight. Remember that year Uncle Saradoc gave you your first pipe and we almost set the parlor rug on fire?”

They both laughed hard at that memory. “You were so scared, your eyes were popping clear out of your head all the next day,” Merry added.

“You singed your eyebrows,” Pippin added, but he sobered quickly. “Da would have given me a pipe this year.”

“Pippin, you already have two pipes,” Merry said. 

“But his would have been special.” Pippin returned his head to Merry’s shoulder and Merry slowly steered him toward the bed. They sat at the edge of the mattress and continued to watch the flurry. “Gimli said there’s an off chance we might be able to send letters home with the Elves, if any leave for the Grey Havens before we return from the Quest. I was trying to write a letter to my parents but I can’t think what to say. What can I say? ‘Sorry for leaving so suddenly, but Frodo was in peril danger and I had to go to help him. If I’m not back in a year, give my rock collection to Pearl?’ That’s about all I’ve come up with but I can’t write that.”

“How about you tell them the things you miss about them?” Merry said. “That will mean much more to them. I think I’ll write one of my own also. Sam will want to write home as well. Gaffer can get a post messenger to read it for him. And thank you.”

“For what?” Pippin asked.

“For not leaving your rock collection to Pervinca. The lads of Tookland will sleep easier for that,” Merry jested.

Pippin smiled wistfully. “That they will.”

“Come on, let’s get you in bed. You’ll feel better after a good night’s rest,” Merry said.

“No, I want to write that letter,” Pippin insisted. “Will you read it for errors when I’m done?”

“Of course. Do you want me to stay with you?”

“I’ll be all right. I sort of need to be alone right now.”

“Very well. I think I’ll start on my own letter then,” Merry said. “Come find me when you’re done.”

Pippin waited until the door clicked closed behind Merry before he shuffled over to the desk, the blanket still trailing behind him and coming to puddle around his feet as he sat down. He rubbed his nose absently as he stared at the blank parchment. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts as best he could, then he took the fountain pen in hand and began writing.

Dear Mum and Da,  

You might not ever see this but in case you do I wanted to say sorry for missing your birthdays and making them sad. I don’t want you to be sad, even if I’m sad from missing you so much. I can’t tell you why we left, only that it’s really important to everyone that we help Frodo right now. The world will be better for it if we’re successful. I promise it wasn’t just for adventure and it wasn’t a whim, so when we do get home I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put me on restriction until I’m 33, though I’ll understand it if you do.  

Tell Pearl that I miss her cooking and her funny stories, and don't get mad at her but sometimes she would sneak me extra sweets and I miss that also. Tell Pimmie that I miss her cucumber sandwiches. There’s all kinds of wonderful food here, but no one here can make cucumber sandwiches like Pimmie can. I miss Fendon too. He was teaching me to track deer before we left and it’s really come in handy. Not with tracking deer but for other things. He's a good brother-in-law to have around. Tell Vinca that I miss her too. I wouldn’t have thought that possible, but I miss the way she always gives me a hard time and doesn’t let me get away with things. I’d much rather have *her* chasing after me, believe me!  

Mum, I miss your hugs and your smiles and your kisses and the way you smell like wildflowers in the sun. You always have good advice and I could certainly use some of that now, but Merry and Frodo come through in a pinch. Plus Bilbo’s here and he knows a lot about all sorts of things. Da, I miss your lectures and your laughs. You have a laugh similar to a new friend of mine – big and booming, and unexpected because you don’t usually give any hints that it’s coming, which makes it that much more enjoyable. I never noticed that about your laugh until now. 

Anyway, this is the longest letter I’ve ever written and I don’t know what else to say. I love you all and I think about you always. I’m being good and listening to Merry and Frodo and I’m staying out of trouble for the most part. If I can get the recipe for rum cake from the dwarves I’ll include that in this letter. You really should have rum cake. It’s very delicious. Just, don’t eat too much or you’ll dream of giant chickens.  

Love,
Pippin  

PS - Don’t tell Vinca I said I like the way she annoys me. When I do get back, I don’t want her to be doubly annoying.

PPS - I'm sorry this letter is so late in coming. It's far past your birthdays and very rude, but I hope you won't mind given the circumstances.

PPPS - I still miss you.

Love again,
Pippin

Pippin let the ink dry as he reread his letter, feeling better already for having written it. He knew there was only a small hope that his parents would ever see it, but for now a small hope was enough.
 
 

To be continued…

GF 11/21/06

Rabidsamfan suggested that a discussion on terms of respect in the Shire might be interesting. I pored over the books and found all the instances of the Shire-hobbits using (or not using) terms of respect and have discovered their rules for who they call by what title and when amongst their fellow hobbits. The hobbits were also kind enough to fill me in on a few other rules not covered in the books and clarify a couple of oddities (such as when Sam refers to Merry as “Master Merry” in the Old Forest – a bit of forgetfulness on his part, which is very understandable as Merry was being eaten by a tree at the time and Sam quite had other things on his mind). It’s all very confusing to me, but of course makes perfect sense to them. Any glaring errors are my fault as a translator. Here goes!

I shouldn't write when I'm sick! lol
 
 
 

“What’s the good of Minas Tirith anyway? To him, I mean, begging your pardon, Master Boromir,” [Sam] added… ~The Breaking of the Fellowship
 

Chapter 8: A Mister, A Master

His father had warned him against getting too involved with the hobbits. “They’re dear and charming enough but you’ll get nothing but headaches for it,” Glóin had said with a sage shake of his head. Yet when Gimli woke that morning it all still seemed so innocent and harmless - until that afternoon when he would become hopelessly entangled in quite an astonishing and baffling event.

Unaware of what the day was about to bring to him, Gimli stretched his arms and scratched his beard, slowly shaking off the cobwebs of a most glorious dream. He had dreamt of many things that he would jot down later when he had the time but for now the most important one was an answer to a riddle that had been bothering one of his new friends for the last several days.

He could still see it all quite clearly, that night the riddle was first presented to him: the red-orange glow of the fires dancing with the shadows on the walls in the Hall of Fire; the elves singing their ethereal songs and playing their instruments, some plain and common, some odd and intricate; and Frodo and Sam sitting alone to one side of the room. Frodo had been asleep, dozing lightly with his head on the arm of the settee. Beside him sat Sam and between them on the cushion of the settee was a piece of parchment with many scratched out words written upon it. At Sam’s feet was a forgotten inkwell, the quill soaking proudly in the blue ink, waiting for its master to put it to good use. Sam listened to the elves, a puzzled look on his usually cheerful face.

“You’re up late, young master,” Gimli had said to him. “Even your master sleeps already.”

Sam had torn his eyes from the elves and for the first time seemed to notice that his master was indeed asleep. He pulled the blanket off the back of the settee, shook it out and covered his master gently, taking great care to tuck the ends around Frodo’s feet and shoulders. In his sleep, Frodo sighed deeply and burrowed further into the cushions. He mumbled something that sounded like, “Look at all the mushrooms, Sam!” and sunk back into his dreams.

Sam whispered, “You go and pick your share, Mr. Frodo,” then pulled the parchment out from under the blanket. He held it up for Gimli to see what looked like many failed attempts at a poem.

“It’s no good,” Sam stated.

“I didn’t know you were a poet,” Gimli had replied. “The dwarves have a love of songs, though there are many who would be surprised to hear it.”

“You make such wonderful things though,” Sam said, thinking of the sparklers and dwarf-candles at Bilbo’s Party, among other things. “Folk as make such pretty things would be wanting to write about them, and if they’ll write about that it only stands to reason as they’d write about other things as strike their fancy.”

“Indeed,” Gimli agreed, impressed with the hobbit’s simple logic. “I hear you make gardens that are the envy of all the Shire, and that the earth blooms brighter wherever you have passed. That is truly a rare gift.”

“You’ve been listening to Mr. Merry’s stories again,” Sam said, off-handedly discounting the compliment as hobbits were bound to do. “He always goes on and on. Anything I know about gardens I learned from my gaffer, and anything I know about letters I learned from Mr. Bilbo, but I’m no poet, leastways not a very good one. I dabble every now and then, little bits of nonsense mostly. I don’t know what I was thinking, getting it in my head as I could capture Rivendell any better than old Mr. Bilbo did. He said as Rivendell was the perfect place for anything you wanted to do. How do you top that?”

That had been Friday and Gimli now thought he had the answer. He hopped out of bed and dressed, and went in search of the hobbits. By default, this took him towards the kitchen and dining hall.

It was now the first of December, according to the hobbits’ strange way of counting days, and while Sam had been correct about the first snow not lasting very long, there had been a couple more storms since then and the ground was again covered with a thin layer of snow. Gimli stayed clear of the courtyards in case an eager halfling was laying in wait for some poor unsuspecting soul; he wanted to find the hobbits, but not like that! Everyone in Elrond’s house by this time knew to keep clear of hobbits and snow, a lethal combination no matter who the assailant was. The threat of imminent attack, combined with the colder air, meant that the inner hallways and passageways were crowded more than usual as everyone made their way down to the dining hall.

As Gimli reached the corridor outside the dining hall, high-pitched cheers erupted from the nearby courtyard. Gimli chuckled and waited with a few of the elves to find out who was the victim of this latest attack. A few moments later, Erestor came into the corridor off the courtyard, bemusedly dusting snow from his hair and eyes.

“You should know better than to walk through the courtyards, Erestor,” Lindir said with a laugh. He himself had been beamed in the back by Sam just a few days before, a favor he had immediately repaid much to the hobbit's delighted surprise.

“I was in a hurry,” Erestor said. “I forgot. Where is Elrond? I have news of some of the scouting parties. They are beginning to return.”

“He’s already in the dining hall, and surely that news could have waited a few more minutes so you could go the safe way around,” Lindir teased, following his friend into the hall.

Gimli walked in behind them and looked about quickly. Surprisingly, he saw Merry and Pippin already at their table waiting eagerly for the food to appear. They were craning their necks toward the kitchen doors, so much so that Gimli thought their heads would fall off their shoulders. None of the other hobbits could be seen, for very obvious reasons, so Gimli waited by the door. A few minutes passed and a handful more elves entered into the hall before Gimli heard the voice he was waiting for.

“Excuse me Mr. Gimli,” Sam said at his side.

“Good morning, Sam!” Gimli said but before he could say anything else, Sam rushed ahead.

“Have you seen my master? He was up and gone already when I woke and he’s not in Mr. Bilbo’s room. Neither is Mr. Bilbo, for that matter. They must have gone off together somewhere, but I don’t know where.”

“Is that so?” Gimli said with a laugh. He would never have suspected the old hobbit and Ring-bearer to be the ones behind this latest snowball attack, but all the evidence pointed towards them.

He laughed again as a moment later none other than Glorfindel strode into the hall, wiping snow from his lapel and neck with distracted swipes of his hand. Gimli understood then Erestor’s haste in alerting Elrond of the returning scouts, for Glorfindel was one of many who had journeyed abroad. Glorfindel went directly to Elrond’s table and soon he, Erestor and Elrond were bent in quiet conversation.

Sam watched the elf lord pass with resigned bemusement. He had just spied Merry and Pippin sitting innocently at the hobbits’ usual table, and he put two and two together just as easily as everyone else there. He could only sigh and shake his head and be grateful that Glorfindel was too distracted with his errand to be annoyed.

Gimli finished chuckling and turned to address Sam again when the two Bagginses entered the hall. The culprits were laughing jollily, being obliged to lean against each other for support, and they were wiping their hands with suspiciously damp handkerchiefs. Their cheeks were tinged pink from the cold and the knees of their breeches were damp. Frodo shivered just the slightest bit. To anyone else it would have been nearly indiscernible but to the vigilant Sam it was a red flag.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam said, gaining his master’s attention.

“Hullo Sam!” Frodo greeted. “Morning Gimli.”

“Mr. Frodo, you’re chilled clear through,” Sam observed and slipped off his jacket. “You’ll catch a cold sir and what with you just recovering and all-”

“Sam, don’t fret so,” Frodo said, still laughing. He hastily stuffed the handkerchief into his breeches pocket and allowed Sam to slip the jacket over his shoulders. “I’m perfectly healthy, better than ever.”

“You’ve been up to something,” Sam said to the both of them, a hint of a smile now on his own lips. He could never remain stern when his master was so happy.

“You’re quite right, Sam,” Bilbo stated. “We’ve been looking for Erestor. Have you see him? Ah! There he is. And see here! Glorfindel is back. He must have just returned. Did you know he was back, Frodo?”

“I didn’t,” Frodo said, going along with the ruse. “I only just now saw him when you pointed him out.”

“Well, I think I’ll just trot off and see how they both fair on this fine morning,” Bilbo said with a wink, and off he trotted toward the high table, chuckling silently to himself.

Frodo shook his head and watched after Bilbo with open fondness. “He always was the worst influence on me,” he said happily, then took Sam’s arm. “Come, Sam, let’s take our seats before they bring out the food and Merry and Pippin eat it all.” He led Sam toward one of the many lower tables lined up against the far wall that overlooked the forest beyond. The hobbits liked to eat there and watch the birds playing in the trees. Merry and Pippin saw them and waved them over, questioning expressions on their faces.

Only after they had already joined the younger hobbits did Gimli remember he had been waiting by the door in hopes of having a private word with Sam. He huffed in frustration and went to his own seat at the center of the hall. He would now have to wait for the afternoon, when the hobbits finished their training session with Boromir.  

That afternoon, Gimli found the cousins in the library sitting on the floor and poring over various maps of Middle Earth. Some of the maps were quite plain while others were intricate and crowded with the various names of all the places of importance, and the hobbits found them fascinating. Or rather, Frodo and Merry found them fascinating and they were examining the maps in close detail, while Pippin sat against a divan, combing through a stack of tomes and looking at the illustrations within.

“Here’s Isengard,” Merry said, pointing to a spot on the map. “That’s where Gandalf said that one wizard who turned evil lives. Saruman. We’re not going that way, I hope.”

“It wouldn’t be wise to,” Frodo agreed. He pointed to another section of the map. “Noman-lands. I wonder how it got that name.”

“It doesn’t sound very cheerful.”

“Eep!” Pippin suddenly squeaked and hurriedly put aside the tome he was holding, making sure the covers were well closed.

Merry and Frodo looked over their shoulders at him, their eyebrows cocked. “What’s your problem?” Merry said. “Did you come across a picture of your legendary Necromancer* or something?”

“Or something. There were naked ladies in that one,” Pippin said with eyes wide, pointing accusingly at the seemingly innocent book and with a tinge of regret for having discarded it so quickly. “Am I allowed to see that?”

“No,” Merry said, regarding the book with renewed interested. He started reaching for it.

“Don’t even think about it, Merry,” Frodo ordered and returned to the map.

“Found one of the books of art, did you Master Pippin?” Gimli said, gaining the hobbits’ attentions. “It’d be wise to choose your books with more caution if you’re sensitive about such things.”

“But everything’s in Elvish, and it’s supposed to be art,” Pippin pointed out. “I was expecting flowers or cows, or things of that sort.” He chose a different book and started flipping through that one with a definite air of caution.

“Is Sam not with you?” Gimli pressed on, determined not to get sidetracked yet again. He knew enough by now to know that if he gave these hobbits an inch, they’d take the whole mine!

“Hard to believe isn’t it?” Merry said, still eyeing the art book with a calculating air. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible for Sam to be away from Frodo’s side for more than a minute, but thankfully Elrond was able to extract him from my cousin’s hip without too much damage to either.”

Frodo looked up from the map and said, “He went down to the stables to walk Bill. He should be back shortly if you want to wait.”

“I think I’ll go down and meet him,” Gimli decided as Merry’s hand slowly started inching back towards the book. Frodo just nodded, peering back down at the map and tracing the line of a river with his finger. Pippin was puzzled by the latest illustration he had come across and was turning the book this way and that trying to figure out what he was looking at. “I’ll escort Sam back here to you.”

“Thank you Gimli,” Frodo said with distraction just as Merry’s hand enclosed the book. Without looking up, he sternly added, “No, Merry.”

“But Pippin got to see,” Merry argued as Pippin finally figured out what he was looking at. His eyes grew wide once more and his face flushed scarlet but he did not put down the book.

Gimli removed himself quickly before anything more could transpire. With all the hobbits accounted for – Bilbo was spending the afternoon with Glóin – Gimli cut through the nearest courtyard to the path that led to the stables.

He heard their voices before he rounded the last corner. Their words were indecipherable at first but even from that distance he could tell that Boromir and Sam were having an argument of some sort. Gimli slowed his pace and cautiously stepped around the corner of the house and toward the corral. He glanced across the riding circle where the hobbit and soldier were standing just outside the stables, both of them completely oblivious to their chilly surroundings. Now it was Gimli who stared in astonishment at something he never expected to see. The steadfast warrior was growing ever frustrated and whatever they were arguing about, one thing was clear: Sam was not about to back down.

“It just doesn’t make sense!”

“Of course it does!”

“How does it make sense?”

“Because it’s the Rules.”

“The Rules. The Rules! Always with the Rules.”

“The Rules are important, Master Boromir.”

“And they dictate even this then, I deem.”

“They don’t dictate nothing. They just make sense, so we follow them.”

“You keep saying they make sense but you have yet to explain it to me logically.”

“I would if you’d just listen and let me finish.”

“Who could listen to that? All those conditions and exceptions and subdivisions! It's more complex than any laws we have in Gondor!”

“Subdivisions?”

“You say it to Gandalf, so why don’t you say it me?”

“You’re not a hobbit.”

“Neither is Gandalf!”

“He’s a wizard and he’s been visiting the Shire long since before I was born. He’s friends with the Tooks. Why, the Old Took himself used to have grand fireworks from Gandalf on his birthdays, or so it’s told.”

“Ah-ha! Gandalf! You didn’t say ‘Mr. Gandalf’ just then. Your Rules are rubbish.”

“I wasn’t talking to him just then. I don’t have to call him ‘Mister’ if I ain’t talking to him. I already explained that!”

“Fine, fine. So if I were to go to the Shire, then I’d be a ‘Mister’?”

“You don’t know anyone there.”

“I know you!”

“But I’m just a gardener.”

“I know Frodo! And Merry and Pippin.”

“True, and Mr. Frodo’s important in Hobbiton and Bywater as such things go, but that don’t really mean naught to the Shire in general. Now if you were to get on with Thain Paladin that’d be telling something.”

“Isn’t the Thain just your version of a Steward? I’m the Steward’s son!”

“Has your father ever been to the Shire?”

“Of course not!”

“Then I can’t help you there.”

Gimli thought about turning around and pretending he had never been there, but his curiosity once again got the better of him. He walked around the corral to where the Gondorian and halfling stood, Boromir’s hands gesturing in exasperation and Sam’s arms stubbornly folded across his chest. “What is this arguing?” he asked.

“Good morning, Mr. Gimli,” Sam greeted cheerfully.

“Now why is he ‘Mister’? He’s never been to the Shire either,” Boromir pointed out and the argument commenced.

“No, but his father has. Glóin is good friends with Mr. Bilbo.”

“But Gimli’s not even related to anyone important among his people.”

“Gimli is Dain’s third cousin once removed.”

“Third cousin once removed? What does that even mean? I’m the Steward’s son!”

“Dain’s a king, and that puts him higher than anyone among hobbit folk, even if he is just a dwarf. Your dad’s just a Steward, and as you say, we already got us a Thain. There’d be naught for your dad to be doing in the Shire as it sounds to me that all he can do is make war. Why, he can’t even till a field, meaning no disrespect.”

“In what conceivable circumstance would a Steward be wasting time on a farm!”

“Farming’s a noble and important profession, Master Boromir. Without farmers, you’d have naught to be eating. Folk need farmers more than they need another Thain.”

“Well no, not by your idea of a Steward.”

“Now see here, there ain’t no cause to be insulting the Thain. That’s Mr. Pippin’s father you’re speaking of.”

Frodo, Merry and Pippin joined them then. Wondering what could possibly to be taking Sam so long to get back from the stables, not to mention Frodo’s growing desire to get his cousins as far away from the art books as possible, they had come to the stables to seek their friend. They were just as astonished as Gimli to find Sam and Boromir exchanging such heated words. None of them knew quite what to make of it, and they stood frozen in shock for a time while the argument continued without so much as an acknowledgement of their presence.

“Still, my father is an important man in Gondor. He’s a Ruling Steward, just as powerful as the King!”

“But he ain’t related to the King, now is he? And even if he were, you’d have no way of knowing it! Your family tree has giant gaping holes all over it. How can you possibly hope to keep track of your relations like that? It’s very sloppy to say the least.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Master Elrond’s got a whole store of family trees and lineages in the library. Mr. Merry found them shortly after Mr. Frodo woke up and we had a look-see.”

“Master Elrond. Now why is he ‘Master’ when he’s in charge here?”

“He’s the master of this house and his people. Besides, everyone here calls him that, that or Lord Elrond, whereas you’re only a captain general. I explained all this already.”

Frodo finally untangled his tongue and spoke up as the man and gardener paused for breath. “What is all this noise?” he asked.

Gimli shook his head. “I’m still trying to figure it out. Something to do with ‘Mister’ and ‘Master’.”

“I got that much. Sam, what is going on?” Frodo asked.

Sam huffed in frustration and visibly calmed himself before addressing his master in a more normal, if still frazzled, tone of voice. “Master Boromir asked me why I call him ‘Master’ instead of ‘Mister’ when I called him ‘Mister’ once when we first met. I was trying to explain the Rules to him but he keeps interrupting me with one question after another and everything's getting jumbled. Honestly sir, I think he's spending too much time with Mr. Pippin, meaning no disrespect of course. Anyway, we started arguing and I guess it just got out of hand. But that’s still no cause for you to be saying as Thain Paladin don’t do nothing.”

“My father’s The Took and the Thain,” Pippin said, coming to his father’s defense.

“Uncle Pally does plenty,” Merry said.

“I didn’t mean it that way. He misunderstood. Besides… he said it first,” Boromir finished lamely, then suddenly laughed as he realized how foolish this had all become. “Sam is right. We have allowed this discussion to get away from us.”

“Sam, if he wants to be called ‘Mister’ then just call him ‘Mister’,” Merry said. “The Rules don’t apply to Big Folk anyway. Really, you could just call him Boromir if you wanted.”

“I know that,” Sam said, “but he doesn’t want me to call him 'Mister'. He just asked why I call him ‘Master’ and I was trying to explain to him how I fit him into the Rules as best I could, what with him not being a hobbit and all, and well… It got out of hand, like I said.”

“The Rules don’t apply to Men?” Boromir asked. “Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”

“I did! I said ‘well, you’re not a hobbit and all, but I figured as you’d be a Master because you’re a captain general.’ That’s what I said,” Sam repeated with frayed patience.

“Captain general?” Merry asked.

Sam shrugged. “Well, I figured it’d be like his profession.”

“Oh,” Merry nodded. “That makes sense.”

“How does that make sense?” Boromir asked.

"It's the Rule," Merry explained.

Seeing that the argument was threatening to begin again, Frodo jumped between the two and held his hands up for silence. “Please, can we continue this discussion somewhere else where isn’t quite so cold?”

“The library!” Pippin volunteered eagerly.

“No! You are not going back to that library until all those books have been cleared out. That goes for you and Merry both,” Frodo said.

“Why would you be wanting to remove the books from the library, Mr. Frodo? Isn’t that the purpose of a library?” Sam asked.

“Not now, Sam,” Frodo said. “Now follow me, all of you.”

“But—” began Gimli, wondering just when and how he had become entangled in this mess. He realized too late that he should have heeded his father’s warning more closely. All he had wanted to do was speak with Sam and now he looked to be in for a lecture.

“All of you, and I want no more discussion until we are inside,” Frodo said and glared up at Boromir, silently challenging the man to argue with him. Boromir only nodded.

Frodo led them back up the path and into the Hall of Fire, which was thankfully devoid of anyone. He ordered them all to sit on the settee and then stood before them, looking between Boromir and Sam as he tried to figure out where best to begin this discussion. At length he said, “Sam, how far into the Rules did you get?”

“I got up to about to the second rule of the working class,” Sam said.

Frodo nodded. “Very well,” he said.

“You didn’t get very far,” Pippin noted then quickly silenced himself when he received another of Frodo’s glares.

“Now, I will recite the Rules to you Boromir but only if you promise not to interrupt,” Frodo said.

Boromir agreed, grudgingly remembering when he had attempted that same rule with Pippin only to be overruled by Frodo and the others. He knew better than to argue at this point though.

Frodo cleared his throat and began his lesson. “The Rules of Address can be a complicated matter for an outsider to understand, but all hobbits learn all The Rules with their first lessons, after cooking and family relations, at the beginning of their Manners. The Rules are quickly committed to memory and all hobbits follow them. The Rules of Address do not apply to familial bonds as families will decide amongst themselves how they will address their relations. Therefore, the Rules of Address apply only to non-familial relations and are laid down as follows.

“Rule 1: The Mayor of the Shire is to be called Mayor followed by his proper full name, unless the Mayor should give you leave to address him otherwise. The Thain of the Shire is to be called Thain followed by his proper first name. The Master of Buckland is to be called Master followed by his proper first name. The wives of these authorities are to be called Lady followed by her proper first name in formal gatherings, or Mistress followed by her proper first name in informal gatherings.

“Rule 2: Peers may address each other however they so choose. Non-peers should address each other using the appropriate title as stated below followed by the last name of the one being addressed unless otherwise agreed amongst themselves to use first names, or as otherwise noted below.

“Rule 3: All hobbits will address all their fellow elders as Mister. For rules of address for lasses, refer to Rules 8 through 10.

“Rule 4: While it is not necessary to use proper titles when speaking of one’s betters amongst your peers, it is a sign of deepest disrespect and insubordination to do so when speaking directly to your betters. However, should the speaker be a child who has not yet had his or her lessons in these Rules, that child should be immediately forgiven and gently corrected.

“Rule 5: Hobbits of the working class will address their fellow betters as stated below. For rules of address for lasses, refer to Rules 8 through 10.

“Rule 5a: Junior hobbits are to be called Master followed by their first name. Once a junior hobbit reaches the age of 28, at that age being distinguished as halfway through his tweens and so therefore able to begin to take on more adult responsibilities, it would be appropriate, though not necessary, to address the junior as Mister; however, should the junior be the child of your employer, refer to rule 6a.

“Rule 5b: Once a hobbit comes of age, he is to be addressed as Mister, except as stated in Rule 1.

“Rule 6: Servants and other hired hands will address their fellow master or employer as Mister followed by his last name. For rules of address for lasses, refer to Rules 8 through 10.

“Rule 6a: A servant’s master is the first authority in the house he or she serves. Therefore, children of the household, whether they be past the age of 28 or not, will be addressed as Master followed by their first name, until they come of age. Once the child is of age, he is to be addressed as Mister followed by his first name so as to distinguish him from the proper master of the house.

“Rule 7: Should a fellow hobbit be of a specialized profession or be a recognized authority on a matter of importance, for courtesy’s sake he should be referred to as Master no matter what his social standing in recognition of this honor.

“Rule 8: The rules of address for a lass follow the same social restrictions as those for a fellow, except as stated in Rule 1 and as further stated below.

"Rule 8a: A lass who is unmarried is to be addressed as Miss.

"Rule 8b: Once a lass marries, should she be of the common class she will be addressed as Missus. Should the married lass be of the gentlehobbit class, she will be addressed as Mistress.

“Rule 8c: Should a lass be widowed prior to bringing forth a child and before the fifth year of marriage, it would be proper, at her discretion, to refer to her again as Miss. Should she have a child or her loss be after her fifth year of marriage she will continue to carry the title of Missus or Mistress until she reaches her elder years, those being the years when she is no longer physically able to produce new life. At this time, she is to be addressed as Widow if she so chooses.

“Rule 9: A healer is to be addressed as Miss while in her occupation – that is, while she is wearing her healer’s attire – even on the rare occasion that she should be married. On the rare occasion that a healer is a fellow, refer to Rule 7.

"Rule 9a: A healer’s apprentice is to address her mentor as Mistress at all times so as to designate herself as the apprentice.

“Rule 10: Should a lass be of a specialized profession, other than a healer, or be a recognized authority on a matter of importance, for courtesy’s sake she should be referred to as Miss or Mistress, depending on her marital status, no matter what her social standing in recognition of this honor.

“Rule 11: When first addressing a hobbit whose social standing and/or marital status and/or profession is not made clear to you, you are to address the fellow as Mister and the lass as Miss to avoid unwittingly insulting the hobbit you are addressing. Said hobbit will then gently correct you if you are wrong.

“Rule 12: While Rules 4, 5, 6 and 8 do not directly apply to gentlehobbits when addressing their peers or those of the common class, courtesy and politeness is the mark of a true gentlehobbit and should ever be your guide when addressing others, no matter their station.

“And those are the Rules of Address. As you can see they don’t apply to Big Folk, but as you are a person of a specialized profession – a captain general of your people – it does make sense that Sam address you as ‘Master’ if he’s going to call you anything, Boromir. Do you have any further questions?” Frodo finished.

“Can we go back to the library?” Merry asked with an impish grin.

“Boromir?” Frodo said, easily ignoring his cousin.

“I have one,” Gimli said. “Would it be possible for me to speak with Sam now that the lesson is over? 'Tis the only reason I’m here in the first place and I’ve yet to speak two words to him.”

“You were looking for me?” Sam said with surprise.

“Yes. I’ve an idea for your poem,” Gimli stated.

“You do?” Sam said, perking up at this announcement. He looked beseechingly at Frodo. “Is it all right, Mr. Frodo?”

“Go on, Sam. Not you two,” Frodo said as Merry and Pippin began to rise to follow Sam and Gimli out of the Hall.

“But we already know all this,” Pippin protested as Merry said, “We’re not going to go back to the library, cousin – except to get the maps of course.”

“I still don’t understand why Gandalf gets to be called Mister,” Boromir stated, still trying to understand. Why did hobbit laws have to be so confusing?

“I suspect it is because Sam has always called him Mister and Gandalf never instructed Sam to call him anything different,” Frodo explained. “Hobbits are creatures of habit, Boromir, and we don’t break those habits easily.” 

Sam and Gimli happily left the discussion behind, leaving the Hall of Fire in the direction of the kitchen, where tea would soon be ready for the hobbits. Sam waited eagerly for Gimli to elaborate on his earlier statement but when the dwarf remained in deep thought, he ventured, “You said as you had an idea for my poem, Mr. Gimli?”

“Eh? Oh, yes," Gimli said, shaking himself from his reverie. "Look, Sam, to prevent any further upset I think it’d be best if you called me Master Gimli, or simply just Gimli. Boromir is a stout and valiant man, but he does tend to be a tad sensitive about such things.”

“Very well, Master Gimli, if that’s what you want,” Sam said, easily accepting the condition. “So, about my poem?”

“Ah, yes. You said you were wanting to best Bilbo’s description of Rivendell,” Gimli started as they turned up another corridor.

“That’s right.”

“My advice is this: don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“In your mind, you will never be able to excel those fine words of your former master. He is too dear to you, and therefore so too is anything he may write,” Gimli explained. “To try to best him would only bring you constantly to your own shortcomings when compared to his talents. So instead of trying to best him, try only to best yourself. Describe Rivendell in your own words, with no regard to anything else.”

Sam considered this until they reached the kitchen then he nodded and smiled gratefully. “I think I’ll try that then. Thank you Master Gimli.”

“I’m glad to help Sam, though I know that was not the help you were hoping for,” Gimli said. They entered the kitchen and found the elves as they just finished setting the tea tray. “Now if I were to describe Rivendell, I’d say it’s like a city carved out of a deep cloud that has come down from the heavens to rest for a time upon the earth.”

“I like that!” Sam said. “You’ve a way with words, Master Gimli, and don’t be mistaking it.”

"I've a way with many things, Sam, including it seems how to get involved in things that are none of my business," Gimli said, thinking again of his father's advice. "It is ever my downfall."

"I don't know about that sir, but I thank you still and I'll get right to work on my poem tonight," Sam said and took the tea tray back to the Hall of Fire, a bit of prose already beginning to form in his mind.
 
 
To be continued…
 

GF 12/4/06
 

* - for more on Pippin's legendary Necromancer, refer to "The Evil Necromancer" in my "Of Merry and Pippin" series.

This chapter was inspired by Lbilover’s delightful story “Golfing Fever”. Please note that I know nothing about golf and that my research comes partly from tidbits taken from Lbilover’s story, from the one or two golfing movies I have seen, and from the very informative website About.com, which has everything you ever wanted to know about golf but were too afraid to ask (for good reason, as you are about to discover). All the strange golfing terms, including the names for the clubs and balls, come from the glossary located on that site. Everything else, I made up as I went along because these are ancient times and things are bound to be different.

A few notes (because I don’t want you to be as hopelessly lost as the poor victims in this story): in olden days, competitions were based on match play. In match play, whoever wins the most holes wins the game. My hobbits play on a ten-hole course (an 18-hole course is a rather modern convention), so if someone won the first six holes, he would be the winner and the match would end there because the other person could not win or even tie with just four holes left. In this case, the winner would be said to have won two-up and the loser to have lost two-down. The winner’s score would be 2-and-4, meaning he won two-up with 4 holes to play.

A match goes “dormie” when one person achieves a lead that matches the holes remaining; for example, he’s four-up with four holes to go. The person trailing can only hope to tie, or “square up”. Once a match is dormie, the person leading only needs to win one more hole to win the match.

Other tidbits – once a golf ball has been hit from the first teeing ground, it is “in play” and nothing is to touch or move the ball during the match except the golf club. The only exception to this rule would be when the ball must be moved due to an obstruction and then how the ball is moved depends on the type of obstruction. Courses did not have separate teeing grounds for each hole and instead used the putting green of one hole to tee off for the next hole.

Still confused? Perfect! Let’s get on with the story then, shall we?
 

 
“If you have ever seen a dragon in a pinch, you will realize that this was only poetical exaggeration applied to any hobbit, even to Old Took’s great-granduncle Bullroarer, who was so huge (for a hobbit) that he could ride a horse. He charged the ranks of the goblins of Mount Gram in the Battle of the Green Fields, and knocked their king Golfimbul’s head clean off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit-hole, and in this way the battle was won and the game of Golf invented at the same moment.” ~ The Hobbit 
 

Chapter 9: Fore!

“Merry! Frodo! Over here! Look!”

The hobbits came running to see what Pippin had found. Behind them, Boromir followed, trotting at a leisurely pace to keep up. They came to the spot where Pippin was standing and looked at the ground where he was so excitedly pointing. Merry exclaimed in surprise and Frodo shook his head in amazement. Sam shook his head also, but his expression was one of resignation. Boromir could only see a hole in the ground, though it was a most unusual hole, perfectly round and not too deep and lined with what appeared to be an oilcloth. Sticking out of the ground next to the hole was a flag pole with a white triangular flag standing on the end.

“Is that was I think it is?” Pippin said, bouncing from one eager foot to another as he waited for his cousins’ verdict.

“It must be,” Merry said, “but what would it be doing here?”

‘Here’ was the valley floor that surrounded the feet of the cliffs in which Rivendell was nestled high above.

Boromir had noticed that the hobbits were becoming bored and restless with their training of late, so as soon as the weather turned more favorable, he had decided to take them for a hike in the mild winter afternoon. The hobbits were very much enjoying their first look at the valley floor, which Pippin had said, just moments before discovering this rather odd-looking hole, reminded him very much of the Tuckborough links back home.

“There’s only one answer to that question,” Frodo said. “Only Bilbo never said anything about this. I wonder why.”

“Bilbo has become rather forgetful in his old age,” Merry noted, “but to forget this? It’s just shameful.”

“The grounds are well-kept, even for winter,” Frodo said, looking around long stretches of flat runways surrounded by narrow dells and softly rolling slopes. “He clearly still uses it. Why didn’t he say something to us about this?”

Sam grunted noncommittally, swallowing an answer deep in the back of his throat. He did not share in his friends’ enthusiasm for their discovery and rather regarded the hole and the surrounding grounds as though he were standing in the gaping mouth of a dragon ready to consume him.

“Let’s go ask him!” Pippin exclaimed. “If he had this built, then he’d have clubs and balls too!” He ran off before anyone could stop him, and Merry and Frodo followed close on his heels.

Boromir peered at the hole, still completely lost as to what had the hobbits so excited. Or, what had the cousins so excited. “I don’t understand,” the man said.

“It’s best if you don’t try to, sir,” Sam said, “but I’ll tell you this much. Now as they’ve found this golf course, you’re about to lose three of your pupils.”

“Golf course? What is that?”

“Trust me, Master Boromir, this is one thing you don’t want to be asking any questions about,” Sam warned. “Remember when Mr. Frodo recited the Rules of Address to you, and when Mr. Merry lectured you on meal times, and when Mr. Pippin asked you all them questions about your boots?”

“Yes.”

“This will be worse. Much, much worse. The love of golf knows no bounds and can drive even the most sensible hobbit to madness,” informed Sam, with such a degree of gravity that the man almost felt a chill run up his spine. “Why, there are some who say that the feud between Mr. Bilbo and the Sackville-Bagginses didn’t start with Bag End at all, but with the 150th Annual Grand Tournament of 1335. Mr. Longo was considered to be the greatest golf champion to have ever lived, after the Bullroarer that is, and he was guaranteed to win the Silver Jug that year just as he had the last three years, which was unheard of enough. No one ever dreamed as there was a hobbit who could win the Silver Jug four years in a row. For months, indeed as soon as the 149th Annual Grand Tournament ended, it was all anyone could talk about, and by the time the next tournament came along, the excitement had reached a fevered pitch. It must have been the biggest upset in Shire history when Mr. Bilbo showed up and swooped the championship right out from under Mr. Longo, his own uncle. They never did share a kind word after that, or so it’s said.”

“We are talking about a game, correct?” Boromir asked.

“It’s more that just a game, Master Boromir. It’s a passion, some even say it’s a way of life. Hobbits will leave a kettle and a pan unguarded on a fire just to make their tee time. They’ll play in rain, snow or burning hot sun; just about the only thing as can make them drop their clubs is a bolt of lightning, and as far as they’re concerned the only good wind is no wind. If a fellow’s wife goes into labor with their very first bairn while he’s on the green, well, that’s just too bad acause he can see the bairn after he finishes the tenth hole. Mr. and Mrs. Vigo Boffin had their wedding on the same day as the 200th Annual Grand Tournament, the Bicentennial mind you, as was held in Tuckborough that year, and hardly no one showed up for the nuptials, not even their fathers and they was supposed to be witnesses. It’s bad, sir,” Sam said, “and if you know what’s best for you, you’ll stay out of their way.” And with those cautionary words, he took off after his friends, leaving Boromir no more educated but by far the wiser.  

After berating Bilbo for neglecting to tell them about his golf course, the cousins were delighted to discover the old hobbit had not one but two sets of clubs along with six perfectly round featheries. Made by the elves, the traditional feather-stuffed leather balls were so well-made and flawless in their design as to make Pippin cry. He promptly sat in the middle of Bilbo’s room and began to oil and chalk them as Frodo and Merry tested the clubs’ grips and flex to determine which set best suited them. They stood in the corner, waggling the clubs and making practice swings, and decided that they would need to be prompt if they wanted to enjoy a nice, friendly round of the links before all the scouts returned.

They were immensely surprised when, with very little prodding or pleading, Boromir agreed to let them have the following morning off their training to get in a round or two. When asked if the man would like to join them and learn about this most wonderful of pastimes, the man regrettably admitted (as he hastened out the door) that he would be busy with other matters and would not be available to join them on the green.

Sam unfortunately had no such excuse and he found himself caddying to Frodo the next morning. The weather had been mild since the snow melted, but the wind was still biting with a fierce chill. Sam buttoned up his jacket and did his best to keep his teeth from chattering as he followed his friends down the trails to the valley floor. The cousins were oblivious to the cold, so excited they were about their pending game, though Pippin was a bit put off to be caddying for Merry.

“The first game always goes to Frodo and me,” Merry pointed out, for this was of course true. Merry was an excellent golfer, though by no means champion material. Still, he had managed to beat every hobbit he has played against at least once, if not several times. Every hobbit, that is, except Frodo. Many of the games played between Merry and Frodo were finished by the sixth hole as Frodo once again annihilated Merry on every single hole to finish two-and-four. Merry was determined to win a round against his older cousin before either of them became too debilitated with old age to swing a club, and so for the last fifteen years, whenever they had chance to play, the first game of the day was always between each other.

Frodo was not as passionate a golfer as some hobbits, but he did enjoy the game well enough and would indulge his cousins when they were of a mood to play. Just as Boromir had learned with the sword, Frodo possessed a natural grace with a golf club and he was able to play with an ease that left many a hobbit so envious they turned greener than the grass of the devotedly-tended links.

The links here had a proper ten holes, and they discovered as they played through that the hole Pippin had found the previous day was the fourth hole. As none of the hobbits were familiar with the links on which they were playing, they were left guessing, using their best strategies and well-honed golfer’s instincts to decide how to proceed on each hole. Frodo was a long driver but Merry had a flawless short game and for once they found themselves evenly matched on the first six holes. Instead of Frodo winning two-up, they were all square, a position Merry had never been in before.

Merry edged one-up on the 4-par seventh hole, using a pitching niblick to sink a chip shot into the hole from a bunker, finishing one under par, while Frodo took two putt shots to level. Hope began to kindle in Merry's chest as they positioned their featheries to tee off for the next drive.

On the three-par eighth hole, Frodo eyed the distance from the teeing ground to the pot bunker that cut laterally through the middle of the fairway. He decided to lay up and put his ball on the fairway just shy of the pot bunker, and selected his spade mashie for the drive. Sam pulled the desired club from the bag, wiped it clean and handed it to Frodo. After waggling his club and addressing the ball, Frodo swung with perfect follow through, sending the featherie to the desired spot.

Only the fairway was shorter than it appeared and instead of hitting the green in front of the pot bunker, the featherie disappeared into the mouth of the pit. Everyone stood gaping in disbelief. Pippin rubbed his eyes and looked again. The featherie, which should have been happily sitting in the middle of the fairway waiting for its next address, was nowhere to be seen. 

Merry teed off next, using his mashie niblick to hit his ball to the spot where Frodo’s should have landed. From there, he was able to level on the hole, but Frodo was caught in the pot bunker and had to take a backward shot onto the fairway before he could even get it onto the putting green. He finished one-down on the hole and Merry took the match dormie with two holes to go.

Merry felt triumphant. At worst, he and Frodo would finish the match all square, which would be accomplishment enough, but now that he was this close, Merry would not be satisfied with merely tying. He began to smell victory for the first time. He was mere strokes away from winning his first match against Frodo. All he had to do was win one more hole.

Pippin set up the ball for the tee off on the 5-par ninth hole and Merry swaggered to address the ball with an air of absolute confidence. Their first shots put them both on the fairway in relatively the same position, with Frodo’s landing away. Frodo’s next shot put him just shy of the putting green. Merry could follow his cousin’s lead and hope to out-putt Frodo once they were on the apron, or he could pull out all the stops and try to shoot for the green from here. It was a risky shot, but as he was in no danger of losing he was finding himself suddenly bold enough to take the risk. He asked Pippin for his brassie and after scoffing at him for a moment, Pippin pulled the club, wiped it clean and handed it to Merry.

“Time to let the big dog eat,” Merry said and regarded his club with much fervor and expectation.

“Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” Sam asked Frodo.

Frodo nodded. “He is.”

Merry felt sweat gathering on his brow as he stepped forward to address the ball. The featherie looked back at him with apprehension but Merry paid it no mind. He adjusted his grip on the club, interlocking his fingers expertly. He waggled the club and set his feet just so. He licked his lips in anticipation. Just one more hole for the win.   

The elf stepped lightly over the shallow dells of Rivendell as he looked ahead to the Last Homely House in the distance. The elven home was aglow under the mid-morning sun as the golden light reflected off marbled walls. In the trees the birds were singing joyously, their sweet music filling the air all about him. He smiled to hear it and began to hum along with the winged creatures, weaving his own music flawlessly with theirs. He stopped before one tall pine and looked up, his keen eyes spotting several nests in the high boughs where many birds were talking. He touched his hand to the pine’s bole and could feel it humming with the same cheer he felt within himself, and his smiled widened.

Then he took his hand away and moved on, for he needed to report to Elrond as soon as he returned to the house. He stepped around the tree and continued down the lawn that led to the base of the cliffs and the paths that led up to the house. The dell here was nearly flat but for a few soft slopes and was clear of any trees or brush. He paused in a small spot of sunlight and lifted his face skyward to relish in its gentle warmth, feeling as attuned to the earth as he ever had. He was beginning to hum again when he heard a very odd whistling noise unlike anything he had ever heard before. He tilted his head and perked his ears and listened more closely. The sound almost reminded him of an arrow in flight but the pitch was too low, and there was a certain spiraling sound to it. What could it be?

“FORE!” someone shouted just then and the elf turned to see four hobbits coming towards him, two of them carrying bags slung over their shoulders with various odd wooden objects sticking out from the tops of the bags. He recognized the Ring-bearer Frodo and his servant Sam, as well as Frodo’s two young cousins, one of whom was running ahead of the others and frantically waving his arms about. He shouted again. “Fore! FORE!”

“Four?” Yes, there were four of them, but the elf hardly understood why the hobbit was telling him this nor why he was doing so in such a frenetic manner.

“Fore!” the running hobbit shouted again, while just behind him Sam cringed and suddenly hid his eyes behind his hands.

“Wha-?” the elf began just as something round and brown came flying into his eyeline. With reflexes quicker than lightning, the elf reached up and grabbed the object before it could collide with his forehead. This did little to appease the running hobbit.

“NO! What are you doing?!” he shouted.

Not knowing what else to do, the elf calmly held the object – a small ball made of a leather hide and stuffed with some sort of substance – out towards the frantic hobbit. “Are you looking for this?” he inquired.

“Am I looking—? Why—Why didn’t you move!” the frantic hobbit shouted, reaching the elf at last.

“It is all right. I am unharmed,” said the elf.

“Wonderful,” said the hobbit, not sounding in the least that he indeed found this to be wonderful. “Why did you catch the ball!”

“Should I not have?” the elf asked.

“Of course not! You don’t catch a ball that’s in play!”

The elf looked down at the ball with wonderment. “What do you do with it then?”

The other hobbits reached them, and Frodo and his other cousin looked quite amused. Sam simply looked relieved to find the elf still standing.

“What do you—? What do you—you—”

“Merry, calm down,” said Frodo. He grinned up at the elf and said, “Welcome back, Legolas. I must say, but your timing is impeccable. I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to my cousins. This is Merry and this is Pippin.”

“Master Merry. Master Pippin,” Legolas greeted with a slight bow to each. “It has been… an experience to meet you.”

“Hallo Legolas,” Pippin greeted, grinning just as much, if not more so, than Frodo. He put down his bag of odd wooden objects and scrutinized the elf, a twinkle of mischief in his green eyes. “Maybe if he throws the ball and then you can play it from wherever it lands.”

“Throw the ball?” Merry said with no small amount of incredulity and Pippin realized too late this was no time for jests. Merry forgot the elf to turn his glare on his cousin. “Throw the ball? You don’t throw a golf ball, Pippin, you hit it. You of all people should know that. You never touch a ball in play, and he—” and here he pointed backwards at Legolas “—caught it. He caught it!”

“May I inquire as to what this is about?” Legolas asked.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, sir,” Sam said with a warning shake of his head but he was too late.

“What is this about?” Merry said, swinging back around towards the elf. “I was about to win this match! If I had made that shot I’d be on the green and I could have won. I'd be three up and he—” and here he pointed at Frodo “—would finally know what it’s like to lose to me! But you had to not only get in the way, but you caught the ball! You ruined my game entirely and— Did you move?”

“Move?” Legolas said, looking down at his feet. “You did wish for me to move, did you not.”

“Not now!” Merry said, eyes darting along the ground. “You moved the ball! You were there, and now you’re here. You moved a whole inch! You caught the ball and then you moved with it! Why?”

“Merry,” Frodo said, his voice stern and surprisingly commanding. Even Legolas stood up a little straighter to hear it. “Maintain yourself. This is a gentlehobbit’s sport and you are hardly acting like a gentlehobbit. Besides, it would be nearly impossible to reach the green from that distance. You would have wound up in the rough instead and would have lost the hole. You will never know what it’s like to win against me.”

Merry opened his mouth as if to protest further but with a great effort and deep breath, he calmed himself instead and gathered himself together. “You’re right. About my behavior, not my chances of winning.” He turned to Legolas and bowed gallantly. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. It was rude and uncalled for.”

Frodo looked pointedly at Legolas and tilted his head ever so slightly in Merry’s direction. “And I must apologize for catching the ball and moving with it,” Legolas said. “What shall I do with it now? Shall I throw it?”

“No!” all the hobbits said at once. Sam set down his bag of odd wooden objects and he and Frodo stood by as Merry and Pippin conferred, scrutinizing the elf together.

“This is unprecedented,” said Pippin, looking at Legolas and the ball as though he had never seen a sight like it before. “You can’t play through. But you can’t let it lie either. He’s an obstruction, like a tree.”

“He’s an elf,” Merry said.

“He’s a wood elf,” Pippin said with a nod.

“He’s not even supposed to be there. He wouldn’t be, if he had moved,” Merry pointed out.

“But he didn’t,” Pippin said.

“This is clearly a circumstance of abnormal ground conditions,” Merry said.

Pippin shook his head. “No, I think this is more of an obstruction.”

“How is an elf not abnormal?” Merry said. Then he seemed to think better about this because he turned to Legolas and said sheepishly, “Not that I’m saying elves are abnormal, I just mean on a track.”

“Naturally,” Legolas permitted.

“Abnormal ground conditions can only exist under the conditions of grounds construction, or holes dug by burrowing animals. Legolas is neither. He’s an immovable obstruction, Merry,” Pippin insisted.

“Immovable?”

“He’s a tree.”

“He’s an elf.”

“But he caught it.”

“Very well. He’s a moveable obstruction.”

Sam turned to Frodo and whispered quietly, so only his master, and Legolas with his keen senses, could hear him, “Wouldn’t Mr. Merry be better off agreeing to it being an immovable obstruction, what with the grass on the apron looking to break like it does?”

“Yes. Shhh,” Frodo replied.

“I still am not clear as to what this is about,” Legolas said.

“It’s golf,” Frodo said. “It’s a game we hobbits play, or some of us do at any rate.”

“How is it played?” asked Legolas.

“By hitting that there ball into the hole over yonder,” Sam said, pointing to the nearby upper level where Legolas could now see a white flag sticking out of the ground. “Whoever can get the ball into the hole in the least amount of strokes wins the hole, and whoever wins the most holes wins the match. Mr. Merry took the match dormie on the last hole, so if he wins this hole, he’ll win the match three-and-one.”

Legolas nodded. “This sounds like a very complicated game,” he observed. “How long will I have to stand here?”

“Until Merry and Pippin can decide what to do with you,” Frodo said. “Normally the links committee would make that determination, but as we don't have one of those, we decided that such matters would be settled between golfer and caddie. If you’re an immovable obstruction, then Merry can move the ball no further than one club length and no nearer the hole to take his next shot, and as his last shot was hooking, he would be much better off taking that option. If you’re deemed a movable obstruction, then Merry will have to move you in some manner and take a drop where you are currently standing. There’s no penalty either way, but the previous stroke still counts against him.”

“Very well,” Legolas said and they returned their attention to Merry and Pippin, who were still in hot debate.

“A tree has roots and leaves and a trunk. Legolas does not have any of those things,” Merry argued.

“But he caught the ball,” Pippin said. “Duffers are always losing their balls in the trees.”

“He caught it, and then moved with it. Have you ever seen a tree that moves?”

“Yes, they move all the time with the wind.”

“But Legolas walked with it. Have you ever seen a walking tree?”

“No, but Sam’s cousin Hal has.”

“Hal is known for his habit of picking the wrong mushrooms.”

“Hey now!” Sam exclaimed, insulted on his cousin’s behalf.

“Sorry, Sam.”

“Look, Merry,” Pippin said, lowering his voice so that the others – except Legolas – would not be able to hear him. “The grain on the apron cuts to the left and you have a habit of hooking your long shots when you’re worked up. If you take the drop from this position you’ll risk overshooting the green entirely and you’ll end up in the rough. But if Legolas is an immovable obstruction, you can place the ball to the right and then you’ll have a good lie. Try for a push to even out your hook and you’ll get a flush shot onto the apron, with one putt to sink it. So stop trying to make a point and play through.”

Merry turned and eyed the remainder of the green behind the elf. He was loathe to lose the argument but he would rather lose that than the match. “If that’ll make you happy, Pip,” he said. “Legolas is a tree.”

“I’m a tree?” Legolas said, wondering how literally the hobbits would take that judgment. “Does that mean I must stay here?”

“Only until I take my next shot,” Merry said, but he made no move other than to take the ball from Legolas.

Frodo and Sam walked off to where Frodo's featherie was patiently waiting for its next address. Sam then walked up to the green and lay down on the grass to study the severity of the break in the grain. When he returned to Frodo he said, “I think a push is just thing. The break does run right to left, so a push shot will put you in the better position to make your putt. Or you could try to sink it.”

“I can’t worry about what Merry might do. Give me my mashie niblick,” Frodo said and lined up his next shot. His ball landed on the green well right of the hole and rolled for a short distance to put Frodo in good putting position.

Now it was Merry’s turn again. He and Pippin quickly decided his cleek would be the best club to use for this shot, for it would give him the control he so desperately needed. He placed the cleek on the ground perpendicular from where Legolas stood and dropped the ball next to the club head. Picking up the cleek again, he measured the distance and studied the wind before waggling the club and addressing the ball.

Legolas watched all this with much fascination. He noticed the way Merry’s fingers interlocked over the club handle, the way he adjusted his grip so that the right hand was looser than the left, the way Merry shifted from one foot to another until his weight was evenly distributed. Legolas had no idea what form the player’s body should take in the back swing, but he did note the fluidity of the movements, Merry’s concentration and the way his weight shifted again to put all the power into his left leg even while he maintained control in his right leg.

Everything grew still and silent, even the birds in the trees had stopped chirping, as though they sensed the importance of this moment. Merry swung, his follow through flawless, and with a dull THWACK! the featherie sailed through the air towards the raised circular lawn in the distance. The ball landed in the middle of the lawn and rolled towards the flag that Legolas could see there. Then, impossibly, the ball continued to roll, disappearing into the ground just short of the flag.

A brief moment of shocked silence was followed by a monstrous whoop from Merry and Pippin, who began jumping up and down in joyous celebration. “Did you see that?! A double eagle! A double eagle!” Pippin exclaimed.

Despite himself, Legolas looked up into the sky. He was not surprised when he did not find any eagles flying there, but he did wonder how the hobbits came about their names for… whatever it was Merry had just done.

“I won! I won!” Merry exclaimed. Tears were streaming down his face. He hugged Pippin fiercely and they continued to jump around, making such a ruckus that some of the birds left their perches and took flight to find more peaceful trees.

Merry then let go of Pippin and turned to hug Legolas. “Thank you!” he said, with genuine sincerity. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

“You’re most welcome,” Legolas said, surprised by this sudden turn of events but finding it much more favorable than having the hobbit angry with him.

“Congratulations, Merry,” Frodo said. “You played well today. And I think Legolas might like to have his legs back.”

Merry let go of Legolas, smiling up at him sheepishly before taking his cousin’s hand. “You played well yourself, dear old Frodo. It was a pleasure to win against you.” Then he turned back to the elf, his new best friend, and said, “You should have been here for the whole match Legolas. It was really an excellent game.” And he launched into his post-game reenactment before Legolas could even hope to think of escape.

Legolas learned quite a lot about golf as they hiked up the cliff trail to the Last Homely House. He learned all about strokes, grips, clubs, and hazards and learned the definitions of many odd words such as bogey, froghair, hardpan, dormie and chunking, to name a few. By the time they reached the house, his head was swimming with the hobbits’ excited chatter and he was beginning to feel rather out of his equilibrium. But he found an unlooked for savior when they turned a corner and spotted the Gondorian at the other end of the passageway.

“BOROMIR!” Merry and Pippin shouted as one.

Boromir paused in his wandering and waited for the hobbits and Legolas to join him – until he noticed Sam walking at the back of the group. Sam was making small imperceptible waving motions with his hands and mouthing one word that Boromir understood to mean “Go!”

The man needed no further prompting. “Lord Elrond!” Boromir called down an adjoining corridor. “Just a moment! Sorry, lads, but duty calls.” He all but sprinted down the corridor and was gone from their sight before they could blink.

Legolas separated himself from the hobbits. “I too must request an audience with Lord Elrond. Good-bye.” He then trotted down the passageway and rounded the corner and down the corridor. He was just in time to see a door in the middle of the corridor snap closed. He opened that door and entered the room to find himself standing in the middle a storeroom.

“Where is Elrond?” Legolas asked, thinking they must have entered the wrong door.

“I don’t know. I have not seen him all morning,” Boromir said and leaned against the door so no one else could enter. “Is it as horrible as I have been warned?”

“I know nothing of your warning, but it was rather upsetting,” Legolas said and joined the man in leaning against the door. “I pity whoever is chosen to accompany the hobbits on their quest.”

“Merry and Pippin will not be going, I hear,” Boromir informed.

“That is hopeful,” Legolas responded.

They waited until the voices of the hobbits had faded into the distance before leaving their refuge and finding more convenient hiding places.
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 
 

GF 1/28/07

This is for Glory Underhill, who suggested a chapter about the ‘art’ of smoking pipe-weed. And speaking of art, whatever happened to those art books that Pippin found? ;)

Thanks to Dreamflower for her beta of this chapter.

“There is another thing about the Hobbits of old that must be mentioned, an astonishing habit: they imbibed or inhaled, through pipes of clay or wood, the smoke of the burning leaves of a herb, which they called pipe-weed or leaf, a variety probably of Nicotiana. A great deal of mystery surrounds the origin of this peculiar custom, or ‘art’ as the Hobbits preferred to call it.” ~ FOTR, The Prologue
 

Chapter 10: Smoke Gets in Their Eyes

Legolas stood outside his bedroom door in the darkening night and listened intently.

After his council with Elrond, Legolas had retreated to his room, located in the upper levels of the house to afford him the best view of the forest, and there he had remained until now. In this way, he had managed to pass the remainder of the day without crossing paths with the hobbits, for which he was much more delighted than he cared to admit. The hobbits were pleasant enough and often brought a smile to the elf’s lips with their simple yet quirky nature. Their forthrightness and openness were greatly appealing most of the time but when they became obsessed with something, such as golf, they were quite exhausting.

The dinner hour was passed and the house would be gathering in the Hall of Fire. If he did not want people to think he was avoiding the hobbits – which he mostly certainly was not – he would have to make an appearance before the night wore too long. Staying to the shadows and keeping his senses heightened, so as not to be caught unaware twice in one day, he navigated his way through the corridors to the nearest staircase that would lead him to the first level.

Before he could reach the staircase, he became aware of the faintest scent of smoke on the night breeze. He sniffed at it curiously, for it was not the scent of wood fire as he would have suspected. Instead, this smoke smelled of crisp grass and summer blossoms, steaming cider and fresh-cut apples, quite an odd mixture but not unpleasant. The smoke wafted up all the corridors on the eastern side of the house, but by great skill Legolas was able to track the trail to its source.

As the smoke scent grew stronger, he began to hear, at first faint but growing clearer as he drew nearer, the voices of the hobbits. He halted when he realized where his hunt was leading him, and he debated with himself briefly the wisdom of continuing his pursuit. Then curiosity overwhelmed him. He wanted to know the nature of this smoke – if it was a danger it would have be put out swiftly – and it may well have nothing to do with the hobbits, in which case, he could extinguish the fire and continue to the Hall of Fire with the security of knowing the hobbits were behind him.

He continued forward, albeit cautiously, and at last came to the end of a grand passageway to a balcony and a spiraling staircase that led down many flights to a courtyard below. There he could see all five of the hobbits sitting against the trees or lying upon the grass. He noticed immediately that the hobbits had everything to do with the smoke and he watched in fascination as he tried to determine what they were doing. Each hobbit held a long wooden stem, at the end of which was a small glowing bowl. Smoke was coming from the bowls and, remarkably, every now and again the hobbits would draw smoke into their mouths from the small end of the stem and then blow the smoke out again. Bilbo even made circles with his smoke.

Legolas stood openly at the rail of the sixth-floor balcony, unconcerned that the hobbits would be able to spy him from such a distance in the dark, even with the assistance of the quarter moon. He could hear enough of their talk to determine they were still speaking of golf, although they were now speaking of games played in the Shire by competitors in something they called an ‘open’. Despite his weariness of the hobbits’ current topic, Legolas found himself rooted to his secluded vantage point. He watched the hobbits closely, particularly Frodo and Sam, trying to determine in which way if any they were prepared for such a quest as they were about to undertake in just a few short weeks.

It was here that Erestor found him a few minutes later. Legolas had missed dinner, a fact the hobbits had noted with much concern, and Erestor had promised that he would find their “best golfing partner ever” and bring him to the Hall of Fire if he did not come himself. Erestor had come to bid Legolas’s presence but had found the younger elf’s room empty. He had not had to search long before finding him. As with the other soon-to-be members of the Quest, Legolas was hopelessly drawn to the hobbits.

Legolas heard the other elf’s approach long before he was joined on the balcony. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement when Erestor came to stand beside him and join him in observing the hobbits. Erestor leaned forward with his elbows on the rail and waved down at the hobbits. To Legolas’s great surprise, Frodo waved back. Before Legolas could recover from this stunning revelation, Erestor spoke.

“I see you have come out of hiding,” he began, a hint of humor in his voice.

“I have not been hiding,” Legolas replied stiffly in an attempt to save face. “I was in council with Elrond, as you know.”

“Indeed I do, as I was there also, along with Gandalf and Glorfindel. That meeting has been over for hours now,” Erestor pointed out, keeping a straight face with great difficulty as he remembered the hunted look on the young elf’s face when he had entered the council chamber earlier that day. Elrond had let the matter pass without comment but they had all learned the meaning behind that look as the day progressed.

“I have been resting from my journey,” Legolas continued now, his voice still tight. If he had been so inclined, he would no doubt be blushing now. “Mirkwood is a fair distance and I had been traveling swiftly.”

“My mistake then,” Erestor replied smoothly. He allowed the younger elf a few moments of dignity before adding, “Journeys can be wearisome. I imagine the last few miles of your journey were quite tiring indeed.” Legolas spared him a pained look and Erestor laughed heartily. “Merry has been reenacting his triumph over Frodo to anyone who will listen. I am afraid that everyone in the house knows the tale by now. I had the misfortune of hearing it twice.”

“Everyone knows?” Legolas asked, his eyes pleading for the older elf to be merely jesting.

“Everyone knows,” Erestor assured. Legolas suppressed a heavy sigh but Erestor only laughed again and shook his head. “You misunderstand me, my friend,” he said, seeking to put Legolas’s worries to ease. “From what the hobbits have said, you withstood Merry’s rampage quite admirably. I must admit I was not so unflappable the first time I encountered a hobbit at the peak of his rage. You do not expect it from one so easy-going and jolly, and so it is doubly off-putting when it occurs. There is not an elf here who has not been dumbstruck the first time they came face to face with such behavior. So do not worry, my friend. You passed the test and your name is held in high esteem this day.”

This had the desired effect. Legolas relaxed considerably and even echoed Erestor in leaning against the rail. “Can they hear us?” Legolas asked.

“I do not believe so,” Erestor guessed and now he looked at the hobbits thoughtfully, his eyes lingering over Frodo, who was laughing at something Pippin was saying. “I had only waved to determine if they could see us up here. I was not expecting any of them to wave back. Interesting that it should be Frodo who did so.”

“Why is that?” Legolas asked, sensing the seriousness that overtook the other elf’s mood as easily as he could read it in Erestor’s voice. Erestor was greatly concerned about something involving Frodo, but Legolas had no guess as to what that might be.

“Gandalf suspects that Frodo is not wholly healed from his wounding by the Witch King, and I wonder now if his guess is right,” Erestor explained. “Frodo can see us quite clearly, even in the dark, but the other hobbits cannot. I will have to report this to Gandalf when next I see him.”

“He seemed well on the golf course this morning,” Legolas put in, almost defensively. He was alarmed to learn such grave news, but even more than that, he was alarmed by how greatly distressed he was to hear it. He might not know Frodo or the other hobbits very well, but the thought that one of them was already so tarnished by the Dark Lord was beyond upsetting.

“And he is well, as well as he has ever been, according to Sam. I think in this we can trust Sam’s judgment,” Erestor assured. This did little to reassure Legolas, who was frowning once again though for an altogether different reason. He was heartened to see Legolas so protective of the hobbits’ well-being, but he would not have him worry overly much either. Attempting one last jest to distract the young elf, Erestor teased, “I am glad to see you have not sprouted roots from your own encounter with unnatural forces, though when you disappeared for so long I began to wonder if you had not found a nice little spot in the forest and made yourself comfortable.”

“I would not have been surprised if Merry had demanded I turn myself into a tree,” Legolas admitted and chuckled ruefully. “I was tempted to just put the ball down and walk away, but then I thought better of it. I have a feeling any sudden movement at that point would have been ill-advised.”

“You have good instincts,” Erestor laughed, glad to see that his ploy had worked. “You would do well to continue to listen to them.”

Legolas laughed now also and for a time they did nothing more than watch the hobbits and listen to the musical lilts of their voices. They were speaking now of a Shire festival, and Frodo and Merry were gently teasing Pippin about a lass he had met there. Looking at them now, Legolas found it difficult to believe that just that morning he had feared bodily harm from one of them. He shook his head and asked, “Are they always so… impassioned?”

“Only when they are awake,” Erestor answered and laughed again when Legolas winced. He patted Legolas on the shoulder. “Do not fear, my young friend. Their positives far outweigh their negatives, though they of course hardly consider their negatives to be so. They rather think they are the most perfect creatures in all of Middle-earth, yet they would deny it emphatically if you asked them. They’re really rather humble and self-effacing for all their limitless perfections.”

“They are nice enough,” Legolas allowed, “but the younger two are rather overwhelming. I do not see how you and the others have been able to withstand them for so long. Is there some trick to dealing with them?”

Erestor nodded. After seventeen years, he knew as much about hobbits as everyone else here, save Gandalf. Legolas however knew almost nothing about hobbits, and while he would learn quickly enough, Erestor didn’t see the harm in giving him a tip or two.

“There are several methods for dealing with the hobbits,” he began. “Many of them are simple enough and you will learn them within a day or two on your own. The most important thing to remember is to not confuse their naiveté for childishness. Though they may often act child-like, they are wise in their own manner and just as intelligent as anyone else here. Even Pippin, who is still a child according their way of counting such things, understands much of what is said and even more of what is not said. So don’t speak down to them.”

“Should I kneel whenever I speak to them then?” Legolas teased now.

“That will not be necessary,” Erestor answered, smiling warmly. “But you would be wise to keep this in mind also, for I find it to be most effective for distracting an impassioned hobbit: food. All you need to do is mention food. They will realize that they are hungry, or are about to be, and will go in search of some. Though I will warn you this is not fool-proof, for if they are not hungry then they will simply prattle on about food until they are. I fear, also, that this would not have helped you this morning, for if there is one thing that can make even a hobbit forget about food it is golf.”

“So then how do you distract them from golf?” Legolas asked earnestly, for this was what he most wanted to know. He waited eagerly, expecting to hear some marvelous and brilliant edict on hobbit-golf distraction strategies.

Erestor sighed heavily. “As far as I can tell, you can’t, not the ones who are impassioned about it at any rate. Poor Sam would happily discuss any other subject, even the Dark Lord, to get away from speaking about golf.”

Legolas’s hope deflated at this announcement and when Erestor did not attempt to make light of the matter, he felt a most unsettling sense of doom settle over Rivendell. He knew he was exaggerating the situation but that fact was not helped by what Erestor said next.

“It is a most involved and complicated sport,” he went on. “We were never more happy than when Bilbo gave it up. He claimed to be too old for it, saying he couldn’t stay awake long enough to play a full round. We actually forgot the course was even there until yesterday. Had we guessed the trouble that Boromir would stir up by taking the hobbits on their hike, we would have found some way to deter him.”

He was shaking his head in such a manner that he did not seem capable of stopping, like a nervous tick that would not go away. He was remembering the earlier years of Bilbo’s retirement, when Elrond had unwittingly agreed to let Bilbo turn the valley into a golf course. The elf lord had even assigned some gardeners to help Bilbo with his project. They should have been able to sense the trouble they were leading themselves towards, but they had walked blindly into the fire and realized too late they were being cooked.

“But surely they can only keep this going for so long,” Legolas prompted when it became clear that Erestor was lost in his thoughts.

Erestor pulled himself back to the present and he almost laughed for the hope in Legolas’s voice. And he thought the hobbits were naïve. “If even Bilbo alone could keep his hobby going for as long as he did, then I do not doubt that the four of them together could keep their matches and rematches going on indefinitely, if they were allowed the time. Now Bilbo’s passion has been renewed by that of his younger cousins and he seems intent on making up for lost time.”

He paused then and considered Legolas closely before continuing. It was only fair, after all, to warn him. “You did not dine with us, so you do not know this,” he said and paused again, giving Legolas time to steal himself against the upcoming news. “They were making plans for a rematch tomorrow morning. Merry has become quite smug and Frodo is insisting that his win was nothing more than a fluke.” Legolas managed to suppress his groan, but only just. “Bilbo will be going with them to act as grounds committee in case any more returning scouts happen to wander into the flight paths of any more balls. You might be interested to hear that he did agree with their assessment that you were an immovable obstruction, though he argued against you being a tree.”

This did little to console Legolas. He had hoped for some magical cure to the hobbits’ golf obsession and he was most displeased to discover that there was not one. If that weren’t bad enough, he now he had another troubling obsession to worry about – food. There would be very little of that during the quest. “Do they have any other passions that I should know about?” he asked. “What are they doing now? What strange manner of smoke are they breathing, and why?”

Erestor regretted having to follow bad news with more bad news but he knew it was best to get this over and done with. He looked upon the hobbits with fierce significance. “This you do need to know about, for soon you will be traveling with at least two hobbits, and quite possibly a dwarf and a ranger, not to mention a wizard who is grumpy enough as it is.”

“Do they all share this strange custom?” Legolas asked. He could not recall ever seeing Gandalf breathe smoke, but he had not spent much time in company with the wizard before now.

Erestor nodded again, sympathy in his eyes, and continued with his lesson. “They are smoking pipe-weed, a leaf they grow in the Shire, and while the hobbits have it to enjoy at their leisure, they are ever pleasant and chipper. However, their supply will run dry one day, very possibly during the early days of your quest, for they are already long on their road from home. You will need to know the warning signs for when that day arrives.”

Legolas felt the gloom deepening. As if golf were not bad enough, this new revelation sounded to be even more harrowing in nature. He waited patiently, though with no small amount of trepidation, for Erestor to continue.

Erestor studied the hobbits below and half-listened to their high voices drifting up towards him like music from the earth itself. They were reminiscing now of their family and friends at home in the Shire and they were laughing jovially as they related tales of pranks and misunderstandings.

“If you ask the hobbits about their leaf,” Erestor began, “they will tell you that hobbits have been smoking leaf since time out of memory but that the first true pipe-weed was grown by Tobold Hornblower of Longbottom in the Southfarthing in the Shire year 1070 in the days of Isengrim the Second. They’ll tell you that pipe-weed is now grown in many different varieties, but only the three descended from Tobold’s fields are considered the very best, and that each variety can be cured with various different herbs for different flavors and scents. They’ll tell you which ones go best with which types of ale or drink, and who grows the best leaf of each variety. Those that know will even tell you how it’s grown, cultivated, and cured, and all the various problems that come with growing the temperamental leaf.

“When they are finished with that, they will tell you about the receiving of their first pipes, a very momentous occasion in a young hobbit’s life, nearly as momentous as their first breath of smoke, about which they will also go into excruciating detail. They’ll tell you about the different types of pipes, clay and wood, big and small, and how to light them, smoke them, clean them and keep them in good order. They’ll tell you about the various containers in which pipe-weed can be stored, and how long each container will keep the leaf fresh. They will tell you many things, indeed they will tell you everything they know, which is enough to fill a volume in Elrond’s library.”

“I do not doubt that,” Legolas stated dryly. After his encounter this morning, he knew full well the long-windedness of hobbits. Yet he had a feeling that Erestor was speaking of something more than just an ardent lecture on the wily nature of pipe-weed and those who smoke it.

Erestor grunted in understanding. Being barraged by hobbits was an unforgettable experience, no matter how long one should live. “Nor should you. However, for all that they know and for all that they can tell you, they will not tell you this, for this they do not know.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows at this and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. As intimidating as the hobbits’ knowledge on a topic might be, Legolas had a feeling that their lack of knowledge would be equally so.

Erestor licked his lips and looked up, out over the treetops of the forest that spread out before them beyond the last wing of the house. He was soon looking far off, in a past not too distant and not too dark, but full of misadventures all the same. “When Bilbo first came to live with us sixteen years ago, after returning from the Lonely Mountain, he was as you see him now: happy and laughing and as carefree as could be hoped for. Gandalf visited often in those days, going back and forth between here and the Shire in between all his other errands. He would bring back much news from the Shire of Frodo and his friends, for whom Bilbo was always eager to hear.

“And he would also bring back pipe-weed. Pouches of it. On a couple of occasions he even brought a barrel. Bilbo would sniff the leaf deeply and try to guess from whose field it was grown and what variety it was. More often than not he was correct, for which he was greatly proud. Then they would sit on the terrace outside Bilbo’s room and smoke and talk for hours on end. We never thought much of it, for to us it was only some odd habit of theirs and so of little consequence to us. Oh, how little we guessed the truth of that leaf’s insidious nature.”

Legolas quirked his eyebrows again. Insidious? That was quite a strong word for describing a leaf, even a smoking leaf. He would not even describe the hobbits’ golf as insidious, though it came close to the mark. He did not interrupt though, for he could see that Erestor had much left to say.

“You see, there soon came a time that Gandalf again grew greatly troubled with events of the world and the rumors of the darkness rising in the South. He ceased his visits to the Shire and was here less often than he was wont to be. Bilbo missed him naturally, but he got along as easily as he always had and so we did not think to worry. Until the day his pipe-weed ran out. Or, more accurately, until the day after his pipe-weed ran out.”

Now Erestor closed his eyes as he envisioned again that long-ago day, when all their assumptions about the sweetness of hobbits had been obliterated.

“The day began quite normally,” he began. “Bilbo was a bit fidgety, but not alarmingly so, and while he had trouble concentrating he was still cheerful enough. The next day, he complained of a headache and cough and said he’d had trouble sleeping. Elrond examined him and said he had developed a cold. He gave Bilbo teas to drink and ordered special food made for him, but nothing helped with the symptoms. That night, Bilbo accused Lindir of stealing a poem he had been working on and threw Lindir’s ink-and-pen set into the fire pit in the Hall of Fire as payback.”

“He what?” Legolas said before he could catch himself. He stared at Erestor in aghast, not able to believe his ears. Either Erestor was jesting with him again, and doing a very convincing job of it, or Legolas was hearing the tallest tall-tale ever told in the history of Middle-earth.

Erestor did not respond to Legolas’s surprised exclamation. After all, there would be plenty more of those to come before he finished his tale, abridged though it may be.

Erestor continued. “The following day he was even more fatigued and his cold was not abating, so Elrond ordered him to bed rest. Bilbo snapped at him and told him to ‘shove off’ and advised him what exactly he could do with his medicaments and medical instruments.” Here he paused and looked at Legolas significantly, making his meaning plain. Legolas’s jaw all but dropped to the balcony floor and his eyes widened even further. He almost commented again but caught himself from doing so, but the expression on his face was easy to read. None of them had believed the kindly hobbit capable of such wicked thoughts either. Yet that was not the end of the tale and with each recounting of events, Legolas’s expression grew more accosted and disbelieving.

“That night, he barely ate a bite of his meal and sat glaring at anyone who dared to make eye contact with him. When Elrond again attempted treatment, Bilbo picked up his bowl of beef stew – thankfully it was cold by this time – and threw it in Elrond’s general direction, hitting several elves who had the misfortune of sitting too close to his table.

“The following day was no better and everyone began to give Bilbo a wide berth, steering away from him when they saw him approaching in the corridors or exiting the room when he walked in. His irritability reached unforeseen heights. He snapped at anyone who came too near, he complained constantly about everything, he even made one of the cooks cry by claiming that she could not have been a cook for the last thousand years if she thought sirloin should taste like tar dipped in horse dung.”

“He said that?”

“He did. This continued for about a week or so, until one morning Bilbo walked into the dining hall beaming happily and singing under his breath. Things went back to normal after that, though every now and again over the next several months Bilbo would wake feeling uncommonly irritated and that mood would persist for the entirety of the day. During one of his last fits, Glorfindel made the mistake of teasing him about his swimming skills, of which he had none, so he pushing Glorfindel into the pond. Finally, the mood swings stopped altogether and Bilbo was back to his chipper and carefree self at all times as we were used to seeing him.”

“That is a relief to hear,” Legolas said, thinking the tale over. He was about to ask what any of that had to do with breathing smoke when Erestor continued, more grimly than before.

“It was, until Gandalf returned after an absence of many years, and he brought with him a type of pipe-weed,” the older elf went on. “It was not of the Shire but of Dale, for which Bilbo was very much disappointed, but he deemed it good enough to smoke at nights after dinner. Gandalf did not bring very much leaf with him and it only lasted a few weeks, but we noticed that when this leaf ran out, Bilbo again developed cold-like symptoms and became irritable to the point of being nearly lethal.”

Dawning overcame Legolas’s confused features and Erestor nodded in acquiescence.

“You see the connection now, as did we. The ‘cold’ and grumpiness did not last very long that time around, only a few days or so, but it was then that Elrond was able to make the connection between the weed and Bilbo’s odd behavior that came after the weed was exhausted. Bilbo denied that any such connection existed, but we have seen it a couple more times since, though none were nearly as bad as that first time.”

Legolas stood stupefied for a time as he tried to process this information but all he could think about was the fact that he would soon be traveling with hobbits, not to mention a dwarf, ranger and a wizard who was grumpy enough as it was. “Do you think that dwarves, men and wizards react in a similar manner to running out of pipe-weed?” Legolas asked with dread.

“I would imagine so, but I could not say for certain,” Erestor stated. “I do not think they would be as bad as hobbits though.”

“I am beginning to think that my father agreed to my joining this Quest as a form of punishment, though what I ever did to offend him so, I cannot say,” Legolas said.

“Elrond has found that exercise helps with the cravings, and you will be walking quite a bit each day,” Erestor pointed out. “Perhaps it might not be so bad.”

“Or the hobbits will shove one of us off the edge of a mountain,” Legolas stated dryly.

“You will be traveling through Hollin for a time. It’s quite flat and free of sharp or steep drops,” Erestor reassured. “With hope, the smoking sickness will have passed by the time you have to cross over the mountains.”

“I envy those of you who will be remaining behind,” Legolas said.

“We will not be entirely free of torment. Bilbo and the two younger hobbits will be remaining here,” Erestor pointed out. “We will be equal in our misery.”

“No we won’t. You will be able to avoid your hobbits. I will not,” Legolas said and sighed. “And while Frodo and Sam alone would not be so horrible to endure as Merry and Pippin, there is still a dwarf, a ranger and an incredibly grumpy wizard to take into account.”

“They are gone,” Erestor said suddenly and pointed below to the courtyard which was now empty. The hobbits were nowhere to be seen or heard. “They will have gone inside to the Hall of Fire. Shall we go down and join the others? That is, after all, why I came to get you in the first place.”

“I suppose that would be wise,” Legolas admitted regrettably, for he could not continue to hide from the hobbits, especially not if everyone knew that he was doing so. He supposed that for the time being, he would have to consider himself lucky that the hobbits were so naturally cheerful and charming, which made traveling with them less daunting to contemplate.

They left their perch and took the stairs to the first floor. The scent of the smoke grew stronger as they descended the stairs and as they passed through the courtyard, Legolas’s eyes began to sting and he coughed as the smoke snuck into his lungs. He covered his mouth and nose until they were well past the courtyard and noticed that Erestor too was breathing shallow.

“How can they breathe such an atrocious thing as this?” Legolas asked, wiping the water from his eyes and coughing out the last of the smoke.

“I do not know,” Erestor said. “They claim that you become accustomed to it, but I do not see how.”

At length, they reached the Hall of Fire and were about to enter when they noticed Boromir leaning against the wall near the doorway. The man looked up as they approached and came over to meet them. He nodded towards Erestor but it was clear he wished to speak with Legolas in private. Erestor took his leave and Legolas waited for Boromir to speak.

“Have you heard?” Boromir asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “The hobbits have planned another golf competition for tomorrow morning.”

“I have heard,” Legolas said, though he had quite forgotten about it given everything else he had heard. He pushed aside his future worries to focus on the present and the worries that surrounded him now. “It is troublesome.”

“Did you also hear that they wish for us to join them?”

“They do?” Legolas asked and now the veil of doom was dropped. He would have to endure another day of golf, and a full day at that. Unless…

“We must put a stop to this,” Boromir continued. It was the only hopeful thing Legolas had heard all evening.

“Aren’t you their instructor?” Legolas asked, trying to think of ways to stall the hobbits’ return to the golf course. “I seem to recall hearing that you have been instructing the hobbits in swordplay. Can you not simply command them to train rather than play about?”

“I could, but such tactics will only delay the inevitable. No, we must do something swift and permanent to stop them. We must destroy the golf clubs,” Boromir stated. “We must cast them back into the woodpiles from whence they came.”

“Destroy them? Don’t you think that is a bit drastic?” Legolas said, though admittedly he did find the idea of destroying the golf clubs quite appealing. Still, he did not wish to offend the hobbits should they be caught in the act. If he and Boromir only hid the clubs, then they could excuse it as a prank or even a tracking exercise. “Could we not attempt to hide them first?”

“I suppose you are right,” Boromir admitted. “If we are caught trying to destroy them, we would have much explaining to do. We can store the clubs someplace the hobbits would not think to look, or could not reach if they found them.” He pondered the matter for a moment as he went through the house in his mind and tried to think of a likely location. Legolas was about to suggest a location when Boromir snapped his fingers and said, “We could hide them with the art books.”

“Art books?”

Boromir waved his hand distractedly. “I’ll explain later. It would be a good location and though Frodo knows of the hiding place, he himself would not go there. He made sure that it would be a location that Merry and Pippin would not find.”

“Very well. Where are the art books hidden?” Legolas asked.

“I don’t know, but I know who does.”  

Sam was refilling his master’s goblet with wine when he heard someone hissing at him from the entryway. He looked up and cast his eyes about until he spotted Boromir peeking around the entryway and waving frantically at him. When Sam’s eyes landed on him, the man put a finger to his lips, then beckoned to Sam again and disappeared around the door.

With a quick look behind him to make sure no one was watching, Sam put the goblet aside and snuck out the door. When he reached the corridor outside the Hall of Fire, Boromir pulled him aside into the shadows where Legolas was waiting. Sam looked between the two with confusion.

“Can I help you, sirs?” he asked.

“You can,” Boromir said. “Where did Frodo hide the art books?”

“The art books?” Sam repeated in surprise. Of all the things he expected for Boromir to say, that was not one of them. Indeed, he had all but forgotten about the art books until Boromir mentioned them. He shuffled his feet and said, “Well, sir, the art books are in my room.”

“You have your own room?” Boromir asked, his turn to be surprised.

“Aye sir,” Sam said, beginning to turn crimson. He fidgeted with the buttons of his waistcoat and tried to ignore the heat that was rising in his face. “I’ve been staying there the last couple of weeks, now that Mr. Frodo’s all better. He figured as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin would never think to go looking in my room for them books and they haven’t.” He waited to see what else Boromir would ask, but the man and elf only stood there in troubled thought. Sam cleared his throat and, feeling his face grow even redder, he asked, “Did you… that is… were you wanting to look at them?”

“No. … Well… No,” Boromir said and ignored Legolas’s questioning regard. “In truth, I was hoping to hide the golf clubs in the same location as the art books.”

“Oh!” Sam said, brightening considerably now that he understood. He sighed with relief, then turned troubled himself. “Begging your pardon, sirs, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to be hiding them golf clubs. It’s not wise to be messing with a fellow’s woods.”

“Why not?”

“Now Master Boromir, weren’t you listening when I explained about Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Longo? Besides, how would you feel if someone went and hid your sword, or your horn? They’ll be angry with you,” Sam said, hands on hips. Legolas couldn’t help but smirk to see the captain general of Gondor being scolded by a halfling.

“They’ll be angry but not at me, for they won’t know that I hid them and I know that you won’t be telling, will you Sam?” Boromir said. “Now, I know for a fact that you are a spy and that you know how to keep a secret. I also know that you know a good deal more about what is going on around here than you let on. Nothing gets past you, nothing at all. I also know that you are not looking forward to returning to the golf course tomorrow. You did me a great service by warning me not to join the game this morning. I wish to reciprocate.”

“And I am not a tree,” Legolas said.

Sam looked back and forth between the man and elf, his uncertainty clear on his small, brown face. Boromir was on the verge of trying another form of persuasion when Sam suddenly smirked and said, “I did notice as Mr. Frodo was wincing quite a bit during his strokes on those last couple of holes. I reckon another game wouldn’t be too good on his shoulder. I suppose hiding those clubs would be in his best interest.”

“Absolutely,” Boromir heartily agreed, silently kicking himself for not thinking of a Frodo-defense earlier.

“Very well then,” Sam agreed. “They’re in Mr. Bilbo’s room, second wardrobe near the far wall, behind the coats. As for where to hide them…”

“I know a place,” Legolas said, smirking impishly.

“Good, a’cause you’ll have to put the art books there too,” Sam said.

“Why?” asked Boromir.

“Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin might not think to look in my room for them books, but they will look there for the golf clubs,” Sam explained, reddening again at the mere mention of the books. “If they find the books in the meanwhile, well… that’s more explaining than I care to do. Besides, if they know I’ve hid the books there, they’ll think I know something about the clubs being missing, and the ruse will be up before it’s started.”

“Good point,” Boromir agreed. “Where are the books then? And where is your room?”

“It’s just a door down from Mr. Frodo’s going towards the atrium that leads to the kitchens,” Sam said. “The books are under my bed.”

“A handy place to keep them,” Boromir teased.

“What do you mean?”

“Er… never mind,” Boromir stammered, his turn to redden now.

“Are these art books what I think they are?” Legolas finally asked.

"No, it's art, it's just a little more art than the hobbits are accustomed to," Boromir explained.

“I best be getting back to my master afore he misses me,” Sam pointed out. He was also desperate to find a way out of this conversation, for he had an inkling now of what Boromir had meant before and he didn’t care to test that theory. He felt his face turn crimson again and he averted his eyes as he continued. “The elves just started with their singing, so you’ve got plenty of time, but I’ll keep everyone inside the Hall if I need to, until the two of you get back.”

“We will work swiftly then,” Boromir promised. “Thank you Sam.”

When Sam was gone, Boromir and Legolas stepped quickly back up the passage, heading first for Bilbo’s and Sam’s rooms. They quickly decided that Legolas, with his keener senses, would act as the lookout while Boromir retrieved the clubs and books. Once Boromir had his loot, he met Legolas in the corridor and followed him outside.

“Where are we going?” Boromir asked.

“We need a sack and rope,” Legolas said.

“We’re going to get more things?”

“Do you want those items hid or not?” Legolas returned.

“I want the clubs hid.”

“Then follow me to the stables. We will retrieve the necessary items and then I will hide the clubs. It’s quite a fitting location, I think, considering the part I played in their game this morning.”

A half-hour later, the two sets of clubs were securely wrapped in a pine green sack and tied to the highest bough in the tallest tree that would support their weight. The books they decided, being property of Elrond’s and encasing such fine and exquisite art as they did, were better stowed under the beds in Boromir’s and Legolas’s rooms. Their mission complete, the duo returned to the Hall of Fire. They made sure that Sam saw their return as they poured themselves wine and joined the others around the fire pit.

Neither of them knew what tomorrow would bring, but of one thing they were certain: neither of them wanted to be near the hobbits’ quarters when dawn arrived.
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 2/17/07

For Daynawayna, who wanted to see Bilbo and Boromir discussing Bilbo’s Adventure with the Dwarves, in particular Smaug. This isn’t exactly what you requested, but I hope it suffices.

And I promise, this will be the last chapter with any mention of golf! This is proving to be a harder subplot to get rid of than Pippin’s rum cake!

 
 
“Hobbits really are amazing creatures, as I have said before. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch.” ~ FOTR, Shadows of the Past
 

Chapter 11: Crouching Hobbit, Roaring Dragon

The following night, they were once again gathered in the Hall of Fire, and Legolas was again pondering the nature of hobbits. He had learned much already in a short amount of time and he was coming to see that hobbits really were quite remarkable, in their own subtle way.

He observed them from across the room and found that he could guess of what they were speaking, though he could not hear them over the din. Sam was showing a scroll to that dwarf, Gimli, and looking at the squat, bearded figure expectantly. So Sam had finished his poem at last. Frodo stood nearby, offering Sam support with his quiet presence. Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin had found Arwen and were hanging off her every word, when they weren’t competing with each other over who got to flirt with her next, all much to her amusement. In the other corner of the room, Bilbo was speaking ardently with Boromir, Lindir and Glorfindel, and the Man was asking questions that kept the old hobbit’s eyes crinkling with mirth.

Legolas smiled to see this as he remembered his first major lesson of the day: hobbits can be discouraged from rambling, if one knew how to distract them properly.  

Legolas entered the training room behind Boromir. He took in the room with one quick glance, all he needed to tell him where everything was located. There were wooden dummies lined against the nearest wall, and hanging along the far wall were four wooden daggers. Next to these displayed on plaques were four metal daggers, three of ancient make, encrusted with many jewels, and one plain but elegant with smooth curves and Elvish runes along the sharp blade. A straw mat covered the center of the stone floor, and next to the porch overlooking the courtyard was a table.

Legolas walked over to the daggers and inspected them more closely. The four wooden daggers were made in perfect replica of the three ancient daggers. He had never seen anything like them, but the fourth was newly forged by the sword-smith of Rivendell. There was not a single knick on the blade nor any wear on the hilt.

“These are the hobbits’ swords,” he guessed.

“Yes,” Boromir confirmed. “The wood-smith constructed the replicas, as well as the shields and dummies. The replicas were a necessity. Even in Gondor, young boys learn swordplay with wooden sticks. Also, we had to wait for the sword-smith to forge a new blade for Frodo; his was broken in the flight from the Nazgûl. They rarely use the wooden daggers any more. They have improved much over the last five weeks. You will be much impressed when you see them train.”

“You have come to know them well,” Legolas said, hearing the admiration and love in the man's voice. “Will you tell me about them? I find I do not know as much about hobbits as I should, if I am to be traveling with them.”

Boromir’s face brightened instantly at this. He had, in fact, come to know the hobbits very well over the last five weeks. Indeed, according to them, he now knew everything he would ever need to know about hobbits. He was not so certain about that, but he was still more than happy to share what knowledge he did have with the elf.

“There’s really not much to them, when you get down to it,” Boromir started. “They can be overwhelming at first, but once you get to know them, they are quite endearing and not at all intimidating, though sometimes their forthrightness can be off-putting. They also tend to jest about serious matters, I have found, and they prefer to keep their conversations light and carefree. Don’t let their sweetness fool you though for they can be quite devious when they put their minds to it. Do you know they actually conned Lindir into playing a prank on Gandalf and Elrond, and that Bilbo and Frodo, and on a couple of occasions even Sam, accosted half the residence with snowballs?”

“Did they?” Legolas asked, chuckling under his breath. “It sounds as though they have turned this house upside down with their antics.”

“That they have, but I do not believe that Elrond would have it any other way,” Boromir said.

“What else can you tell me about them?” Legolas asked. “I wish to know everything. Most especially, I would like to know how to deter their passionate recitations of golf rules, or anything else that might come up.”

Now Boromir roared with laughter. “Oh, yes, that is important to know, among other things,” he said. “There actually are some rules, so to speak, when it comes to hobbits. It only took me a week or so to figure them out, but I will be more than glad to give you a brief lesson.”

They went to the table and sat facing the courtyard. Boromir put his feet up on the chair opposite him and stretched languidly, clasping his hands behind his head. Legolas sat more stoically, his hands folded in his lap and his feet flat on the ground, unbeknownst to him that a month earlier, Boromir would have mirrored his posture without thought or hesitation.

“The first thing you need to know is how to keep the hobbits from becoming long-winded in the first place, unless you have the time to spare, for it is quite enjoyable just to listen to them babble on.” Boromir then winked conspiratorially at the elf. “Now, everyone thinks that I ask the hobbits so many questions because I do not know any better, but I find that asking a lot of questions helps to keep their answers shorter and more to the point. It really is the best way to ensure that all you learn about is, for instance, the making of snow hobbits, and not snow hobbits, snow shoes, sled racing, Yule, the Long Winter, and the trauma of walking in on Aunt Amber in the bath tub – which has nothing to do with anything else except that it happened in Pippin’s twenty-third winter and he will be forever scarred by the experience.

“Lectures cannot always be avoided however. Frodo especially is not a force to be reckoned with. When a foul mood strikes him, it’s best to just do what he says until the storm passes.”

Legolas nodded, making notes of all that he was being told while simultaneously trying to forget about Aunt Amber. Finally he said, “I cannot imagine Frodo in a foul mood. He seems so even-tempered.”

“He is at that,” Boromir confirmed, “until you make the mistake of upsetting his friends. Especially Sam. He’ll allow friendly teasing of Merry and Pippin but he’s more protective of Sam.”

“What else can you tell me? Erestor said I could distract them by mentioning food,” Legolas said.

Boromir considered this strategy carefully for a moment before answering. “That can work, but only if you’re within a half-hour of their next meal time, which fortunately occurs about every two to three hours. First breakfast is at seven, second breakfast at nine, elevenses at eleven, luncheon is at one, tea at four, and dinner, or supper, at six. Afters, which is what they call dessert, comes an hour after they finish ‘filling up the corners’ at dinner.”

“Do they spend all day eating then?” Legolas asked, astonished at this elaborate list of mealtimes, and wondered how the hobbits found time to do anything else.

“More or less, though sometimes they’ll skip elevenses or second breakfast, or they’ll have a late lunch and combine that with an early tea for… what did they call it? Tunch,” Boromir explained. “Bilbo made that meal up with Frodo first came to live with him. Bilbo was worried that Frodo’s appetite wasn’t what it should have been for a lad just into his tweens.”

“Frodo lived with Bilbo then? What about his parents? And does tweens mean?” Legolas asked.  

And so Legolas had learned much about Hobbits in the hour they waited for the hobbits to arrive for their next training session. He learned about hobbit ages and how Frodo came to live with Bilbo, as well as the hobbits’ respective standings in their homeland. This led to a brief discussion on family status and political standings. He then went on to tell the elf about the Conspiracy. Boromir explained this was how he knew to seek out Sam to help them with their golf club caper, and even Legolas had to admit that servants make the best spies.

His second major lesson that day came with the arrival of the hobbits themselves. He and Boromir had met in the training room so as to be as far away from the hobbits’ rooms as they could get without actually leaving the house. They hoped, in this way, to miss all the excitement when the hobbits awoke and discovered their precious golf clubs missing. They expected there to be much shouting as tempers flared and frustration turned to irritation. They did not expect to see the hobbits stroll casually into the room, smiling up at them with wide and cheerful grins. Nor did they anticipate the loophole that the hobbits discovered in their ill-conceived prank.

From this, Legolas learned that hobbits are tirelessly cheerful and ruthlessly sharp.  

“Good morning,” the hobbits greet as they entered the training room.

“Morning, lads,” Boromir greeted after a startled pause at finding the hobbits so jubilant. Then he motioned, with a fair amount of feigned distress, at the hobbits’ empty hands. “What happened? I thought we were going golfing this morning.”

“Frodo hid the clubs,” Merry informed smugly as he went to the far wall and took up his sword.

Frodo sighed. “I did not hide the clubs,” he said irritably. This was clearly not the first time he had said that this morning. “Why would I do such a preposterous thing?”

“So you would not have to go through with the rematch and lose to me again, naturally,” Merry explained. “So you wouldn’t have to admit that yesterday was not a fluke and that I am simply better than you now.”

“You are delusional,” Frodo said. “I didn’t hide them.”

“No,” Pippin jumped in, “you had Sam do it for you. So where are they Sam?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answered, in the most unassuming voice he could manage. It was a convincing performance; he’d had lots of practice during the Conspiracy.

“Stop covering for him, Sam,” Merry said. “Where did you put them?”

“I didn’t put those clubs anywhere other than Mr. Bilbo’s wardrobe,” Sam said, truthfully enough.

“Oh really?” Merry said. “Well then, if you put the clubs in the wardrobe and neither of you moved them since, why aren’t they in the wardrobe now? Don’t tell me you don’t know anything Sam. You disappeared all of a sudden last night for quite a while. Where were you?”

“I told you, I had to run to the privy. Something as I ate didn’t agree with me,” Sam replied calmly.

“A likely story,” Pippin said, narrowing his eyes at the gardener. “Simple enough not to raise our suspicions at the time, but it’s not good enough now.”

“This is ridiculous,” Frodo said, throwing up his hands. He was beginning to lose his temper. “Sam was not gone long enough to do what you are suggesting. Now, no more bothering Sam with this. He doesn’t know anything. I don’t know anything. No one hid the clubs, they’re just… gone.”

“Got up and walked away on their own, did they?” Merry teased. “Just admit, Frodo, that you’re embarrassed to play against me again, and I’ll be more than happy to drop the matter.”

“I will admit nothing,” Frodo said. “We will have that rematch, even if I have to tear this house apart to find those clubs.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to have the wood-smith make another set?” Pippin asked then.

For the briefest of moments, everything in the room froze. Merry and Frodo paused to consider this possibility, while Sam, Legolas and Boromir felt panic clench at their hearts. The wood-smith! She was a master of crafts and could create another set within days. The three conspirators shared a horrified glance that went unnoticed by the others.

“That’s a good idea, Pip,” Merry said, nodding. “I’m sure she’d be more than willing to make us a set. I bet she could have it done in a day or two!”

“Merry, I’m sure that the wood-smith is quite busy. She must have a docket full of other projects she would have to complete before even starting on the clubs,” Frodo said, in a very pointed tone to Sam’s ears. Sam caught Boromir’s eyes and tilted his head meaningfully towards the door.

“How busy can she be?” Merry said, not noticing any of this. “We’ll go now and ask her.”

“Better to wait until after your training session,” Boromir said then, finding his voice at last. He gave Sam a nearly indiscernible nod, then nudged Legolas ever-so-slightly towards the door as he continued to address the hobbits. “You have skipped far too many sessions and I will not permit you to miss another. We will have to work doubly hard today to make up for the last two days.”

“I will leave you to your training then,” Legolas said.

“You’re not going to watch?” Pippin asked, looking very disappointed that the elf had to leave so soon.

“I have other matters to attend to, but I will return before the end of your session,” Legolas promised. “I am eager to see what you can do.”

Once in the corridor, Legolas broke into a sprint and headed for the wood-smith’s shed. He did need new arrows and he could use another box for his extra arrowheads and whittling knives. And the bed frame. Yes, the bed frame in his room had felt most unstable during the night.  

Convincing the wood-smith to join the conspiracy had been easy; she was no more eager for the hobbits to have a new set of golf clubs than was anyone else. After that, Legolas had sought some refreshment and went for a short walk through the woods. He had located the tree he had hid the clubs in and it was only with great difficulty that he spotted the sack in the high boughs. Feeling more secure that the hobbits would not be able to find them, Legolas had returned to the training room and spent the rest of the morning watching the hobbits at their training.

Watching them now in the soft glow of the fires, there was little hint of the athleticism they had displayed during their session. Sure-footed they were without a doubt, but graceful would not be the first word to come to his mind when describing them. Yet graceful they had been while they trained, Frodo especially. The Elven blade fit his hand perfectly and he found wielding the weapon to be rather enjoyable, like a dance. Legolas had never heard swordplay be likened to a dance before, but he could see the poetry in their structured movements and understood what Frodo meant.

Boromir had watched his charges carefully, and while there was pride in his eyes there was a sadness also, heavy with regret. Legolas knew the reason for that without having to ask. Training for battle meant the hobbits would eventually have to fight, and that came with a heavy price. The hobbits would lose much of their innocence over the course of the Quest. Yet if that was all they lost then Legolas would consider it a mercy. After all, had they not all been innocent at one time?

Legolas’s third major lesson had come after the training session, when they had gone to the dining hall to enjoy an early lunch. He had soon realized that he would have to add cunning and clever to his description of hobbits.  

After the meal, Merry and Pippin dashed off to find the wood-smith and inquire about the making of more golf clubs. As they dashed out of the dining hall, Frodo called after them, “I want my clubs made of holly!”

Merry’s response was muffled by the closing of the door, and Sam looked at his master dubiously. “Really, sir, where are they going to be finding holly hereabouts?”

“Something tells me the wood-smith will be quite busy after all, and so it doesn’t really matter does it?” Frodo said with a smirk at his friend. Then he regarded Boromir and Legolas with a calculating gaze and finally laughed. “All right, you three. Out with it.”

“Out with what?” Boromir asked, trying to look baffled. Next to him, Legolas kept his expression neutral.

“Boromir, I am sure that you are a first-rate Captain General, but you’re an amateur prankster at best,” Frodo said. “And Legolas, you could have at least waited a few minutes before sprinting out the door this morning. Honestly, I never would have expected to see such stricken and panicked looks on seasoned warriors such as yourselves, and over such a silly thing as golf. And Sam, you of all people should know better. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the art books were moved when Merry and Pippin searched your room, and wonder why that would be?”

“Well,” Sam stammered, at a loss for words. Truth was, everything had happened so quickly that he hadn’t thought that one through very well.

“You should have at least had the sense to not speak in the open as you did,” Frodo continued. “Even if you did get yourselves to the shadows, you were still too easily spied. I wondered why Sam had lied about going to the privy when he returned to the Hall of Fire last night, but I figured it was none of my business and so kept quiet. It didn’t escape my attention that it was at least another half-hour before the two of you returned. Then the golf clubs turned up missing this morning, along with the art books. I can only assume that you knew Merry and Pippin would look there for the clubs, Sam, and so you had Boromir and Legolas hide the books also, for which I am grateful.”

“You’re not upset then, are you, Mr. Frodo?” Sam finally asked.

“No, not at all actually. There’s only so much golf I can take and I was not looking forward to another match. I’m just glad you took my hint about ensuring the wood-smith was busy with other projects. I had hoped one of you would think to run down there and ask her to deny my cousins their request. I trust that is why you left, Legolas,” Frodo said.

Legolas nodded, feeling suddenly very foolish. He had been acting like a… well, like a hobbit the last couple of days. “Your cousins will find that she has had a sudden influx of requests and will not be able to make another set of golf clubs for at least a month.”

“Good,” Frodo said and sighed with relief. “That saves me having to play another round and from having to wear plus-fours.”

“Plus-fours?” Boromir asked.

“Golfing attire,” Frodo explained. “You’re supposed to wear them during tournaments. They’re really nothing more than breeches, a shirt, and a jacket for cold weather, but they’re made of the most hideously combined colors you can imagine. I am convinced they are nothing more than an everlasting joke on golfers everywhere, begun by a frustrated wife hundreds of years ago. Bilbo was wearing a set this morning, of pea-green and fuchsia, and that gave Merry the idea to ask the seamstresses to make some for the rest of us, including the two of you. Trust me, you would not have enjoyed them nor looked very good in them.”

“No one looks good in them,” Sam muttered, then blushed when he realized he had spoken out loud. “Begging your pardon for saying so.”

Frodo laughed and patted Sam affectionately on the shoulder. “No need to beg apology when all you speak is the truth,” he assured. He looked back at Boromir and Legolas and raised his eyebrows at them. “Now, wherever you have hid the clubs and the books, I trust you will put them back into their proper places before we leave, or at least let someone else know where they are, should Merry and Pippin remain behind.”

“Of course,” Boromir agreed.

Frodo stood then and Sam stood with him. “Let’s go and check on Bill, shall we? We’ll swing by the wood-smith’s shed on the way and rescue her from my cousins.”

When the hobbits were gone, Boromir and Legolas looked at each other and burst into laughter.  

Legolas laughed to remember it. How Frodo had deduced their misdeeds so easily had been an eye-opener and no mistake. He was only grateful that Merry and Pippin had been too preoccupied to take notice, but he would not be surprised if they untangled the clues themselves given enough time and reflection.

Yes, hobbits were amazing creatures, Legolas now realized. Simple and innocent they appeared, but there was so much more to them than that. They were also quite clever but also considerate of others and protective of each other. Upon occasion  they were even devious, for they loved to jest and play about and no doubt the solemnity that surrounded them in Rivendell was quite suffocating to them at times. They were inquisitive, always eager to learn something new, though they claimed that was a rare trait among most hobbits. They were gentle yet tough, and while they preferred to relax and eat and enjoy their days, they were also energetic and athletic and passionate about everything they took an interest in. Though Legolas had yet to see their courage and steadfastness, he had heard many stories about those traits as well. And yet…

He could not help but wonder if the hobbits were really prepared for what was to come. They have faced much darkness and fear already, but that was only the beginning. There was much more to come, worse things would happen, things they could not begin to imagine, and the road would only grow darker and more despairing with every footstep taken towards Mordor.

He was suddenly pulled from his thoughts when the din quieted around him and an expectant silence filled the hall. He turned to see that Bilbo was now standing and waiting for everyone’s attention. The other hobbits were now seated around him. 

“Thank you,” he said after a time. “Boromir has been asking me some interesting questions about my adventure with the dragon, Smaug, and when I told him that I had written a version of the story that I would tell all my youngest cousins back home, he demanded to hear it. I hope you do not mind if I begin tonight’s story-telling with such a silly story.”

He paused and when no one gainsaid him, he cleared his throat, looked around the room pointedly one last time, then smiled cheerfully and began his tale in the exact tone of voice he would use in speaking to a small child.

“There once was a hobbit who led a perfectly comfortable life and he was very happy to continue to do so for all the rest of his days. Every morning, he woke up, had breakfast, toiled in the garden, had breakfast again, visited his neighbors and had elevenses with his cousins before taking a stroll over the hills with his friends to have a picnic lunch by the river. His afternoons were just as grand as his mornings. He and his friends would go into town and browse the market, then he would return up the Hill to his cozy hole for a pipe before tea. After that, he would read another chapter in his newest book and answer and send mail before making dinner and enjoying a nice simple meal in his parlor. When the sun went down, he would take a long, hot bath and finally go to bed.  

“This went on day after day, month after month, for many joyful years, until one day a wizard appeared on his doorstep. After the wizard came thirteen jolly dwarves and they made themselves quite at home. Before the old hobbit knew what was happening, he was agreeing to join the dwarves on an adventure to steal gold from a dragon! Quite astonishing for any hobbit, even one of Took descent, and this particular hobbit was so astounded that when he woke the next morning he managed to convince himself it was all a dream. Only it wasn’t. The wizard appeared again and before the hobbit could offer him some tea, he was being whisked out his door and onto the road to meet the dwarves at the inn. And thus began a most strange and exciting adventure.  

“Now, one would think that he would be quite apprehensive at the thought of stealing gold from a dragon, for there is nothing a dragon loves more than his gold. It surpasses even a hobbit’s love for soft tilled earth and hearty food. But this little hobbit was not so worried to start, for the dragon was a long way off in a distant land and so of little consequence for the time being. No, what he was most worried about was missing too many meals and running out of clean handkerchiefs to wipe his sweaty brow – hiking across the Wilds by the sturdy pace of dwarves was tiring work.  

“As it soon turned out, he learned that he should have been worried from the start. There is a reason why the lands outside the border are called the Wilds, for wild they are. The little hobbit and his new friends were nearly eaten by trolls, and not too long after getting out of that mess, thanks to the wizard, they were nearly eaten again, this time by goblins. The hobbit managed to get away, only to find a loathsome creature who called himself Gollum, and this creature too wanted to eat the little hobbit. He managed to get away again and found his way out of the mountains, only to bring the goblins with their ravaging wolves after him and his friends, and the wolves too thought them to be quite tasty-looking.  

“Just when they thought they were safe, they found themselves lost in a long dark forest, surrounded by spiders who, as you must be able to guess by now, would have loved to eat them all up. Well, the hobbit by this point got quite tired of everything thinking that he was nothing more than a dainty morsel and he dealt the spiders some deadly blows with his sword. He managed to save his friends, and find some wits he didn’t know he had in the process, but they were no sooner safe from the spiders than the dwarves were captured by the elves, who, fortunately, were not in the habit of eating hobbits or dwarves.  

“Now the hobbit was all alone to again think of a way to save his friends, but he was quite out of ideas. For many days, he lingered, hidden, in the home of the elves, watching them and listening to them when he wasn’t crouching in a closet to escape detection. Finally, he came upon a plan – he would send the dwarves down the river in barrels! It was a grand plan and worked marvelously, except that there was no one to put the hobbit in a barrel, and so he had to cling to a dwarf-filled barrel for dear life, for he was not a swimmer and would have easily drowned had he let go.  

“At long last they were safe and sound in Lake Town, and the hobbit had forgotten all about the dragon and the gold, for all his other adventures had quite dashed their destination from his head. He was quite done with adventuring and wanted to go home. But before he could find himself a decent walking stick, the dwarves were taking him to the mountain to steal the gold from the dragon’s den.  

“By this point, he had seen enough and done enough to know exactly what to do. They reached the mountain and sent him inside. He trotted down the tunnel and into the dragon’s lair, where he found the giant worm sleeping on a large pile of gold, jewels and other treasures. He snatched a golden cup and took it to his friends waiting outside. They were not impressed with this and sent the hobbit back inside to steal more. So in the hobbit went again, down the long tunnel, only when he arrived at the lair a second time, the dragon was awake and waiting for him. The hobbit was able to confuse the dragon with riddles at first, but dragons are quite clever creatures and will figure out any riddle given enough time. When the dragon tired of the game, he roared fire at the hobbit, who just managed to escape the tunnel before he could be burnt, though the hair on his feet and the back of his head was singed - a most unfortunate outcome, but not so bad as it could have been.  

“Not long after this, the dragon flew out of the mountain and swooped around it several times, looking for the hobbit and dwarves, who were now hiding inside the tunnel. Thinking them gone, the dragon flew out towards Lake Town, where he was shot down by an archer and killed. The dragon slain, the hobbit no longer needed to steal the gold, much to his relief, but the dwarves rewarded him for his efforts anyway, and he left them celebrated as a hero.”

Bilbo finished his tale with a bow and his audience clapped, though Pippin looked confused. 

“Of course, the real tale was not nearly so cheerful,” Bilbo went on. “I was frightened much of the time, and I would not have been surprised if I had fainted halfway down the tunnel to the dragon’s lair. But I had been schooled up a bit by then, and my Tookish luck saw me through. I needed everyone ounce of luck I could get. That, and good and loyal friends who would not let me go into danger alone.” Here he smiled proudly at Frodo and his friends.

“An impressive tale, though I think I prefer the real version,” Boromir said.

Legolas nodded. “Yes, truly impressive. Stealing gold from under a dragon’s nose is no small task. You may not have slain the dragon yourself, but your valor cannot be doubted.” And he realized then that the hobbits would be able to protect themselves, if they shared even a tenth of the same courage, and luck, as Bilbo had. It was a reassuring revelation.

“That’s not how I remember the tale,” Pippin said suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “The way I heard it, you conked the dragon over the head with an oil lamp. Then you put all the gold and jewels into two large sacks that you carried on your back all the way to Lake Town. That’s where the dragon caught up with you, and you took the bow and arrow from the archer and shot the dragon down yourself.”

Next to him, Merry snickered and only managed with great effort to say, “Pippin, I just made that up so I could watch you try to convince everyone else that’s how the story went.”

“But Everard and Cedric agreed with me,” Pippin declared.

“Of course they did. I told them to. Cost me a copper apiece,” Merry explained.

“But,” Pippin stammered and looked crestfallen at Frodo then Bilbo. “But, you shot the dragon down. Not since the Bullroarer knocked the goblin king’s head off his shoulders and into a rabbit hole did a hobbit manage such an exceptional and lucky shot.”

“Sorry, lad, but I was nowhere near the dragon when he was slain,” Bilbo said gently.

“So… what about the Battle of Five Armies? Did you at least stop that?” Pippin asked.

“Even I don’t have enough luck in me to stop a war, though I tried my best to keep it from happening,” Bilbo said. “My efforts were in vain, I’m afraid. Big Folk are quite fond of their fighting.”

“I guess it would be silly to believe you stopped the fighting by offering to make everyone tea and crumpets,” Pippin admitted sheepishly, though that certainly would have stopped him from fighting with somebody. Beside him, Merry was doubled over with laughter, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. Frodo and Sam did their best not to laugh but they couldn’t stop their shoulders from shaking. Everyone else chuckled supportively.

“So, Merry, you are a story-teller as well?” Lindir said. “Will you tell us a tale then?”

“All right,” Merry agreed, sobering and wiping tears from his eyes. He thought for a moment, trying to think of a good story to follow Bilbo’s. He needed a story about a dangerous creature and an unsuccessful mission. “This tale is about my father and Frodo's mother, and I only managed to wrangle the full tale out of him this past year. It’s a true story, though it’s not one that is often told. I doubt even Frodo has ever heard it.

Frodo quirked his eyebrows at this and settled in to listen. Merry took Bilbo’s spot in the center of the circle and looked up at his waiting audience.

“There once was a hobbit whose favorite older cousin was getting married, and he wanted more than anything to get her gift…”*

And so Legolas learned his fourth major lesson that night. While Elves wrote the most lyrical and melancholy songs and lays, there was no one better than a hobbit for a tall tale.
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 3/24/07
 

* - SSP: For the full tale, see “How to Cook a Goose”.

A/N: Where we left off:

Since it’s been so long since I’ve updated this story, I thought a brief recap would be helpful to help refresh everyone’s memories. So here goes!

Gandalf, it was decided, has knurly toes, though that didn’t prevent him from teaching Lindir a lesson about hobbit prank wars. Gimli, while mostly keeping to his father’s advice to leave one well enough alone, has still become entangled with the hobbits all the same and has offered aid and comfort when needed. Glorfindel and Legolas have returned from their scouting trips; only Aragorn and Elrohir and Elladan remain to return. Boromir is training the hobbits in the art of swordsmanship… er, swordshobbitship… and has been learning quite a few things about those deceptively-innocent hobbit skills himself. He’s been kind enough to impart this wisdom to Legolas, who finds the hobbits all to be rather baffling; Erestor’s news of pipeweed withdrawal did nothing to assuage his concerns. Meanwhile, the hobbits discovered a golf course built for Bilbo by the Elves in the valley at the bottom of the ravine, and Boromir and Legolas, with the help of a certain spy, went to great lengths to prevent any further golfing adventures by hiding the clubs in a tree. Frodo found them out, but was kind enough not to rat on them.

And now, on with the tale…
 
 

Rabid Sam Fan suggested a chapter discussing the differences between the three main sorts of hobbits.
 
 
 
 
 

“Before the crossing of the mountains the Hobbits had already become divided into three somewhat different breeds: Harfoots, Stoors and Fallohides.” ~ FOTR: The Prologue
 

Chapter 12: Breed All About It

The Lord of the Last Homely House sat in his private study in quiet reflection. The noon sun was mild and fey, for autumn was quickly fading into winter and the breeze carried a chill upon its gusty ebbs. The cascades of the waterfall and the singing of the birds blended together into a melodious tune that vibrated throughout the house. The trees beyond the balcony of the study seemed as though to dance with the harmony. The calm tranquility filled the house with peace and lifted the hearts of all within its walls, including the Lord himself. He was so relaxed, indeed, that he nearly missed the light tapping on the study door.

“Enter,” Elrond allowed.

The door opened, and in stepped Aragorn. He had returned two mornings prior, bringing with him a few other scouting parties he had met upon the road. The scouting parties had little information to report; as with all the other parties, no sign nor hint of the Nazgûl had been found. Only one party remained to return, Elrond’s sons Elrohir and Elladan, and Elrond determined they too would return within the week; the day of the Ring-bearer’s departure drew near and it was of this that he wished to speak with his foster son.

Since Aragorn’s return, the hobbits have been much cheered, eager to inform their friend of all their adventures since his departure. Neither he, nor Elrond, missed that they simultaneously attempted to learn of his own adventures while scouting. Aragorn gave them just enough details to quench their curiosity and was careful never to mention the Ringwraiths, for the hobbits too sensed their reverie was coming to its end and preferred to think of more cheerful things while they could. Yet the Big Folk had no such luxury.

“You wished to speak with me, my Lord?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes, have a seat,” Elrond said, motioning to the bench upon the balcony. They sat beside each other, turning slightly to face the other, the crisp scent of pine a calming presence.

“You sat in on the hobbits’ training sessions with Boromir these last two mornings,” Elrond began. “You have known them longer than the rest of us, with the exception of Bilbo and Gandalf. More importantly, you were with them for the first leg of their dark road. Tell me, my son, what do you think of their readiness?”

“They are as ready as they can possibly be, Father,” Aragorn replied. “They do not know what lies ahead of them, no better than they did upon leaving the Shire. The mere fact that they left the borders of their quiet land is testament enough to their courage, and that they faced the perils that pursued them so valiantly shows the true mettle of their hearts. They are willing to continue, and for these hearty folk, that is all the readiness they require.”

Elrond considered this information gravely before continuing. “The Fellowship is nearly formed. The Ring-bearer and his servant Samwise, Gandalf and yourself take the first four positions,” he recited, as though he had gone over this list many times over the last seven weeks. “Boromir has agreed to stay and travel with you, as his way is much the same as yours for many leagues. He has grown fond of the hobbits and will protect them well.”

“He is a proud man,” said Aragorn. His expression was neutral, but his tone belied his reservations.

“He is a captain-general of his people, as accustomed to giving commands as he is to following them. His leadership and experience will be of service,” Elrond corrected gently.

“Yes Father,” Aragorn accepted. “As he said at the Council, his people have long fought the Enemy. He will know something of their ways.”

“Four sharp eyes are better than two,” Elrond continued, “and six are better than four. Prince Legolas also has offered his assistance, as has Gimli. Legolas feels it is his duty to help the Ring-bearer for his part in allowing Gollum’s escape. Gimli is fond of Bilbo; the elder hobbit saved his father’s life many times upon the quest for Erebor and Gimli now wishes to repay that debt by helping Frodo. I have accepted. They will tolerate each other for the sake of the hobbits, and perchance they may yet come to a new understanding of each other along the way. The feud between the Woodland Elves and the Dwarves of Erebor has lasted long enough.”

“That leaves two, if you still desire to send nine,” Aragorn summarized.

“I do but the last two are not so clear,” Elrond said.

“Meriadoc and Peregrin risked much to follow their cousin across the Wilds,” Aragorn said, now keeping his tone purposefully neutral. He knew already what his foster father would say.

“They are loyal and eager,” Elrond acknowledged, a small frown forming to show the trace lines upon his brow. Nearly two Ages of the world has passed in his lifetime and the years showed even upon his ageless face. “They are also young. Peregrin is still a child among his people, and my heart tells me not all is well in the Shire. The Hobbits need to be warned.”

“The journey back to the Shire will be no safer than the road to Mordor,” Aragorn countered. “The Shadow lengthens. The Wraiths may have returned to their master, but other dark creatures still prowl, and dark men with dark hearts hide in the hills and in the valleys. They will not get far.”

“They will be escorted, my son,” Elrond said. “If they refuse to return, then they shall stay here with Bilbo.”

For a time neither of them spoke, each lost in his own thoughts. Aragorn gazed out at the trees, letting their gentle swaying clear his mind and chase away the shadows of doubt. He searched the boughs for bird nests, a favorite pastime since he was little and he would stand on a similar balcony with his mother at his side. Yet what he saw now was neither a bird’s nest nor a squirrel’s hovel. The shape was large and lumpy, its coverings blending so well with the foliage it would be impossible to see from the ground. What was it? Aragorn leaned closer and squinted to better see the indistinct object hiding in the shadows. Was it… a golf bag?

“Father?” Aragorn asked, bewildered.

“I see it,” Elrond said, not looking himself. A small smile formed on his lips, erasing the sternness of his features. “Do not say anything to the hobbits, most especially Merry and Pippin.”

“I have missed much,” Aragorn said. He would not mention seeing the golf bag, but certainly no harm would come of asking Bilbo what ever became of his set of clubs.

“Indeed you have,” Elrond replied, laughing silently now. “But you will have time enough to reacquaint yourself with the hobbits over the next couple of weeks. During that time, I want you to be on the lookout for those who may be willing to join the Fellowship, preferably warriors, but more important will be their bond with the Ring-bearer. Frodo must trust all his companions; there can be no room for doubt.”

“As you wish,” Aragorn agreed. He stood and dismissed himself. He had an elderly hobbit to find.  

The next few days presented Aragorn with many opportunities to observe the hobbits and their interactions with the Elves of Rivendell. He observed from afar when he could, from atop balconies or across rooms or hallways, taking great care to ensure that he was not seen himself. When he was in the hobbits’ company, he watched closely, without seeming that he noticed at all, the ways the hobbits reacted to certain elves: more carefree, more respectful, less inhibited. He observed also the way the hobbits spoke of the elves and the regard in which they held each one. He even watched, along with half the household, when the hobbits were first introduced to Elrohir and Elladan upon their return. They had been astonished by the twins and spent a full hour at least analyzing nearly every aspect of their appearance looking for a difference, all the while chatting with them about the rarity of identical twins in the Shire. In this way, Aragorn soon discovered the reason for Elrond’s indecision. The hobbits respected and trusted all the members of Elrond’s household, and they in turn would all gladly care for or protect the hobbits to the fullest of their capacity.

Aragorn puzzled over this discovery and could come to only one conclusion: it was not enough to observe the way the elves interacted with Frodo and Sam, but with the Fellowship together as it was formed thus far. How to arrange this was a different matter. Gandalf was often shut away in meetings with Elrond, Erestor and Glorfindel. On the other hand, Boromir and Legolas had formed a fast friendship and the young Silvan clearly looked to the tall Gondorian for instruction on understanding the ways of hobbits. Aragorn was still uncertain of Boromir; he could not erase from his mind the soldier’s insistence that the Ring could be used to their own ends against the Enemy. Yet Frodo trusted the man entirely and Boromir clearly held great affection for each of the hobbits. The man might be proud, but he was loyal and Aragorn would trust to that.

No, the foremost problem was Legolas and Gimli. The elf and dwarf might have made good friends with the hobbits, but Aragorn noticed that they rarely remained in the same place together. If Gimli was speaking with the hobbits and Legolas arrived, the elf would either turn and leave, or he would stay and Gimli would take his leave instead, or vice versa. The hobbits too noticed this trend and Aragorn could see that it troubled them greatly. They were not comfortable with dissension and while they always made light of it, the Ring-bearer especially could sometimes be found brooding over the matter at nights in the Hall of Fire. Frodo even asked Aragorn once why Legolas and Gimli held such ill blood between them.

“After all, it wasn’t Legolas who locked up Gimli in that cave,” Frodo said. “King Thranduil had his reasons, even Glóin grudgingly admits that – when no elves are around to hear him.”

“Do you not have feuds in the Shire?” Aragorn asked. “What of the Sackville-Bagginses?”

“Yes, well, them I can do something about, if only put up with them over tea from time to time,” Frodo replied. “I can’t very well demand that Legolas and Gimli sit down and talk things out, now can I?”

“You could, if you wished to. They would listen,” Aragorn ventured.

“I do not wish for such responsibility; it would no good anyway,” Frodo said, and Aragorn understood. It was enough to bear the burden of the Ring without having to bear the burden of a feud he had nothing to do with, and feuds were not so easily put aside. Frodo would leave Legolas and Gimli to work it out on their own, if indeed they could. Besides, as far as Frodo knew, he would soon be saying farewell to them both anyway.

Aragorn also did not wish to bear such a responsibility and decided to leave the elf and dwarf to themselves. He wondered though if a gentle note of concern to both about the effect their feud was having upon the Ring-bearer might at least bring them to a sort of truce. So he sought one day to search each out and speak with them. He knew the easiest way to find Legolas was to wait for morning, when the elf usually sat in on Boromir’s sessions with the hobbits, offering his own advice whenever he felt the need. Gimli often took tea with Bilbo and Glóin in the older hobbit’s rooms and so Aragorn hoped to find the dwarf there later that afternoon.

What occurred instead was an eye opener and no mistake, as Sam Gamgee would say.

Aragorn rose early the next morning and took his customary hike over the dell and through the ravine. He trapped a few rabbits along the way and returned to the Last Homely House with his catch slung over his shoulder. He deposited his prey in the kitchen and returned to his room briefly to stow his hunting gear and wash his face and hands. He joined everyone in the dining hall for breakfast, then met with his father and told him of his observations thus far. He was not yet finished looking for the eighth and ninth members of the Fellowship, but he would need to become more creative in how he went about finding them.

He left Elrond’s study and made his way down the passages to the training room. The usual sounds of grunts and feints and swords clashing were now silent; even Boromir’s booming voice was absent. No commands were being issued or questions asked and the whole passageway outside the training room door seemed to be holding its breath. Aragorn paused, wondering at it, then went inside and quickly found his answer. No one was in the training room.

He looked across the room and outside to the courtyard. There the hobbits were, sitting on the grass with their legs crossed tailor-fashioned, looking up and listening to… Gimli and Legolas… but, were they arguing or merely talking? That they were even standing beside each other was a minor miracle.

Aragorn made his way across the room and into the courtyard. He looked to his right and saw Boromir leaning against the wall, an expression of amusement and bewilderment on his face. Boromir nodded at Aragorn, who nodded in return. He too paused in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt if there was no call for it. The hobbits at least did not appear upset.

“No, you are not listening,” Legolas was saying, trying to remain patient. The elf shook his head and crossed his arms in irritation. “It is not all that complicated.”

“It sounds rather complicated to me,” Pippin chirped in cheerfully, and the other hobbits nodded their agreement.

“Well it isn’t,” Legolas said.

“If even the hobbits cannot understand it, then perhaps it is,” Gimli countered.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Merry asked, not sure if he should feel offended or flattered.

“Hobbits don’t be complicating such things as don’t be needing no complicating,” Sam put in, giving everyone there pause as they tried to sort out what exactly he now meant. Frodo gave Sam a wry look and the gardener just shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s right,” Pippin said first, though he still looked confused. He turned to Frodo. “Right?”

Frodo nodded. “Right.” He considered the dwarf and elf for a moment, then ventured, “I think it’s all the different names you use, all for the same thing really.”

“Yes,” Pippin agreed. “What’s with all the names?”

“There are not that many names,” Legolas said.

“Well so far, you’ve mentioned Eldar, Teleri, Atari…”

“Avari,” Legolas corrected.

“Alquendi, Calquendi, Morkenmindi,” Pippin continued without pause, butchering each progressing name worse than the last. “It’s hard to keep straight.”

“I don’t think it’s that hard,” Merry attempted bravely. “You’ve got your Eldar, then your Sindar, then your Teleri, then your Man-years, then… no wait… First it’s the Firstborn, then the Eldar, then the Avari… Or is it Avari first since they were ‘Unwilling’ and didn’t pass over the mountains? But not all of the Eldar are Teleri, but all the Teleri are Eldar, but not all them went to Aman… Or was it not all the Moriquendi went to Aman? Where is Aman and why didn’t they want to go there? And how do the Noldor and Sindar fit into all this?”

“The Noldor are the Teleri,” Sam said.

“No, the Teleri are the Nandor,” Merry said, though he wasn’t very sure of himself.

“No, the Nandor are of the Teleri,” Frodo corrected.

“What’s the difference?” Sam asked.

“Well, it’s like apples,” Frodo said. “Green apples are all apples, but not all apples are green.”

“So now we’re comparing Elves to apples?” Merry shook his head.

“It’s better than comparing them to trees,” Sam put in.

“Apples grow on trees,” Frodo returned happily.

“So he’s an apple tree then?” Merry asked, grinning impishly.

“I don’t know,” Pippin said, ignoring his friends as he tried to sort out the various Elven races. “Why can’t you just make it more simple? You’re an Elf, Gimli is a Dwarf, we’re all Hobbits, Boromir is a… oh, hullo Strider!”

Finally spotted, Aragorn stepped out of the doorway and joined the others on the lawn. He noticed that Boromir didn’t budge from his perch against the wall. The Gondorian had learned when to the leave one well enough alone, especially when the hobbits were involved.

“Are we not training this morning?” Aragorn asked, indirectly requesting to know what was going on.

“It’s Highday,” Boromir answered from against the wall and the hobbits nodded.

“We were taking a walk in the grass,” Sam explained unhelpfully.

“Can you believe we’ve never inducted Legolas properly?” Merry asked and only then did Aragorn notice that the elf was barefoot. Boromir was still in his boots, as was Gimli though one boot was partly unbuckled.

“Strider…” Pippin began, eyeing the ranger’s footwear.

“Don’t,” Frodo and Merry warned at the same time. “Strider’s already an honorary hobbit,” Merry continued. “He’s earned it twice over, I’d say.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said with a small bow to Merry. He had heard about the impromptu foot contest. He still could not believe that his foster father had been conned into losing his footwear and allowing the hobbits to judge the merit of his feet. “So, as it is Highday, there will be no training this morning?” he attempted again.

“No, we’re training,” Merry says. “Boromir just allows us a longer break on Highdays. While we were eating, we realized that we haven’t yet made Legolas an honorary hobbit, so we came out here and finally managed to talk him out of his footwear…”

“That would be Pippin’s doing,” Frodo said proudly.

“Mr. Pippin can talk near anyone into, or out of, near anything,” Sam confirmed.

“People only agree mostly so he’ll stop talking, not that it actually works,” Merry continued with a grin.

“I’m not talking right now, I am?” Pippin asked.

“Well, yes, you are actually. You had to talk to ask that question,” Merry said.

“I only asked that question because you said I never stopped talking and I clearly had not been talking, so I had to point out that I wasn’t talking somehow, and so I asked the question,” Pippin said. “I can’t help it if I can’t ask a question without talking.”

“Anyway,” Frodo said before Merry could reply. “That’s when Gimli came along and asked if we were having another competition. He thought he’d be able to win against Legolas, who’s only a Silvan elf. Then Legolas said that even a Laiquendi elf could best a dwarf.”

“And that’s when Mr. Pippin asked what the difference was between those two elves and so Legolas started explaining all the different types of Elves,” Sam continued. “It’s a bit confusing.”

“Why do you have so many names?” Pippin asked.

“They are the Firstborn,” Aragorn said. “After so many ages, any race could be quite divided from how they began originally. Even Men have different races, though they are not so varied as the Elves, or even the Dwarves.”

“There are different races of Dwarves?” Sam asked.

“Are there not different races of Hobbits?” Gimli asked.

“Oh, aye, we’ve three different types,” Sam answered. “There’s not much to it, to be honest. You’ve your Harfoots, such as me and my kin. Most of the hobbits in the Shire are Harfoots actually. We’re mostly working class, though a few families over the years have worked their way up to being gentry. Then you’ve your Stoors, and they’re a strange breed to be sure, fussing about with boats and all.”

“Hey now!” Merry protested.

“You’re a Stoor?” Legolas guessed.

“No, I’m a Fallohide, but there are Stoor branches in the Brandybuck tree,” Merry said.

“Stoors mostly live along the Brandywine, down in the Marshes and thereabouts,” Sam continued, ignoring Merry’s outburst. No matter what the others may say, it’s just unnatural to mess about with boats and any hobbit with decent sense would know it. “And then you’ve got your Fallohides, as Mr. Merry just said. They’re named for their fair skin, you see. Mr. Pippin, Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo are all Fallohides too. There’s not so many of them, ‘cepting your Tooks and some of your larger, wealthier families. They’re all gentry just about; some of your Stoors are gentry also but all the Stoors like to work anyhow.”

“Fallohides don’t work?” Gimli asked.

“It’s just a different sort of work, I suppose,” Frodo said. “We all do our part for the Shire, but when one of us decides to work, it’s usually for enjoyment rather than necessity, and it shows. Most would rather read a book, draw a landscape or weave a rug than shear wool off a sheep or till a field.”

There were a few moments of quiet, during which the hobbits appeared to have no inclination to continue. “That’s it?” Boromir asked after a time, sounding incredulous.

“Just about,” Sam said. “There’s some physical differences too; Harfoots are more brown-skinned and shorter, Stoors are broader and stronger, Fallohides are slimmer. That sort of thing.”

“There’s nothing else to it?” Boromir asked, almost suspicious at the simplicity of it all.

“Like I said, we don’t be complicating things as ain’t complicated,” Sam answered.

“There’s no other differences?” Gimli asked, as though he too suspected a more intricate answer than the one he had just heard. His mind still hurt whenever he attempted to sort out the Rules of Address – what rules he could remember, anyway.

“Well, Fallohides do prefer to live in the woodlands,” Pippin said. “That’s why we Tooks are so happy nestled in the Green Hill Country. There’s even rumors, if you listen to such tales, that Tooks have Elf blood, what with our ancestors long ago once being friendly to the Elves, but that’s just utter nonsense.”

“Though it would explain quite a lot about Tooks,” Merry said with a grin.

“Your mother’s a Took,” Pippin replied smoothly, then continued with his answer. “Stoors tend to prefer riversides, as Sam mentioned earlier. You also find a lot of them where the land is flat and smooth, probably since they came up to the Shire from the Wilds to the South. There were Men there at one time; that’s probably why they’re more apt to wear boots than other hobbits.” He looked up at Boromir and Aragorn. “And grow beards.”

“So hobbits do wear boots?” Legolas asked.

“Please, let’s not get into that again,” Boromir pleaded quickly and Gimli nodded vigorously.

“Even I wouldn’t allow you to go through that,” Gimli said gruffly.

“What of Harfoots?” Aragorn asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. “We live wherever we can, though we do prefer proper hobbit-holes to houses above ground, which means as you can find most living where it’s hilly and suitable for delving. So, see, it’s all really quite simple.” And for once, it actually was.

“Now, getting back to Elves,” Merry said. “Let me see if I got this right. You’re all the Firstborn, even those that were just born, say, a couple of hundred years ago. From there, you have the Eldar, the Avari and the Man-year?”

“Umanyar,” Legolas corrected. “But the Avari are of the Umanyar.”

“And the Eldar are the oldest?” Pippin asked.

Legolas sighed and began all over again. “You have the Firstborn, the Quendi, who are the Elves. All were awakened at the same time, so none are older or younger than the others as far as race goes. The Quendi are divided into two groups, the Eldar and the Moriquendi. Moriquendi are those that never went to Aman and so never saw the Light of the Trees. They are the Elves of Darkness. Of the Moriquendi, you have the Avari, those who refused the great journey, and the Sindar and Nandor, who are the Umanyar. They went on the journey but did not go to Aman. Of the Eldar, you have the Vanyar, the Noldor and the Teleri. All the Vanyar and Noldor went to Aman, but of the Teleri only the Calaquendi made the full journey. The Sindar and Nandor, as already mentioned did not continue to the end. The Sindar remained in Beleriand, while the Nandor remained east of the Misty Mountains. Some of the Nandor later made the journey to Beleriand; they are the Laiquendi.”

“But you’re all Firstborn?” Merry asked.

“Weren’t the Dwarves actually awakened first?” Frodo asked. “That’s what the tome that Bilbo is translating says. The Dwarves were awakened first, but Illúvatar, I think is the name, didn’t want them to be wakened before the Elves, so he had them put back to sleep somehow.”

“The Dwarves were not in Illúvatar’s plan,” Legolas said, his expression unreadable. Gimli’s however was not.

“And the Avari are known as ‘The Unwilling’,” he said. “Seems that means for more than merely taking a wee hike.”

“We are not afraid of physical confrontation, if that is what you are implying,” Legolas said, finally looking Gimli in the eye for the first time, their unexpected truce now broken.

“And we are not some discarded intruders, if that is what you are implying,” Gimli replied hotly, glaring up at the elf.

“Wait!” Pippin shouted, jumping up and startling everyone. He looked between the elf and dwarf as everyone waited for him to continue. “Who’s Illúvatar? Is he an Elf too? Is he part of the Eldar or the Nandor and the Atari?”

“He is not an Elf. He is the Creator of all things,” Aragorn answered.

“Even himself?” Merry asked. “How can he do that? I would think it’d be hard to create yourself before you’re even here.”

“Think of him as the Mayor of Middle-earth,” Frodo suggested.

“That’s a lot of mayor-ing,” Sam commented with a low whistle.

“Where does he live?” Pippin asked.

“He doesn’t live here,” Legolas answered.

“Then how can he be the Mayor if he doesn’t live here?” Merry asked and the hobbits looked up at Legolas as though they expected the elf to have a ready answer.

Legolas looked thoroughly perplexed, but Aragorn grinned. Pippin and Merry, with their incessant questions, had managed to end an argument between the unwilling comrades before it could even begin.

“Well, lad,” Gimli jumped in, rescuing Legolas from an awkward position to the astonishment of all, “he’s not exactly the sort of Mayor who goes to banquets and sees over the Post. He’s got others to do that for him. He’s more like a Master-Mayor to all the other Mayors.”

“Well, I suppose Middle-earth is large enough, you would need more than one Mayor,” Pippin allowed. “Do you think old Flourdumpling knows him then?”

“I don’t think so, Pip,” Merry answered. “He doesn’t sound like the sort of chap that gets around very much.”

“So he created all this and then doesn’t even live here and never visits?” Pippin asked. “That doesn’t make any sense. I think you’re making this all up.”

“Not everyone can be as practical and sensible as Hobbits, Pip,” Frodo said, with a wink at the others.

Pippin sighed and shrugged. “I suppose not,” he agreed.

“And I suppose we should be getting back to our training,” Boromir said. He shepherded the hobbits into the training room, Legolas following close behind.

Gimli watched them go, a thoughtful expression on his face. Aragorn put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“It was kind of you to help Legolas,” Aragorn said.

“The lad’s still a bit green where the hobbits are concerned,” Gimli said, shrugging off the compliment. “Elf he may be, but he doesn’t deserve such a bombardment.” Then the dwarf stooped down to buckle his boot. He straightened and walked off, kicking one of Legolas’s discarded boots as he went.

Aragorn retrieved the elf’s boots and took them to Legolas, then he promptly searched out his foster father to seek an audience with him. He found Elrond in the library, reading a dusty tome, and told him of what he just saw.

“You are mistaken, Father,” Aragorn said gently. “Meriadoc and Peregrin are the ones Frodo trusts above all others. They have a strong bond with the other members of the Fellowship, and they have a way of easing tension and seeking peace. They should be permitted to go.”

“That is your decision?” Elrond asked.

“It is my advice,” Aragorn answered.

“I still feel they are too young,” Elrond said. “I would spare them such a dark journey so early in their years.”

“And I would spare them all,” Aragorn replied. “Alas that war knows nothing of such desires.”

Elrond nodded, though he still looked unhappy about his foster son’s advice. “I will consider it, but I would still rather send one of my household over the hobbits.”

“It is your choice, my Lord.” Aragorn bowed, turned and left.

He passed Gandalf in the doorway but did not notice as the wizard turned to watch the ranger’s progress down the hall.
 
 

To be continued…

GF 7/14/08

For Starfire Moonlight, who wanted an explanation on why hobbits don’t like boats or water; and for Rabid Sam Fan, who suggested a story explaining the odd nature of the Tooks.
 
 
 

“Three Elf-towers of immemorial age were still to be seen on the Tower Hills beyond the western marches. They shone far off in the moonlight. The tallest was furthest away, standing alone upon a green mound. The Hobbits of the Westfarthing said that one could see the Sea from the top of that tower; but no Hobbit had ever been known to climb it. Indeed, few Hobbits had ever seen or sailed upon the Sea, and fewer still had ever returned to report it. Most Hobbits regarded even rivers and small boats with deep misgivings, and not many of them could swim. And as the days of the Shire lengthened they spoke less and less with the Elves, and grew afraid of them, and distrustful of those that had dealings with them; and the Sea became a word of fear among them, and a token of death, and they turned their faces away from the hills in the west.” ~ FOTR, The Prologue

“…most of the folk of the old Shire regarded the Bucklanders as peculiar, half foreigners as it were. Though, as a matter of fact, they were not very different from the other hobbits of the Four Farthings. Except in one point: they were fond of boats, and some of them could swim.” ~ FOTR, A Conspiracy Unmasked.
 

Chapter 13 – Out of the Oar-dinary

The Fellowship was formed; only six days remained until the Ring-bearer’s departure. Merry and Pippin were relieved that they were included among the Nine Walkers, at the behest of not Aragorn but Gandalf. Elrond was not happy with the decision but he could not ignore the advice of both his foster son and the wizard. In his heart, he knew they were both right and he could only hope that Merry and Pippin came to no serious harm upon the road, as he hoped for all of them.

Frodo also had mixed feelings about the decision. He was glad that he would have his cousins’ company upon the road but he was worried for the danger they would face. If it were up to him, they and Sam would remain safely behind in Rivendell, but as he had been told so bluntly on a warm autumn night in Crickhollow, the decision was not his to make. At the first opportunity, Merry and Pippin would sneak after the Company and that would put them in far graver danger. Frodo too would simply hope they and Sam came to no harm; he would not want to answer to their parents if he should return to the Shire without them – if he returned at all.

Winter was now upon them. The days were growing increasingly chill and the nights colder still. No more snow had fallen but frost covered the grounds each morning. Still the warmth of late autumn attempted to hold on longer than it would and on the day after the forming of the Fellowship, the hobbits woke to find the sun bright in the sky above and the air singing with the warm gusts that blew through it. They dressed for warm weather but took their jackets and scarves to be safe, and in the dining hall, everyone seemed cheered by the abrupt turn in the weather.

“It will not long hold,” Glorfindel informed the Fellowship as they dined at table together. He, Bilbo and Lindir were also sitting among them.

“The weather always warms just before winter truly sets in,” Lindir explained. “By the end of the week, there will be no more warmth until spring.”

“We should take advantage of it then,” Merry said. “It’s been some time since we went swimming. Do you think it will be warm enough for that?”

“The air may have heated, but the water will be chill yet,” Elladan said, coming up behind with his brother. They too sat with the Fellowship. “I do not advise it.”

“It will be fair enough for boating,” Elrohir said, “and it shall be the last opportunity of the year for fishing.”

“Perhaps then after your training, we will accompany you to the pond and we could attempt to fatten the kitchen’s stores,” Aragorn said.

“That sounds delightful,” Frodo said and the others quickly agreed. They arranged to meet near the paddock at the forest trail leading to the pond. Only Sam looked forlorn and he ate his food more slowly than he would. Frodo gently patted his friend’s shoulder; he would remain on land with Sam and find a fishing pool where they could sit together.  

They arrived at the pond shortly after luncheon. Bilbo had remained behind, but all the others had come. Gandalf found a boulder near the water’s edge to sit upon and smoke his pipe. The three boats were carried by Elrohir and Elladan, Aragorn and Boromir, and Lindir and Legolas. They set the boats upon the ground near the pool’s edge and looked about as the hobbits caught up. They carried the fishing gear for all, and Gimli carried the basket that contained the tea things; Sam had insisted they bring the basket as they wouldn’t have time to walk back to the house. It also gave Sam an excuse to stay on the land, as someone would have to tend the fire once it came time to prepare the tea.

“Won’t you be fishing with us, Gandalf?” Pippin asked, sounding hopeful.

“I prefer to remain dry, thank you very much,” Gandalf said around the stem of his pipe, a twinkle in his eye. “I heard that you and water do not go together very well.”

“That’s bath water,” Pippin said, “and I won’t be bathing here today. You should remain quite dry.”

“Then it does not matter if I get in a boat or remain here on this rock,” Gandalf countered.

“Except there you may not hear any stories that Pippin may tell about you to the others,” Frodo pointed out.

“He won’t be telling any stories,” Gandalf said and looked hard at Pippin. Pippin gulped and shook his head empathically.

“Will you be going in?” Sam asked his master.

“I think I’ll join you,” Frodo answered. “I find I usually catch more fish along the shore than out in a boat.”

“You are not coming on the water?” Lindir asked as Legolas and Boromir climbed into his boat.

“I wouldn’t think so, sir,” Sam answered, looking at the water and the boats suspiciously. “Don’t let Mr. Frodo, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin fool you, but hobbits don’t like the water. We can’t swim and why use a boat with a line from land will get you fish and a footbridge will get you over the rivers and streams? It ain’t natural, meaning no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Merry assured and he and Pippin climbed into the boat they would be sharing with Glorfindel.

“Many elves do not swim either,” Elrohir said. “It is a skill that we do not much require, though those whose duty takes them to the Sea or over water will learn without heed. Why do hobbits consider it unnatural?”

The hobbits all shrugged. “It’s just the way of things,” Merry said. “The only reason Frodo knows how to swim is from growing up in Buckland. Had he grown up in Hobbiton, I doubt he’d have learned; Bilbo can’t swim either and avoids the water.”

“Yes, we have noticed that, though it never occurred to us this was common amongst all hobbits,” Elladan said. “Even elves who cannot swim will go into the rivers where it is shallow enough to bathe at need, or wash their clothes.” He and Elrohir got into their boat, joining Aragorn who was already sitting.

“Dwarves do not swim either,” Gimli put in. “There’s no need for it, as there are rarely lakes to be found under mountains. Those who do attempt it do not get very far; our stature doesn’t allow for it.” He went down the line of boats and gave each a firm shove into the pool. He then joined Frodo, Sam and Gandalf. “Shall we find a fishing pool?”

Gimli, Frodo and Sam walked around the pool until they came to a shallow section that Sam declared ripe for fishing. They sat down, baited their lines and sunk them.

Sam glanced around the pool, a worry line forming on his brow as he watched the boaters row closer to the middle of the pool and the waterfall. He had to admit that it was a beautiful sight to behold. The water cascaded down the hillside, shimmering in the afternoon sun like many glittering crystals. The spray from the waterfall misted the air and the tree-covered hillside, and all around the shoreline were still many flowering plants that cheered the pool for their brightness.

If there was anything to object to, as far as he was concerned, it was the point where the falls crashed into the otherwise tranquil pool. Sam eyed the roaring waterfall dubiously, his frown lines deepening as he watched the falls pound into the pool, churning the water like he imagined a giant watermill would. The only other time he had seen anything like it was at the Ford of Bruinen, when he had thought he’d lost his master forever. He shook his head; he would rather not think about that if he could help it.

“Sam?” Frodo asked, concerned for his friend. “Is something wrong?”

“Nay, Mr. Frodo, just getting lost in my thoughts again,” Sam assured quickly. He didn’t want to worry his master unduly. Frodo had more than enough things to worry about without adding Sam Gamgee to the list.

Frodo didn’t look convinced but he let the matter go. He had come to realize over the course of their journey that he did not know Sam nearly as well as he had once thought. Frodo spoke to Sam so often of his own thoughts and experiences that he had failed to notice that Sam would only occasionally return the favor. He knew that if he asked, Sam would say it wasn’t proper for a servant to bother his master with his worries, and there would be nothing Frodo could do to convince him otherwise. If Sam did eventually decide to tell him what was weighing on his mind, he would do so at his own time and when they weren’t surrounded by so many others.

“Too bad it’s too cold for a swim,” Frodo said instead, sounding more wistful than he had expected. How long had it been since his last good swim? He could not immediately remember.

Sam hummed and reflexively curled his toes into the moist soil under his feet, as though to reassure himself that there was still land beneath him and not water. “If you say so, Mr. Frodo,” he answered.

“May I ask, young master, that if you learned to swim only because you lived in Buckland, it is then a skill that is only taught there?” Gimli asked. “Why is that exactly?”

“Buckland is next to the Brandywine River,” Frodo answered. “The Baranduin, as you would call it. It’s wide and fast and quite dangerous. Those who have business or homes near the water usually learn, for safety reasons more than anything else. That does not mean that every hobbit in Buckland can swim or even enjoys boats. Most do not and will take the extra journey to the bridge to avoid using the ferry. Pippin learned because he visits Merry quite often, and so Merry taught him. Pippin’s sister Pervinca swims as well, but Pearl and Pimpernel never learned.”

“There is no other place in the Shire where hobbits know to swim?” Gimli asked next.

Sam shook his head. “Nay, it’s not a skill as any other hobbit would need.” He had almost said ‘any normal hobbit’ but had caught himself just in time.

“It is still curious though, for folk who live among so many rivers and streams, that more of your kind do not know how to swim,” Gimli said. “I would think it’d be like a dwarf who cannot whet an ax.”

Frodo shrugged and said, “It’s just the way of things,” just as Sam clucked his tongue and said, “Well…,” under his breath. The gardener trailed off quickly though and shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes on his line as though a fish might make off with it at any moment.

Frodo and Gimli exchanged curious looks then watched Sam. “Well…?” Frodo repeated and waited.

Sam cleared his throat, licked his lips and shrugged. “It’s naught, really.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” Frodo pried. “If it were nothing, you would have said nothing.” He may not know Sam as well as he once thought, but he could still tell when Sam could be goaded and when he couldn’t. One could easily mistake the gardener’s clamped lips and lack of eye contact as refusal to speak, but Frodo knew that not to be the case. 

Sam shifted uncomfortably again. He glanced up at the water and watched the boaters. Merry and Pippin were talking animatedly to Glorfindel, and Aragorn and Boromir were chuckling while the others simply looked perplexed. Whatever the young masters were saying, Sam reasoned that if he couldn’t hear them, they would not be able to hear anything being said on shore. Sam glanced over at Gandalf. The wizard was chuckling also and seemed to be able to hear what the others were saying, which meant he’d probably be able to hear Sam also. Although, considering Gandalf’s long acquaintance with the Shire and his friendship with the Old Took, he has probably already heard this tale before.

“It’s just a story my Uncle Andy told me once,” Sam said, still hoping to get out of telling it. “He’d be my dad’s elder brother. He’s a roper up away in Tighfield,” he explained to Gimli. “He weren’t much in the way of story-telling.”

“And yet he told you one,” Frodo said. “I would like to hear it.”

“As would I,” said Gimli.

“It’s just a silly thing. Not a word of it’s true I’d wager,” Sam said.

“I enjoy a bit of yarn from time to time,” Gimli replied.

“Come on, Sam, let’s hear it,” Frodo requested.

Sam sighed. He put his foot in it now and no mistake. He glanced back up at Merry and Pippin and lowered his voice to be on the safe side. “Well, it’s concerning the Tooks and the Oldbucks, if you follow. You may have already heard it?” he asked hopefully.

Frodo shook his head. “I couldn’t say as you haven’t said what it entails.”

“Oldbucks?” Gimli asked.

“The Brandybucks,” Frodo informed him. “The name was changed when they crossed the Brandywine and settled in what would later become known as Buckland.”

“My Uncle Andy said as I shouldn’t go repeating it near gentry,” Sam apologized before even starting. In truth, that was the warning given every time this tale was told, for he had heard it again many times over the years, repeated around bonfires and laundry basins or in kitchens or bakeries, but he was not about to tell his master that. The tale varied slightly depending on who was doing the telling, but Sam always considered the tale his Uncle Andy told him to be the correct one, if only because that was the version he heard first. And now here Sam sat, surrounded by Elves, a Took and a Brandybuck, and his master. His master was kin to both families as well, and the manner of how he came to first learn of the story was still a sore subject for Frodo even after all these years.

“I won’t hold it against you Sam, or your Uncle Andy,” Frodo assured.

Sam nodded, took a deep breath, and began his tale.

“Well, it was the summer of my sixth year. Hamson – that’s my eldest brother – he was prenticed to my Uncle Andy – who’d be my dad’s elder brother – the year before and had gone up to live with him and his family in Tighfield. My dad arranged it so me and Halfred – that’s my next elder brother – could go up to Tighfield to visit with him for the summer. So after the Free Fair as is held every year at Mid-summer we went home with Hamson and Uncle Andy.

“We weren’t there more than a few days when I made mention to Uncle Andy all about Mr. Bilbo’s young cousin, Master Frodo, who’d come to visit Mr. Bilbo every spring the last couple of years. We were working out back behind the barn and it were right hot, even in the shade of the barn wall. We were sweating fit for melting and I said as how Mr. Frodo could swim and would go out to the river to cool down when it got hot. Then I said as how he’d offered to teach me sometime if I wanted.

“Well, Uncle Andy, Hamson and Halfred got real quiet and still after that, but Uncle Andy went all pale-like. He put down his thread and rested his ropewalk on his thigh and he gave me a queer look. ‘Where’s this Frodo from as he swims like he a fish?’ he says. ‘He’s from Buckland,’ I says. ‘His daddy was a Baggins right enough, but his mama was a Brandybuck.’ ‘What’d ya mean by was?’ he asks. ‘Well,’ says Halfred, ‘his parents were out boating in the Brandywine one day and they were drownded. No one’s sure how exactly it happened.’ ‘Is that right?’ says Uncle Andy. ‘That’s right,’ we says. ‘Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised,’ says Uncle Andy, ‘for naught but Tooks and Brandybucks can drift on the water and live to tell the tale. His daddy should’a stayed ashore.’ ‘What’d ya mean, Uncle Andy?’ we asks and that’s when he told us the story, see?”

He looked at his master sharply, searching for signs of distress. Frodo had long ago accepted his parents’ deaths but when reminded of it unexpectedly, it could still jar him. Rather than showing signs of distress, however, Frodo shook his head, his expression perplexed.

“I can’t say as I do see,” he answered, “as you have yet to tell us the story, and I have to say that this does not sound like one I have heard before.”

“I’m getting to it, sir,” Sam said, still watching his master closely, worried about what this might bring about later in Frodo’s dreams. “It’s just, you’ll be asking later how I come to know the tale if I don’t tell you now.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Frodo admitted. “But do not keep me in suspense for much longer.”

“Indeed,” agreed Gimli. “This sounds to be an intriguing tale.”

Sam nodded, still uncertain, but he was already committed and couldn’t back out now even if he wanted to. His master would hound him mercilessly until Sam gave it up.

“Well, sirs, to be understanding how I come to hear it, you got to understand how my Uncle Andy come to hear it too,” Sam said.

“Sam,” Frodo started.

“I ain’t stalling sir, honest,” Sam assured. “It’s an important part of the tale.”

“We’ll see about that,” Frodo said.

Sam gave him a pained looked then continued with his story.

“You see, my granddaddy’s brother-in-law’s cousin worked in the Great Smials as a chambermaid back in the Old Took’s day. The Old Took would be Gerontius Took; he was Took and Thain from 1248 through 1320 when he passed at the remarkable age of 130, if you can believe that. The Old Took’s youngest son and child was Isengar Took.

"Now, Gandalf was a good friend of the Old Took, even used to set off fireworks on his birthday. He had an ear of each of the Old Took’s children, nieces, nephews and cousins, and quite a few of them went off on Adventures during that time. Hildifons Took never did return from his, but Isengar did. He disappeared a few years after his coming of age and was gone for four years. Said he was going to sail the Sea, which everyone worrit meant as he’d never return. The Sea is a sign of death in the Shire, and always has been, though no one knew for sure why. We just always avoided the Sea, or any form of water, but Isengar decided as he would go anyway. No one thought he’d return, that he’d disappeared like his older brother and never be heard from again, so you can imagine everyone’s shock when he come back about four years later, in the autumn of 1301.”

“This is rather a long time after Oldbuck settled in Buckland,” Frodo interrupted. “Nearly 600 years, in fact.”

“I’m getting to it, sir, honest I am,” Sam said, still keeping his voice just above a whisper. “Now where was I? Oh yes… So, Isengar returns from the Blue and instantly all sorts of rumors and stories start to circulate about his Adventures, but my granddaddy’s brother-in-law’s cousin heard this tale from Isengar hisself, or so it’s said.

“This is the tale as my Granddaddy Hobson told it to my Uncle Andy, and as my Uncle Andy told it to my brothers and me…”  

From our Wandering Days not much could be told about where we come from or why, but there are those out in the Blue as have longer memories than ours. When Isengar Took set out into the Blue and spent all those years traveling the Sea to foreign parts, he come across a boat of Sea-elves. Upon hearing his name, they cried in amazement and immediately brought him to their Queen in her tower of stone as was built upon the sea cliffs.  

The Queen was a fair and formidable lady, tall and graceful, and she greeted Isengar with great honor, laying out tables of food piled high to the ceilings, which were a good twenty feet above the heads of the tallest Elves. She looked joyful indeed to meet him, though he noticed as she couldn’t meet his eyes without crying.  

“Why do you cry so, Fair Lady?” asked Isengar.  

“I weep so bitterly for you remind me of a dear friend I knew once in the Ancient Days,” she said. “In truth, you look very much like him, and if I did not know of the short years of your people, I would swear that you were him. Except even then I would know it to be false, for you cannot be him, even if your years were as long as ours.”  

“Why is that, Fair Lady?” Isengar asked. “How do you come to know any Hobbits?”  

“My people did not always live upon the Sea,” the Elf-queen said. “We were once of a woodland realm far to the East and North, beyond the realm of Angmar before its blackening. For many endless years we lived amongst the mountains, trees and little rivers there and we were merry indeed.  

“One day in my faraway youth, I was out for a walk beyond the borders of my realm. I came to a grove and decided to rest there in the shade of the trees before turning back towards home. I sat on a small mound and simply looked around at the tranquil little place. I was about to get up when I heard an odd sound, almost like a door opening beneath me where I sat. I looked down and indeed there was a door opening out of the hillside! I was even more amazed when two little creatures came out of it. They looked to be Elves or Men, except that they were half our size. Curious, I stood up and the creatures noticed my movement. They turned around, but rather than being startled, they looked at me curiously.  

“‘Well, hullo there,’ one creature said. ‘Are you of Elves or Men?’  

“‘I am an elf,’ I answered. ‘What are you, little sirs?’  

“‘We are hobbits,’ the hobbit answered. ‘My name is Handy Tûc and this is my cousin Tomba Olbuc.’  

“I told them my name in return and we sat there for many long hours, talking about everything we could think of. The hour grew late and it was nearly twilight before I noticed the fading of the light. Jumping up, I promised to return as soon as I could so that we may finish our conversation, then I ran home, arriving only just in time. I told my father all about the hobbits I had met and what wonderfully delightful creatures they were, but my father forbade me to go visit them again. Still, as often as I could, I traveled to the hobbits’ home and we would talk and eat and eat and talk for many hours. I met their families also – they had been away visiting friends the first time I was there – and discovered that this particular hole in the ground belong to Handy and his family, while Tomba’s family lived a little further away in another hole. Handy was the eldest of eight children and would one day be the leader of his people, and Tomba was the eldest of six children, and the closest kin to Handy. They were princes and I was a princess, and so I determined that our friendship was well and good, an unexpected alliance.  

“A few years passed in this manner. Handy, Tomba and I were good friends and I dearly enjoyed their company. Handy especially enjoyed our visits and would often give me gifts when I visited, and so I would take him and his family little trinkets as well, though I had quickly learned they enjoyed food and ale above all else.  

“One day when I went to visit, they were not there and there was no smoke coming from the chimney, or from any of the other holes nearby. The next time I went to visit, the same thing happened, and I began to worry. I thought they might be visiting friends again, and so I returned at least once every other week or so, hoping to find them returned, only they never appeared and their little homes grew into disarray after many months. I could only determine that they had abandoned their home, but I could not figure out why. I was very sad and greatly worried.  

“My father noticed my distress, and so he asked me what was amiss. At last I told him and he was quite cross with me. ‘I told you not to visit those creatures again,’ he reminded me to which I could only nod miserably. ‘Forget about them and do not go there again. Their ways are not for us to interfere in.’  

“I agreed never to go back, only because I knew it would be pointless. They were gone and would not be returning. I did however hope to find where they had gone and would search out the woods and mountainsides all around looking for them. Never a sign of them did I find and the year closed with chilly snows and freezing storms. I pined so much over the long winter that my father relented and in the spring announced that he would send two of his best scouts to look for the Tûcs and Olbucs. ‘But Father,’ I said, ‘the scouts would not recognize them and my friends will not know the scouts. They will hide from anyone but me.’ So my father allowed me to go as well.  

“We traveled for many weeks, searching for any signs that we may find of my friends. We found many trails that always lead to a dead end, and after a couple of months, the scouts determined that it was hopeless. ‘They have fled the land. Such is the way of mortals and you would do best to forget about them,’ they told me.  

“On our return home, one of the scouts spotted a trail of smoke in the distance, near the river valley at the birth of the Great River. I knew immediately it was my friends and I begged leave that we go and look. The scouts consented and we traveled south, keeping the smoke trail in our sights over the next two days. Finally we came to the river valley, only to discover that the smoke was on the other side of the delta, and as it was spring, the rivers were flowing fast and wide, fattened by the snowmelt from the mountains all around. It was impossible to cross.  

“Forlorn, I begged leave to make camp there, at least until we saw my friends, so I could know it was them indeed and that they were happy in their new home. The scouts agreed and it was near the end of the day before we spotted a group of hobbits returning from a hunt. Handy and Tomba were among them. I jumped up with great joy and shouted over the delta, ‘Handy! Tomba! My dears! It is I!’  

“They looked up and nearly dropped their kills. Instead, they set them down carefully and waved back. ‘I would have informed you of our leaving, but I did not know how to get word to you!’ Handy shouted back.  

“We were much concerned about you!” Tomba called.  

“‘I am glad to have found you but I will not be able to meet with you again, dearest of friends,’ I said in reply.  

“‘So it must be,’ Handy agreed. ‘I will miss our friendship dearly, my sweet princess.’ And then he and Tomba bowed, picked up their kills and began on their way with their friends and family.  

“Just at that moment, there was a great howling and baying behind where the scouts and I were standing. Dark Wolves had moved into the mountains, and it was later that I would discover the reason the hobbits chose to leave when they did. They could cross the river delta when it was frozen and settle in the safety of the valley beyond. The wolves could not cross the river frozen without great difficulty and would not cross it as all when it was rushing, for it was too strong a force to contend with.  

“But when the Wolves spotted us, they sent out a party to slaughter us and take us as prey to their den. We were soon surrounded but the scouts were well-armed and had slaughtered many wolves and goblins in worse situations than this. My dear little friends across the delta could not know this and when Handy saw the wolves’ approach, he dropped his kill again, took up his crossbow and jumped into the river. His family and friends cried out in dismay, catching my attention. Handy could not swim but he was determined to save me if he could. The river soon dragged him under and would have swept him away south within a blink had he not been caught in some rocks at the river bottom.  

“I left the scouts to deal with the wolves and dove in after my friend, not realizing that Tomba, who did have some experience with water, had dove in also. But the river was stronger than I expected and it nearly bested me. I had to put forth all my strength to keep from being swept away and though I tried many times to reach him, Handy was always just out of my reach. At long last, I could no longer hold my breath and I was exhausted and weary. I swam to the surface and to the shore, coming aground on the side of the river where the hobbits lived. The hobbits were weeping bitterly and crying out in great distress, and I joined them with my own tears, frustrated at my inability to save my friend. Only then did I learn of Tomba, who had been swept away with the rushing current, swallowed by the river, and I joined my tears with their own.”  

The Queen ended her story there and for many minutes could not continue as bitter tears once again rolled down her fair face. Isengar dared to step forward and placed a hand upon the Queen’s knee. “Thank you for telling me this, Fair Lady,” he said. “We do not have many stories from our Wandering Days and my people will be humbled to learn of this. Perhaps if they are reminded of the friendship that once existed between Hobbits and Elves, they will not be so suspicious of your kind now.”  

The Queen did not respond at first and when she continued, it was to finish her tale, which Isengar had wrongly thought concluded already. “The scouts did kill the wolves, or chase them off, and they soon joined me on the other side of the river. We stayed with the hobbits for a few days, until I could gather enough strength to make the journey again. But before I left, I prayed to the stars and the heavens that all the kin of Handy Tûc and Tomba Olbuc shall never again know water as their enemy, and I promised them it would be so. They did not look comforted.  

“The morning we departed, Handy’s father alone bade us farewell. ‘We see now the danger of rivers and will avoid them, whether or no,’ Master Tûc said of my promise. Then he gave me Handy’s crossbow and Tomba’s sling and spear. ‘They no long require these, but you may find them useful on your journey home. I beg of you, do not search us out again. There are those who believe you a bane to us, and you make them wary.’ He bowed in apology, then turned and walked away. He was the last hobbit I would see until now.  

“After I married, I left my home and brought my people West to the Sea. Handy had once told me that he always longed to see the Sea, though he was dearly afraid of it all the same. So I had erected three towers, and the tallest I built upon a mound, in which I laid to the rest the weapons of my friends as a monument to their sacrifice. From the top of that tower, you can see the Sea, and so in this I hoped that Handy would have his wish at last, to see the beauty of the Sea far away from the dangers it may impose on him.”  

The Queen stopped talking again and dried her eyes. She placed a hand over Isengar’s and smiled. “I place again that blessing upon you and your kin.”  

“And so Isengar Took remained with the Sea-elves for a good year, learning all sorts of stories out of the Old Days,” Sam concluded. “My Uncle Andy reckoned as that’s how come the Tooks and Brandybucks are so queer, meaning no disrespect, and how come they can swim and all, being cursed with magic by the Elves. He said as it weren’t for our kind to be attempting such tricks. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘we were smart enough to stay away from such folk and we know as to keep our feet on land and out of water. They weren’t as sharp, bless them, so they started fooling about with boats and ferries and other tomfoolery, even long after they forgot all about the curse. So that’s how come you can’t ever mention this story to one of them, and how come Isengar was told as to never go repeating it. If they were reminded about the curse, well, who’s to say what sort of madness they’d think up next!’”

Sam finished his tale and watched his master closely. Frodo looked down at the water and their forgotten fishing rods and for many moments his face was blank of any expression. Then slowly a smile spread over his lips and he soon began to chuckle, and then giggle and finally he was howling with laughter like he hadn’t done in months. He doubled over with it, and tears rolled down his face. Sam too allowed himself to laugh along with his master, and Gimli even chuckled a few times under his breath, and he smiled goofily to see the Ring-bearer so merry.

In their boats, Merry, Pippin, Boromir, Aragorn and their elf companions looked over at the trio on the shore curiously.

“What’s that about?” Pippin asked.

“I don’t know,” Merry answered, “but bless Sam for getting Frodo to laugh like that. It’s a welcome sound.”

Legolas smiled to himself. He was closest to the shore and had caught some, if not all, of what Sam had said.

“What is it?” Boromir asked him.

“Later,” Legolas promised.

From his perch on the boulder, Gandalf chuckled too. He put more weed into his pipe and relit it, watching fondly as Sam and Frodo attempted to regain their composure, with little success. The story was both true and untrue, as such things go, and it had been himself who warned a young hobbit mariner to never tell the story again, for fear of adventurous Tooks who had never swum a day in their life. Seems he should have extended that warning to the servants who had been in the room when Isengar told it to him, but it seems no harm was done by that mistake.

At long last, Frodo and Sam caught their breath, though they still chuckled helplessly from time to time. “Dear Sam, but that is the most wonderful tale,” Frodo said. “I didn’t know your Uncle Andy was one for such tales.”

“He ain’t,” Sam said. “That’s the only tale as he ever told and that’s the only time as he ever told it, so far as I know. Fred and I asked Dad as soon as we got home if he knew the story too. He said he did, but he didn’t see no point in repeating it at all so long as we kept our hobbit sense about us and kept on land where we belonged. ‘If we were meant to swim in water, we’d’ve been fish,’ he said and that’s right enough.”

Frodo chuckled again. “Is that why you never accepted my offer to teach you to swim?”

Sam nodded, looking sheepish. “It is,” he admitted. “I know now as it ain’t more’n a tall tale, but at the time I believed it. Truth is, it’s partly the reason as I thought you had Elf-blood in you, sir, meaning no harm.”

“None taken,” Frodo said and wiped the last tears of mirth from his eyes.

“A very entertaining tale, Master Hobbit,” Gimli said. “I’ve not heard the likes of it before.”

“Nor have I,” Frodo said.

“Thank ‘ee, Master Gimli,” Sam replied.

“You’re just as good with a tale as Bilbo is,” Frodo commented, looking at Sam pointedly. “And to think that you remembered this tale all these years since hearing it at the tender age of six.”

Sam lowered his eyes to his fishing rod and pretended great interest in its inactivity. “Well, it was the only one as my Uncle Andy ever saw fit to tell us,” Sam said, “and it was about Elves.” He then bent forward to fiddle needlessly with the line of his rod, hoping he wasn’t blushing as noticeably as he thought he was.

“You’ve an impeccable memory,” Gimli complimented, though he too suspected Sam may have heard that story more than once since. Still, it was clear that Sam would say nothing else on the point.

Frodo at last had mercy on Sam. He wouldn’t push him to say anything he truly didn’t want to say. He leaned back to rest on his elbows and gaze up at the clouds. “I must admit, I have to agree with your Uncle Andy,” he said after a time. “If certain hobbits got wind of this story, there’s no knowing what may come of it. The Brandybucks will be building houses out of boats and living right on the water, and keeping their gardens floating on ferries.”

Sam looked at his master, thoroughly scandalized that such a thought could even occur to him. “Don’t you even speak it, sir!” he exclaimed. They cautioned to look at each other then and once more burst into laughter.  

“So what is this story you were telling Frodo earlier?” Merry asked as he and his fishing companions came to shore. They had done well, catching enough fish to feed the entire House for dinner tonight.

He and Pippin left the men and elves to pull the boats ashore. They joined Frodo, Sam, Gimli and Gandalf around the fire Sam was tending. A pot of tea was already steaming, filling the air with a sweet aroma.

Sam risked glancing up at Frodo and smirked. Frodo looked up at his cousins and shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, it was nothing really,” he answered and gave Sam a wink. He would never tell.
 
 
 
 

To be continued…
 

GF 7/26/08

This is for Lynn H and Periantari, who both wanted something about hobbits and alcohol. What better way to finish this story than a hobbit drinking game?
 
 
 

‘Hobbits really are amazing creatures, as I have said before. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you at a pinch.’ ~ The Shadow of the Past, FOTR

Chapter 14 – Closing Time

The hobbits sat under the dim light of the sickle moon in the porch where Frodo first met his cousins after his waking and where the Council of Elrond had been held. The porch looked eastward, but the hobbits ignored that direction in favor of the star-speckled sky overhead. They leaned against the wall, their legs crossed at the ankles in front of them, pipes in their mouths or resting in their hands. The sharp woody fragrance of Old Toby wafted into the air towards the stars. It was their last night in the Last Homely House, and they intended to make the most of it.

“We’ve not much weed left,” Sam commented. “Do you think it’ll last until we get there?” For he did not want to say ‘Mordor’ if he could help it.

“Gandalf said it could take several weeks before we reach our destination,” Frodo said, also wishing to avoid the word. They were all thinking it and that was enough.

“We should ration our supplies then,” Pippin said. “According to Boromir, when soldiers are on the march, they divide the supplies to last over the journey.”

“Pip, that would barely give us enough to cover the bottom of the bowl,” Merry pointed out. “It’s not worth it. We should just smoke it until it’s gone and be done with it.”

“You should have packed more,” Pippin said, accusatorily. “If you had packed more, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“There’s no way I could have known we’d stay here this long,” Merry countered. “It would have lasted to the end had we not been so delayed.”

Pippin shook his head at this. “As the person in charge of supplies, you should have planned for unexpected delays and so provisioned our supplies accordingly.”

“How can I plan for unexpected delays?” Merry asked.

“All delays are unexpected and so you should expect them to be unexpected,” Pippin reasoned.

Merry gave Frodo a pained look. Frodo just shrugged and said, “Don’t look at me; he’s your first cousin.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” Merry asked and drew another puff of smoke from his pipe. He blew a circle in Frodo’s direction.

“Strider said I could bring Bill as a pack pony,” Sam spoke up then.

“How is your Bill?” Frodo asked, waving away Merry’s smoke ring. Bill might have been bought by Barliman Butterbur to replace Merry’s lost ponies, but everyone thought of Bill as belonging to Sam.

“He’s the very portrait of health, sir,” Sam boasted, his eyes sparkling with pride. “He’s filled out considerably and his mane and tail even shine in the sun now. The elves here took good care of him and he’s made good friends with the horses. He’ll be sore to leave them, but he’ll feel worse to be left behind.”

His friends smiled; they were accustomed to Sam speaking of Bill as though he were a hobbit.

“At least someone is looking forward to the journey,” Merry said. “This certainly isn’t how I expected Adventuring to be. I know Bilbo had his share of troubles on his quest, but he always made them sound so… fun.”

“Where is Bilbo?” Pippin asked.

“Asleep,” Frodo answered. “He wants to be up early to help us get ready.”

“Which means we’ll have to be up early as well,” Pippin said mournfully, already missing his lost hours of sleep. Not that he planned on sleeping much tonight.

“At least he can sleep,” Sam said then. “I don’t think I could get two winks, unless you knocked me over the head with somewhat heavy.”

They sat quietly, smoking the last of their pipes and gazing at the stars, their traveling cloaks wrapped about them. Glorfindel and the others had been right; the fair weather had lasted only a few days and the air was now frigid and promised to grow chiller still. Merry was just about to suggest they go inside to the warmth of the Hall of Fire, when they heard voices approaching from the hallway.

“Are they out here?” they heard Boromir ask.

“I would recognize that scent anywhere on Middle-earth,” Gandalf said. “They’re here.”

A moment later, the man and wizard, along with Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli, arrived at the porch, and each carried some tankards, and either a cask of ale or bottle of wine. Gimli carried a barrel of rum. The hobbits sprang to their feet and Pippin bounced excitedly. Rum!

“What is this?” Frodo asked, smiling to see the promises of a night-before celebration.

“We noticed you were looking rather glum this morning,” Aragorn said of all the hobbits, “and grew gloomier still as the day faded into night. The Quest weighs heavily on your minds. I asked Bilbo what we might to do help ease you and he said there was nothing better than a pipe and ale for easing a heavy heart.”

“You’ve enjoyed your pipes already,” Legolas said, silently grateful he would not be forced to breathe in those noxious fumes, “but we can enjoy the spirits together.”

“Do Elves get drunk?” Merry asked as he, Sam and Frodo relieved their friends of their tankards. There was a tankard for each of them, and the ale and wine would more than last the night. He wasn’t so sure about the rum, except that he must keep Pippin away from it if at all possible. Already Pippin was inching his way towards Gimli. Merry put out a hand to stay him.

“We do not,” Legolas said.

“Nor do wizards,” Gandalf said, “but we will join you all the same, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Frodo said. They all sat at the table then and Aragorn poured them each a drink of ale.

“But,” Pippin started, staring at the rum.

“No, Pippin,” Frodo and Merry commanded as one.

“But, it’s rum,” Pippin whined. “If I can have ale, I can have rum.” Then he began to sing:

Rum is good
Rum is fine
Rum is better than all this wine
Rum is great
Rum is swell
Rum is a treasure served in Rivendell.

“All right,” Frodo said with a laugh. “You may have some rum, one cup only, at the end of the party.”

“I can!” Pippin exclaimed. “Thank you Frodo! I’ve always said you were my favorite cousin.”

The others chuckled and sipped on their tankards, pacing themselves for a long night.

Gimli smacked his lips and set down his pint. “Do hobbits play any games with their ale?” he asked.

“Oh, we’ve plenty,” Sam said. “There’s your regular competitions: who can drink the most shots without toppling over, or who can drink a tankard the fastest, that sort of thing. Or you can make up just about any rule you want and turn it into a game, like, whenever the innkeeper wipes down his counter, you take a drink, or whenever the door opens, and so on.”

“We have a game in Tuckborough that’s quite popular,” Pippin said. “It’s called I Never.”

“How do you play that?” Legolas asked, wondering, as everyone else was, if the rules to hobbit drinking games were as complicated as their rules for everything else.

“It’s quite simple,” Frodo promised. “For instance, I could say ‘I never burned a batch of biscuits.’ If it’s true, you take a drink. If it’s false, then you don’t drink. The drink can’t be a sip, but a full mouthful. So, since it’s true I never burned biscuits, I will take a drink.”

Merry and Sam also took a drink from their cups.

“What if you never baked biscuits?” Gimli asked.

“Then you still wouldn’t have burnt any,” Sam reasoned, “and it would still be true.”

At this, everyone else took a drink except for Pippin. Merry and Frodo sniggered into their hands while everyone else raised their eyebrows in question.

“It wasn’t by accident,” Pippin defended, then realized that some sort of explanation would be required. “Merry told me that if the biscuits baked long enough, they would explode. When I asked what that meant, Frodo said it was like fireworks. I’d never seen fireworks, so I let them bake longer so they would explode. But it never happened,” he finished lamely and laughed along with everyone else.

“This promises to be an interesting game,” Boromir said. “We can learn much about each other tonight.”

“If you can remember any of it in the morning,” Merry and Pippin noted together.

“I’ll go next,” Sam said. “I never wore boots.” The Big Folk laughed at this but were surprised when Merry didn’t drink with the rest of the hobbits.

“You’ve worn boots?” Legolas asked.

“Not what you would consider boots, but I’ve worn snow shoes and the like,” Merry said. “They’re handy for walking over snow and mud, and we use them from time to time in Buckland when it gets cold enough.”

“And a good thing too,” Sam said, “or I’d likely not be walking at all.”

“How’s that?” Aragorn asked.

“Oh, I went a sprained my ankle once during a snowstorm and got caught up in Bag End*,” Sam said. “Mr. Merry had to go down to fetch Miss Willow to come up and look me over.”

“I never,” Gandalf began and gave a laugh, “fell for or engaged in a hobbit’s prank.”

Now they all laughed, and only Gimli and Aragorn took a swig of their ale. Pippin and Merry looked at Boromir and Legolas curiously, but Frodo was quicker than them. “I’ve never been stung by hornets*.”

Merry and Pippin each made a face, instantly forgetting their curiosity for the time being. They kept their cups on the table along with Gimli and Aragorn, while the others enjoyed a mouthful of ale.

“How were you stung, young Master?” Gimli asked the hobbits.

“Merry insisted on pulling an onion from the ground,” Pippin said, looking at his cousin accusingly yet again.

“You were only stung once!” Merry exclaimed in exasperation. This was clearly a discussion they have had many times before. “I was the one used for a hornet’s pin cushion.”

“What about you, Gimli? Aragorn?” Sam asked.

“I felled the wrong tree,” Gimli said simply.

“And I walked right into a nest,” Aragorn said with a rueful chuckle. “I had just seen Arwen for the first time and wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

“I hope she wasn’t there to see it,” Sam said kindly.

“She was not, thankfully. And now it is my turn,” Aragorn said. “I never… got lost in the woods.”

Now everyone drank except for Frodo, Merry and Pippin, and surprisingly Legolas.

“You got lost in Mirkwood, Legolas?” Merry asked.

“Nay, it was a grove near Lake Town,” Legolas said. “I was quite young, only a handful of years, and I had wandered away from my mother’s side. I did find my way out after only a few minutes, but for those minutes I was lost. And you?”

“The Bindbole Wood,” Merry and Pippin answered together. “The hornets,” Pippin added sourly, which Merry wisely ignored this time.

“What about you, Frodo?” Aragorn asked.

“I was fourteen and I had gone into the Old Forest on a dare*,” Frodo said, remembering those bleak days of his youth in the dark and hostile woods. He had never understood how his cousin Saradoc and Uncle Rory found him, but now that he thought on it, he wondered if Tom Bombadil hadn’t rescued him then as well. Why had Tom not mentioned it? Frodo would never know now.

“I never slew an orc,” Boromir said.

Naturally, only the hobbits wet their palates on this one. Afterward Frodo tilted his head at Sam, a small smirk on his lips.

“Don’t I recall reading one of your essays for Bilbo about you and your friends hunting orcs?” Frodo said.

Sam chuckled softly. “Aye, sir, but that was just for pretend*. My friends Tom Cotton, Robin Smallburrows and I were out camping in Robin’s yard one night, and I got it in my head as we should go hunting. So we hid the food and I said as we should pretend the food were goblins.”

“And did you catch them all?” Boromir asked.

“We did at that,” Sam confirmed.

“I never withdrew from a fight,” Legolas said.

“Define fight,” Merry said.

“Any confrontation would suffice,” Legolas replied.

“Then in that case,” said Gandalf with a wink and left his mug in its place along with everyone else.

“Even you, Gandalf?” Sam asked.

“Even I, Samwise,” Gandalf said. “It is a foolish person indeed who does not recognize when he’s been outmatched. Foolish, and soon to be no more. There is something though that I have never done. I have never kissed a pretty lass.”

“Have you kissed an ugly one?” Pippin asked, too intent on Gandalf to notice that only Legolas joined the wizard in his drink. At Pippin’s question, Legolas coughed on his ale in an attempt not to spit it out with his laughter. Aragorn and Merry promptly patted the elf on his back. Meanwhile, Boromir poured more brew to those who needed it

Gandalf lowered his tankard and eyed Pippin sharply. “There is no such thing as an ugly lass, Peregrin Took.”

“You’ve never met Lila Thistle,” Pippin returned. “She’s the daughter of Mr. Thistle, who runs the novelty shop in Bywater. You’d almost mistake her for a pock-faced lad if it weren’t for her exceptionally large br—”

Merry and Frodo each elbowed Pippin in the ribs. “That’s enough of that, Pippin,” Frodo said warningly.

“Oh, you’re just upset because Mr. Thistle keeps wanting you to marry her,” Pippin said. “He even made you dance with her on her twenty-fifth birthday, and you had to kiss her.”

“I never kissed Lila Thistle,” Frodo said.

“See! You did too! You didn’t drink!” Pippin said.

Frodo quickly took a swig along with everyone else, then narrowed his eyes at Pippin. “At least I never asked a lad to dance.”

Pippin gaped at Frodo and blushed scarlet as he alone kept his mouth dry. Pippin spluttered a defense. “It was late! He looked like a lass!”

“Wearing breeches?”

“He had a lass’s name!” Pippin said. “Who names a lad Ginger? Seriously!”

“That was his nickname for having red hair. And you would have realized he was a lad if you weren’t drunk out of your senses,” Merry added.

“At least I never got so drunk I ended up in a frock*,” Pippin shot back and drank in triumph as Merry, Frodo and Sam sat is disbelief at this betrayal. The others exchanged glances over their mugs. Aragorn filled everyone’s tankards and joined the others in staring at the hobbits in curiosity.

“Now that just ain’t proper, Mr. Pippin,” Sam said. He had been sitting back enjoying the exchange until now, but Pippin had inadvertently involved him. “That’s a tradition, and you know it.”

“And at least we never walked through half of Tuckborough with a pigeon painted on our faces*,” Merry said and grinned smugly as everyone but Pippin again raised their ales for a drink.

The others sat back at this point and watched the spectacle with growing amusement. Gimli leaned over the table and whispered to Boromir, “Are we still playing?”

“I’m not sure,” Boromir answered, and even Aragorn shook his head. Someone really should put a stop to this, but none of them wanted to interrupt either, lest the hobbits’ wrath turn on him next.

Meanwhile, the hobbits were continuing their bickering. “And you shouldn’t be going on about frocks either, Mr. Pippin,” Sam said. “At least I never let my sisters use me for modeling their dresses.”

Now Pippin was incensed, but Merry and Frodo roared with laughter, forgetting to drink with the others as Pippin gaped in his embarrassment. “That was told to you in confidence!” Pippin said. “You’re the only one with sisters to understand!”

“Tit for tat, Mr. Pippin,” Sam said.

“Is that so? Well, I never… never…” Pippin said, stalling. “That’s not fair that we don’t know any embarrassing stories about you!”

“I’d say it’s a blessing, begging your pardon,” Sam replied.

There was a brief pause while the hobbits silently stewed. Aragorn shrugged and began to say, “Well, I never,” only to be put cut off as Pippin jumped up and shouted in triumph.

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “I never poisoned anyone’s drinks!” Everyone quickly raised their mugs at this one. Legolas took a turn in topping off everyone’s tankards.

“I never poisoned no one’s drinks,” Sam replied, looking hurt.

“You put something in Merry’s and mine drinks that one time*,” Pippin said. “Remember, Merry?”

Merry nodded. “Yes, what was that anyway?”

“Just a bit of pressed garlic,” Sam said.

“Sam!” Frodo said as everyone gaped at the gardener. “When was this?”

“That time Mr. Merry set the Hill afire.”

“I never set fire to that Hill. Technically, that was you,” Merry replied.

“Only ‘cause I didn’t know you went pouring all that fortified wine on the wood,” Sam said.

“How was I supposed to know that would happen?”

“Anyone with common sense would know that would happen.”

“Are you saying I don’t have common sense?”

“I never said that.”

But he didn’t drink and no one was certain if this was a false statement or if Sam had merely forgotten what to do. Frodo though happily tapped his mug on the table, bringing it no where near his lips, while Pippin grinned and took a mighty swig. Meanwhile, the others decided it would be best to cease drinking while they could still control their senses.

“Do you suppose this always happens when they play this game?” Legolas asked.

“Oh, it’s one of the reasons they play it,” Gandalf said. “It allows them to get their frustrations out and in the morning all is forgiven, for none of it is remembered.”

“You knew this would happen and you didn’t warn us?” Boromir asked.

“The purpose of this gathering was to take the hobbits’ minds off their worries,” Gandalf returned. “I’d say our distraction is quite successful.”

“As well as entertaining,” Gimli said, watching the quickly-growing melee amongst the hobbits with amusement. This was more like the drinking games he was accustomed to at home, only by this point, there’d be brawling and chair-throwing.

“I was never constipated!” Frodo suddenly shouted, bringing the rest of the Fellowship’s attention back to the abandoned game. “That was a cruel lie you made up*!”

“Maybe so, but you still didn’t have to lock Pippin and me up in the bath and keep us from our dinner,” Merry said.

“Be glad I let you eat at all,” Frodo said. “I’ve never done anything so cruel to you, Merry.”

“You convinced me to streak through Brandy Hall’s annual Summer Feast*!” Merry replied.

“You were six,” Frodo said.

“Yes, well… I never lost my virginity to Posy Goold in the middle of Brandy Hall’s gardens*!”

Frodo flushed scarlet. “Things did not go even remotely that far.”

“Well, no, you’d have been married long ago if they had,” Merry admitted. “But you still went well beyond petticoats.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam admonished.

“We did not,” Frodo insisted.

“I was there, I saw everything,” Merry returned.

“You were spying?”

“Naturally.”

“How exactly do you lose your virginity? That doesn’t seem like something that can be misplaced,” Pippin said.

“You’re not old enough to know that yet,” Merry replied.

“Then why are you talking about it in front of me? Why am I not old enough yet?”

“Oh please, Pippin, you would still think there are necromancers living in Great Smials if Pervinca and I didn’t explain it to you*,” Merry replied.

“I would not! I know the difference, Merry,” Pippin insisted. “Just like I know what happened with you and Estella that day at the River! I heard Vinca and Estella talk about it once. Estella was leaning all against you while she was dressing*!”

“You know perfectly well I had my eyes closed!” Merry said, now his turn to blush.

“I know you had your hand over my eyes. You could have peeked,” Pippin returned.

“I never peeked at any lass,” Merry insisted, insulted. “That’s not proper and you know it, Peregrin Took.”

“No more proper than waking up naked next to a pig in a compromising position,” Pippin returned. “I know what a compromising position is!”

“Merry!” Frodo exclaimed.

“You weren’t supposed to mention that to anyone!” Merry said to Pippin, ignoring Frodo. “I was drunk and so not accountable for my actions! I was not naked! And there was no pig in that sty! Who told you that?”

“I’m sorry, but I must be too young to remember that,” Pippin returned pointedly.

“Well at least I never mooned the Aunts in front of all of Tookland*,” Merry returned.

“I never smeared pony dung on Grandmother Menegilda’s skirts,” Pippin said.

“I never had no rum afore,” Sam said.

“Oh! Rum!” Pippin said.

“No!” Merry and Frodo said.

“Why not?” Pippin asked.

“It’ll give you nightmares,” Merry said.

“Which means as he’ll be sleeping,” Sam pointed out.

Frodo and Merry exchanged quick looks. “Pour out the rum, Gimli,” Frodo said, and Pippin couldn’t decide whether to scowl or be cheerful, his face contorting in such an odd way that everyone there laughed to see it.

“Aye,” Gimli said and popped the cork out of the barrel. He waited for everyone to drain their tankards, then poured out the rum in equal measures to all. He raised his cup and said a toast, “To the Ring-bearer and his Company. May our feet not fail us on our long journey. May our hearts endure through all darkness. May our friendship guide us past treacherous obstacles. May our humor prevail so we don’t strangle each other in the attempt.”

“Here, here,” Boromir and Aragorn agreed. “Indeed,” said Gandalf. “Well put,” Legolas admitted. “To your health,” the hobbits chimed.

They tossed their heads back and drank deep. For all of three seconds. Then the harsh liquor made it’s full effects known, and those who were not expecting it instantly spit it out again. Pippin even grabbed his throat, his eyes watering as he coughed and gasped. “It burns!” he complained.

“That gives a kick, and no mistake,” Sam said, recovering faster than the others.

Legolas took a more cautious sip. “It’s better in small sips,” he announced and everyone sipped at their cups until the rum was gone. Then Pippin attempted to sing again.

Rum ith goob
Rum ith fine
Rum ith bestest than all thith wine
Rum ith gweat
Rum ith thwell
Rum ith a tweathure therbed in Wiberdell.

“I dob’t dow,” Pippin said, his words slurring. “I dob’t think it’th all tat thtwong weally,” he stated, then promptly slumped forward, asleep before his head hit the table.

“Well, I never done that afore,” Sam said and he, Frodo and Merry giggled helplessly.

“All right lads,” came Elrond’s voice suddenly behind them. He stood in the doorway in his sleeping robe, looking more than a little bemused; his rooms were right above the porch. “You don’t have to go to your rooms, but you can’t stay here.”

“Elrond!” Merry said in greeting. He raised a mug towards the elf-lord. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask. Don’t you have any breeches?”

“Gandalf,” Elrond warned.

“I’ll get them to their rooms. They will not stay awake much longer as it is,” Gandalf promised.

“What mean do you?” Frodo asked. “Fine I feel.” He poured more rum for himself, Merry and Sam.

The hobbits sipped at their mugs all the way back to their rooms. Boromir carried Pippin, who was drooling on the soldier’s tunic, while Legolas, Gandalf, Gimli and Aragorn helped guide the others, catching them if they stumbled and retrieving them if they began heading in the wrong direction. At last, they got the hobbits to their rooms and settled in their beds, each protesting that they felt just fine and not the least bit tired. Their contented snores just minutes later belied their protests.

Frodo was the last to be tucked in. Gandalf closed his bedroom door quietly behind him and the remaining members of the Fellowship slowly made their way back to the porch to clean up.

“Well, that was an enlightening experience,” Gimli said after a time.

“Indeed,” Legolas agreed with the dwarf without thought. “And we have the pleasure of their company for many more weeks yet to come.”

“At least we’ll be well entertained,” Aragorn said.

“Should we risk asking for the full stories behind those anecdotes?” Boromir asked.

“Go not to a hobbit for a short story, lest you have all day to listen to it,” Gandalf said.

“Which we will,” Legolas said. “Have all day. Do you think there really was a pig in that sty?”

“I think it would be best if we never find out,” Aragorn said with a yawn.

They made quick work of cleaning up and soon turned into bed themselves. After all, they had to be up early in the morning; they had an Adventure ahead of them which promised to be much more interesting than it had just an hour earlier.

~*~

A single bell rang clear and solemn into the predawn air the following morning. Gandalf stopped by the hobbits rooms and found each of them up and dressed, looking glum and tired and more than a bit worse for wear. Merry was helping Pippin gather his things from the various corners, nooks and crannies of his room.

“What hit me last night?” Pippin muttered.

“Nothing hit you, Pip,” Merry said pointedly, “just the rum.”

“Oh! Rum!” Pippin exclaimed, looking up excitedly. His excitement didn’t last long as the quick motion reminded him of his pounding head. “Ow. Rum.”

Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows and handed a wooden flask to Pippin. “A morning-after tonic to help clear your head,” he said. Pippin took it gratefully but Merry declined. “Are you certain, Meriadoc?”

“Some fresh air and short jot will be all the head-clearing I require,” Merry assured and went back to rooting under the bed for Pippin’s scarf.

Across the hall, Sam and Frodo were doing no better. “This must be what wool feels like,” Frodo said, holding his head gingerly in his hands as he sat at the foot on his bed. He was accustomed to the occasional glass of wine, drinking ale only when he had company and they enjoyed dinner at the inn.

“Nay, you were still a few mugs away from wool, Mr. Frodo,” Sam informed, wringing out a rag to place on Frodo’s pounding brow. Sam seemed to be unaffected by the alcohol, but Gandalf knew the sturdy hobbit could easily be hiding his discomfort.

“I brought some medicine for what ails you,” Gandalf announced and Frodo smiled wanly. Gandalf handed them each a small flask. Sam put his aside for later; his head was more uncomfortable than anything else and he figured a good round meal would do him better. Still, he would have the tonic along with breakfast for good measure. Frodo didn’t wait though and cautioned a small sip. “Drink it all. And Frodo, don’t forget that Bilbo wishes to see you after breakfast.”

“Thank you, Gandalf,” Frodo replied and Sam nodded in agreement.

Gandalf then went to Legolas’s room but was not surprised to see the wood elf had already risen and gone from his chambers. He was surprised though to see one of the library’s missing art books on the corner of the bed.

Next he visited Gimli and found the dwarf yawning and stretching, but otherwise awake and clearheaded. A single mug of the dwarf’s own heady brew would not be enough to affect him, and even if the ale had put him over the edge, he would never admit it.

He found Boromir on his hands and knees peering under his bed and muttering what sounded like, “Where is that dratted book?” and “Now what did Pippin do with my Horn?”

“May sober heads prevail,” Gandalf said and handed the tall Gondorian a flask of the morning-after tonic. “Drink up. Breakfast is in five minutes.”

“If I even look at food, I will be ill,” Boromir stated as he took the flask.

“Then all the more reason to drink it,” Gandalf said. “You must have food before we set off tonight. We will march many hours before we stop for our morning meal.”

“But what about the hobbits?” Boromir asked, wondering what would happen to hung-over hobbits forced to march all night while deprived of food and sleep. He shuddered to think it.

“You will find they are excellent foragers, and will be able to keep their stomachs content enough between meals, if not as full as they’d like them to be,” Gandalf replied.

The wizard lastly sought out Aragorn. The ranger was up and dressed and ready for the long day ahead, but his brow was tight with pain and his fingers were massaging his temples fruitlessly. Gandalf handed him the last flask. Aragorn took a long drink and tucked the flask into his belt.

“Breakfast in three minutes,” Gandalf advised.

Aragorn nodded. “Thank you.”

Gandalf turned and walked down the passages to the dining hall. He was passing through the courtyard on the furthest side of the house when he heard a rustling in the trees overhead. He looked up just in time to catch the wood elf dropping from the lowest bough to the needle-covered ground below, a long cloth-covered sack in his hands. Gandalf raised his eyebrows at the elf.

“Don’t ask,” Legolas advised and went into the house.

Gandalf chuckled to himself. Yes, this would be an interesting journey indeed.
 
 
 

To be concluded…
 
 
 

GF 8/2/08
 
 
 
 
 

A/N – There are references in this chapter to fourteen of my other stories, each designated by an asterisk (*). Whoever can identify at least seven will win a ficlet of their choice. If you can name all of the stories referred to in this chapter, you get a short story. One story has been identified in a previous chapter already, and one reference applies to two different stories.

Enter your guesses here. Entries will be screened.

Good luck!

Apologies to Pansy Scruttle:

In “Closing Time”, as first published, Merry drunkenly referred to a lass with whom Frodo had once been quite, shall we say, frisky. Merry, in his drunken stupor, identified the lass as Pansy Scruttle. However, the lass in question was actually Posy Goold. Pansy Scruttle, it is to be noted, is a perfectly respectable lass of high moral scruples who lives in Bywater. Posy Goold is the vixen of Brandy Hall who seduced Frodo into nearly losing his, erm, innocence. Merry feels awful that a good lass’s reputation should be so tarnished because he allowed liquor to loosen his tongue and cloud his better judgment. He apologizes vehemently for any damage that might have been caused by his error, both to Pansy as a proper lass and to Posy, who chafes at the idea that she could possibly have competition.

 
 
 
Epilogue – Ode to Rivendell

Gondor
Forelithe 1419 SR

“I’d say that’s it, Sam,” Frodo said, sitting back and peering at the drying ink.

“Thank ‘ee for your help, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. “I’d not have finished it otherwise.”

“You give yourself far too little credit,” Frodo said. “Most of the work is yours, I just helped with the rhymes when you needed it.”

“Still, you helped and I appreciate it, sir,” Sam said. “I was floundering, as you might say, and knowing as you didn’t think it was so awful helped to keep me going.”

“Nothing you have ever written is awful,” Frodo assured, “this least of all. It’s funny and absolutely perfect. Bilbo would approve of it highly.”

“You think so?” Sam asked.

“I do indeed. Shall we show it to the others?” Frodo asked.

“I’m not sure, sir. It could still use some tweaking,” Sam said.

“It’s perfect, Sam,” Frodo said again, standing and taking Sam’s arm. “Come, this should be interesting.” He smiled and there was a sparkle in his eyes, and that was enough for Sam.

“As you wish, Mr. Frodo.”

Sam took up the parchment and led Frodo into the parlor, where Merry and Pippin were polishing their swords. They looked up and smiled, delighted to see Frodo in such high spirits. Legolas and Gimli sat on the porch, sharpening their knife and ax respectively, and Gandalf sat by the window smoking a pipe and looking thoughtful. Seeing that Sam was holding something and clearly wanted their attention, Merry and Pippin put aside their swords and sat back in their seats, wiping their hands on their rags. Gandalf tapped on the window and motioned for the others to join them inside. Once all were assembled and seating, Sam began.

“Well, I have somewhat as I was wanting to show you,” he said.

“Did we get a letter?” Pippin asked.

“Nay, it’s a poem I wrote, with Mr. Frodo’s help,” Sam said.

“Well, let’s hear it then,” Gimli said.

“I don’t know. Mayhap we should wait until Strider can be here,” Sam said uncertainly.

“We have dinner with him and the others tomorrow,” Gandalf said. “Would you rather wait until then? It would be quite all right.”

“No it wouldn’t!” Pippin exclaimed. “You can’t make us wait that long now.”

“Come on, Sam, read us your poem,” Frodo encouraged, sitting next to his cousins.

Sam cleared his throat and put one hand behind his back; he needed the other to hold up the parchment. He had not yet memorized the poem in full, and besides, he felt that some parts would be more easily recited if he was not looking directly at his friends.

Ode to Rivendell

Oh to Rivendell,
Where the Elven spell
Comes down to rest upon your door;
And within your walls,
And down your wide halls,
You couldn’t think to hope for more
Than a better place
Than this peaceful space
To stop and lay a weary head;
Or to sit and think,
Or just eat and drink,
‘Tis the finest of all homesteads;
There is more to this
Fair haven of bliss
Than what first appears to the eye;
If you’ll take a seat,
And put up your feet,
I’ll attempt to tell you all why:

There are Elves of course,
And Glorfindel’s horse
Is faster than all other beasts;
No wound too cloven
For Elrond Half-Elven,
His guests never miss a grand feast;
There are friends anew
Met o’er bowls of stew,
And old friends are met by the Fire,
‘Tis singing and dancing,
Not just for romancing,
And Arwen’s fair voice to admire;
Throughout the long night
By pale firelight
Many a strange tale you can hear,
Then ‘way to your bed
To lay down your head
And drift off to dreams full of cheer.

There are dwarves as well
Who rest in the ‘Dell,
From the Mountain do they both come;
And Men arrive too
From wond’ring the Blue
Both fouler yet fairer than some.
From legend Glóin springs
With cake of all things,
Son Gimli invites us to tea;
We sit and we chat
‘Bout mealtimes at that
And afterwards do they both flee.
Boromir proffers
A generous offer;
Skills of war in us does he hone,
Yet there is no doubt
The best form of clout
Comes shaped like a well-placed pinecone.

He shows us to fight,
With skill and not might,
So our foes we’ll be able to beat;
But the point is moot
That out of their boots,
Men have most unusual feet;
Yet alone he’s not,
Both Elves and Dwarves got
No better feet, nor does the wizard;
So it becomes clear
Why hide of a deer
Must protect their poor toes from blizzard;
He makes up for all
By being so tall
He can reach ‘bout near anything;
And in the midnight
He’ll sneak us a bite
Of biscuits or fruit topped with cream.

What else do we learn
‘Neath the pine and fern?
Elves don’t measure time by the hours;
By their own counting
Their years amounting
The exact same number of ours;
And even Lindir
Young as tween year
Can be conned into trying a prank:
Elrond’s chair: success.
Gandalf: expects us.
He has only himself to thank
For face of honey,
Sticky and runny,
‘Tis a prank older than Bilbo;
‘Neath Tookish smiles
And Brandybuck wiles
Their mischief and cunning it does show.

Yet more than just this
Did happen amidst
The calm, soothing realm of the ‘Dell;
‘Tis target practice,
Much to distract us
From missing home and kin as well;
Letters we do write
Case that they just might
Come to the Shire the faster;
And lessons there are
From that land afar
Like telling from ‘Mister’ and ‘Master’;
Rules for gift-giving,
And for receiving;
The jobs of Thain, Master and Mayor
Are figured by them
To be just as grim
As walking down a dragon’s lair.

Yet what do we find
Placed far out of mind?
A ten-hole golf course in the valley,
And so we do play
All the live long day
And near knock the head off an ally.
By quick Elven sight
The ball in mid-flight
Is caught by Legolas Greenleaf;
Come back from scouting,
He’s greeted by shouting
Of a livid duffer in great grief.
But right all is made
As plans ready laid
For ridding the ‘Dell of this terror;
An elf and a man
Would take up the stand
To correct Elrond’s great error;

Golfers retire
To Hall of Fire,
Conspirators have not much time;
The golf bag they took
And both the art books
To commit unspeakable crime;
They hid them away,
Where at I can’t say,
And morn found the golfers in Blue;
Thieves acted aloof,
Yet their crime was proof
That dreams do indeed become true,
For everyone else
Had readied themselves
For ‘nother day of golf glories;
Instead they discovered
From madness recovered
The hobbits and so were their stories.

Now Strider returns
With questions he burns
‘Bout trainings and friendships and jests.
He wants to know why
Just Frodo and I
Are but two hobbits on the Quest.
Let Merry and Pippin
Come along skippin’,
They’ll keep us all quite entertained;
But Elrond resists
‘Til Gandalf insists;
They fill the last spots that remained.
But time it is not
For worry and fraught;
There’s yet chance to fish by the pool;
And let’s not forget
That ale is well met
But rum turns us all into fools.

There’s much more to tell
Of life in the ‘Dell,
I could go on forevermore
‘Bout races of Elves,
And Dwarves’ secrets Selves,
And Men and their Kings of great lore;
Or even the trees
With needle-like leaves,
And flowers that bloom beyond autumn;
Fast-flying snowballs,
Running down the halls,
Comparing twins from heads to bottoms –
Of their feet, I mean.
Of all to be seen
There remains one truth yet to tell:
While ‘tis not the Shire,
There’s much to admire,
For there’s no place like Rivendell.

Sam bowed, and his friends clapped and cheered heartily.

“Well done, Sam!” Merry said. “But I am not a duffer.”

“That was Mr. Frodo’s idea,” Sam said quickly.

“You betray me Sam,” Frodo said with feigned dismay.

“I prefer my head to stay on my shoulders, Mr. Frodo, and not be sent flying down a rabbit hole,” Sam replied.

“I would never do that to you Sam,” Merry said with a wink. “Who would cook for us if you weren’t here?”

“Well, I quite enjoyed the prose. A stand up job, old chap,” Pippin said to Sam.

“‘Tis a fine lay indeed, Master Hobbit,” Gimli said. “I was wondering the other day whatever came of your poem. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“Thank ‘ee,” Sam said.

“It’s quite uplifting,” Legolas said. “Much different from the sorts of lays I am accustomed to hearing. Boromir would have enjoyed it.”

“Indeed he would have, as will his brother when he hears it tomorrow,” Gandalf said.

“So that’s what happened to those golf clubs?” Merry said, turning to Legolas. “You know what this means?”

“No. What does it mean?” Legolas asked cautiously.

“We’ll have to introduce this fine game to Gondor,” Merry announced and grinned. Beside him, Pippin’s face lit up and he sat up eagerly, already designing a course based on the one in Tuckborough. “Really, Sam, it’s not all that awful. You make is sound like torture. We need to ensure the people of Gondor experience it for themselves, so they can appreciate it for what it really is.”

“Torture?” Sam suggested.

Frodo laughed at this and the others joined him, even Merry and Pippin despite themselves.

“But where would we build a golf course?” Pippin asked.

“Well, that is the tricky part,” Merry said. “The city doesn’t have much by way of greenery. We can ask Faramir tomorrow over dinner. Perhaps he can suggest a likely place.”

“And Gondor will never be the same,” Gimli said despairingly and they all laughed again.

The End!
 
 
 

GF 8/25/08

The stories for the identity challenge in the previous chapter are listed below, in order of reference:

In the Bleak, Cold Winter
A Mid-Year’s Walking Trip
In Darkness Buried Deep
My First Camp Out
Babysitting Pippin
A Grand Tradition
Under the Harvest Moon
A Day in the Life
In a Flash
A Night to Forget
The Evil Necromancer
The Trouble with Lads
The Trouble with Lasses
Moon Over Tookland