The Tenant from Staddle

Land Claimed

       “Dad!”

       Boboli looked up from the pot of stew he was stirring.  Teoro’s voice sounded fearful.  “What is it, Teo?” he asked.

       “It’s Men, Dad.  There’s Men outside, Men on horses.”  Boboli could see his son shaking with carefully controlled terror.  “They’re askin’ who’s the head of the family, Dad.  They’ve got knives, Dad, knives and—and swords!”

       Bob straightened up, feeling the hair on his head and feet standing right up.  “What do they want now?” he muttered, then turned to his daughter Lilia.  “You, lass—keep stirrin’ this.  I’ll go see what they want.  Maybe they’ll just let us be.”

       Anemone looked up from where she sat in the corner, cradling her doll, their ratter Lister pressed against her.  The child’s eyes were wide, her usually rosy face pale.  “They’ll not try to hurt you like they did Gaffer Holc, will they, Dad?”

       “I’ve no intention of lettin’ anyone hurt me, sweetling,” he said as he pulled open the rough door he’d made for the recently dug first larder.  Inside was the item he’d found a few days earlier as he’d cleaned away the rubble of a fallen wall that lay where he’d been constructing the first parlor—a sheathed long knife.  The leather of its sheath had still been mostly good, and had perked right up when he rubbed it with the oil he’d always used on the ponies’ harness and reins.  The blade of the knife inside had been a bit rusty, but it had responded to the oiled stone on which he sharpened kitchen knives and his axe blades; it now reflected the light from the as yet unglazed round windows, the engraved pattern of crescent moon, sunburst, and seven stars clearly visible as he drew it out.  Certain he was a sight to make even the most rough of ruffians cautious, he went to the front door and carefully opened it.

       Outside, a decidedly tall Man had dropped from an equally tall dun mare.  He was more slender than had been the swart Southerners who’d invaded Bree and reportedly burned the family home and killed Boboli’s father, and his shoulder-length hair and short beard were well kept.  He wore a silver-grey cloak clasped at the shoulder with a silver star, the cloak pulled back to show worn but well kept green riding leathers embossed with leaf and star shapes and girded by a pale brown swordbelt, a dagger thrust behind it, and hanging from it the black sheath for a long sword, decorated with inlaid copper and silver wire in the pattern of a leafy branch.  Behind him was a second Man—well, actually more a lad among Men, really, who also dropped from his own horse to take the first Man’s reins as they were thrust at him.

       Bob looked up at the Man warily, the drawn long knife clearly displayed in his hand.  “What can I do you for?” he asked.

       “You are the head of this family?” the Man asked.

       “Yes, I am.  What do you want?”

       “You don’t need a drawn blade to treat with me, friend.”

       “I don’t?  Last strange Men as we met up with should of been greeted this way, you see.”

       “Oh, so that’s the way of it.  Are you from within the Shire originally?”

       Bob snorted.  “Inside the Shire?  I’ll say not!  No, my family’s always farmed just outside Staddle.  My brother’s stayed there, tryin’ to reclaim the land and farm from the ashes; but me and mine—we’ve had enough and come away.  This land’s always been empty, so we decided to try our luck here.  You got some complaint about it?”

       “No, small master, I’ve no difficulty with that, save that the title for this land has been granted to another by the King, and in order to settle here you will have to make arrangements with Lord Iorhael.”

       “What you mean?  You sayin’ as this land’s already claimed?”

       “Oh, yes.  This land has belonged to the King’s family for the past eighteen hundred years or so.  He granted it to Lord Iorhael for his maintenance after the victory against Mordor.  It is part of Lord Iorhael’s holdings here in Arnor.”

       The arm holding the drawn knife dropped as Bob stared at the Man in confusion.  “Who are you, and what’s this talk about kings and lords and victories and such?”

       “I am Faradir son of Rahael, a Ranger of Arnor, and this is my son Teregion.  We were sent out to take a survey of the lands Aragorn has granted to Lords Iorhael and Perhail so that Lord Halladan can send them a proper description of their holdings in the North Kingdom.”

       “And this Lord Iorhael could make us leave?”

       “Yes, he could, although I doubt he’d wish to from what I’ve seen of him.”

       “You know him?”

       “Well, yes.  I was one of those who rode south to fight by Aragorn’s side as he led the armies of Gondor and Rohan against Mordor, and so rode north again alongside the party returning to Arnor.  Thus I had much time to become acquainted with him, you see.  A most gentle soul, Lord Iorhael.  Now, if I might know your name, small master.”  The Man stepped forward a half pace, but halted as the Hobbit again lifted his blade.

       “No further, you.  You want my name?  What for?”

       “As I said, it is my duty to make a report on those lands the King has granted to Lord Iorhael, and I must note the names and particulars of any tenants on those lands.”

       Bob considered for some moments.  “How you know as this is the lands as has been granted this Lord Iorhael?”

       The Man turned, pointing northeast toward the River.  “This land was one of the royal farmsteadings for the King of Cardolan, from the red standing stone a mile that way to the grey monolith a mile to the northwest, to the rockslip to the south that marks the northern bounds of the Shire at this point.  Arvedui Last-king indicated it should lie vacant that the Hobbits of the Shire should have a buffer to their north where no Men might settle to disturb them.”

       “Then we’ll have to leave so the land stays empty?”

       “As our Lord King has granted this land to Lord Iorhael that is now his decision, and has nothing to do with the King’s will from this time on.  That Lord Iorhael might wish to see the land settled by Hobbits is very possible.  After all, the Shire itself is populated by Hobbits.

       “Now, may I again ask your name?”

       The Hobbit finally dropped the hand holding his knife.  So far there had been no threat by either of the Men.  “I’m Boboli Hedges.  My family’s been farmin’ our land just outside Staddle time out of mind, until the ruffians come and burned the place to the ground.  Killed my dad, they did, and roughed up my wife.  She died two months later.  We was stayin’ in Bree while my brother found the means to rebuild.  After Thistle died I—I lost interest in returnin’ to Staddle.  It’s not been particular good for some years, since so many outsiders began movin’ into the area.  Too many lookin’ at us Littles as if we was somethin’ strange and not to be listened to or respected.  

       “This land’s never been settled, and I thought as there was no reason as why we couldn’t settle here, build a farm.  After all, the Brandybucks did that inside the Shire, didn’t they—took over the lands t’other side of the Brandywine from the Shire and settled Buckland?  If they could do it, we could do the same, couldn’t we?”

       The Ranger sighed, thinking.  “Certainly the Hobbits of the Shire offer a precedent.  It had been intended that area should also remain empty to provide a buffer between the world of Men and that of the Shire, although the Old Forest offers quite a buffer in its own right.  We of the Dúnedain were not in any position to forbid the Oldbucks to settle that land when it was done.  Nor would we have been likely to say no, although that region was originally the site of the capital of Cardolan and was where the line of kings for that people had settled before the kingdom was decimated by disease and war, and finally its rulers were killed by invaders from Angmar.

       “Now that the kingship has at last been reestablished, it is our hope that again many of the empty lands will be resettled.  I expect that neither the King nor the Hobbits of the Shire will object to Hobbits resettling this region, although it is possible a few of the descendants of Cardolan may wish to return to the area.  If that were to be allowed, however, you will learn that we of the Dúnedain are very different from the ruffians that tried to invade the Breelands and entered the Shire, as well as many of those who have entered the Breelands in the last score of years.  We of the Dúnedain have held nothing but respect for the Periannath since Argeleb the Second was approached by those who begged for a grant to establish a land of their own.  Certainly the aid we received from Bucca of the Marish and more recently the aid of the four who went south to the destruction of Mordor has confirmed our respect for your people.”

       Boboli was shaking his head.  “You’re tellin’ me as there is a King again?” he demanded.

       “Yes.”

       The Hobbit searched the Man’s face and saw no sign he was lying.  “How is it as there’s a King again?  And who’s this Lord Iorhael?”

       The Man smiled.  “The King is a kinsman of mine, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Chieftain of our people, and directly descended from Elendil, Isildur, Isildur’s youngest son Valandil, and Arvedui on one hand, and from Ondoher King of Gondor through his daughter Fíriel, who married Arvedui, on the other.

       “The main reason so many have come north seeking to settle here in Eriador has been due to the wars in the south and east.  Sauron was again building his power in Mordor, and was encouraging attacks against Gondor and Rohan and within Dunland, as well as increasing his power amongst the orcs and trolls of the Misty Mountains and in sending forces of orcs, wargs, evil Men, and other creatures against the peoples of Mirkwood, Rovanion, Erebor, and other lands east of the mountains.  Those who’ve come from the south have no experience with Hobbits, and consistently underestimate you, and for that I am heartily sorry.

        “As for Lord Iorhael—he and Lord Perhail between them saw to the destruction of Sauron’s Ring and thus his power forever.  All of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth owe the two of them a debt of gratitude I doubt we will ever be able to repay.  Sauron is no more, and Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar now is recognized as High King over the western lands, wearing the Winged Crown of Gondor and wielding the Sceptre of Annúminas as King of Gondor to the south and of Arnor in the north.”

       Faradir went quiet for a moment, allowing Boboli to digest this information.  Finally he spoke again.  “Would you mind, Master Hedges, if we were to sit down for a time?  I know that I tire of just standing, and you look more than a bit shaken.”

       Boboli looked up at the Man, then gave a somewhat distracted nod, gesturing vaguely at the rough bench he’d fashioned from a tree trunk.  It was still a bit high for Hobbits, and probably quite low for the tall Man; but it was all he had available as yet in what he’d planned as his dooryard.  Realizing he still was holding the long knife and that it was likely unnecessary at this point, he turned to the house.  “Teoro!” he called as he lifted it, “Bring me the sheath for this!”  Seeing his younger son peering out the door at him, he sighed.  “It’s all right—these ain’t ruffians.”

       He heard the youth snort, and caught the sight of a smile quickly suppressed on the face of the Man.  The youth said something unintelligible, and his father fixed him with a stern look.  “Do not speak words you know will be not understood by those you are with, ion nín,” he admonished his son.

       “Save when you call me ‘my son’ in Sindarin?” Teregion asked, somewhat cheekily, or so Boboli thought.

       Faradir fixed the youth with a look of reproof, and Teregion ducked his head much as Teo himself might do and murmured an apology.  Yet as the Man folded himself on the log bench Bob thought he might just have caught a twitch to the Ranger’s lips.  “Trust children to cast ones own words back at one,” Faradir murmured, and suddenly Boboli found himself laughing, the Man joining in the laugh after half a moment.  The last of Bob’s fear left him.

       It took some time for Teoro to gain enough courage to actually come out and give his father the ancient sheath, but at last he did so, and finding that the youth had unsaddled the two horses and tethered them to a sturdy young tree and then settled down at his father’s feet, Teo did much the same, soon followed by his older brother Holdfast as he finished his work in the recently constructed byre, and at last the two lasses. 

       With careful questioning, Faradir had managed at last to get Boboli to tell the full story.  “Most of the Big Men appear to of attacked Bree itself,” he explained, “but there was a few, at least, as went round to the farms along the borders and attacked them instead, apparently partly to get what loot as they could find, but mostly, it appeared, to devil with us Hobbits.  They had to of passed two farms held by the newer folks, all Bigs, as they approached our place, but none seems to of done nothin’ to them.  Instead about six of ’em surrounded our place and attacked it sometime past the middle of the night, they did.  Me dad’d heard somethin’ out there in the darkness—or maybe Lister here—” he indicated the dog, “—barked enough to warn him.  I’m not certain.  Me brother’n me’d gone into Archet to do a deal on a new wagon with a farmer as we’ve dealt with many a time afore, so we wasn’t home—just our dad and our children and our wives, you know.”

       It was a simple enough tale.  The next morning word had spread around the whole of the Breelands that in the past two days there had been assaults both on Bree village and on several farms near the borders.  Boboli and his brother had hurried home to find the low house and barn and most of the outbuildings had been burned down, Boboli’s wife was seriously wounded, and his father was dead.  “The bairns was able to get away safe, for which I was grateful—they hid in the bolt-hole with me brother’s wife Wren.  Thistle just never seemed to get none better—can’t say why save for the shock of it all.”

       Faradir sighed.  “More hurt by those sent north by Saruman the Traitor,” he said bitterly.  “We’ve had reports on the attack on Bree itself, but had heard nothing on the assaults on Hobbit-held farms.  But it appears there was grave trouble in the Shire itself while the four were gone south with Aragorn.”  He looked at the farmer as he sat, the point of the sheath for the long knife he held grounded between his hairy feet, his hands absently turning the weapon first one way and then back again.  He finally asked, “Have you had training with that as a sword?”

       Boboli looked up at him, surprised.  “Trainin’?  Me, with a sword?  And when has a Hobbit ever been trained to use a sword proper?”

       The Man gave a short laugh.  “Actually, there are now four Hobbits who’ve been so trained, I understand, although Lord Iorhael has said he does not believe it his part to use a weapon ever again.”

       Boboli’s spine went rigid.  “You sayin’ as this Lord Iorhael you’ve been on about is a Hobbit?”

       “Yes, he and Lord Perhail are both Hobbits of the Shire, as are Lord Iorhael’s two kinsmen who accompanied them out of the Shire.”

       The Hobbit’s eyes remained fixed on the Man’s face.  “But what Hobbit family would ever give a bairn such an outlandish name’s those?” he demanded.

       “Those are merely translations of their names into the Elven tongues, Master Hedges.  It is by those names we praised them when they were made lords of all the free peoples for their great service by which Sauron, the great Enemy of us all, was cast down and all his power and might brought to naught.”

       “But I thought as you said the King fought’im.”

       “Aragorn was one of those who led armies to fight Sauron’s forces before the gates of Minas Tirith, the capital city of Gondor, and he commanded the forces that marched to challenge Sauron’s might before the very gates of Mordor; but it was two Hobbits who actually entered into the Black Land and crept through to the Mountain of Orodruin itself to actually cast him down.  May their names be ever praised as we honored them in the Field of Cormallen!  They were willing to offer themselves for all, but were brought forth from the ruins of Sauron’s might on the wings of Eagles that we might ease them and honor them ever!”

       Teregion looked up at his father, his expression thoughtful, then looked back to the Hobbits.  “I pray you forgive him, for he becomes this way whenever he speaks of the Cormacolindor.  Lord Halladan tells us my uncle, his brother, was seriously wounded before the Black Gate and would have been slain by one of Sauron’s creatures had Lords Iorhael and Perhail not come to the Sammath Naur when they did.  My uncle remained in Gondor at Lord Aragorn’s side until the King can come again to us in the north kingdom.  To know he owes the life of his brother to the two Cormacolindor has led Ada to honor them greatly.”

       “So,” Boboli said slowly, “in order to get permission to settle here on this land, I must go to the Shire and get permission from this Lord Iorhael, then?”

       Faradir smiled and shrugged.  “That is indeed what you must do.  I will write a letter of introduction to him for you to carry with you that he knows you have been advised of this by an agent of the King and that you be granted free passage to him within the Shire.”

       “I see,” Boboli said thoughtfully.  “Well, I was fixin’ up a pot o’ stew for luncheon, and we’ve a barrel o’ ale from the Pony as I brought.  Would the two o’ you join us for a meal, for the childern’ll be achin’ for food o’ the moment?”

       The two Men exchanged looks.  “We’d be honored, if we’re allowed to offer some of our own supplies to supplement yours,” Faradir said.

       Boboli felt relieved, for certainly he’d not been prepared to entertain the appetites of Men--as much bigger than Hobbits as they were, how much would they need to eat? he wondered.  But he nodded his agreement, and he set the lads to bringing out the table and setting it up before the bench, and sent the lasses to bring out cloth, plates and silver for all of them.  They’d always used Gammer Opal’s dishes at home, and so those his sister-in-law and Thistle had brought into their respective marriages had remained packed away for years in one of the storage holes on the farm; there’d been goods and to spare for him to bring away with him to furnish a new hole for himself and their children with still sufficient to leave with his brother for the house he and his neighbors were raising once more on the farm.

       Teregion brought dried meat and vegetables to add to the stew, and a store of mushrooms they’d found that morning--the eyes of all the Hobbits lit with that addition to the meal; and some dried fruits to add to the fare.  Boboli hurried back into the kitchen with them--he’d finished that room and a couple rooms for them to all sleep in and a stable sufficient for the ponies and milk cow first, and was completing others as he could, digging them into the ridge that had drawn him to the land to begin with.  He soon had the meat, vegetables, and mushrooms added to the meal, and mixed the fruit into the compote he’d been preparing for afters.  There appeared to be enough bread for all of them, although they’d need to bake again tomorrow, a day earlier than he’d planned; and the milk produced by Maddie would provide for the lasses and Teo, he knew.

       The lads had placed the chairs and bench from the kitchen for the rest of them by the time Boboli was ready to bring out the meal.  He found Faradir examining the long knife with interest as he set the pot of stew on the table.

       “Where did you get this?” asked the Man as he turned the blade to examine the engravings on it.

       “Found it as I was diggin’ out the room as I plan for the first parlor,” Bob explained.  “Seems most o’ the ridge is actually soil as has collected over the ruins of an old houseplace or somethin’ like.  Stone walls is standin’ in most places chest high or higher, and the floors under all is stone flags.  Some careful woodwork’s been needed to support the earth as is intended for the roof, but there’s timber and to spare there,” he pointed over the ridge at the further wooded hillside beyond the open grassy field that lay immediately adjacent to the growing smial.  “The work’s proved far easier’n I’d thought to look for, havin floors ’n’ walls already there--it’s mostly been a matter of clearin’ away sufficient and shorin’ up walls and ceilin’s as I go.  Some places I’ll have to raise earthen or wooden walls for now, although there’s enough dressed stone tumbled about to do much of it.”  He watched as the Man returned the knife to its sheath and handed it to him.  “Holdfast, go ’n’ get the bread and the butter crock for us.  There’s the lad.”

       “It fits you’d find such a knife here.  It would have been kept in the place for protection, I suppose, when this was the King’s steading.  Keep it by you that you have protection should any lawless Men seek to bother you here.”

       “It’s a fair made blade,” Bob commented as he served out portions of the stew and indicated to the lasses to see them passed to their guests.  He saw they’d washed at the stream that watered the place, and appeared to have run a comb through their hair.

       “Indeed,” Teregion said.  “It’s fine steel that was folded at least seven times.  The engravings of the seven stars are wonderfully done, and indicates this was indeed made for the King’s own folk.  The handle was carved from the antler of one of the great deer that live in the northlands, near the dwelling of the Snow-men; and it’s inlaid with shell traded from the south, perhaps from Dol Amroth on the southern shores of Gondor.”

       Faradir smiled fondly at his son.  “Teregion has already the makings of a smith, and has always been fascinated by the crafting of weapons.  He spends much of his time in the swordsmith’s forge as it is.”

       “It’s an ancient blade,” the youth continued, “at least a thousand years.  I’m amazed the sheath is still intact, although there are indications it was wrought by Elves.  Their work tends to be far more lasting than that done by Men.”

       Again Boboli felt the hair on his head and feet stand up at the thought of the ancient nature of this weapon as he stowed it beneath his chair.

       As they ate they discussed what was needed to be done to secure Lord Iorhael’s permission to remain on the land.  “I’d certainly leave your older son here to care for the beasts and continue your work as he’s able; but you at least will need to approach Lord Iorhael himself to discuss the matter, or so I’d think.  I believe he dwells in Hobbiton, although he spoke also of having dwelt in Buckland, which is as you know just inside the Shire on the eastern shores of the Baranduin.”

       “I could take the lasses and Teo with me,” Bob said thoughtfully.  He turned to Holdfast.  “What do you think, lad--could you hold down the place on your own, do you think, for a week or two at best?  I brought plenty of flour and other supplies, as long as you try not to eat as a teen, of course.”

       “It would give me a fine chance to finish the paddock and expand the vegetable garden and the like, Da.  And they grow the finest root vegetables to be had in the Shire.  Could you bring me some starts, do you think?  And perhaps some bushes and flower starts as well, while you’re at it.”

       “It will take me about two days to get all ready,” Bob said, calculating in his head.  “But I s’pose as the sooner’s I start the quicker ’twill be done.”

       “I’ll let the Rangers that patrol here on the northern borders of the Shire and east of the Breelands know that you’re building a smial here and that your son will remain on the land while you go into the Shire to consult with Lord Iorhael.  They’ll not allow anyone to offer your son any violence while you are gone.”

       “Where were you when the farm was attacked?” Holdfast grumbled.

       “In the south alongside our lord cousin,” answered Faradir.  “Much ill was done while we must be at his side.  But we who patrol this area were the few who could be gathered in haste when the call came for some of the Grey Company to come to his aid for the final defense against Mordor.”

       The rest of the meal was punctuated with lighter talk and a great deal of planning on the part of Boboli Hedges.  Teo and Teregion washed the dishes at the stream and gave them to the lasses to carry back into the house and put away.  “I’ll need to put in a proper pump afore next winter,” Bob said.  “But you come again then and will find all will be in proper trim.  This Lord Iorhael o’ yours cooperates, and all will be well enough, I think.”

       But after they’d seen their guests off and he stood watching after them as they rode north, Bob found his mind worrying over just what kind of individual this Lord Iorhael might turn out to be.

A Drive into the Shire

       Two days later Boboli had his wagon mostly ready for the trip. The preceding day he and Lilia had spent baking pasties to take with them, and filling bottles with water and cold tea and buttermilk. He wished he’d been able to bake a couple chickens as well, but as they had no fowl as yet that wasn’t practicable. He privately vowed to remedy that lack while they were gone.

       They carefully slipped a straw-stuffed mattress into the back of the wagon, then covered it with thick blankets and pillows, and added blanketrolls for himself and Teo. After making certain the lasses had their thickest dresses on and were wrapped in their warmest cloaks, for the temperature had dropped from the comfortable levels it had held two days back, Bob judged they were almost ready to go. Teo was set to harnessing up Poppet while Bob went back into the growing smial to go over instructions with Holdfast and to check for any items that had best not be left behind. The call, "Dad! Riders coming!" accompanied by Lister’s excited yaps drew him out of the hole rapidly, long knife in hand, to watch as two horsemen and a dog came up the track he’d blazed.

       The shorter one was again Teregion, but the taller was a different Man than he’d seen before. He was younger than Faradir and wore no beard; but his face was kind and competent. Reassured by the satisfied smile on Teregion’s face, Boboli sheathed his knife and indicated Teo should hold onto the ratter.

       "Welcome, Mr. Teregion," the Hobbit called out. "And what brings you back so quick?"

       As he dropped from his horse, the youth explained, "My adar wrote that letter of introduction he told you he’d do and wanted me to bring it to you, and Eregiel here wanted to be introduced to your son Holdfast so he’d be recognized as he keeps watch on your lands while you’re gone. Eregiel is another of our kinsmen, although you’ll learn that almost all of the Dúnedain remaining in the north are related to one degree or another."

       "As Faradir indicated you have but one long knife for protection, I thought I’d bring you a second so you could leave one with your son and still have one with you in case of need," Eregiel indicated. "Plus I brought you some travel bread and cold fowl from the Prancing Pony in Bree as well as some winter apples to help tide you over." The hound stepped forward from its place beside Eregiel’s horse as the Man dismounted, and sought to sniff at Bob’s pony. As Poppet startled away, the Man turned and commanded, "Artos--back."

       "Hound’s well trained," Bob said approvingly as the dog returned to his place and sat, panting.

       "For the most part. He’s but a year old, but has become my boon companion. Now and then, however, he forgets himself a bit and needs a reminder to behave himself." In moments Eregiel had a hamper unfastened from his saddle and was presenting it; then was unfastening a sheathed long knife from his saddlehorn similar to the one he wore. "My father was one of those who rode south who will not return again, for he’s been buried near the field of Cormallen. This was his, and I’m glad to give it to you for your protection in token of the respect we offer all Periannath for what was done by the Ringbearer and his companions," he said as he presented it.

       It was a somewhat more slender blade than that Boboli had found in the digging of his smial, and straighter as well. Holdfast had followed his father out of the hole and now reached to take it, letting his hands get used to the heft of it. "Its grip is a bit large for my hand, but not uncomfortable so," he commented. "I suppose as I could carry it well enough."

       The Man smiled. "My father would feel honored, I’m certain."

       Bob had opened the hamper to take a quick look at the fowl, and was pleased by what he found. Not only were there two roasted chickens and about a dozen apples, but also some berry tarts, a loaf of crusty bread appropriate for travel, and what appeared to be a small crock of berry jam as well as a quarter round of hard cheese. He looked up at the two young Men. "It’s mighty generous as you’ve been to us," he said, "trespassin’ as we are from your point of view, at least. We’re grateful, but are at a loss as to how we’ll ever repay you."

       Teregion answered, "As Ada said the other day, it’s the rest of the Free Peoples who will never be able to repay what was done by the Cormacolindor. It’s little enough we can do for you after what Hobbits have done for all others."

       As Bob carried the hamper to stow it beneath the driver’s seat for later in the day alongside the long knife he’d found, he said, "I still don’t understand as exactly what this Lord Iorhael o’ yours done, but it sounds as if ’twas a great deal. As for how Hobbits could’a managed to bring down anyone, much less Sauron...." He found himself shuddering.

       "Perhaps you will be able to convince one of them to tell you the full tale," the young Man answered, "although my adar indicates Lord Iorhael prefers not to speak of it to any great extent." He brought a rolled scroll bound with a ribbon of silver silk out of his saddlebag and presented it. "Bear them my father’s respects, and my own," he continued.

       "Gladly," Bob said as he accepted it and stowed it inside his larger food hamper with the pasties.

       "Have you some canvas to raise over the wagon bed in case of rain?" asked Eregiel. Shortly he and Holdfast had retrieved this and some line appropriate to fastening it to the wagon from the byre and had it rolled and stowed as well. He examined the wagon and its load, then nodded approvingly.

       Bob went into the smial to send out the lasses, spotted Anemone’s doll and brought it out with him. Eregiel was lifting Anemone into the wagon, then took the doll and saw it into its mistress’s hands, then handed in Lilia as well. Having surrendered the dog to his brother, Teo scrambled up onto the box to sit by his father, and once Bob had joined him they were ready.

       Lister whined as he saw most of his family inside the wagon, and twisted in Holdfast’s grip. "I’ll accompany you for a time," Eregiel indicated. "Teregion, however, needs to go east, as his father awaits him on the way to the Weather Hills where he’s to meet with Lord Halladan’s patrol. There’s been some orc activity not far east of Amon Sul."

       Bob let off the brake and chirruped to Poppet, and the pony gave a shake and stepped forward. "You take care, son," Bob advised Holdfast. "I’m right proud of you, you know."

       The two young Men were swiftly mounted, and with a spoken word to the hound Eregiel drew even with the wagon while Teregion fell behind it, turning in his saddle to call out farewells to Holdfast, adding his to those of the two lasses in the wagon bed.

       Once they were out of sight of the smial Poppet picked up her pace a bit as they headed east to the Greenway. Teo examined the Man ranged alongside them, then asked, "What’s Cardolan?"

       "It was one of the three kingdoms into which Arnor was divided by King Eärendur when he sought to make each of his sons a king in his own right. Rhuadar was somewhat to the south and east of us; Arthedain where Eärendur’s oldest son Amlaith remained king lies to the north, holding the traditional capital of Annúminas and the fortified city of Fornost in it; and Cardolan lay here to the west. However, Rhuadar and Cardolan didn’t continue all that long. Trouble was raised in the south from among the Dunlendings and the hill-men of the border regions, and Rhuadar fell within a few generations. Also, ever has the Enemy sought to destroy the folk of the northern kingdoms by loosing plagues and waves of pestilence our way, not to mention encouraging the breeding of orcs, trolls, wargs, and other fell creatures as well as depredations from the north of our lands, from Angmar where the lord of his Nazgul ruled for so long.

       "As the integrity of Rhuadar was destroyed border wars began to break out between that land and Cardolan, mostly for the control of the Weather Hills and Amon Sul, what is known in Westron as Weathertop, one of the watchtowers of the north in which Elendil had set one of the palantiri or seeing stones brought from Númenor. Angmar, seeing Rhuadar as the weakest of the three kingdoms, came down from the north with small forces to assault Rhuadar’s defenses, and through betrayal, trickery, and assassination as well as alliance with the Dunlendings finally slew the last king of that land and brought its glory to naught.

       "Cardolan was already much weakened by disease and the constant wars with Rhuadar and Angmar, and after the crown prince Endorgil was slain in an ambush by Men from Angmar, the last king of Cardolan marched northward to seek vengeance for his son, and his force was slain to the last Man. Celebrindor’s son Malvegil rode out from Fornost to support Mirucar, but came too late, finding only the remains of Mirucar’s army, and the King’s beheaded body hanging upside-down from a tree. Furious at this insult to his kinsman’s people, Malvegil took his forces northwards and found Angmar’s folk camped two days south of their borders. The army from Arthedain fell on the forces of the northmen, and treated them much as they had done to the folk of Cardolan. The Witch-king himself fled the assault and hied himself back to his own lands; but after retrieving the head of Mirucar for proper burial Malvegil had the heads of Angmar’s lieutenants hewn off and sent back to their land with the bodies of the rest of their soldiers.

       "But the damage was done, and Malvegil became King not only of Arthedain but of the remnants of the folk of Rhuadar and Cardolan as well. His son he named Argeleb in token that the three kingdoms were now again one, using the prefix indicating lordship in the naming of the child; and so it has been ever since. Aragorn is the twenty-fifth so named, and has become the one to reunite North and South as Gondor and Arnor again have become a united realm."

       Bob shook his head. "And you folk say as Hobbits helped win the day ’gainst Mordor, eh?"

       The Man’s face was solemn as he nodded his agreement. "Indeed--the victory could not have been won had it not been for the assistance of the four who came out of the Shire." Then, after a time of quiet he asked, "Will you stay the night in Bree before going on to the Shire?"

       "Perhaps, though I’ve not a great deal in coin to waste on nights in inns."

       "I could help you there." He reached and unfastened a belt purse of finely tanned leather, and after untying it brought out a handful of coins. "You can pay it back in hospitality when I find myself patrolling the region in the rain. What say you?"

       At last Bob accepted it, agreeing to the terms suggested by the young Man. He’d just pocketed the coins when Artos halted and looked behind, giving a soft "Woof" of warning. The bark was answered by excited yapping, and Lister at last caught up with them. Bob halted the wagon with a sigh. "Catch him up, Teo, and give him to Lilia to watch over. Too late to take ’im back now, y’know."

       Soon they were off once more, the small dog lying between the two lasses licking his paws, exhausted but triumphant.

       Once they reached the Greenway Teregion took his leave, turning off southeastward, swiftly urging his horse to a quick trot. "Fine horse as he’s got there," Bob commented. "Not but what yours is as fine, o’ course," he added, politely.

       "We breed and train exceedingly fine steeds--steady and dependable. There’s some Elf-steed in their bloodlines, and some fine Rohirric stock as well brought in some years back by Aragorn. I think it’s my Lord Cousin’s current ambition, however, to see about adding some Mearas blood to the mix."

       "Mearas?"

       "The line of the King’s steeds of Rohan--the lords of horses. It is said their forebears were brought to Middle Earth from Aman itself during the War of Wrath, and given into the hands of the Edain from whom the Rohirrim are descended. Great indeed are they--silver as the sea and running like the wind over the grass. None can match them for intelligence, speed, and endurance, or so I am told. It is also said of them that they understand the speech of Men."

       "Sounds fine indeed."

       "They are. I’ve seen but one, Shadowfax, who is ridden now by Gandalf...."

       "Gandalf? The old grey conjurer rides one of’em, these king’s horses?"

       "I’d not suggest you speak so of Gandalf in the hearing of any of the four from the Shire or any of us who are in the King’s service. Gandalf is greatly honored by our people, and with reason. He was granted Shadowfax both by King Théoden’s gift and that of his successor Éomer, but even more so by the acceptance of Shadowfax himself according to what has been told to us by those who returned from the war."

       "And you seen them, the Wizard and the horse?"

       "Yes, as winter was setting in a few months back. Gandalf was returning from the Old Forest toward Imladris."

       Once again Boboli’s hair stood up on his head and feet. "The Old Forest? What was the fool doin’ in those parts?"

       Eregiel’s voice became stiffly formal. "No one can ever truthfully declare the Grey Pilgrim a fool, sir. As for what he did there--he has said he visited with Bombadil."

       "You mean as old Bombadil does dwell there in truth?"

       "You didn’t believe the tales? Oh, yes, and it’s said he aided the four from the Shire as they fled the Black Riders as they began their journey south."

       It was much to think of during the rest of their ride. They stopped for a brief and quiet meal, then went on. The day was growing darker and clouds gathered the further they drove. As at last they approached the north gate into Bree Eregiel halted his own horse, and his expression was less stiff as he took his leave. "Forgive me my retreat into formality, sir, for it is as painful to hear people question the honor of Gandalf the Grey as it is to hear them speak dismissively of Hobbits. No one should ever question either, I’ve found."

       "Sorry myself," Bob admitted as he halted Poppet briefly. "I’ve seen old Gandalf a time or two in Bree, but that’s all as I can say of him. But folk do talk...."

       "Yes, I know. But his purpose has now been revealed, and he’s met it and more. Without him it’s possible much more would have been lost. Ah, go well, friend, and bring my respects to the four who traveled south. I swear I’ll keep watch over your son and lands while you are gone. Hurry now, for the clouds will break all too soon, I suspect." And with a lift of his hand in salute he turned to head once again northwards, pulling up his hood as he went.

       With a sigh Bob turned from watching after him, glanced up at the lowering clouds, and chirruped once more to Poppet. "Up, lass--it’ll be a dry stable and oats for you this night." A call at the gate and it was opened, and Boboli drove his wagon inside and toward the Prancing Pony where he intended to get a good meal for his children and soft beds for the night. They arrived just as the April sky let loose a torrent, and all scurried for cover as a Man and Hobbit together accepted the pony and wagon there in the inn yard.

       They were given a room with four beds off a private parlor. Nob brought them a good nourishing meal and warmed towels, seeing to it the parlor fire was merrily burning. As Nob brought fresh candles and saw them lit, Anemone, who’d been exploring the bedroom, came out with a small bunch of feathers in her hand. "Look," she said. "There were feathers caught in the ropes under the mattress."

       "You found yet more?" Nob asked, shaking his head. "Well, if that don’t just beat all. I’d a’thought as we’d got the lot by now, but apparently we missed a few."

       Teo looked up at him curiously. "Why’s there feathers about?" he asked.

       The Hobbit servingman shrugged and looked a bit uncomfortable. "Oh, ’twas a thing as happened year and a half past," he mumbled. "Had guests--that ’twas to’ve been their room, don’t you know, only they was warned not to sleep in it, so they slept here in front o’ the fire instead. Good thing, too, as the room was broke into by some as wished to see ’em dead. No one was hurt or nothin’ like, and they ended up doin’ well by all, or so we’re told. No need to worry now, o’ course. Ones as wanted ’em dead’s all gone themselves now, and they’ve finally been able to go home, safe and sound. Just the featherbeds was torn up, and there’s still feathers a’floatin’ around the place, you see."

       It was a rather sobering thing to reflect on. Yet no one bothered them that night--indeed all slept well and soundly, for the beds were comfortable and the room felt welcoming. As they prepared to leave, Nob came to them, a garment of some kind in his hand. "I was thinkin’, sir," he said to Boboli, "as perhaps your son there could use this. ’Twas left here last fall by one as said as he didn’t need it and didn’t want to take it with him. It’s good cloth and most finely made, apparently in foreign parts. Beautiful embroidery, it is. Hate to see it go to waste, but it’s for someone as is lot’s thinner’n me."

       It was like a vest, but with no front opening, sleeveless and obviously made to slip over a proper shirt. The front was indeed beautifully embroidered with renditions of two trees, the one on the left with leaves and globes of silver, the one on the right the same in gold. Between them was a circle of seven stars, in it a sunburst and crescent moon. Boboli examined the shirt with surprise. "It’s plainly intended for a Hobbit and not a Man," he said, "but where would it of come from?"

       "I think as it come from the southlands somewheres," Nob said. "Would you think as this is black or dark blue?"

       "Dark blue, definitely," Bob said. "I never saw such afore."

       "Nor me, sir. If’n I had a son, I’d keep it for him; but my nephew’s too large for it, as am I and our Bob as works in the stable or any of the Hobbits as is around here. But your lad--he’s not put on the weight as would keep him from wearin’ it, I think."

       "Teo!" Boboli called, "come look at this and tell me if’n you’d like to have it."

       Teo came out of the bedroom where he’d been helping Lilia check under the beds to see if anything had been dropped. "What is it, Dad?" he began, and then he saw the shirt and stopped, his mouth and eyes opening round with surprise. "Oh, Dad," he said with quiet awe, "but that’s that beautiful, it is. Where’d it come from?"

       Nob explained, "A guest last fall left it here, said as he didn’t want it no more. I couldn’t bear to see it thrown out, and you’re about the first as I’ve seen as could wear it, I think. Would you like it?

       There was no way Bob could say no to his son’s expression. Teoro had always loved things of beauty, and there was no question that this was one. "Take it, then, son," he said quietly. "Take it and may it bring you lots of joy."

       "Wait a moment," Nob said. "There’s a few more."

       Soon he returned with a small pile of clothing, mostly shirts and the type of garment already given to Teo, and one pair of trousers. The trousers were oddly styled with no buttons for braces, and slightly longer than Hobbit trousers generally ran. Bob held them against his legs, and Lilia laughed. "Those are too long for you, Dad, too long and not big enough."

       Bob examined the corded lacings. "These are somethin’," he said. The fabric was extraordinarily fine, the stitches small and even, the fine embroidery of small green vines with white blossoms up the sides delicate. They must have been very expensive, and had been specially made for the one who’d worn them. "Well," he said, "there’s no way Teo could ever wear these, nor any other as I know."

       Nob nodded thoughtfully. "Not many’s I’ve seen was as tall as he is--exceptin’ his friends when they got back. Tallest Hobbits as I’ve ever seen, those two. But he was far too thin for a Hobbit, I think."

       Boboli set the trousers aside, and took the first shirt, a thing of a heavy flame-colored silk with sunbursts on the standing collar and cuffs, again with lacing rather than buttons. With it went another of the garments meant to be worn over the shirt, a golden linen twisted with silk, embroidered with a large sunburst. The next such garment was of a dove-grey wool, embroidered with lines of birds in shades of grey from nearly white to darkest charcoal, the wool wonderfully soft and yet sturdy. The fourth was a soft, dusky green; with it was a simple shirt of light green, the embroidered cuffs with inverted triangles in alternating dark and light green threads.

       "Why’d he not want to take these with him?" Bob asked.

       "I don’t know," Nob answered. "I said as I’d try to find someone as could wear ’em, and he said to go ahead."

       "Well, I don’t know as you’ll ever find someone as could wear the trousers," Bob said, "but I do believe Teo here could wear the shirts and these, although they was plainly tailored for someone special--you can see that. They’re a bit long, and the sleeves may need some takin’ in--but I think as I could maybe find someone as could take care o’ that." At Nob’s nod of agreement, he glanced out the window at the rain outside and then turned to Teo as he refolded the last outer garment and returned it to the pile. "Here, lad, put these in your bag, see? And make certain as the flap is pulled down. It’s wet out there, and I’m afraid as the shirts might take spots from it." He turned to Lilia. "And you lasses get ready to go. Get your cloaks on and the hoods up and all laced up fine, hear? I don’t want neither of you takin’ cold. And keep Lister by you."

       Boboli soon had the bill paid and hurried out to the stable yard where Poppet was just being fastened into her traces. The inn’s Bob asked, "Should we fasten on the canvas, do you think?"

       After looking at his lasses and the dog, the farmer nodded. "Yes, I think so."

       A bar was set up at the front and rear of the wagon with a long rod between, and the canvas hung over it and fastened to the sides of the bed. Lilia, Anemone, and the dog were quickly lifted underneath the tented fabric and advised to wrap themselves with the blankets, their goods were stowed, and Bob and Teo climbed onto the box. "I don’t think the rain’ll go on that much longer," the ostler advised them, "but if you move brisk-like you’ll stay the warmer, I think."

       Boboli thanked him, advised his son to secure his hood; and after seeing to his own, Boboli got Poppet moving and they headed for the west gate.

       The ride was a dreary one. They ate as they drove, and sometime after midday a rider coming from the west spied them, then signaled for them to stop. When he saw the silver star on the left shoulder of the Man, Bob relaxed some.

       "You are headed into the Shire?" the Man asked.

       "You a Ranger?" asked Bob in return.

       "Yes. I’ll ride behind you back to the gate at the Bridge, then leave you to continue on your way."

       The Ranger proved true to his word, and within another two hours as the rain finally let up they arrived at the Brandywine Bridge. The Man turned about and set out eastward again, leaving the occupants of the wagon to approach the gate by themselves.

       Those on duty at the gate greeted them. "You been stayin’ in the Breelands?" asked one.

       "We’ve always lived in the Breelands, but need to go into the Shire on business. You know as to where we can find the one the Rangers call Lord Iorhael?"

       "The Lord who?" the gatekeeper asked, looking from Boboli to his fellow on duty.

       Bob shook his head. He’d been foolish, he realized, not to ask Faradir just what Iorhael and Perhail meant in the Common Tongue. "The Rangers call ’im Lord Iorhael," he said. "Don’t know as what his right name is."

       "I don’t know who it might be," the other gate guard said. "I never knew anyone called that. Do you know where he lives?"

       "I was told as he lives in Hobbiton, but used to live in Buckland."

       "I don’t know of anyone named Iorhael at all," the second guard said, "and I’m a Bucklander born and bred. Only one I know of who’s ever moved from Buckland to Hobbiton, though, would be Frodo Baggins, but that was years back when he was just a lad. Now, his mum did the same when she first married Drogo, but they moved this way when Frodo was not much more than a bairn, and Primula and Drogo have been dead for almost forty years now."

       "Has this Frodo Baggins been out of the Shire or somethin’ like?" Bob asked.

       "Has he? I’d certainly say as he has. But I doubt the Rangers would refer to him as a lord or anything of the like, for he’s not changed much from when the four of them left the Shire. They might call my cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck something like that, or possibly the Thain’s son Peregrin Took; but the other two, they just went back to the West Farthing and settled back in, you see. Nothing particularly lordly about either of them, not like Captains Merry and Pippin."

       "Captains?" Boboli wasn’t certain he understood.

       "That’s what we call them. Came back, both of them dressed up in mail with helmets and swords and shields and all. Ride around, tall and proud, singing songs from down in Gondor. Led the folk of Bywater and Tookland against Lotho’s Big Men and threw the ruffians out of the Shire, they did."

       "Where would I find them?"

       "Well, they live together now in Crickhollow, a rather lonely place north of Brandy Hall some miles; but they’re not there now. They were in Hobbiton last week at Bag End, and are supposed to be checking out rumors some of the Big Men were sighted eight miles or so northeast of Long Cleeve in the North Farthing. But if you go on to Hobbiton you can learn more. If Cousin Frodo’s not there, he’ll be in Michel Delving. Sam Gamgee might be at Bag End, but then again he might be off helping to replant more of the trees and all as were cut down on Sharkey’s orders."

       "Who’s Sharkey?"

       "Who was Sharkey, you mean. The biggest villain of them all, apparently. He’s dead now--his own lackey killed him, I’m told, right there in the front garden of Bag End. An awful homecoming surprise for Cousin Frodo. Good riddance, though."

       "I see. Then perhaps I’d best go on to Hobbiton. What’s the best way?"

       "Just follow the Road here and keep to the right when it forks. You may want to spend the night at the Floating Log along the way--can’t miss it, as it’s right on the road. Or, if you prefer you could stay the night just inside at the Bridge Inn, although it’s still partly under repair, and go on tomorrow--if your pony is fresh and steady enough you should arrive in Hobbiton late tomorrow evening if you don’t spend much time along the way anywhere else. The turn-off to Hobbiton is marked clear enough, not far past the Three-farthing Stone."

       They stopped at the Bridge Inn for a hot meal and a bit of a rest and to see Poppet cared for and to beg a bone for Lister. Two hours later they were back on the road, though, for Bob was determined to get as far as he could.

       It was late when he realized they’d not make it to the Floating Log that night in any sort of good time; but as the sky was now clear he felt they could look to sleep out with some comfort. He found a small meadow with a spring-fed pond and pulled into it, and while he saw to Poppet’s needs Teo and Lilia got together a cold late supper. Once all had stretched and relieved themselves with some semblance of privacy, Bob saw the girls wrapped warmly together in the wagon bed with Lister, and he and Teo stretched out under the wagon. As he huddled into his blanket roll next to his son, Boboli thought on how tomorrow they ought to go about figuring out which of the four was the Lord Iorhael. He thought Faradir must have given them some clue, but as tired as he was he just couldn’t think what that clue might be.

       He gave a great yawn, moved closer to his still shivering son, and fell asleep almost without realizing it.

The Deputy Mayor

       Frodo Baggins huddled more into his cloak as he reached for the next document he must review.  He wished the fireplace for the Mayor’s office were on his side of the room, for he felt chilled to the bone.  How the weather could be so changeable as it had been in the past two weeks he had no idea.  The last of March had been grey and damp, but warming; the first few days of April the sky had cleared and the temperature raised, until on the sixth it had felt like late spring.  Then that night a storm had hit, and since then it had remained cold, almost as if winter were making a bid to return.

       Noting a questionable clause, Frodo reached for his stick of graphite to mark it so Tolly and Isumbard could find it more easily and evaluate it further. If only it would warm some, he thought, he could think perhaps a bit more clearly. Then he remembered something from a year ago....

       "I asked, Frodo, if you’d like a cup of warm tea this time? It might help you stop shivering."

       Frodo looked up, startled, into Bard’s face. "I’m sorry," he said, "but I was just remembering what Master Faralion told me last year, that as it was April, if I didn’t like the weather I should just wait a bit and it would change."

       Bard laughed. "Wisdom indeed," he said. "And who is this Master Faralion?"

       "A minstrel of Gondor. We met him first in Ithilien. A wonderful musician and singer. He rather thrilled Sam, actually."

       "How?"

       "A song he wrote and performed, one Sam had hoped would be written and performed just before...." Frodo stopped, dropped his eyes and shook his head. At last he continued, "Anyway, he sang a song Sam had hoped to hear sung. Sam was rather overwhelmed."

       Tolly brought over a fresh mug filled with a spicy tea, and Frodo took and held it gladly between his hands, cherishing the warmth. Bard looked at his cousin holding the cup and wished he wouldn’t do as he’d just done once again--start to say something about what had happened out there and then stop just short of it. He was certain they could make far better sense of it all if only one of the four would actually open up and tell what had happened.

       Frodo at first didn’t look that different from what he’d looked like before he left the Shire, except----

       Except his fair skin was now so pale he looked almost ghostly at times.

       Except his beautiful blue eyes with their finely arched brows and long lashes were now deeply shadowed so much of the time, and tended all too frequently to look at others somewhat sideways, with a wariness he’d not shown since he left Buckland for Hobbiton as Cousin Bilbo’s ward back when he wasn’t yet twenty-two years of age.

       Except his temples were beyond grey--were actually going white.

       Except he was so thin. Frodo had never had a proper Hobbit’s build until the last two or three years before he left the Shire; but what had been slenderness was now far more than that, for he’d not been able to eat properly, he admitted, since the previous spring, although he’d made that admission only when the subject couldn’t otherwise be avoided.

       Except for the missing finger on his right hand, the gap over which an apparently highly skilled surgeon had neatly pulled the skin and stitched it so there was barely a hint of scarring, a gap Frodo nevertheless tried to hide and hadn’t to Bard’s knowledge explained.

       Except for how he would shiver unexpectedly even when the fire was hot and he was warmly dressed.

       Except for his tendency to tire easily, and to openly express his barbed wit toward those who said something utterly thoughtless where before he’d suppress his thoughts out of courtesy--or his expression would just go thoughful, sad, and pained, and he'd reach for the gem he wore, and whomever he fixed with that look would feel as if they were lower than the dirt below their feet.

       Except for the filled mug that must be ever near to hand now, and the water bottles he carried filled with a tea he didn’t deny was medicinal in nature.

       Except for the fact his basic joy seemed almost stripped away, or perhaps merely almost totally overlaid by care and responsibility and a level of pain. Frodo had always been caring and highly responsible; but now those attitudes were almost to the point of being driven in their intensity.

       Except he often moved slowly and carefully, as if he were an old gaffer instead of one in the prime of his life.

       Except for how he’d often clutch at his left shoulder as if it pained him, or rub at it absently as if it were aching, and then would grasp the pendant gem he wore on a fine silver chain until the pain apparently receded.

       Except for the aura of otherness so clearly hanging about him almost like a mantle about his shoulders. Frodo had always carried a hint of this; now it couldn’t be denied.

       Except for that deepening line between his brows where his face had always been smooth as that of a tween....

       Bard sighed. He’d come to care deeply about his cousin, and was now very protective of him. But Frodo never spoke of what had happened to him, and had never agreed to explain why he’d sold Bag End and moved to Buckland beyond the fact he’d needed to leave the Shire, or why he and Sam Gamgee had then left the Shire through the old Forest. When asked why he’d taken Merry and Pippin with him he’d only shake his head and state they’d insisted they accompany him, that they’d figured out what he intended and why and had prepared themselves and refused to be denied the right to go with him.

       Pippin and Merry were different, too. At four foot one, Isumbard Took was exceptionally tall for a Hobbit, an inch taller even than Frodo, who’d always been accounted tall. Merry had been about three foot ten, the same height as Samwise Gamgee, and Pippin had been three foot seven. Neither Sam nor Frodo had changed in height, but now both Merry and Pippin were about four and a half feet tall, an unprecedented situation.

       The two of them now wore mail and swords as if the arms were a part of them, and each rode with shield and helm fastened to their saddlebow. Their expressions had more gravity and maturity, and they devoted themselves to--well, not to pleasure, but to joy, or so it seemed. They sang as they’d always done, but their songs were as likely to be a soldier’s marching song from Gondor or a riding song they said was from Rohan--those could be truly haunting--or an Elven lay or hymn as they were a Shire drinking or bathing or walking song.

       As for Sam Gamgee.... Isumbard, looking at Frodo sipping at his tea and setting it beside him and then examining the contract once more, tried to isolate what it was about Sam that was different. He’d not grown in height, was leaner than he’d been when he left, still was most watchful of Frodo as he’d always been. But something in the way he held himself spoke of a new appreciation for his own capabilities; and when he spoke he did so with a level of quiet authority appropriate to the Thain himself--indeed, he spoke now with such authority Uncle Paladin himself was likely to respond as automatically as any other Hobbit and didn’t notice he was deferring to a gardener.

       All four had returned to the Shire and--and just looked at how the ruffians had taken over, and with no conferring to speak of had taken charge over the situation. Merry and Pippin had led the martial activity; yet when Frodo ordered them to hold their blows in the case of those ruffians who surrendered their weapons, although Merry had protested he’d nevertheless complied; and had later cautioned others who’d questioned why Frodo Baggins had felt he had any say in the matter that Frodo had his reasons and that he’d been proven right. Proven right? How had he been proven right? And of what had he been proven right?

       And now Merry and Pippin lived together in the Crickhollow house Frodo’d bought from the Master of Buckland, both apparently needing the privacy it afforded. Frodo and Sam had stayed with the Cottons of Bywater until first the New Row was completed and Sam returned to live once more with his dad, old Gaffer Gamgee, and then the refitting of Bag End was finished and Frodo had returned to live there once again. Yet things were still upside down, what with Frodo traveling here to Michel Delving to stay three to four nights a week with the Whitfoots so he could serve as deputy Mayor and Sam off traveling all over the Shire seeing to the replanting of trees and gardens and the reconstruction of damaged homes and inns and the removal of the atrocities Lotho’s Big Men had left in their wake like abandoned children’s building bricks scattered over the face of the Shire.

       Oh, the four of them had changed mightily. They spoke of the new King with total familiarity and even a shake of the head as they described his habit of chewing on willow twigs to clean his teeth while he stood watch, how he kept thread and lacing in a small metal box in his personal satchel and would mend tears, cuts, and given seams in his clothing by the light of the fire before finally sleeping during their journey south, and his habit of humming under his breath while searching for edible plants or fishing the few times they had time for such; yet spoke with utmost respect of his justice dispensed and the clarity of his thought and the deviousness of his nature when dealing with those capable of treachery.

       They commented in passing of having declined the chance to stay in the King’s house, preferring a guest house lower down in the King’s city. They would offhandedly describe a lord who appeared to have worn the same outfit for years but who saw to it his granddaughter had a new gown for each and every feast, each far more elaborate than the last. They laughed about the children of the city who’d come up to spy on them from beyond the wall to the yard about the guest house in which they’d stayed. They’d speak with fondness of the housekeeper and page assigned to their service, or comment on the constant, pleasant bickering of the Dwarf and Elf who’d accompanied them from Rivendell on the road south. They spoke of those caught spying for the enemies of Gondor--or at least, Merry and Pippin would; Frodo would only shake his head and say nothing when asked to comment.

       Those warm, greenish-grey cloaks they wore with the delicate green leaf brooches had come, they said, from Lothlorien, the Elf realm known also as the Golden Wood, given them by the Lady Galadriel herself. Sam and Pippin’s swords were said to have come from the Barrowdowns along the Road between the Shire and Bree. Merry and Pippin insisted they’d grown as a result of drinks of what they called Ent-draughts, brewed by the treeherders of the forest of Fangorn. Sam and Merry both had scars on their foreheads--in fact, Sam had two, one overlying the other; and the earlier one he’d simply said shortly he’d gotten from an orc he’d killed in Moria, but would say nothing of the other or the one near his temple, any more than Merry would speak of the one he sported. Bard had noted scarring on the wrists of Merry, Pippin, and Frodo, as if each had been tightly tied. Pippin said that his black tabard he wore over his mail was part of his uniform from Gondor where he said he was part of the Guard of the Citadel, and he acted as if it were the greatest honor possible to be such a guard. Merry admitted he’d received his mail and the leather gambeson he wore over it and the sword he carried from the King of Rohan and his sister, and once had commented he’d been told the mail and gambeson had originally been made for Théoden King when he was a boy. At times all had worn a different type of garment over their shirts they’d said were called surcoats, and explained these had been made for them in Gondor, where such garments were commonly worn.

       But none explained their wariness or the grief they’d suddenly and inexplicably show, or answer questions as to why they’d gone other than, "We had to in order to protect the Shire."

       Whatever they’d sought to protect the Shire from, they’d still not managed, apparently, to spare it what had been done by Lotho’s Big Men or on Sharkey’s orders. They knew about Sharkey--who and what he was and where he came from. They would refer to him among themselves as Saruman and seemed to usually speak of him in a manner that made it plain he was somehow associated with Gandalf--although it was plain that in comparing the two of them they saw Gandalf as taking precedence and being much the better of the pair.

       And there were the recurring references to a Ring and Mordor, always involving watchfulness toward Frodo as if merely mentioning these might set him back somehow. And through it all Frodo plowed straight ahead, explaining so little, apparently intent on seeing to it that he make all right within the Shire as he could. The only one of the four who wanted to talk about it at all was Pippin, but the tale he told was so fantastic, who could believe it? However, the more Isumbard Took saw of his Baggins cousin, the more prone he was becoming to believing Pippin’s insistence that Frodo had gone to Mordor no matter what Uncle Paladin said about how absurd the whole thing was. Something drastic had, after all, happened out there!

       The door opened to admit two lawyers bearing yet more documents, one of them Bartolo Bracegirdle. Bard sighed inwardly. There was no love lost between Bartolo and Frodo, particularly since Lobelia had first utilized Bartolo’s services to convey the deed for Bag End back to its former owner and then to rewrite her will leaving the bulk of her property as well as that left by Lotho to provide reparations for those who’d suffered as a result of Lotho’s mad behavior during the Time of Troubles. Everyone knew that Bartolo had been furious at these actions, for as Lotho and Lobelia’s closest relative he would have inherited their estates had Lobelia not taken it into her head to do such unusual things, and it was no secret that Bartolo had coveted Bag End and a few of Lobelia’s other properties for years--since long before Bilbo had left the Shire, in fact. Now in his late sixties and married to the former Delphinium Baggins, Bartolo Bracegirdle was as acerbic as only a full Bracegirdle could be, although he’d never, to Bard’s knowledge, followed in Lotho’s wake and had even advised Lotho more than once to turn away from his path toward domination over the entire Shire. How he’d managed to stay out of the Lockholes no one knew, although Bartolo and Delphie’s house had been a frequent target for the Gatherers and Sharers, as had been true of those who’d ever been closest to Frodo.

       Frodo looked up from his contract at the two new arrivals. "Bartolo, Rico," he said.

       Rico Clayhanger set the three documents he carried on Frodo’s desk where he found a cleared space. "Deputy Mayor," he said with a returned nod, turning to take the two documents Bartolo carried and setting them on top of the three he’d already placed on the desk. "Bartolo here has a couple wills for his clients to see signed and registered, and I have a sale of a property outside Hardbottle, a marriage contract, and an apprenticeship to file."

       "I see," Frodo said quietly. He reached for the topmost document and opened it. "Bettina Goold?" he asked after a moment. "I’d not heard from her for at least five years." He scanned the will quickly, reread a couple sections, then nodded, and pulling his inkstand toward him he uncapped the bottle of red ink. He signed it, pulled out his register and made the notation required to indicate he’d countersigned a valid will, and returned it to Bartolo, then opened the second one. He paused as he started scanning it, then looked up to search the Bracegirdle’s eyes, then looked down soberly, read through it, and signed it, registering it without further comment before returning it, too, to Bartolo.

       He then went through the apprenticeship agreement, accepted the proper register for such documents from Tolly, and after signing all three copies saw it registered and gave one copy to Tolly to see filed and returned the others to Rico for distribution back to master and apprentice’s family. The marriage contract was next, this time only the one copy for registration and filing, since he’d not performed the marriage. Then he opened the contract for a sale of property, and this time he began reviewing it carefully, his piece of graphite at hand. After going through four pages Frodo stopped. "All right," he said. "We’ll finish reviewing this over the next three days and will contact you if we find any irregularities."

       "Bartolo and I will be in Overhill for the next week," Rico advised him, "attending a house party at Malco and Dremma’s place." Rico and Delphinium were both related to Dremma Chubbs, who’d been a Clayhanger. Frodo was related more distantly to Malco Chubbs, so he nodded in recognition.

       Frodo registered the receipt of the property sale document, issued a receipt to Rico, and stood to bow briefly to each. "It’s good to see both of you again," he said quietly. "I’ll walk out with you."

       Bard watched Frodo accompany the two lawyers to the door to the Council Hole, courteously listening to Rico along the way, then turn back to the privy once they’d exited. No unpleasantness between Frodo and Bartolo, who’d kept his mouth determinedly shut during the visit. Well, that was to the good, he thought.

       At the end of the day Frodo was plainly tired. "You’re not riding back to Hobbiton tonight, are you, Frodo?" Bard asked.

       "I was planning on it," Frodo answered, "but at this point I think I might go back in the morning instead. I’m feeling pretty exhausted. I’m of the opinion that going through documents is even more difficult than riding all day."

       "Sam won’t be worried if you’re not home tonight?"

       "He’s working in the Marish this week, and isn’t due home until tomorrow night anyway."

       "Then I’ll let Pease know you’ll not be needing your pony until morning."

       "Thanks, Bard," Frodo said. He looked at the pile of documents still lying on his desk, but Bard and Tolly shook their heads.

       "Oh, no you don’t, Frodo Baggins," Tolly said decisively. "If you’re too exhausted to ride to Bag End tonight, you’re too tired to take any of those things with you. Sam was right to insist you not work more than three to four days a week--you’d work yourself into an early grave, given your druthers. Off with you, and I’ll have you know Pearl had Bard bring you an entire cake of your own and he left it with the Whitfoots this morning so none of us would be allowed to take more than our shares of it. Go enjoy it."

       Shaking his head but smiling, Frodo at last allowed himself to be fitted out with his water bottles and sent off across the square to the Whitfoot place. Hillie joined Bard and Tolly by the door to the Council Hole, watching after their Baggins cousin. "He’s starting to look better again," Hillie commented.

       Tolly nodded. "Too responsible by half, Frodo is. Takes all this too seriously. Needs a good laugh."

       Bard smiled. "Well, he’ll get that in spades the first of May when he finally gets to see Sam married to Rosie Cotton. Not that Sam’s been hurrying things until now. But now he’s gotten Sam to make the commitment, Frodo’s not going to let him back out of it."

       The three of them shared a quiet laugh, then went back inside to finish tidying up before heading home themselves.

Paths Crossed

       Boboli Hedges awoke, a bit stiff from his night on the ground. Lister heard him stir and slipped out of his place between the two lasses to come to the tail of the wagon and whine to be let down for a time. By the time Lister indicated he was ready to be lifted back up, Bob had a small fire going and was filling the battered kettle he’d brought with him. Once the kettle was boiling properly the children were waking and rolling out of their blankets, intent on relieving themselves and washing hands and face at the spring.

       They ate the cold scones their father had purchased in Bree, and each had a slice of cold cheese and chicken with their tea or juice, and soon they were ready to resume their journey westward toward the heart of the Shire.

       They made it to the Floating Log in time to eat elevenses there, and were only a few miles short of Hobbiton by tea time, or so they were told by the Hobbit matron they stopped to question. She seemed delighted to share her own tea with them, accepting some of their tarts in exchange for the nut cake and boiled eggs she’d prepared for her own meal. It was good to get out of the cart, and all groaned when they prepared to get back into it after all else was done.

       "And who is it you’re visitin’ there in Hobbiton?" she asked them.

       "To be honest," Bob admitted as he lifted Anemone into the back of the wagon, "we’re not completely certain. It’s a Hobbit what left the Shire and went to Gondor, we’re told, but the name as they call’im by out there is awful outlandish and apparently ain’t his right name at all. Or, Mr. Faradir tells me, it’s a renderin’ o’his name to some other language."

       "Why’d they do a thing like that?" the Hobbitess asked.

       Teo was shaking his head. "We ain’t certain o’that, neither. But from what the Big Folk as knows what he done says, he did somethin’ mighty fine and brave, and so they call him Lord Iorhael now--out there, at least."

       The Hobbitess shrugged. "Well, folks here in the Shire don’t usually go out of it, not even to Bree much any more like was done when I was a little’un. Only ones as I’m aware of as has left the Shire at all for ever so long are Captains Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, and with them Sam Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. I certainly can’t imagine anyone callin’ Sam Gamgee any such thing, for he’s naught but a gardener, after all; and that anyone would consider Mad Baggins’s nephew a lord is a laugh. After all, Frodo’s almost as strange as old Bilbo was."

       Bob straightened. "You mean this Frodo Baggins is related to the Bilbo Baggins what disappeared from his own eleventy-first birthday party with a flash and a bang?"

       "You heard of that?" She seemed surprised.

       Boboli leaned over and scooped up Lister and the bone she’d given him, handing both into Lilia’s keeping in the wagon bed. "Well, it’s the kind o’ story as gets around. Heard as Gandalf the Wizard had somethin’ to do with the old Hobbit’s disappearance, I did."

       She sniffed. "He certainly did--you mark my words he did! Why, I was there. I’m a distant relation, Amanda Grubb, you see. Old Bilbo, he liked his little jokes, especial if they was at the expense of other folks, so he invited a hundred and forty-four especial to the late supper neath the old oak tree in the Party Field, and I was one o’ them. Said he’d chose a hundred and forty-four ’cause it equaled the birthdays him and young Frodo’d had atween ’em, him being eleventy-one and Frodo comin’ o’ age that day at thirty-three. To think as I was invited to that supper only to fill out a number, like I was part of a gross o’ bottles o’ ink or such like--it was rank insultin’, it was."

       Bob and Teo exchanged looks while Anemone and Lilia, Lister between them, knelt with their hands on the back gate of the wagon, all listening intently.

       "Then Bilbo got up to make a speech, and was sayin’ things strange so as he could insult us the more without us bein’ fully sure what he meant till we’d worked it out, and then he says he’s goin’, this is the end, and BANG! There’s this big flash and he’s gone, he is, and none in the Shire ever saw him again. Lotho Sackville-Baggins was puttin’ it out that Frodo and Gandalf had murdered ’im atween ’em, but then letters would arrive for Frodo from outside the Shire. And all four o’ the Travelers say as Bilbo’s still alive, he is, livin’ with Elves, or so they tell us, but that he’s mighty old, he is."

       "I’d think so--that was almost twenty years past when I first heard it--me Holdfast was still little more’n a faunt, he was, first time as I heard tell o’ it." Bob took the larger hamper from Teo and handed it to Lilia for stowing. "Well, if I need to find this Frodo Baggins, where do I look?"

       She shook her head. "Take the turn into Hobbiton, and you’ll find the Hill atween Hobbiton proper and Bywater, what’s just past there along the Water itself. Bag End’s there, highest smial on the Hill, above Bagshot Row. There’s a big field as is at the bottom o’ the Hill, there is--the Party Field. There used to be an oak tree there, but it’s gone now--Sharkey had it cut down, he did, like most o’ the lovely trees as we’ve always loved. Sam Gamgee’s planted a seed there, and they tell me already a tiny tree’s startin’ to grow there where the old Party Tree was. He’s doin’ his best to redo the gardens for Cousin Frodo, he is--best gardener anywhere, Sam Gamgee--better’n his dad, even, all told."

       She sighed. "Frodo--he’s an odd one, but not like old Bilbo was. Is quiet where Bilbo loved noise and parties and his tricks and jokes. Not what Frodo’s above jokes, mind you; but his jokes is mostly aimed only at his favorite cousins or those as is most obnoxious, like Lotho Sackville-Baggins was. He could pull a joke on Lotho or his old mum and neither would be the wiser o’ it, you see. O’ course, the two of’em deserved what they got, they did. Borrowed a can o’ purple paint as old Daddy Twofoot always used on his door one time, and when the Sackville-Bagginses came to call on old Bilbo in their trap he carefully painted the bench seat real thick. Took days to dry, it did, and none would own up as to who’d done it. Mistress Lobelia didn’t even notice her wagon bench’d been painted, and sat down right on it, and if she didn’t have the biggest purple stripe across the behind o’ her gown! They had to lead the pony back to the stable, pullin’ the trap empty, and it was a week afore the stableman at the Green Dragon’d let them bring the trap indoors, it stank so o’ new paint.

       "But all in all, Frodo’s a good soul, just odd. Reads too much, I think. When he let out as he’d spent all old Bilbo’s money and needed to sell the hole and retire to Buckland, there’s many as was sad, but just as many as felt he had it comin’ to ’im somehow. Then him’n Sam Gamgee disappeared with the Thain’s heir and the Master’s as well, and that was that. But then the Time o’ Troubles was started, and none had time to wonder ’bout where they’d got off to."

       "He sold his hole, this Frodo did?"

       "Oh, yes, to Lotho Sackville-Baggins and his mum what I was tellin’ you of. But Lotho got his back--he invited the ruffians into the Shire to help him make hisself ruler of the land, and the last ruffian as come in had him killed. Old Lobelia couldn’t take it all in, so she gave Bag End back to Frodo, she did, and now she’s left her own properties and Lotho’s to Frodo to do reparations with--make up for all as Lotho and the ruffians stole and destroyed while they was in power." Again she shook her head in the wonderment of it all. "And now Frodo’s workin’ as deputy Mayor, he is, and all tell me as he’s doin’ a good job of it. But as the Mayor hardly does nothin’ but see to the documents and hostin’ banquets and receivin’ the reports o’ the Shiriffs and Bounders, I don’t see as that’s such a big deal."

       All Boboli could do was shrug and agree. When all was in place and Anemone again held her doll, they took their final goodbye of Mistress Grubb and continued on their way.

       They saw the turn-off to Hobbiton even in the dark and drove into town intent on finding a place to stay. The Ivy Bush had stabling for Poppet, but there was no place for the wagon; so they drove over into Bywater and arranged to stable there instead. Bob was glad it was so close to the Hill; they could walk there. So, after he took a room for his family in the Dragon, he and Lilia borrowed a lantern and walked around to Bag End, only to find it empty. As they made their discouraged way down the hill an elderly Hobbit sitting on a bench by his front stoop watching the stars as he smoked his pipe hailed them. "You lookin’ for Baggins?" he asked them.

       "Yes, we was," Bob answered. "But it ’pears as no one’s home."

       "Didn’t see Frodo comin’ back from the Ivy Bush where he stables his pony," the old Hobbit told them. "Must of stayed over in Michel Delvin’, I’d think. Why old Flour Dumplin’ picked Frodo Baggins as deputy Mayor while he recovers from his months in the Lockholes I don’t know, but all says as Frodo’s doin’ a right job of it."

       "What Lockholes?" Bob asked.

       "Them old storage tunnels in Michel Delving, there near the Council Hole--Lotho and his Big Men made a gaol or somethin’ like o’ em, we’re told. First one as they locked up was Will Whitfoot when he headed this way to demand to know why Lotho thought as he could just name hisself Chief Shiriff and take over ever’thin, like. They tell me as he was right sickly lookin’ when Mr. Frodo’n them got ’im out o’ there. Many there is as’ll need months to recover, evidently."

       "What about Sam Gamgee? Is he about?"

       "Sam? No, he’s not home. His sister’n their dad are home in Number Three, but ol’ Gaffer--he’s already abed, he is. His bones ache somethin’ fierce after months livin’ in that shack as old Lotho made ’em live in. He’s doin’ better since he’s been able to stay in a proper Hobbit home and hole again, but damage was done. Old Lotho, I wonder if’n he even began to understand all the ill he started afore they killed him."

       "And you ain’t heard none from Merry Brandybuck or Pippin Took?"

       "The captains? Nope, not for a couple weeks, when Frodo come back to live here in Bag End. They come for Sam’s birthday, they did. But they didn’t stay more’n overnight."

       "Well, neighbor, thanks for the news."

       "Glad to help." The old Hobbit looked up, smiling. "Good t’be back home in my own hole, even if it had to be redug. Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee--the two o’them seen to it as the smials here under the Hill was dug anew and us back into ’em. And now I hold the deed myself--don’t pay no rents quarter days no more, not that they’ve ever been bad, if’n you take my meanin’. The Gaffer’s always said as Mr. Frodo’s a right gentlehobbit, and he is, and no mistake."

       They’d come to the split in the ways and turned toward Bywater before Lilia said, "It seems as though all these folks seem to think in two minds of Mr. Baggins, Dad--him’s strange, but him’s thoughtful at the same time."

       "So it seems, sweets." Bob led the way down into the village toward the Green Dragon. "But same seems to be sort o’ true of all four o’ them, what folks say."

       Early next morning after a quick first breakfast, and with a basket to eat from along the way, they got directions to Michel Delving. "Go west when you get to the Road. You’ll see the Green Hills on your left as you go on, and there’s a turnin’ there into the Tooklands and the Great Smial; but most go on past there, for the road from Michel Delving’s actually better, especially for wagons," the barman at the Green Dragon told them. "Straighter and all, it is. But Michel Delving’s not far beyond the Green Hills, there at the start of the White Downs."

       As they rode west approaching Michel Delving they crossed a bridle trail, and Anemone and Lilia saw a lone rider on a bay gelding heading roughly northeast. "That’s a pretty pony," Anemone said, grabbing at Lister’s collar to keep him from falling out of the wagon as he yapped after the retreating rider.

       Lilia watched after with interest. "And did you see the headstall, with the silverwork on it? That must have been very expensive, havin’ that made with them stars."

       They made Michel Delving by elevenses, and Boboli dropped from the box of his wagon stiffly, telling the children to stay put in the square while he headed for what was plainly the Council Hole.

       Once inside he spotted the door to a large room ahead of him where a number of Hobbits were working around a long line of tables. Inside on the left was a large desk with lamp and inkstand, a Dwarf-made clock hanging on the wall behind it, the desktop laden with stacks of documents, the chair behind it empty. Four Hobbits were working in the room at one or another of the tables, most going through documents or sorting papers into piles. One of them looked up. "May I help you?" he asked.

       "I’m lookin’ for a Hobbit, and I thought as Frodo Baggins might be able to help me find ’im," Bob replied. "Been travelin’ with me younger childern for several days, and I’ll tell you as we’re gettin’ mighty tired o’ the wagon. Is Mr. Baggins here?"

       "No, he’s not," the Hobbit answered. "Was supposed to have returned to Hobbiton yesterday evening, but he was very tired and stayed the night here. I doubt he left all that long ago--you might have passed him if he took the road, although I think he took the bridle trail. Rides a very fine bay gelding with silver stars on its tack. Very fine work, from lands far away, or so we’re told. Certainly it’s not Shire workmanship. Pippin tells us their ponies and all their tack came from someplace known as Rohan where they raise the finest horses and ponies in Middle Earth."

       Bob gave a sigh of disgust. "Anyone know as where Merry Brandybuck or Pippin Took might be, or Sam Gamgee?"

       "Frodo said Sam was out working in the Marish, the farmlands this side of the Brandywine River, but that he’s due to be back in Hobbiton again today sometime. Merry and Pippin were up in the North Farthing, not far from Long Cleeve, checking out rumors of ruffians hiding out up there. Have some of our archers with them--if there are any more Big Men here in the Shire they’ll rue it if they challenge Merry or Pippin or our lads. I think they’re supposed to be at the Great Smial late this afternoon, although if Paladin holds true to form they’ll probably head for Bag End."

       "Paladin?"

       "Paladin Took, our Thain. He’s Pippin’s dad, and has been driving poor Pippin about wild about what the four of them did out there while they were gone--refuses to believe what Pippin or any of the rest have told him. I’m not certain which is worse, actually, Cousin Pal or Cousin Lanti--they’re certainly being Took stubborn. Hard to believe that Lanti, who after all was born a Banks, is being more Tookish than Pal’s sister Esmeralda, who married Saradoc Brandybuck."

       Bob shook himself. "So," he said with poorly suppressed frustration, "I’d of done better to stay in Hobbiton, then, if’n I wanted to see this Frodo person."

       "Yes, actually, you would. Could one of us help you?"

       "Not unless you know who Lord Iorhael is."

       The Hobbit scratched his head. "Lord Iorhael? Never heard tell of him. Bard--Isumbard Took--could perhaps have helped you; but he’s at home in the Great Smial today, working alongside Pal. Pippin’s talked a bit to him. Is Lord Iorhael from Gondor?"

       "Well, apparently they call him that there, but that’s not his right name." Bob took a deep breath. "I suppose it’s time to go turn the wagon around and head back to Hobbiton. If’n Mr. Baggins didn’t leave that long ago, mebbe we’ll arrive not that long after him."

       "You’re likely to be right. Be aware, though, he’s likely to be tired when he gets there. He’s not as well as he lets on."

       Bob’s eyebrows raised at that, and he took his leave. "Thanks, sir. I’m Boboli Hedges, by the way, at your service."

       "Everard Took at yours and your family’s," was the reply. "Are you related to the Pincup Hedges?"

       "If so, it was long, long ago," Bob answered. So saying he turned out of the room and headed back to the square, where he found Teo watering Poppet.

       "He’s not here, Dad?"

       Bob shook his head. "No, just left, not long ago, evidently. Headed back to Hobbiton, and probably by the bridle trails and not the road. On a bay gelding, they tell me."

       Lilia leaned out of the wagon bed. "But we saw a bay pony, Anemone’n me, Dad. Just afore we got into the village."

       "It was real pretty, Dad," Anemone added. "Real pretty with silver stars on its bridle."

       Bob sighed. "That was him, apparently, then." He turned to Teo. "We’ll go into the inn, and I’ll order somethin’ for a meal to take with us, and you lot use the privy. Then it’s back to Hobbiton again...."

       Within a half hour they were back on the road heading east, hoping against hope they would finally catch up with the elusive Frodo Baggins or one of his companions.

Finding Lord Iorhael

       "You didn’t come home last night," a voice addressed him as Frodo dismounted in the yard for the Ivy Bush.

       "No, I didn’t.  I was very tired after a day of long considerations, and decided staying at the Whitfoots was preferable to trying to ride home and possibly falling asleep on Strider’s back and most likely falling."  Frodo turned to face his young cousin Pando Proudfoot, who lived with his young aunt, uncle, and little cousin Cyclamen in Number Five.  "I begin to understand just why Aragorn had to get out of the Citadel as often as he did.  Having to consider documents and reports and to go through endless discussions on how food should be transported from here to there and back again and deputations from the South Farthing regarding on how this person was diverting most of the leaf crop while others from the North Farthing are certain their concerns about how the loss of trees there allowed the banks of a stream to collapse are far more important to bring to the attention of Thain and Mayor--it’s enough to drive a Hobbit mad!  It’s far more exhausting, I find, than walking through Eriador was."

       The lad took Strider’s reins and walked alongside the pony into the stable. Frodo removed bridle and headstall and unfastened the saddlebags and cinch, and with the aid of the stable lad they soon had Strider groomed, fed, and watered, and contentedly in his stall. Frodo gave Strider the last of the sweet bun Mina Whitfoot had pressed on him before he left and half a carrot, and watched as Pando scratched the gelding’s ears and stroked his neck as the pony nuzzled at him. Pando’s uncle Sancho was a carter, and Pando loved ponies dearly; he and Strider had befriended one another immediately, once Pando overcame his awe at the beauty of the Rohirric steed.

       As they walked from the Ivy Bush up to Bag End Pando said, "One day I’ll go to Rohan and see their herds of ponies and horses for myself."

       "At least when you grow up it should be safe to make that journey easily, with proper patrols of the roads and growing settlements and safe inns along the way."

       "Why isn’t it safe now, Cousin Frodo?"

       "Oh, it’s much safer now than when we went south, for without Sauron to goad them on orcs, trolls, and wargs will do more hiding and less attacks on Men, Elves, Hobbits, Dwarves, and other creatures; and wolves will once again go back to preying mostly on small creatures and the sick among the herds of deer and other grazing beasts they were created to eat. But with the loss of Sauron and the changes in government, lawless Men must find new places from which to attack travelers; and so they swarm the roads and the lands surrounding them, looking for waste places where they believe the King’s Rangers won’t pursue them in which to hide. Some of the Rangers who accompanied us northwards left us for a time as we approached Tharbad to follow such reports, and found a nest of them, similar to those who invaded the Shire, hiding in the foothills to the Misty Mountains. They rejoined us a day’s ride north of Tharbad, and had left those they’d taken in Tharbad to receive the justice of the place. I don’t think they fared well there, but that doesn’t appear to deter those intent on following them. We had much discussion of such Men as we came further northward, Lord Halladan, Sam, Merry, Pippin, and I."

       He looked off, shaking his head. "Long ago Men, Elves, Dwarves, and the Valar themselves united to finally bring down Morgoth, the Bringer of Darkness and Discord and Hatred. He was cast out into the outer darkness, beyond the Gates of Night; but his servant Sauron regretted his initial dissembling before the might of the Powers and fled into the wilderness until the rest of the Host from Aman returned again to their place, vowing not to return as so much in Middle Earth was lost when they must come in their wrath. Once he was certain it was safe for him to seek to take his Master’s place, he made his own bid for power, setting up temples in the shadowed lands whose rites were intended to weaken the bonds set upon Morgoth to allow his return. Aragorn tells me that those rites in the end did not accomplish their goal; instead after his defeat by the Last Alliance they strengthened Sauron himself and aided him to return as he had been before, even if he lacked his--his greatest weapon. And so he crept out of the wilderness about the time our ancestors came over the Misty Mountains into Eriador and founded a new fortress in the southern reaches of the great Woodland Realm ruled by Thranduil, my friend Legolas’s father, until he was driven forth by the White Council while Bilbo was on his journey and returned to Mordor.

       "Yes, he has been utterly defeated and cannot return; and none of the other powers who followed Morgoth can hope to rise as he did, for they have lost much of their nature, I’m told, by accepting the shapes taught them by him. But Morgoth’s words can still be heard in our hearts, if we will listen to them. They spur us to selfishness, self-centeredness, envy.... They incite us to take that which we desire at the expense of others, and seek to convince us that we have the right to order the lives of others according to our own conceits and supposed wisdom."

       Pando looked up at his cousin as they approached the gate to Bag End and saw the older Hobbit’s jaw was set, his eyes stern. Before he left the Shire Frodo Baggins had never looked so, and this disturbed the lad, realizing the one Hobbit he’d always hero-worshipped had seen things to cause such changes in his moods. He found himself trying to reassure Frodo, "But Hobbits don’t act that way."

       Frodo paused with his hand on the open gate. "We don’t? Then what do you call what Lotho did, or that Ted Sandyman has done, or Timono Bracegirdle, and those like Marcos Smallburrow who aided Lotho and Timono? We still haven’t found all the things taken by Lotho’s Gatherers and Sharers, and we’re still missing a number of people who disappeared during the Time of Troubles. Did they run away like the Chubbs brothers from Buckland, or were they killed because they didn’t do what the Big Men told them to do, or did Lotho’s own followers kill them or sell them away into slavery or some other such evil? I doubt I’ll learn the stories of all of them in my lifetime."

       He led the way up the stairs to the stoop, and reached into his pocket to retrieve the key, then paused to look at it lying in his hand. Finally he murmured, "When Bilbo lived here we rarely locked the door, even when both of us were gone and the Gamgees were off to the Cotton’s farm for the day. Now I lock it behind me as I leave, and must unlock it when I return. Sam will have it no other way, for he worries for my safety when he is not able to be by me." He fitted the key into the lock and opened the door, then turned to take the saddlebags Pando had insisted on carrying for him. "He worries for me, Pando. He worries for me, having seen what evil can do." He looked away. "He’d do better, perhaps, to worry for what I might do myself," he whispered so softly Pando had to strain to hear him. "Certainly I’ve heard the urgings of Morgoth spoken in my own heart often enough--It saw to that." He looked back at Pando ruefully, gave him a nod, and went in, softly shutting the door behind him.

       As he returned back down the lane to New Row, Pando pondered on Frodo’s words. How could someone as wonderful as his older cousin have known Morgoth’s words in his heart?

       A half hour later a wagon rumbled into the Row as Pando and his foster sister were taking logs from the wood pile to carry inside. Pando paused in the act of laying a single log in Cyclamen’s arms to look as the one driving the wagon set the brake, got off the box, and approached their gate. "Do you know if Mr. Baggins is home yet?" the stranger Hobbit asked.

       "Yes, he’s been home about a half an hour," Pando answered. "He was away in Michel Delving."

       "So I understand," the Hobbit said. "Good enough, then. At last we caught up with him. Thanks."

       Pando looked curiously at the wagon as the Hobbit got back up on the bench again and released the brake. There was a lad with him a few years older than Pando, and in the back a lass about his age and one a couple years older than Cyclamen--and a dog! The older lass was holding a small ratter in her arms, and the younger one had a doll on her shoulder. He smiled--once he had the woodboxes filled, he’d go up and spy on his cousin and his guests.

       Frodo was in the study when he heard the bell ring, and sighed. Uninvited guests on the doorstep? It wouldn’t be Sam, for Sam would have come in through the kitchen door after only a cursory knock, having finally been convinced it wasn’t improper years ago. He wiped the point of his steel pen, set it aside, capped the ink, and went to see who had come to call.

       Boboli stood nervously on the step, and made what he suspected was a pointless attempt to smooth down the hair on top of his head. What if Frodo Baggins was cracked as old Mad Baggins was said to have been? Yet, surely they’d not have allowed anyone who was cracked to serve as deputy Mayor, would they? But, then, the Hobbits inside the Shire were strange folk compared to those of the Breelands--everyone knew that. Maybe only folks as was a bit cracked would be considered as Mayor.

       Stop it! he told himself, realizing he was working himself into a fit of upset. There was no point, he guessed, to counting the cracked eggs in the basket before they were all taken out and examined.

       Then he heard the doorknob turn, and it opened....

       The Hobbit who stood inside the hole, framed by the green door, was tall and almost painfully thin, Bob realized. His hair was close-cropped curls of very dark brown, save for those at his temples that were silver-white. He was dressed as the Hobbits he’d seen at the Council Hole dressed, in a shirt of a pale cream color with a grey-green waistcoat over brown trousers, with a huge shawl of fine pearl-grey wool over his shoulders as if he felt uncomfortably cool. His face was pale, with high cheekbones, a finely made nose, a firm chin with a decided cleft to it, and eyes of a remarkable blue surrounded by lashes Thistle would have died to possess.

       "May I help you?" The voice was clear, the accent definitely that of an educated Hobbit from the Shire.

       Boboli felt terribly rustic. How could he expect this Hobbit to take him seriously, what with his farmer’s accent and his rough clothes?

       Frodo was making his own evaluation. The Hobbit facing him was at least three-foot eight or nine, certainly taller than average; he was built much like Sam was, with hands callused by honest labor and a trace of dirt no scrubbing had been able to remove from beneath his nails; and his skin was darkly tanned even though it was only mid-April. A farmer, and from Bree, considering the cloth his vest and cloak were made of. Uncle Rory had purchased several bolts of such fabrics at a time to provide for many of his dependents within the Hall, and even Frodo had even been drafted into carrying them from the wagons newly returned from the Breelands to the storage rooms where such things were kept until the seamstresses and tailors were ready for them.

       "If’n you please, sir," the stranger began, then cleared his throat and began again. "If’n you please, sir--are you Mr. Frodo Baggins?"

       "Yes, I am, and at your service, sir. And how may I help you?"

       The farmer took a quick glance over his shoulder, and Frodo noted that a wagon pulled by a single pony stood in the lane, with what appeared to be at least three children in it. The visitor took a deeper breath, and came to the point. "I was told, sir, as I must come into the Shire and meet with the Lord Iorhael----"

       Boboli saw the look of shock in the tall Hobbit’s face at the use of the name. However, he kept on. "I was told as I must get this Lord Iorhael’s permission so’s me and mine could continue constructin’ the hole and farm as we’ve been puttin’ together where we’ve been doin’ it. They’ve said as the land as where we’re buildin’ our farm is his, you see."

       Boboli paused. Mr. Baggins’s mouth was working slightly, his eyes were a bit distant, and his right hand where it touched the rounded door frame was trembling a bit. Was Mr. Baggins given to fits? he wondered. Well, there was nothing for it but to continue. "Only problem is, Mr. Faradir, the one what told me as I must get this Lord Iorhael’s permission, never told me which o’you four is the one the Rangers call Lord Iorhael. Is it you, sir?"

       After a moment Mr. Baggins appeared to find his voice. "Well, I must say that this was unexpected," he said. "That is your wagon, with your children in it?"

       "Yessir, Mr. Baggins, sir. Me younger son, ye see, and me two lasses--and our dog. Lister refused t’ be left ahind, you understand."

       Mr. Baggins looked down at the wagon with a look of apprehension, Boboli judged, until he saw the small dog Lilia held close to her, at which he relaxed some. He took a deep breath. "I see. You’ve come all the way from the Breelands?"

       Bob shrugged. "Not precisely the Breelands no more, sir. I was lookin’ t’settle some land as has always been vacant, near the Brandywine, you see. It’s well off the road and far from Staddle where we’re from--rich land, it is, with a good ridge for a fine hole high above the bottomland as’d be best for the plantin’ of crops. Rich soil, and good pasturage as well as havin’ a fair crop o’timber. No one’s ever settled there, you see, or so I’d thought--’ceptin we’ve found ruins there--ruins as Mr. Faradir and his son and Mr. Eregiel all say as was the King’s farmstead from the days when there was the kingdom o’Cardolan in these parts."

       "Faradir--you met Faradir," Frodo murmured. He looked back into the farmer’s eyes. "And you say he sent you into the Shire?"

       "Yes--said as the land’s Lord Iorhael’s, and I must make an agreement with him to keep on there."

       Frodo took a deep breath and let it out. "Oh, Aragorn--what have you done to me this time?" he said distantly. He looked down again at the wagon, then around before again fixing his attention on his unexpected visitor. "Can your son drive your wagon?"

       "A course, sir. He’s a farmer’s son, after all."

       "Good enough, then. Please pardon me." Frodo stepped out past the farmer onto the stoop and looked down toward the lower lane of the Row. "Pando!" he called out. "I know you’re there, looking to come up and spy. We need you!"

       A bit shamefacedly the lad Boboli had spoken to below stepped out toward the field beneath the Hill, across the lane from his dooryard. "Yes, Cousin Frodo?"

       "Tell your mum I need your help, and come up. Oh, and ask if it’s all right for you to go briefly into Bywater to the stable at the Dragon."

       "Yes, Cousin Frodo." The lad named Pando disappeared into his smial.

       "He’s a cousin?" Bob asked.

       "Third cousin once removed. He can go with your son into Bywater and see your pony stabled and the wagon stored for the night, then walk back with him."

       "He spies on you?"

       Frodo smiled gently. "Oh, yes, he’s done so since he was quite tiny." He straightened. "You may as well call your children inside, for this may take a time. I’ll go put the kettle on again."

       "About Lister--the dog--is’t all right with you t’bring him inside? He’s a good’un."

       There was a look of concern briefly to be seen on Frodo's face, quickly masked out of courtesy, Bob realized.  "I suppose so." He sighed. "I’m sorry--my parents never kept dogs, nor my uncle, although there were enough in the Hall when I was a child. But I’ve simply never spent time with them and I’ll admit I have no idea how to act around one."

       "We’ll keep ’im on a string, then."

       "Thank you."

       Boboli went down to the wagon. "You lasses--put the string on Lister’s collar and go on in, but keep ’im close t’you. Have a feelin’ as Mr. Baggins isn’t particular comfortable with dogs." Lilia nodded. "Go into the parlor, sit near the fireplace and get warm. He’s puttin’ the kettle on for us." He turned to Teo. "You stay here, ’n his cousin as we saw down there’ll ride with you into Bywater where we stayed last night. Arrange stablin’ and mayhap a room same’s last night, if’n they have room."

       "Does he know who’s Lord Iorhael?" asked Anemone.

       "I’m not certain, but it may be as he’s the one." The child nodded. Bob continued, "I suppose as we ought t’bring in the hampers--share out what we have left with ’im."

       "Does he have any childern of his own, Dad?"

       "I don’t think so--there was no one else here last night. But the lad ’n lass as we saw below’s his cousins--third cousins, once removed." The lad Pando was now on his way past the turn in the lane. "Off with you now, Teo, and you may look t’change your shirt’n vest afore you come back. These is terrible spotted."

       "I’m sorry, Dad--it’s hard t’eat without spottin’ while the wagon’s movin’."

       "I know, son, but as you have time t’change, do so."

       "Yes, Dad."

       Lilia tied a length of heavy cord they’d cut from the line for the canvas to Lister’s collar and made a loop on the other end sufficient for a hand to hold onto and gave the end to Anemone, then quickly slid the large hamper toward her father. Teo helped his younger sister and the ratter down, then Lilia, then fetched the smaller hamper from under the wagon bench and gave it to her. Lister examined the gate and marked it, and as the two lasses began going up the steps he ran ahead, almost dragging his small mistress after him.

       "Lister!" she protested, pulling on the cord. He stopped, and looked about at her as if a bit surprised.

       Pando ran up past them and, after pausing briefly at the open door, shrugged and went in, disappearing down the hall, calling, "Cousin Frodo?"

       The two lasses went inside, and seeing the bench and hooks quickly divested themselves of Lilia’s hamper, and saw their cloaks hung up. They were closely followed by their father who set his larger hamper by the other, removed and hung his own cloak by theirs, shut the door behind him, and looked up to examine what could be seen. Overhead was an obviously new fixture holding five candles suspended by a chain. The wooden bench had been lovingly polished, but showed signs of it having been deeply scarred. Lilia looked at the scratches with interest. "Mebbe when he was a little’un Mr. Frodo was naughty," she suggested.

       "Cousin Frodo, naughty?" asked Pando, who was returning toward the door. "No, not that naughty, not that I know of, at least. Those was done by Lotho’s Big Men, not Cousin Frodo. And he didn’t live here when he was little--he lived in Buckland then. Didn’t come here to Bag End until he was over twenty, he didn’t. Is this your dog, then? He looks like a nice one." And reaching down he briefly patted Lister on the head, then opened the front door and went out again.

       The floor was of black slate, and appeared to have been recently laid, the white grout in the gaps obviously fresh and so far free of any sign of dirt or staining. Beyond the entranceway the floor was carpeted with a thick, heavily woven and tufted material such as none of them had ever seen before.

       The parlor fire obviously hadn’t been burning all that long, but was cheerfully warming the room. The walls had all been freshly painted, and the mantel had obviously been repaired. Yet the things that stood about the room and on the mantel all had a feeling of each belonging in the particular place in which it had been set, even though it was plain at least some of the walls had been replastered before they were painted, and some of the visible support beams had been replaced or spliced.

       The floor here was laid planks, definitely new, with a well-worn but cheerful area rug over it. The Master’s chair was obvious, but there was no sign of one for a Mistress for the hole. On the mantel was a Dwarf-made clock with a fine stone casing; on either side of it hung portraits of a Hobbit and what must have been his wife; on one end was another portrait in a standing frame of brass of a clever-looking Hobbit with a smile that looked positively mischievous. A narrow sofa stood beside the fireplace, and at a nod from their father the two lasses sat on it, Lister jumping up to sit between them. Boboli sat opposite them on a wooden settle.

       Over the back of the Master’s chair hung a fine if faded laprug; a folded blanket lay over the chest that stood beside it, with an unlit lamp and a book and pad of paper and partially wrapped graphite stick on top. There was another chest in the corner furthest from the fireplace, and a new wall-shelf held a small line of books between two large slabs of polished malachite.

       The feet of the Master’s chair just fit worn spots in the parlor rug, as did the legs of the narrow sofa; but this settle obviously wasn’t part of the original furnishings that went with the rug, and Bob was willing to wager that the original table that had sat in one place had been round rather than the square one that sat in that spot now.

       Anemone was also looking about her, holding tightly to Lister’s collar. "This room’s been fixed a lot, Dad," she said.

       "Yes, it has," Frodo said from the door as he entered with a tray of mugs, two pots, two jugs, and a large plate of seed cakes. "The entire hole was almost destroyed when we returned, and had to be repaired."

       "They hurt your hole while you was gone?" asked Lilia, scandalized.

       As he nudged the book on the chest aside so he could place the tray on it he shrugged. "I sold the smial to a cousin before I left, so I had no reason to complain when we returned. But my cousin died while we were gone, and his mother gave the deed back to me. It’s still a bit odd--the table that sat here was broken to bits when we got back, and the mantle was hanging at an odd angle. Only a few of the pieces of furniture I sold to Lotho and Lobelia were salvageable--the rest had to be burned. Fortunately the best pieces were in Buckland while we were gone, for I didn’t sell most of it to the Sackville-Bagginses."

       "Is it the same Lobelia what got a purple stripe on her bum when you painted her wagon seat?" Anemone asked. The story had made a huge impression on her.

       Frodo looked at her, his face going absolutely white save for two spots of red on his cheeks. "How did you learn of that?" he asked. "It was a long time ago--I was only twenty-four at the time."

       Bob felt his own face flushing. "We had tea yesterday with Mistress Amanda Grubb," he explained, "and she was tellin’ us...." He stopped, embarrassed to admit further just how much gossip they might have heard.

       Frodo sighed as he poured from one of the jugs into two of the mugs, presenting one to each lass along with seed cakes. "Trust Amanda to tell that story. I wasn’t sorry at the time to have caught Cousin Lobelia, but I was truly hoping that Lotho would sit on the paint and stick firmly. He was such an insufferable lout at the time--not that he ever got any better."

       "Why’d you sell your hole to him then?" Anemone asked.

       "I didn’t mean to--I’d intended to sell it to my cousin Ponto and his wife Iris, but Ponto’s sister spilled the details to Lobelia, and Lotho came with the money I was asking first. It was very embarrassing. My cousin Angelica who lives now in the South Farthing wrote me quite a scathing letter about it once she heard tell of it, for she’d much rather her parents had purchased it than seeing me let Lotho and Lobelia have it." He lifted one of the pots and poured. "Milk? Sugar?" he asked Bob.

       "Only a spot o’milk," Bob assured him, "and but one lump o’sugar."

       Frodo nodded and complied, presenting a mug of excellent tea and another cake to his guest, then pouring some from the second pot for himself without bothering with either the milk jug or the sugar bowl. "Now," he said as he took his seat, "perhaps some introductions on your part would be in order."

       "Sorry, Mr. Baggins, sir," Bob sighed. "Boboli Hedges originally of Staddle, at your service. The bairns here’s my daughters, Lilia," the older lass bobbed her head, "and Anemone." The younger child mimicked her older sister. "It’s me younger lad Teoro as took the wagon to the Green Dragon; we left the elder, Holdfast, back at the smial to care for things while we’re gone."

       "I see," Frodo said. "And your wife?"

       "Dead," Boboli said, his expression grim. After a moment he continued, "It’s like this...."

       Frodo’s expression was intent as he listened, and grew more compassionate as the story unfolded. When at last the tale was done and Bob had gone quiet his gaze shifted to an indeterminate point, while his own expression became stern. "And they only targeted Hobbit-held farms, bypassing those held by Men," he said softly to himself. "Then either they were afraid they couldn’t hold out against the defense other Men might make, or--" his expression became sterner, "--or they were under Saruman’s orders. And Saruman’s orders would have been based on his perceived quarrel with us, and particularly me." He shook his head. "That one such as he should have fallen so low----"

       "Who’s this Saruman?"

       Frodo looked back at the farmer. Finally he answered, "He was another Wizard like Gandalf, the White Wizard. The Valar sent five to help teach all of us within Middle Earth to stand against Sauron, but Saruman fell to the lure of the--to the lure of power over others, and betrayed all. Once he was exposed as traitor, he was held captive for a time until the war was over, and then those who held him allowed him to leave, believing he had no power left to harm others."

       He gave a bitter laugh. "If only that had been true. But instead he came north, seeking power here in the Breelands and the Shire. His folk called him Sharkey. Apparently once he became aware that Bilbo might have brought the--what he’d found--back here to the Shire he sent agents north to find where it is and to make contacts within it. Timono Bracegirdle, we think, was the first Hobbit of the Shire they contacted, but Timono hadn’t the connections or the land our mutual cousin Lotho had as a Sackville-Baggins. So he arranged a meeting between Lotho and the agents. They fed Lotho’s vanity and his own desire for recognition and personal power, and began purchasing foodstuffs and later leaf from him, arranging for him to sell them increasingly larger and larger amounts and increasingly encouraging him to betray our people and arrange for their folk to enter the region to seek--to seek for me and what Bilbo had entrusted to me. My selling Lotho Bag End was the chance he felt to make himself the tyrant of the Shire with the support of the ruffians Saruman had sent; but apparently they had orders to search the properties of Hobbits within Bree as well, perhaps to see if It might have somehow come there."

       "Well, it’s not nothin’ as any could lay at your feet, Mr. Baggins, sir."

       Frodo’s face as he searched Boboli’s eyes was painfully blank, the farmer felt. "It’s not? If I’d tried harder to befriend Lotho instead of allowing myself to loath him, or if I’d indicated Ponto had the first claim to Bag End before him, of if I’d paid attention to anything else within the Shire beyond my own concerns and pleasure and studies, perhaps the entire Time of Troubles might have been avoided both here and in the Breelands, Mr. Hedges, sir."

       Bob felt himself flush. "It’s not for the likes o’you to ‘sir’ me, Mr. Baggins."

       "You think not? And what makes me better than you, sir?"

       "I’d think the fact as you was made a lord for what you did."

       "And what did I do, Mr. Hedges?"

       Bob thought for a moment, then admitted, "I don’t know, sir, although Mr. Faradir said somethin’ a’ destroyin’ a ring; but I know’s Mr. Faradir and his son and Mr. Eregiel all think the world of you; and the King must also, or he’d of not give you lands for your maintenance, although I’m not completely certain as t’what that last means, not really."

       That last comment managed to elicit a true laugh. Frodo Baggins’s laughter was remarkably sweet and delightful, and the lasses’ faces lit in response to it. "Maintenance is a practice among Men to offer support to those whose work is not necessarily the working of the land or raising of animals or crops or running of a business. Those who offer special services to the realm, and particularly those who are leaders of armies and who hold rule over others, are granted the income that comes from certain lands to cover their expenses and to help pay for those who offer service to them. A portion of whatever crop or product or profits are made goes to the lord who holds title to the property, and he must pay a portion of the expenses faced, especially if improvements made work to his benefit. Aragorn granted Sam and me some of the lands he’s held title to, as well as a few lands whose traditional lords died in the war." His face grew more solemn. "But he told me that the lands he granted me here in Arnor were far to the north, near Annúminas. He didn’t indicate any were so close to the Shire and Bree."

       "So you are Lord Iorhael, then?"

       "Yes."

       "What’s that mean?" Anemone asked.

       "It’s--it’s just Sindarin for Frodo."

       "But Frodo must mean somethin’ for ’em to say it different in their talk, right?"

       Bob was amused to see the same slightly haunted look on Mr. Baggins’s face he had on his own too often as a result of his children’s questions. Lilia added to it by asking, "Yes, what does it mean?"

       Frodo looked away. "Wise one," he said softly. "And Samwise and Perhael both mean ‘half-wise’--as if he weren’t far wiser than I am."

       "A fine joke on those as thinks no gardener could be a lord," Bob commented. "Does the King know as he’s a gardener?"

       "Oh, yes, Aragorn has no question as to Sam’s primary interest in life," their host assured him.

       "And Aragorn’s the King?" asked Lilia, making certain.

       Frodo nodded, a small smile on his face. "Yes, Aragorn’s now the King--the King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar. He’s quite a wonderful person."

       "So, tell me, doesn’t Mr. Faradir know your right name?" Bob demanded.

       With a sigh, Frodo answered, "He certainly does, but always made a point of calling me Lord Iorhael instead of Master Frodo or even Lord Frodo the way most of the rest of the Rangers did on our return journey. Trust Lord Halladan to send him and not one of those with a less romantic turn of mind. Halladan and Aragorn both tend to have an odd sense of humor at times, but then they’re first cousins."

       "You mean as the King has a sense of humor?"

       "Oh, yes, or he wouldn’t have made Sam and me lords of the realm--he’s said as much."

       A ring at the bell, and Frodo rose to admit Teo and Pando. Lister pulled away from Anemone to hurry forward to greet Teo, yapping shrilly. Frodo stepped backwards in alarm, obviously taken by surprise as well as uncertain as to how to react properly, and managed to back right into the bench below the pegs on the far wall, onto which he collapsed.

       "And what is it as you’re sayin’," crooned Teo as he knelt to put his arms around the small dog, "that I’ve been away far too long, is it? Hush, now, ye daft dog, ye!" as Lister tried to lick his ear. "He’s always one t’act’s if I’d been away a hundred years instead a’ less’n an hour," he commented to Pando before he realized Frodo’s distress. He straightened, contrite, with the ratter in his arms. "I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, sir," he said as Pando and Boboli hurried forward to help Frodo back to his feet and see to it he was unhurt. "He meant no harm, ye see...."

       He stood uncertainly in the doorway as Frodo was assisted to stand. "I’m all right," Frodo said, pulling away from the attention of the others. "I was only taken by surprise is all. I’m afraid I have far too little experience with dogs. Please forgive me." His face was again very pale with decidedly pink spots on his cheeks. He carefully straightened the shawl about his shoulders as he gave himself time to recover from his brief fright. He sighed. "You’d think I’d not take alarm at a little thing such as a small dog that’s obviously happy to see its family after all I’ve seen and been through," he said, repeating, "I was only taken by surprise, you see. I assure you I’m not hurt. Let me only return to my chair."

       In moments he was seated again and was drinking deeply from his own cup. When he straightened he looked decidedly better. Bob now sat with Lister firmly held in his lap. Pando and Teo had hung their cloaks on the hooks in the entranceway and were just coming into the parlor when Frodo set his mug down again, then paused, again paling. "Sweet Valar," he said, his eyes fixed on the embroidered garment Teo was wearing over his shirt. "I’d not thought to see that again," he said.

       Lilia was almost bouncing in her seat with excitement. "Then you’re the one as didn’t want it no more?" she asked. "Why not? Didn’t you like it?"

       Frodo looked at her with mixed confusion and embarrassment. "Oh, I did like it indeed, and it was a gift to me, after all, from Legolas’s father. But with the way so many in the Shire already think I’m cracked, I decided not to bring many of the garments proper to Gondor home with me." His color was slowly returning. "It does look particularly fine on you," he assured Teo. "I’m glad Nob realized you could wear it." He sighed. "It appears that today it’s been decided I’m to be fully reminded of the entire journey south and east."

       He looked at the younger lad. "Can you stay for luncheon as well?" he asked.

       "Mum said as I could, Cousin Frodo, if I was invited."

       Frodo smiled. "I put a dish apparently Marigold left for me into the oven, and she also brought me fresh seedcakes and new bread and butter while I was still gone. Sam’s set her to see to it I don’t have to cook all meals for myself while he’s away in the Marish, and he obviously gave her a copy of the key to the back door." He looked at his guests. "It should be warm shortly. Shall we go to the kitchen, then?"

       The smial was definitely the grandest any of the Hedges had ever seen as they followed him down the hallway to the kitchen, peering into rooms along the way--the very formal second parlor that looked unused; the study that was as obviously used a good deal, the first storage room, the formal diningroom, the kitchen with its comfortable trestle table, bench and chairs. Lilia was carrying the smaller hamper and Teoro the larger one, and they soon had both set on the table. Bob and Frodo between them emptied both and determined what would be appropriate to add to the meal, then set the table from the dresser with Lilia’s help. The children were then sent on to the privy and bathing room, returning freshly scrubbed and ready to eat, Lister’s leash fastened to the settle. Frodo was pulling the warmed dish from the oven and set it on a ceramic trivet decorated with a starburst. He fetched a spoon from the dresser with which to serve the shepherd’s pie the dish contained, and they all stood at their places, waiting for a sign from their host it was all right to sit down. Instead he turned toward the kitchen window for a moment, then finally indicated they should all sit down and took his place at the seat nearest the window.

       "Lilia--that’s your name, isn’t it?" he asked. At her nod he asked, "Could you cut the bread and see it served? And Anemone, would you like a bit of sliced apple with your shepherd’s pie? Pando, please start the butter around the table."

       He proved a genial host indeed, even putting a small serving onto a saucer and indicating Teo might offer it to Lister if he’d accept it. They were about midway through the meal when Lilia noted something odd about Frodo’s hand, then gently nudged her sister and pointed it out to her. Boboli noted it next, and finally Teo. Pando realized the rest had gone quiet, and paused himself, looking between the others and Frodo, who noting the attention the rest were giving his hand had set his fork down, placing his hand in his lap. He looked around at all of them.

       "I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, sir--we know as it’s not polite to stare none," Bob said somewhat warily.

       Frodo gave a quick glance around the room, then fixed his own attention on his lap. He shook his head. "Once you’ve noticed, what can I expect?" he finally answered, looking at last back at the farmer. "I’ll say only this about it--I was--wounded while I was gone from the Shire. This is only the most visible scar is all." He forced himself to take up his fork again.

       Teo asked tentatively, "Was it awkward to hold your fork after?"

       Frodo examined the fork, then shrugged. "At first--but you get used to it after a while. At least it doesn’t ache and spasm as it used to do, and usually it doesn’t hurt any more." He reached up with his free hand and adjusted the shawl he still had over his shoulders.

       "Are you cold?" Anemone asked.

       He made a slight face, then gave the child a twisted smile. "A bit," he admitted. "I can’t eat as much as I used to, so I get cold easily." He looked down at the shawl he wore and smiled more naturally. "My cousin Estella made this for me for her birthday a few years ago, when she was first learning to knit. She soon picked up the trick of knitting and purling, but doesn’t appear to have learned how to cast off anywhere as early as one would expect. I found it when I was unpacking the extra blankets, and so I tend to keep it in the study to put around my shoulders when I feel a bit chilled. Would you like some more jam?"

       "You have lots of relatives?" asked Lilia.

       "Oh, perhaps more than my share," Frodo admitted. "Gimli once commented after one of Pippin’s endless discussions about family trees that it appeared I must be related to half the Shire, to which Merry responded he feared it was rather more than that. After all, I’m first cousin to the Master of Buckland and second cousin to the Thain, and am at least third cousin to a full half of all the family heads who regularly attend the meetings for such, and fifth or greater to half the remainder."

       "Are there lots of Bagginses?" asked Teo.

       Frodo shook his head. "No, not many. There are only five males of the name left in the entire Shire, and Ponto and I are the last here in Hobbiton."

       "You could have sons some day," Lilia suggested.

       Frodo’s face had gone distant as he shook his head again. "No," he answered softly, "I’ll not marry now." His voice was sad. "And Ponto is too old and ill to have any more children. I think once he wondered if I might marry his Angelica, and I think most once thought my cousin Pearl and I might marry. But they both chose differently. And after...." His voice trailed off. Finally he said with a tone to indicate the subject was finished, "I’ll not marry now."

       He ate sparingly, although he sipped frequently at his goblet of water or his cup of tea. Talk had shifted to the smial under construction, and he was fascinated by the reports of walls and floors found by Boboli and Holdfast as they dug into the ridge. At the report of the long knife found his curiosity was thoroughly roused. "I’d like to see it, and see if it looks much like the ones we were given," he said. "The blade of mine was broken just as we were reaching Rivendell, and Merry’s was destroyed in the battle he fought in; but Pippin and Sam still have their original swords. Bilbo gave me his sword Sting he brought back from his own adventure to replace the one that broke, and Éomer King and his sister Éowyn from Rohan gave Merry the one he uses now."

       "You all fought with swords?" Teo asked, fascinated and shocked by the idea.

       "Yes, we had to learn while we were gone. I was never much good at it, but Merry and Pippin are now both expert, and practiced a good deal while we were in the King’s city before we finally were able to return home."

       "How did you meet Mr. Faradir?" asked Lilia.

       "Faradir is one of the Rangers of Eriador, all of whom are descended directly from the followers of High King Elendil of Arnor and Gondor as they came back to Middle Earth from Númenor. He’s also one of Aragorn’s kinsmen. When word went out amongst the Rangers that Aragorn needed as many of his folk as could come to him swiftly, he went with the company southwards toward Rohan in search of their chieftain. Almost all of them were at least fifth cousins to one degree or another to Aragorn, we learned. Faradir went with one of his brothers. His brother Baerdion remained in Gondor in Aragorn’s personal service. I understand he was seriously wounded in the final battle, but was almost fully recovered by the time we traveled to Minas Tirith to Aragorn’s coronation.

       "Faradir tended to treat all four of us with a good deal of awe, which was very embarrassing; and he refused to do as most of the others did at our request and use no more than the title of Master, which is used in the outer kingdoms in preference to Mister."

       "How come as none o’ the folk here in the Shire seem to know as you’re a lord now?"

       Frodo looked appalled. "I know that Aragorn has tried to explain to Uncle Paladin and Uncle Saradoc and Will Whitfoot as Mayor this is true, but nobody else in the Shire really needs to know. I mean, it doesn’t change who I am in the Shire. Try to understand, Mr. Hedges--I’m not changed from what I was--I’m still only Frodo Baggins, once again the Baggins of Bag End, and that’s all I want to be."

       Bob examined what he could see of his host. "That may be," he said slowly and shrewdly, "but it can’t be denied as ye ain’t quite as ye was afore, I’ll be bound, and I’ll wager as it goes far deeper’n just your finger bein’ gone."

       His host shrugged. "Perhaps that is true. But I’ve always been seen as different since the death of my parents when I was a child, far more so than any other Hobbit I’ve ever known. Must I remove all question from the minds of those who’ve always considered me as cracked as they’ve judged Bilbo to be? And must I bring darker knowledge into their minds than they’ve ever dealt with before? They must all wrestle now with the realization there is a King again, and that he not only knows all about the Shire, but he knows several of us within the Shire intimately and counts us his personal friends. They will come to realize that not only Dwarves but even Elves know the four of us well and will visit us from time to time. They will see the King’s Men cooperating with the Bounders and Shiriffs and quick post messengers, and communicating regularly with Master, Mayor and Thain.

       "Must I force them also to realize that there are far darker forces out there--that what happened to our land in the Time of Troubles is almost nothing compared to the evil those in the outer world have faced every day for millennia? Must they realize that many of the so-called Big Men who entered the Shire and the Breelands and committed the worst atrocities were actually at least half orc? That orcs and trolls and wargs have been kept out of the Shire and the Breelands and other settlements of Elves, Dwarves, Men, and Hobbits only because of the vigilance of those Elves and Men who have dedicated themselves to patrolling Eriador since before the death of Arvedui Last-king?

       "I’ve seen the absolute worst there is out there in the outer world, and have seen what could have happened here, too--here and in Bree, if it weren’t for the sacrifices of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and other creatures of Good none of us were aware of before we left the Shire--or if we’d heard of them, it was only on the margins of the old stories as we Hobbits have existed only in the margins of the oldest stories of Men until now. I’ve seen lands blasted to nothing but waste in and around Mordor, the memories ever of evil, death, and purposeful destruction made visible in the Dead Marshes north of the walls of that land, plants twisted into evil shapes within it, simple creatures grown into great monsters and filled with evil purpose. I’ve seen those who glory in murder, thefts, and perversion. I’ve been pursued by the Enemy’s own darkest servants and saw Gandalf give himself to defeat a demon you cannot imagine--that I want none able to imagine. I’ve been taken by Evil itself--and was saved by other evil.

       "I used to think the Shire needed an invasion of dragons to waken it to the dangers of its complacency. Well, my wish came true, although it was in the form of Lotho’s betrayal and the invasion of Saruman’s folk. Now as deputy Mayor I must deal with the aftermath of that invasion, and I find I don’t like it at all, Mr. Hedges."

       All were silent after that for the remainder of the meal. Frodo ate but little, and Boboli was aware of that fact and found himself concerned by it--concerned, but unaware of what he could do to change it.

       Teo, Lilia, and Pando took over the cleaning up after the meal, and Bob recognized both the surprise in Frodo’s eyes that the three of them would just set to with no direction, and that he was grateful to them for it. Teo looked up at the older Hobbit seriously. "Ye’re the Lord Iorhael now, and must agree with me dad as to what we must do in return for the right t’ set up our farm on your land. We can do this, ye know. Go off and figger out what’s t’be done out there."

       And so, with a nod of deference to the lad, Frodo led Boboli Hedges into his study, and the two of them talked agreements until it was time for tea, which all took again in the kitchen, Lilia having found and boiled some eggs and Teo gathering the seed cakes and other treats left from lunch and Pando having seen to the making of tea and the pouring out of cider and milk for the younger ones. Frodo appeared more light hearted now, and during the meal described what it was like to travel through the wilds of Eriador.

       "We had no true idea who this Man was. All right--I take that back--I had an idea, but couldn’t bring myself to believe it. Bilbo used to tell me regularly about the ending of the final battle of the Last Alliance, how the High King Elendil led armies of Men alongside Elven armies led by the great Elven King Gil-galad, and how a personal attack by Elendil and Gil-galad on Sauron himself brought the Dark Lord down to where his Ring could be cut from his finger to destroy his power, although it cost both their lives; and how Isildur himself took up the hilt of his father’s sword Narsil and cut the Ring away with that part of the blade that remained attached to it; how the shards of Narsil had been gathered and saved so they might one day be reforged into a single blade, when the time was right. So here this strange Man was, having shown me the shards of a sword he carried in an ancient sheath. The Last Alliance was three thousand years ago. Was I to believe that Narsil’s shards continued to be carried about to this day?" He shook his head in the wonderment of it.

       "And now this Man who carried a broken sword was our guide. He’d told me his true name was Aragorn son of Arathorn, but we kept calling him Strider as he’d been introduced to us in Bree. I knew what the AR at the beginning of his name meant--again Bilbo and Gandalf had both told Sam and me how it was the syllable that indicated lordship amongst the Men of the West. But as with the sword I couldn’t bring myself to quite believe it--not until I heard Elrond himself name him Isildur’s Heir in the Council."

       "What’s he like?" Anemone asked.

       "Aragorn? He can be terrifying and teasing by turns. At first he was quiet much of the time, letting us do most of the talking; but he began to loosen up as we traveled. He’d hum as we walked, and would be singing softly in Sindarin and Quenya without being aware of it. He’d look up when we must travel at night and steer by the stars, and would tell us stories of them when we camped. But we found he knew the Enemy and his creatures well, and finally realized he was not just aware of how to make draughts for pain but was a properly trained healer of some skill. And no mortal is a better warrior than he is."

       "Did you get to fight?" Teo asked.

       Frodo’s face grew solemn. "We keep being asked that, and were asked it in Gondor as well. It’s not that we were allowed to fight--it’s that we had to fight at times just to survive. And if you think it’s wonderful, well, it’s not. It’s the most horrifying thing you can imagine, having to fight. Aragorn didn’t learn to be a warrior because it was glorious--he learned how to fight because he must. As the Heir of Isildur he’s been endangered by Sauron’s creatures since before he was born. Have you heard tell of how plagues of diseases have swept over the land, killing thousands and causing women of Men and Hobbits to lose the children they carried?"

       Teo looked up uncertainly at his father. Bob glanced at the lad, then looked back at his host. "Me mum and gammer told me of such things."

       "Well, the Enemy himself apparently sent many of those diseases sweeping over the land, trying to keep Aragorn from even being born. It was this generation that it was foretold that would see his ending if it could be done, and so Sauron did his best to try to slay Aragorn’s entire family. Orcs and trolls multiplied madly in the Misty Mountains, leading to more and more attacks on the villages of the northern Dúnedain and their patrols; and shortly before Aragorn was born apparently one epidemic of a disease that caused miscarriages caused women both among the folk of Men and Hobbits to lose children all across Eriador. Two years later there was another epidemic, this time of another disease that not only caused miscarriages but that caused widespread deaths. Aragorn’s father Arathorn rode out on patrol against reported orc activities east of them, and was killed; Aragorn and his mother both became seriously ill. Aragorn apparently lost consciousness, slipped into a coma, and appeared to be dead; and the Elves who had come to aid mother and child through the illness decided to have it put about that the child born to be Heir of Isildur had indeed died, and secretly carried him off to Rivendell to raise him there. Lord Halladan, who is Aragorn’s Steward here in Arnor, told me his parents were among the few who knew this was done, and who came to see the child regularly as he grew up as if he were the son of Lord Elrond.

       "He was trained as a warrior by those among Elves who are the greatest of warriors in all of Middle Earth--by Lord Elrond himself, by his sons, by Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, by Lord Erestor. He has the hands of healing associated with the line of Kings sprung from Lord Elros Tar-Minyatar, the first King of Númenor and twin brother to Lord Elrond, and Lord Elrond saw him trained in healing also from his childhood. He was educated in languages and in the histories of all races and peoples within Middle Earth. His gift of singing was encouraged. He was taught how to lead and rule, how to hunt and track and guard and protect. He once told me he saw protecting others as the only reason any individual should ever wish to become a warrior.

       "By the time he came of age in the reckoning of Men and returned to his father’s people, Aragorn was already the greatest swordsman among Men. He recognized in the youngest son of his uncle a talent with weapons, and so he sent him to Rivendell for five years’ training similar to that he’d experienced in the use of weapons, and so Lord Halladan’s younger brother came back almost as accomplished with sword and knife as Aragorn, and even moreso with a bow. He’s been Aragorn’s personal bodyguard and personal aid most of their adult lives, during those times they could afford to have the two of them together. Most often each must serve as leader of separate patrols, however.

       "Lord Halladan and his elder brother Halbarad were both educated in administration and rule, and first Lord Halbarad followed his father as Aragorn’s Steward within Arnor, and now Lord Halladan, for Halbarad died by Aragorn’s side fighting on the field of the Pelennor before the walls of Minas Tirith, the capital of Gondor.

       "Secretly the Rangers of Eriador have guarded our borders, those of the Shire and the Breelands, for generations, and we never knew it until most in this region went south to aid him."

       "And now this Aragorn is King?"

       "Yes, he is. We saw him crowned King before the walls of Minas Tirith, and we saw the Sceptre of Annúminas also given him indicating he is King now of Arnor as well. We attended his wedding when he married the daughter of Lord Elrond, the Lady Arwen Undómiel, last summer on Midsummer’s Day. We’ve all attended him as he received delegations of lords and simple folk from all over Middle Earth. We’ve ridden out with him to see the lands nearest Minas Tirith, and he accompanied us on the first stage of our journey home.

       "Most of the Elves remaining in the mortal lands will now leave us, sailing to Elvenhome and beyond to the rest of the Undying Lands. It is the beginning of the Age of Men now; and at least with Aragorn as High King of the West we will make a blessed start of it. He manages to bring out the absolute best in those he deals with, and I’m so very proud to have been allowed to come to know him. He’s a good Man, and is already proving a good King."

       "And him made you a lord."

       "Sam and I were both made lords of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, although he assures me it wasn’t his idea originally."

       All at the table looked at one another. "Whose idea was it, Cousin Frodo?" asked Pando.

       Frodo shrugged uncomfortably. "Aragorn tells me it was suggested by Gwaihir, the Lord of the Great Eagles."

       "Eagles? You mean a bird?" Is he as cracked as so many seem to think? Boboli wondered.

       "Not common eagles," Frodo assured him, "but the great Eagles of the Misty Mountains, those the Dúnedain and Elves see as the messengers and servants of the Valar. Long ago their folk helped rescue Gandalf and Bilbo and the Dwarves they were accompanying from an attack by the great wolves, then later came to help fight at the Battle of the Five Armies. This time they arrived during the final battle of the War of the Rings, the one held at the Black Gates of Mordor themselves, and afterwards Gandalf came with three of them to find--to find Sam and me within Mordor and to rescue us. I don’t really remember that, I fear."

       "Why not?" Pando asked.

       "Sam and I lost consciousness there at the last. In fact, I remember most of what little I do of that last week or so only because Sam’s reminded me. I was in a pretty bad way at the time."

       "And what was the two o’you doin’ in Mordor?" asked Bob.

       Frodo’s face went blank. "What we had to do, to see the war over at last. We managed, but not quite as we’d thought to, and not without--assistance."

       Bob realized this was all Frodo was prepared to say on the subject.

       "Have ye agreed on what we must do to stay on the land?" Teo asked at last.

       "Mostly, although I’ll have to send someone to Lord Halladan to make certain all is written properly to meet the laws of Arnor," Frodo said. "I’m not certain whom to send, actually, as I know of only three in all the Shire right now admitted to write contracts in the Breelands as well as here, and I’m not precisely on the best of terms with any of them."

       "Why not?" asked Teo.

       "Well, one is under indictment for treachery to the Shire, one I don’t really know personally, but it appears he also may have been complicit in Lotho’s activities, and the third hates me because Cousin Lobelia gave the title for Bag End back to me. He’d hoped to inherit it from her himself, you see."

The Bracegirdle Lawyer

       "So, you entertained guests today, did you?" Sam asked as he moved the bowl he found sitting on the dresser’s top up onto the shelf where it was generally kept.

       "Yes," Frodo admitted, "from a farm in which I have interests." He’d solemnly sworn Pando to secrecy about the identity of the visitors he’d had and their business, and he knew the lad would hold his tongue around the gardener. No need to remind Sam about lands outside the Shire until there was true reason for him to remember he had such things he must inevitably deal with himself. Sam and Rosie would be marrying so soon, and he wanted Sam able to focus on that, and not be reminded of the darker times they’d known out there.

       "Not often as such actually come here," Sam commented as he looked into the drawer in which the spoons were kept and saw them properly arranged.

       "True enough; but you know how much things have been changed as a result of the Time of Troubles."

       Sam shrugged his agreement. All too much had been changed; but at least things were beginning to resume their usual beauty within the Shire. The sapling growing in the Party Field appeared to be a mallorn tree, and he was very optimistic at the moment, having seen how so many of the young trees he’d planted starting early in February had begun to grow up at such an unprecedented rate. "Marish is lovely, it is. And it seems as the crops is fair springin’ up in the fields, intent on makin’ up for the short rations and all from last year." He was pleased to see Frodo smile. "Did you come back last night?"

       "No, this morning. I was pretty tired last night, and so I slept the night at the Whitfoots’ and rode back shortly after second breakfast."

       "Nice ride?"

       "Yes. Seeing the Sun again helped, I think." He laughed. "It’s almost as if Pearl were mothering me--she’s taken to having Bard carry me slices of cake lately, and yesterday she sent me a whole one and had him leave it with Mina."

       "And did you eat aught of it?"

       The pink spots on Frodo’s cheeks grew more pronounced. "I had a small slice last night, and Mina wrapped one in a napkin and placed it in my saddlebags. I ate it on the way home, although much of it was rather squashed."

       "I trust as you didn’t feed it to the birds?" Sam noted the pink grew deeper once more and knew that at least a portion of that cake had indeed gone that way. "Well, Missus Maggot sent you a gift, she did--a basket of early mushrooms and a brandy cake."

       "Bless her, the dear lady. A true queen among Hobbits, as I’ve said before, Sam."

       "Indeed she is." Sam fetched a knife out and, after lifting the cake out of its basket, cut several thin slices and saw one onto a plate for Frodo, fetched a fork for him, and saw him settled with it and a mug of his special tea. "You been feelin’ cold?" he asked with a glance at the grey shawl.

       "Only a bit."

       "Woodbox is full."

       "Yes." Sam noted that Frodo didn’t elaborate on that--the mysterious guests had evidently repaid his Master’s hospitality by fetching in more wood, he realized. Interesting. Not one of his relatives, then, most likely--gentry didn’t tend to think of that kind of helpfulness.

       Sam found the saucer shoved under the settle and picked it up, then paused. There were traces of grease on it. Now, why would Mr. Frodo put meat on a saucer, much less set it on the floor? Then he went on to the parlor and found what he was certain was dog hair on the narrow sofa by the fireplace. What was this? Since when had a dog been allowed entrance into Bag End? Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. He picked up the tray Frodo had left here earlier and brought it back to the kitchen. Frodo had finished the slice of cake and was looking with interest at the rest. Smiling, Sam placed a second slice on the plate and got himself one. He’d found if he made certain the slices were thin enough Frodo would be able to eat more than one, and in the end eat more than he’d thought to be able to stomach at a time.

       "Will you and Rosie be sitting for your gifts tomorrow?" Frodo asked.

       "Yes, for a couple hours at least. Will you come to the Cotton’s house?"

       "No--I find I have business in Overhill."

       His Cousin Folco, then? Sam wondered. "Will you walk or ride Strider?"

       Frodo thought for a moment. "I think ride. Usually I’d walk, but I seem to tire so easily since I felt out of sorts in March. But I intend to do a proper walking trip to Buckland after your wedding--leave you and Rosie some proper privacy for your wedding night and a few days more."

       "I don’t like the thought of you maybe pressin’ yourself too hard, Master, if you take my meaning."

       "Oh, I’ll take it slowly enough," Frodo promised. "But for now, if you feel up to it perhaps we’ll both have another slice of that cake."

       Delighted, Sam fetched his friend a third slice and cut a slightly more substantial piece for himself.

*******

       "I cannot believe just how easily the Travelers dealt with Lotho’s Big Men," Dremma Chubbs commented.

       Rico Clayhanger nodded solemnly but held his tongue. It appeared that everyone was still on about the Time of Troubles, although what could be said now that hadn’t been rehashed to death since November he couldn’t imagine. Bartolo, he noted, wore that disgusted look he always got when the Travelers--in his mind mostly figuring Frodo Baggins--were mentioned. Rico suppressed a smile.

       Largo Longbottom was smiling. "The fields Lotho had fired on our first estate are already leafing out, far more so than we’d looked to see. And I can’t believe how quickly the plum trees are growing at Cousin Lilac’s place. And it’s hard to think the Summer Garden in Lesser Grace was covered with those atrocities of Lotho’s last summer--the daffodils and narcissi and hyacinths are especially lovely, and it looks as if the iris and tulips will be particularly thick this year. As for the decorative rhododendrons and quince--you’d not believe they were little more than dead-looking sticks before Sam Gamgee came with his helpers and they cultivated around them. And the new camellia he planted in March is at least a foot taller than it was when it went into the ground."

       Angelica Clayhanger, Angelica Baggins the elder as was, sought to explain. "Sam was telling my mother that he’s certain it’s due to the grains of dust he was given during his journey. Seems an Elf queen gave them to him, and he thinks she somehow laid a spell of special growth on them. He’s been putting a grain under every tree he plants, and digging pinches into the gardens he works on. My parents’ place certainly looks especially lovely, and my dad is doing much better in the last few weeks."

       Daisy Boffin nodded. "And it’s hard to believe that Bag End is almost totally restored now, it and its gardens. After what the Big Men did there...." She shuddered, as did several others, both gentlehobbits and their ladies.

       Her husband Griffo put his arm about his wife’s shoulders. "Well, at least Cousin Frodo is back where he belongs. Bless Lobelia for that. It was a terrible way for her to learn just how much evil Lotho brought about, though, for her to come out of the Lockholes and see how much devastation he and Sharkey’s folks left in their wake."

       "Has Baggins said more about what they did out there?" asked a Chubbs relative.

       "No--I’ve barely seen him save when he’s come to visit Ponto. He didn’t come to the last meeting of the family heads--was very tired after the week’s work in Michel Delving."

       "Poor, dear Cousin Frodo," Delphinium Bracegirdle said softly. Rico noted the sour look Bartolo gave his beloved wife.

       "I heard the Captains went out on another patrol up to the North Farthing, there near Long Cleeve," commented Largo.

       "So Bartolo and I were told while we were in Michel Delving the other day," Rico answered him. "Something about a nest of Big Men possibly having been seen there."

       The Chubbs relative gave a delicate shiver, an affectation he was much given to. "Save us from more dealings with Men," he muttered.

       "They apparently intended to do just that," growled Bartolo, "Merry and Pippin, at least."

       There was a ring at the bell, and after a few minutes Dremma’s maid Bella came in, giving a bit of a curtsey to the company. "Beg pardon, Mistress," she said, "but there’s an unexpected caller. It’s Mr. Frodo Baggins."

       "He wasn’t sent an invitation..." began Dremma.

       "Oh, he’s not here about the party, Mistress--says as he needs to have a word with Mr. Bartolo rather. I put him in the formal parlor, Mistress."

       All looked at the Bracegirdle with openly expressed curiosity. "With you, Barti?" asked Angelica Clayhanger. "Now, what on earth would Cousin Frodo wish to discuss with you? You weren’t in on Lotho and Timono’s schemes, were you?"

       "Certainly not!" Bartolo spat out. "Lotho Pimple was never more than a lout and an embarrassment. Best thing Benlo’s done since he was made family head was to strike him and Timono out of the Book, and I was glad I was there to see it done."

       "And the Sackvilles followed suit," noted Griffo.

       "Although I doubt Frodo’s done so from the Book of Baggins," Daisy said.

       "Not," added Malco Chubbs, "that anyone except the Bracegirdles would ever claim Timono. Was he in the Longbottom Book, Largo?"

       "No, thank the stars," Largo said with relief. "My dad never thought to include him under any circumstances, not after the row his father made when he was born, what with his mother being so ill and dying and all, and his dad insisting that we Longbottoms were failing our obligations to her by not sending a healer along with the midwife--even though he was the one who summoned the midwife himself and he’d not notified the family she’d come to her time--nor that she was ill."

       Tiercel Bracegirdle had been prone to odd thinking for years before his son Timono’s birth. Alternately suspicious and expansive, he’d confused many who’d tried to like him for his wife’s sake. His insistence that Gardenia’s death in childbirth was the fault of her Longbottom relatives had confused everyone, and had led to much bitterness. Aunt Lilac Hornblower had tried to make Timono a part of the family and had constantly invited him to parties and treats; but when not even Frodo Baggins, who could get along (if quietly) with about everyone, hadn’t been able to abide him during a house party when the two were teens she’d given up on the lad. Perhaps it was only to be expected he and Lotho would make an alliance--not that it could have been considered a friendship.

       Rico cast a sideways glance at Bartolo, evaluating the Bracegirdle’s response. Bartolo was glowering into his ale mug, obviously just holding down his fury.

       "Well, Barti," Angelica persisted, "are you or are you not going to find out what he wants?"

       "I don’t see," Bartolo said, glaring at her from under his eyebrows, "that I need to be in any hurry about finding out. After all, he’s given me no warning that he intended to interrupt my enjoyment of the party."

       Dremma snorted. "Enjoyment, Bartolo Bracegirdle? And when was the last time you truly enjoyed anything? You shuffle around, perpetually bored and suspicious, the absolutely typical sullen Bracegirdle."

       Malco shrugged. "You may as well go find out what’s bothering him--unless you’ve been writing odd contracts or something like."

       Delphie colored and bristled. "I’ll have you know, Malco Chubbs, that my husband does not write inequitable contracts. He’s as honest as the day’s long, if not more so."

       Rico could sense just the slightest lightening of his friend’s glower indicating he was pleased by his wife’s championship as Bartolo finished off his ale and slowly unfolded himself from his chair. "I may as well," the Bracegirdle allowed, "see him and send him on his way." He set his empty mug down on the table and, nodding to Bella to precede him, followed her out of the room.

       "You don’t suppose Frodo found any problems in the documents you two took in the other day, do you?" asked Angelica.

       "I don’t see how," Rico said. "I was the one presenting the sales contract, not him. He only had two wills."

       Bartolo just heard that exchange as he allowed Bella to lead him to the door to the second parlor. He could see Frodo through the open door, wrapped as he so often was any more in that foreign cloak of his, his eyes fixed somehow on his own thoughts. Frodo’s face had always been extraordinarily expressive; now it was rather closed off. After dismissing Bella with a negligent wave of his hand, Bartolo stopped just inside the doorway, his head up, examining his caller, the distant gaze, the pale countenance, the growing number of silver hairs in the dark curls, rubbing at his left shoulder with his right hand, a definite look of pain momentarily showing on his face.

       "You hurting, Baggins?" he asked as he closed the door behind him, realizing his voice sounded decidedly cold.

       Frodo looked up, apparently startled to find he wasn’t alone, and his expression becoming guarded. "It’s good of you to agree to see me, Bartolo," he said, his voice studiously neutral.

       "Nothing good about it. What’s this about? You can’t have found anything wrong with either of those wills. And it was Rico who wrote and presented the sales document, not me...."

       "There was nothing wrong with either will, or with Rico’s sales contract from what I could see."

       "You haven’t gone through the rest of it?"

       Frodo shook his head. "They wouldn’t let me take it with me--said I needed the days off. No, Bard or one of the others will go through the rest of it, not me."

       "So, you’re good at delegating responsibility, are you? Or has the great, responsible Frodo Baggins become uncaring in his advancing years?"

       Frodo refused to be goaded, and his expression was again closed off. "Uncaring? If only."

       "Then why are you here? If there’s nothing wrong with the documents I tender...."

       "I need your services."

       Bartolo looked at the Baggins with disbelief. "Need my services?" he asked. "And how on earth is it that Frodo Baggins needs the services of a Bracegirdle? Do you need one to carry your shrouded corpse to the grave or something like? That’s the only service I’d wish to offer you."

       He was pleased to see that Frodo’s jaw was clenching. It was almost a full minute before Frodo answered, and it was plain he was modulating his voice. "I need a special contract written--a property lease agreement."

       Bartolo started to turn away. Frodo stood and asked, his voice so reasonable it stopped the Bracegirdle more surely than a hand grasping his shoulder would have done, "Why are you leaving, Bartolo? Isn’t that what you, as a lawyer of the Shire, do--write agreements and contracts?"

       Bartolo turned about, his expression suspicious and angry. "You already have a lawyer, Baggins. Or have you forgotten that Brendilac Brandybuck serves you as personal lawyer? Can’t he write a lease agreement for you? And what are you going to do--lease Bag End to that gardener fellow of yours?"

       Frodo’s face was still closed, closed and almost utterly drained of color. His voice when he spoke was again utterly reasonable. "Not this agreement he couldn’t--not that I would wish him to do so."

       For the first time the Bracegirdle lawyer felt honest curiosity stir him. "Why not? This something you’re ashamed of, Baggins?"

       "No, not ashamed. I do find it somewhat embarrassing, perhaps; but it’s nothing to be ashamed of."

       The idea that Frodo Baggins could feel embarrassment took the lawyer by total surprise. "You mean you’re secretly married or something? Need a lease agreement to deal with providing for a hidden child or the outcome of an assignation?"

       Frodo gave a brief laugh that seemed to surprise himself as much as it did Bartolo. "No--again, if only...."

       "Why can’t you have someone else write this contract, then?"

       "There are only three within the Shire qualified to do so, Bartolo, and I don’t trust the other two."

       Bartolo paused. There was only one type of contract only three within the Shire could write. "You have business with Bree, then?" he demanded.

       "The other party to the contract is originally from the Breelands, from Staddle, to be precise. But...."

       "If he’s moving here to the Shire you don’t need me to write a contract for you."

       Frodo waved away the interruption. "He’s not moving to the Shire."

       "Since when have you owned property interests in Bree?"

       "To my knowledge I don’t have any property interests in Bree, although considering how little I know about what properties I hold title to outside the Shire so far I suppose it may prove possible."

       The Bracegirdle lawyer looked at his companion with shock. He didn’t think he’d goggled, but he couldn’t be certain. It took a time to find his voice again. "You do own property outside the Shire?"

       "Yes."

       "What did you do--find some fantastic treasure and buy up a great deal of property hoping to sell it one day or something like?"

       Frodo’s face was pale again, save for bright pink spots on his cheeks. "I left the Shire hoping to lose what I learned wasn’t a treasure after all but a threat. I certainly didn’t find any along the way, Bartolo."

       "Then how did you end up with property outside the Shire?"

       The pink spots grew more intense. "Aragorn settled it all on me."

       "Who’s this Aragorn?"

       "My friend." Bartolo noted how Frodo’s chin was raised as he said that.

       "You have a friend who just for a lark settles uncounted property titles on you?" Bartolo demanded.

       "Not just for a lark...." Frodo didn’t finish what he had apparently intended to say. At last he said, "One of the plots of land lies north of the Shire along the northeast side of the Brandywine, apparently. It once was a farmstead, although it’s not been worked for a very long time. A Hobbit farmer from Staddle decided to settle there, but was advised he’d have to arrange an agreement with me to do so."

       "By whom?"

       "By Aragorn’s kinsman."

       "This kinsman is keeping watch of the properties this Aragorn gave you?"

       "He was to do a survey of them...."

       "A survey?" Bartolo was feeling well out of his depth.

       "Yes. When he found a Hobbit on one of them he felt duty bound to tell him he needed to make an arrangement with me."

       "So, what am I supposed to do?"

       "You’re one of only three qualified to write agreements and contracts between a citizen of the Shire and one from outside it."

       "Yes--with someone who resides in the Breelands. But what you’ve said indicates this isn’t inside the Breelands."

       "That’s true."

       "But who needs a contract when settling land outside the Breelands? It’s not as if it belongs to anyone...."

       "This land has belonged to a specific family for a very long time, Bartolo, and has now been settled on me."

       "If they owned it, why didn’t they farm it?"

       "Absentee landlords?" Frodo suggested.

       "How can you be a landlord when no one’s living on the property?"

       Frodo shrugged and shook his head. "This property has been left to lie fallow since its former managers left it. I don’t know if they were called away northward, if they fled enemies, or if they were killed on the property--only that Aragorn’s family has claimed it since its former lords died, and probably with reason--the memories of his family are long."

       "I’ll need to see the deed and title documents...."

       "They’ve not been sent to me as yet."

       "Then how do you know for certain this is yours?"

       "I know only what Faradir told the tenant, and that he identified property markers the tenant recognized."

       "And how do we know no one’s moved those property markers?"

       "Well, as they include two great standing stones to the north and a line of rock slippage to the south, I’d say the property markers would be rather difficult for a mere farmer to shift." It was growing obvious that Frodo was beginning to tire as he suddenly sat back down, his features looking a bit grey as he closed his eyes and grasped at the pendant he wore. "I’m sorry--please, may I have a drink?"

       Surprised and even a bit shaken, Bartolo went to the door. Bella sat on the small chair in the hall where she was often stationed during Dremma’s parties, reading. "Bella?" he called.

       She looked up, shoving the book into her apron pocket as she stood, automatically straightening her skirts. "Mr. Bartolo?" she asked, "How may I help you?"

       "A small glass of wine and a second of water, please; and perhaps a couple slices of chicken with cress between bread--and a mug of light ale."

       Once she was gone on her errand, he returned and grasped Frodo’s left wrist. His pulse was rather quick, and his face a bit damp with sweat. When he finally opened his eyes it was to find Bartolo Bracegirdle examining him, his expression rather accusatory. "Tell me, Baggins, how long has your condition been this fragile?"

       Frodo shook his head and looked away. "I’m well enough," he insisted in a low tone. "As long as I can do what needs doing, I’ll do what I can."

       Bartolo let out a deep breath. "I see. Then your Took relatives who work with you in Michel Delving are a bit more than mere delegation of responsibility, eh? Are you really well enough to serve as deputy Mayor, do you think?"

       "Do you want the job, Bartolo? Most of our folk are already convinced all it involves is officiating at banquets and weddings, you know--oh, and filing documents, of course. But then they have no idea of what else goes on there. I’d be glad to have you finish the investigations of what Lotho and Timono did, and how Marcos Smallburrow was involved, and the likes of Beasty Bracegirdle, and whether or not Lothario understood his part in the presentation of documents, and who’s to blame for Ferdibrand Took’s blindness."

       "I never said as I wanted the job, Frodo."

       "Unless you’re willing to shoulder it, I suggest you’d best not question my handling of it, then--unless you think I’m shirking it."

       After a moment the Bracegirdle admitted grudgingly, "Everyone who counts says as you’re doing a fine job."

       "Thanks for that."

       Bella returned with the tray and knocked at the door. Bartolo went to take it from her, then rudely shut the door in her face. He turned to see an expression of marked distaste on the face of the Master of Bag End. The lawyer paused, then said, "Unless you’re up to taking the tray, perhaps you should just let me do it." He carried it to the table by where Frodo sat. Bella had brought three crusty rolls filled with chicken and cress, and a fourth filled with ham and pickle such as Bartolo himself preferred. He now felt a bit sorry for the way he’d treated the maid, but not sufficiently so that he’d open the door again to apologize, not that apologizing was something he did regularly anyway. He believed he was now in a position to satisfy his curiosity about why Frodo had felt impelled to make the mad decision to sell Bag End to Lotho and leave the Shire as he did.

       He took the ham roll and the ale. "Tell you what, Baggins--you answer some questions, and I’ll think about it."

       "I won’t promise to answer every question, but at least I’ll allow you to ask some."

       The two exchanged serious looks, and at last Bartolo shrugged. "Take a quarter of a roll and the wine, Baggins." Then when Frodo had done so, he asked, "Why Lotho?"

       "He came first with the price I’d asked of Ponto and Iris."

       "You never ran out of money, did you?"

       "I didn’t lie--almost all of the treasure Bilbo had left me was indeed spent."

       "But considering you have farm shares and business partnerships spanning perhaps a good quarter of the Shire and Buckland, you certainly weren’t hurting for money."

       Frodo didn’t answer, merely shrugged as he sipped at the wine.

       "Didn’t you realize that allowing Lotho to have Bag End would put the final coat of paint on his fantasy that he was the most important and smartest Hobbit as ever lived?"

       "How was I to know this was more true of him than every other Hobbit that’s ever been born, Bartolo? I’ve found it’s also a common fantasy among Men and even Wizards as well as among Hobbits. Even I have been subject to it. That he not only believed it but would act on it to try to take over the entire Shire was something I would never have imagined."

       "He’s always had such dreams, Baggins. Always wanted to be King of the World, he did."

       "Considering Sauron and Saruman--or Sharkey, if you prefer--shared the same ambition, I’d say he was in good company."

       "You met Sharkey out there?"

       "We all heard a great deal about him once we got to Rivendell, although none of us save Gandalf had known him before it became known he’d tried to betray all of Middle Earth. I suppose that Aragorn and Boromir might have met him, but not to do more than exchange courtesies, I’d think. I didn’t meet him personally until we were on the way home, at which time he was intolerably rude to all of us and stole Merry’s leaf pouch. He hurried to arrive here before we could do so."

       "How come he hated us in the Shire?"

       "He hated everyone, Bartolo; but he didn’t believe we Hobbits could stand up to him, even after he’d destroyed his life elsewhere. And he was furious because Pippin and Merry had witnessed his defeat and captivity while I’d evaded capture by his Uruk-hai and been allowed to hold for a time the one thing he believed he truly wanted." Frodo shuddered. "I’d hate to have seen what he’d have come to had he actually found It. Gandalf could perhaps have controlled It for a time, but even he saw It would destroy him in the end; and Gandalf proved far more powerful than Saruman ever appreciated."

       "How did you get this thing this Man wanted?"

       "He wasn’t a Man--he was a Wizard."

       Finally realizing Frodo wasn’t going to answer the question he’d asked, Bartolo went on. "Did you intend to leave the Shire from the start?"

       "Yes."

       "Why?"

       "To protect it."

       "From what?"

       "From evil--from greater evil than you can imagine."

       "Did those Big Folk on horses catch up with you?"

       "We realized they were pursuing us before we’d made it to the Woody End. We kept eluding them until we were well out of the Shire. But, yes, finally they caught up with us." He set the remains of his roll and wine back on the tray.

       "Were they trying to kill you or something?"

       Frodo was clutching at his shoulder as he nodded, and for the first time Bartolo realized the rumors were right--Frodo Baggins had lost a finger. "Or something," Frodo was whispering.

       "Too bad they didn’t succeed," Bartolo said bitterly.

       Frodo shook his head and looked away. At last he replied, "It’s not from lack of trying. And--" he turned back toward the lawyer, "in the end they might just succeed."

       "So, you’re not truly well."

        Frodo’s voice was toneless as he answered, "I’ll do what I must for as long as I can. I’ll do what I can to see the Shire healed."

       After a few minutes of quiet, the Bracegirdle continued, "How’d you get these lands?"

       "I was granted them."

       "Why?"

       "Aragorn said it’s customary."

       "To give away family property?"

       "It’s more--more than family property. It was Crown property."

       "You mean----"

       "Aragorn son of Arathorn is the name given our King when he was born, although he’s carried far more names than you might believe."

       "What happened to the ones who tried to kill you?"

       "Or something? They are finally destroyed. Merry and the Lady Éowyn of Rohan between them managed to destroy their chieftain; the rest fell with Sauron."

       "And how was Sauron destroyed?"

       "Because his Ring was destroyed. He’d put too much of himself into his Ring--he couldn’t survive Its destruction."

       "And how did this Ring get destroyed?"

       Frodo’s face again was totally without color. He barely shook his head, his jaws clenched, his mouth tightly closed, his pale lips thin. The lawyer thought his eyes looked haunted.

       It was some time before Frodo reached for the cup of water, and Bartolo saw his hand was trembling as he picked it up and drank from it. Finally he put it down and held his hands clenched together in his lap. He spoke softly. "You are qualified to write a contract between one in the Shire and one in Bree, but not yet qualified to write one for Arnor in general. I wrote a letter to Lord Halladan, who is Aragorn's Steward here in the North Kingdom, last night and sent it to him on my way here. I don’t know how long it will take to get the answer back, for I’m not certain where in Arnor he is--he could be anywhere between Annúminas and Tharbad, or between Bree and Rivendell. I’ve asked him to have one versed in the law of Arnor meet with you in Bree to instruct you as to how such contracts are written. I doubt I’ll be up to leaving the Shire again for some time, if I ever do." He looked up at the lawyer from beneath his brows. "You may yet get your wish to help carry my body to the grave, Bartolo. I’ll try to remember to see that noted in my will."

       "I’ll look forward to it, Baggins," the Bracegirdle replied. "Sounds as if you might have problems getting an heir, though."

       A bit of color was finally returning to Frodo’s face. He took up the wine goblet again and sipped at it before replacing it on the tray to take up the water again and taking a deeper draught. He shrugged once more as he held the glass between his hands. "Actually, I have an heir or two--or more. Not of my body, perhaps, but I have heirs." He lifted the glass once more and finished the water it contained. After setting it back on the tray, he reached inside his jacket to an inner pocket and brought out a sealed envelope. "This contains the names to be used in identifying the parties to the contract. And I’d best be leaving soon if I am to see my cousin Folco before I return to Hobbiton and Bag End again." As Bartolo reached for it, however, Frodo pulled it closer to his chest, shaking his head. "First," he said, "you need to affirm you’ll take me as client for my legal dealings outside the Shire and agree on the fees you’ll accept; and then you’ll have to take the Oath."

       Bartolo felt himself go pale, and then flush. "And why do I need to take the Oath?" he demanded.

       "Don’t feel this is something special I demand only of you. Brendi has taken it, as have my bankers of discretion."

       "You’ve made your own kinsman take the Oath?" Bartolo asked, his brows rising.

       "If the Thain himself were my lawyer or my banker of discretion I’d make him take the Oath of secrecy, Bartolo Bracegirdle. All my life I’ve been the subject of rumors, gossip, and speculation, starting when I was small when Lobelia was insisting my own mother was unfaithful to my father, and that Bilbo was involved. It’s gone on ever since. I’m a Baggins, I’ll have you remember, and we Bagginses have never done well living in communal situations, for we like our privacy. Having to stay in Brandy Hall and hear all the murmurs of ‘poor lambkin’ and ‘the orphan who’s the Master’s heir’s ward’ and ‘odd questions he’s given to’ and ‘isn’t expected to take on a proper teen’s responsibilities’ for ten years gave me a marked distaste for having those who must know my business feeling free to share it with whomever they please. I’ll not give the Shire stones to throw at my head by letting folks in general know the details of what I do privately."

       "But if the King himself has gifted you with property----"

       "It’s not just property, Bartolo. I don’t want the details of what I went through out there generally noised through the Shire by those who don’t have the experience to understand what it was all about. I don’t want to have to deal with constant questions as to ‘why don’t you use your titles here, Cousin Frodo?’ and similar twaddle. I don’t want the Shire in general to have to understand just what I now know of the evil I tried to save it from, or how I came to that knowledge.

       "I don’t know how long I have left. You’re right--I’m not particularly well, and I haven’t been so since--since the last time I was wounded. I can barely eat sometimes. I have times I can’t sleep. When I faced Saruman--Sharkey--before Wormtongue killed him, he told me I’d not know either a long or a happy life, and whether that was a foretelling or a curse or just ill wishes on his part I don’t know; but the fact is it’s turning out to be true."

       Bartolo considered for a time. Finally he said, "Annual fees to be paid on the winter quarter day--twenty silver pennies a year for seven years."

       Frodo shrugged, then countered, "A single gold piece of the King’s coin, and I agree to the term of seven years."

       "But that’s more than I asked!"

       "I know. But you are protecting not only my interests and privacy but those of my heirs as well, and it will help cover your expenses when you must travel outside the Shire."

       It was exceedingly generous, a fact Bartolo had to admit. "All right," he said. "I accept."

       "Now, take the Oath."

       For a few moments the lawyer faced his new client, but at last spoke the Oath, knowing just how binding this was. At last Frodo nodded and handed him the envelope. "Here," he said. "But no others are to see its contents save the heirs to my titles and lands outside the Shire. Nor are you to discuss what I’ve told you today about my health or wounds or my concerns for my privacy."

       "Not even with that gardener of yours?"

       Frodo gave a twisted smile. "Who knows--in time he may find himself using your services to see to the administration of his own holdings in Arnor. But he doesn’t need to see what’s in the envelope, for he already knows."

       "I don’t wish you telling anyone I’m working for you, Frodo Baggins."

       "That I’ll agree to, Bartolo. Only Lord Halladan and whomever he sends to instruct you and those who become my tenants on my holdings in Arnor will know, besides my heirs should it come to that. I’ll draft the agreement when I’m back in Michel Delving and see it properly filed, and a copy of it and the first fee forwarded to your home in Hardbottle."

       Bartolo felt a bit dizzy. He’d learned a great deal more than he’d looked to learn about Frodo Baggins, and now he was bound from discussing what he knew with anyone, including his wife Delphinium. He looked at Frodo, and saw he was looking to rise. "Eat at least half of one of those rolls, Baggins, or most like you’ll not make it to Boffin’s place. Did you walk?"

        "No, I rode. Malco’s groom took Strider to the stable."

       "Then I’ll have him brought around."

       "Thank you, Bartolo." Frodo stood up and took a deep breath, then at the lawyer’s meaningful gaze he reached down for the discarded quarter of a roll and finished it. Then he held out his hand to shake that of the Bracegirdle. Bartolo paused only a moment, then took it, and found that in spite of the missing finger Frodo’s grasp was firm.

       The lawyer gave a nod of his head as he pulled his own hand free, then suggested, "Remember, you should eat at least another quarter roll before you leave."

       Frodo gave an amused smile, saying, "If you insist." He took up another quarter roll, and watched after as Bartolo turned to the door and quitted the parlor.

       Bartolo spoke briefly with Bella, and then returned to the other parlor, keeping his mouth firmly shut. After a moment Frodo appeared in the doorway with a brief bow. "I’m sorry to disrupt your house party, Malco, Dremma," he said quietly, "but I had business I must discuss with Mr. Bracegirdle. I thank you for the courtesy shown me by your groom and maid, and will now be leaving." He turned to the rest of the guests, acknowledging each by name.

       "It’s good to see you, Frodo," Delphinium said with genuine warmth in her tone. "I was so relieved when we learned you’d returned safely from wherever you went."

       "Thank you, Delphie. Griffo, Daisy--I’ll be seeing you both at Sam and Rosie’s wedding, will I not?"

       "We wouldn’t miss it for the world," Daisy promised him.

       "Good, then," Frodo said. "Now I must go. Thank you again, Dremma, Malco." And with a more courtly bow than he’d given the first time he turned and left, leaving the rest to look after him.

Small Revelations

       Bartolo Bracegirdle lounged in the window of the room given to himself and his wife Delphinium in Malco Chubbs’s house, one hip situated on the sill, watching with satisfaction and appreciation as Delphie prepared herself for bed. She’d removed the combs and ribbon from her hair and loosened her braid, and her hair now hung about her bared shoulders, perhaps more beautiful with the silver now in it. The lines that had begun to form around her mouth and between her brows during the Time of Troubles now appeared to be smoothing away, leaving just enough depth to add character to her features.

       "It’s so wonderful to have this back," she murmured as she unfastened the pendant she wore, an elaborate silver chain from which a sapphire rose hung. Bartolo had bought it for her as his promise gift. As she carefully replaced it in the velvet-lined box in which it had been returned to her she added, "I still find it so very difficult to understand how Timono could have taken and kept this, knowing it was mine. I remember how he looked when I told him the Gatherers and Sharers had taken it--how he was so angry on my behalf. I wonder if he had it even then, Barti. And then to be found as he was, hiding in a cupboard in a leaf drying shed with a whole bag full of other people’s jewelry, like a teen playing at I’ll-hide-and-you-seek-me."

       For the first time since Frodo’s visit earlier in the day Bartolo gave a snort of laughter. "He used to hide there the summer Aunt Lilac Hornblower had that house party she invited so many of us to when we were teens and tweens. No one would bother looking for him, either--he thought he’d found the best place to hide on the whole leaf plantation."

       She looked at him with surprise. "And he thought he could hide there and never be found now, did he? Why did they look for him there this time?"

       He shrugged, and his face grew sour again. "I suspect Frodo thought of it. He was at that house party, after all."

       "Well, at least he recognized this and the other pieces and sent them back--all except for your father’s ring and my amethyst I had from my grandmother."

       "From what Isumbard Took told me last time I asked him, they haven’t found a single ring that was taken--not from anyone anywhere in the Shire."

       "I wonder if they took Frodo’s ring?"

       "I didn’t know he ever had one--he’s never worn a ring to my knowledge."

       "Well, I suppose I can understand why he doesn’t--it was his father’s, and it was on Cousin Drogo’s hand when they found him after he’d died. I suppose Frodo probably has bad memories from it." Delphie slipped out of her shift and reached for her nightgown.

       "Well, he’s not likely to wear a ring now, now that he’s lost his ring finger," Barti said with a sniff.

       She turned back to look at him, her eyes wide. "He lost a finger? How?"

       He shrugged again somewhat uncertainly. He supposed he ought not to have spoken of that, although as it was visible to anyone who had eyes to see who managed to notice he supposed that probably wasn’t covered under the oath he’d taken. "How am I supposed to know?"

       "What did he want?"

       "He found a situation where a Hobbit needs a lawyer capable of writing a contract outside the Shire."

       "And he had to approach you himself? Why didn’t he send the Hobbit who needs the contract written?"

       "You know Frodo Baggins."

       "Did you suggest anyone else?"

       "And whom am I supposed to suggest, Delphie? Timono? Balco Hornblower? Those are the only other two who have been allowed to write contracts outside the Shire for six or seven years, love."

       "Timono’s out, of course," she sighed, "as he’s sitting in the Lockholes until they finish the investigation and do whatever they’ll do with him. But what’s wrong with Balco?"

       He shook his head as he helped her don her nightgown and put his arms around her shoulders. "It appears he was part of the whole thing--that he was helping divert leaf and potato crops out of the Shire by altering contracts after they were written to send them to Lotho instead of their proper buyers."

       She shook her head in disbelief. "I had no idea. That Hobbits could do this to other Hobbits is impossible to believe." She reached up and brought down his face and kissed him. "I do love you," she whispered.

       His smile was pensive as he kissed her back. "I sometimes wonder how in Middle Earth I managed to win you, beloved.

       "It was seeing you standing there at the Free Fair, looking so tentative and suspicious and defiant. Dremma can say what she likes about how Bracegirdles are sullen and bored--I know you’re all like hedgehogs--prickly where folks can see, but soft and warm underneath."

       They kissed, then kissed again before Delphinium took him by the hand to lead him to bed, pleased beyond telling that she might rejoice in him whenever she pleased.

       When they were done and lay relaxed and sleepy by one another, Delphie asked quietly, "Will you have to go outside the Shire to see this contract signed and all?"

       "I’ll need to do so probably a couple times in the next few months, once the first individual I need to see to make certain the contract is written properly is available."

       After a moment, Delphie said, "Barti?"

       "What, dearling?"

       "You always said we might go with you someday when you left the Shire to go to Bree. Do you think the children and I could go with you this time? According to what the Thain said at the last party we attended the Road is now watched by the new King’s folk. It should be safe enough, don’t you think?"
Bartolo thought for a few minutes. According to what Merimac Brandybuck and Isumbard Took had told him the King’s Men were indeed reported to be keeping a close watch on the borders of the Shire, and reports were that Rangers of Eriador with silver stars on the shoulders of their cloaks had been riding attendance on those who traveled between the Brandywine Bridge and Bree since before Yule to assure that no one would molest them. "Yes, I’ve been told the same."

       "Do you think your client would mind if we went with you, Barti?"

       Bartolo considered. From what he knew of Frodo Baggins he would mind a good deal, but Barti was feeling rebellious enough to feel that the Baggins would deserve it if his distant cousin Delphie were to learn more about Frodo’s business than he’d find comfortable. He smiled at the thought of how distressed Frodo would feel once he found out as he murmured, "Certainly, sweet one, if you wish of course you and the children may go with me."

       "Good," she murmured as she turned and nuzzled her head against his chest.

*******

       Boboli Hedges sat in the common room of the Green Dragon, nursing a small beer and peacefully enjoying a sweet bun. They’d had another long day of driving yesterday, going up toward Tighfield in the North Farthing to a nursery Mr. Baggins had directed them to, and there they’d found the seeds, plant starts, and even a few fruit trees they’d wanted at a more than fair price, returning rather late last evening to spend one last night in Bywater. A message had been left for him by Frodo telling him that a farmer who raised chickens in the Tooklands would be there about an hour before noon to bring him a dozen chicks, so while they waited the children had taken Lister out to explore the village with Pando Proudfoot and his foster sister Cyclamen.

       It had been a very profitable trip after all, Bob concluded, in spite of the frustrating day they’d spent chasing reports of Frodo Baggins. That his new landlord should turn out to be such a self-effacing soul had been a surprise, but he certainly could tell stories in a manner to keep one enthralled; and the tentative terms they’d worked out between them were definitely more than fair, although Frodo had warned him that the laws of Arnor might require more than they’d agreed on so far.

       It was as he reached down to take his final bite of his bun that he heard the voices approaching the common room from the entrance hallway.

       "I swear that if Da does anything like that again I’ll do well to keep from taking Troll’s Bane to him!" Now, that was enough to get anyone’s attention, Bob thought as he and the barman both straightened to look at the door.

       "He just doesn’t understand, Pip," came the reply.

       "It’s not just a matter of not understanding, Meriadoc Brandybuck--he is so intent on not believing a word any of us tell him it’s a wonder he doesn’t insist that the Sun was shining at night and the stars a-gleaming in the daytime."

       The two newcomers entered with that statement, quite the tallest Hobbits Boboli had ever seen. Why, they both had to be well over four feet tall! Not only were they exceptionally tall, so much so they had to duck to get through the rounded doorway side by side, but both wore swords hanging from belts made of green-tinted links shaped like leaves, although the sheaths to the swords didn’t match.

       Both wore a kind of shirt apparently made of metal links, the one with the warm brown hair with a sleeveless leather garment over it finished with bright greens and golds and browns with a pair of white horse heads muzzle to muzzle, the auburn-headed one wearing over his a vest of sheepskin with the pelt to the inside. They approached the bar in a familiar manner.

       "Tell me, Rubo," asked the one with the brown hair, "are there any pasties to be had?"

       "Yessir, Master Merry, sir--pork pasties as was just made this mornin’. My wife was up early to see them done for luncheon; but I suppose as they’ll do as well for elevenses, sir. Would you like an ale with it, or mayhap a mug of tea?"

       The two tall Hobbits looked at one another, then the one called Merry turned back to the barman and told him, "Two each, and make that your dark tea for both of us--and large mugs, mind."

       "Yessir--a bowl of sugar by it for you to add as you please, and milk and a dollop o’ honey for Master Peregrin."

       "You’re becoming all too predictable, Peregrin Took," Merry said to his companion after he’d tossed a coin to Rubo and they came to take the table next to Boboli’s. "I swear that every server in every inn throughout the entire Shire now knows precisely how you like your tea."

       "Considering how many we’ve visited just in the last few months chasing reports of brigands here and there, I suppose that’s to be expected," Pippin replied. He sighed, then went back to his former subject. "I just don’t understand why Da and Mum keep trying to insist we did nothing dangerous out there, Merry, or why Da keeps being so contrary. Talk about predictable! Did you know that they lay wagers every time I enter the Great Smial as to how long it will be before Da says something so outrageous I’ll stalk out again? Now I understand just how Aragorn felt when he realized we were laying them on how soon he’d break down and bolt right out of the Citadel for an hour or two, just to get away for a while from all the strictures of protocol."

       "They are betting on how long you’ll last?" Merry asked, his eyes wide. "Do you have any idea who won this time?"

       "Hillie, I think--I saw him grinning as we went through the Great Hall on the way toward the main door, and holding out his hands toward Everard and old Ferdibrand as they dug through their pockets. Alinard was looking a bit put out as he handed Jewel’s reins to me."

       Merry laughed. "Well," he finally said, "you must be making some progress. We were there for a full day and first breakfast before Uncle Pal went too far this time."

       "Probably only because he was busy all day yesterday dealing with the correspondence from Long Cleeve," Pippin said, sighing and shaking his head.

       The barman had disappeared into the back room, and now came out carrying a tray with a couple of plates and mugs and a sugar bowl and spoon. He set them down before his guests with a smile and a "Here you are then, Captains, sirs," before returning behind the bar, disposing of his tray, and going back to the accounts he’d been working on before these two came in.

       Pippin applied himself to his first pastie while Merry sipped at his tea and looked over at Bob, who was the only other patron in the room. The Brandybuck was examining Bob with interest over the rim of his mug, and at last as he set it down he smiled and asked, "And what brings you to the center of the Shire from the Breelands, sir?"

       The farmer was surprised. "An’ how is it’s you know as I’m from the Breelands, sir. Is it writ ’cross me chest or sommat?"

       Merry gave another short laugh. "No--it’s the fabric for your vest. My Grandda would buy loads of that fabric each year to provide for all the folk in the Hall who looked to him to provide for clothing, and my dad did the same until it began to become dangerous to leave the Shire at all. But welcome to the Shire anyway. Meriadoc Brandybuck of Brandy Hall and Peregrin Took of the Great Smial at your service, sir."

       "Formerly of the Great Smial," muttered the auburn-headed Took.

       "Boboli Hedges, formerly o’ Staddle at yours and your families’," Bob replied. "So, ye’re the Captains, then."

       "Yes, that’s us. Exterminators of ruffians, orcs, and any spare troll that might be bothering you--I leave those last to Pippin there, though."

       "He handles Black Riders, you see," Pippin said cheekily to Bob. Then, noting a brief look of discomfort on his friend’s face he said, "Sorry, Merry. Should have kept my mouth shut, I suppose."

       Merry shrugged, then turned decidedly back toward Boboli. "And what brings you all the way to Bywater, Mr. Hedges, sir?" he asked. "Are you moving into the Shire now?"

       "No--had to meet with a Hobbit as lives in Hobbiton as holds the title to the land where me and mine is lookin’ to buildin’ up a farm."

       "And what Hobbit in Hobbiton owns property outside the Shire?" Pippin asked, but Merry had gone rather still.

       Merry examined Bob more closely as he rubbed at the back of his right wrist and commented softly, "I must suppose it has to do with that maintenance business Strider was going on about." He then asked Bob directly, "Did you have to see Sam or Frodo?"

       "Mr. Baggins. So, you know about it, then?"

       "Some, although none of us truly understands much of what it means. Seems to be due to some custom of Gondor and Arnor, though--probably going back to when the Kings came back to Middle Earth from Númenor."

       Pippin was again nibbling at his second pastie as he also eyed the Breelander. "But I understood," he said as he swallowed, "all the lands given Frodo here in Arnor were up somewhere around Dead Man’s Dike or something."

       "Well," Bob told them, "one of ’em lies right north o’ the Shire near the Brandywine, and that’s where we was fixin’ t’settle when a Ranger come in and told us as we’d have to settle with Lord Iorhael in order t’stay there, as he owns the land atween the two standin’ stones as marks the north corners’n the rock slip as marks the south."

       "I see," Merry said consideringly as he picked up one of his pasties and began eating it.

       "Oh, and I was asked to bear the regards o’ Mr. Faradir ’n his son and another Ranger called Eregiel to the two o’ ye if’n I should see ye, like."

       "Faradir?" Pippin said. "Wasn’t he the one who always called Frodo and Sam by their titles and Elvish names, Merry?"

       Merry was nodding as he took a sip of his ale to wash down his bite of pastie. "Yes, that’s the one." Suddenly he was smiling. "And I’ll wager he didn’t tell you Frodo’s right name, did he? Had you going all over the Shire looking for ‘Lord Iorhael’ with no one having a clue as to whom you meant?"

       "There ye have it right," agreed the farmer. "We was in a right state tryin’ t’figger it out, and chasin’ after Mr. Baggins in hopes as he’d tell us."

       Both Merry and Pippin were laughing, Pippin holding a napkin to his mouth to keep from losing the last bite of pastie he’d taken.

       Merry managed to choke out, "Oh, I can just imagine you showing up on the doorstep of Bag End, and Frodo opening the door to your question, ‘Beg pardon, Mr. Baggins, sir, but are you Lord Iorhael?’ Bet his face was totally white except for the bright pink spots on his cheeks."

       "Oh, you might as well of been there t’see," Bob assured him.

       "How much longer will you stay, Mr. Hedges?" Merry asked.

       "We’re to meet with a farmer o’er a matter o’ some chicks afore we leave. Should be here any time now, I suppose. Hope to make it t’ the Floatin’ Log for the night, and make it the rest o’ the way to Bree tomorrow. At least now we know the way proper."

       It was at that moment a number of children, among them Frodo’s young cousins Pando and Cyclamen, dashed into the common room. "Dad!" Teo said. "The Took farmer’s here with the chickens."

       "That’s that then," Bob said, rising and reaching into a pocket for a small coin to leave.

       Merry and Pippin’s eyes were fastened on the garments the lad was wearing. Merry asked, "Frodo gave him that?"

       Pippin, however, was shaking his head. "No, Merry. He left a number of things back in Bree, remember?" He looked at the lad. "Did Nob give you that?"

       "Yes, ’n Mr. Frodo said as he was glad I could fit ’em."

       As he wiped his chin Pippin said quietly, "Well, it will be interesting to see what Frodo has to say about all this, Merry."

       Merry made a face. "Phht--he’ll not say a word and you know it. He’ll not allow anyone else to know about it or admit anything about it if I know my Frodo--and you know I do, Pip." He turned to Bob. "Well, it’s always a pleasure to meet a new neighbor, Mr. Hedges, sir. One day we’ll ride out to visit you if we may."

       "Ye’re welcome at any time," Bob assured them. "Well, I must be off." He shook hands with both of them, then walked to the bar. Rubo looked up with question from his accounts, then smiled and went into the back room and fetched out the large hamper. Bob took it with a nod of thanks and left, followed by the children, Cyclamen Proudfoot waving at the two Captains as she exited.

       "So," Pippin commented quietly to his cousin, "Frodo has learned he is a landlord. Wish he’d tell us about it."

       "Well, we can go out and meet with the Hedges family when we have enough time free. Frodo won’t speak of it unless he’s pressed--we know that already."

       "Yes, I know--close-mouthed Baggins that he is. Well, hurry up, and we’ll be at Bag End to surprise him in time for his elevenses."

       "As if he wasn’t likely to have had second breakfast ready for us yesterday morning," Merry commented. "And you have room for more elevenses after two whole pasties?"

       "That was just second breakfast for me," Pippin assured him, and he picked up his mug to finish his tea.

*******

       "So, you’re off now?" asked Dremma Chubbs as Delphie and Bartolo accepted their wraps from Bella.

       "Yes," Delphie answered. "The children have been spending the week with their cousins, and we really must fetch them away before they drive the rest of the family mad. And Bartolo has some research to do in order to advise a client, as well as preparations to take care of the business of the client Cousin Frodo advised him of the other day."

       "Who’s the client?" Malco asked.

       Bartolo shrugged. "About the only thing I can say is that the other party was from the Breelands, and I’ll probably have to go out of the Shire at least twice this year to get papers written and signed properly. After that there’s a chance I may have to meet with each of the parties one or more times a year, and if anything happens to my client within the Shire I’ll need to consult with his designated heir or heirs."

       "Sounds uncomfortable," Dremma said, folding her hands in her lap and settling herself more firmly upon the cushion of her chair. "I certainly wouldn’t want to have to go outside the Shire. Why, you might end up running into Men out there."

       "Considering there are far more Men in Middle Earth than there are Hobbits, it’s almost a certainty I’ll have to meet Men once I leave the Shire," Bartolo said in a tone of disgust. "I’ve certainly had to meet them every other time I’ve gone to Bree. After all, the Prancing Pony belongs to Barliman Butterbur, who is very much a Man. However, most Men in my experience are nothing like those Lotho and that Sharkey brought into the Shire."

       "And you have to remember that the new King is a Man, and everyone says it’s his kinsmen who patrol our outer borders," Delphie added.

       "I don’t like the idea of us having to depend on Men to protect us from other Men," Malco muttered. "As for a King--well, we’ll have a new King when the King returns!"

       All looked at him with upraised brows at that statement, and then Delphinium Bracegirdle broke out into peals of laughter. Even Bartolo appeared amused, an unusual expression to see on his face. "Well, it appears, Malco, as that particular unlikely event had occurred--only instead of the return of Arvedui Last-king we have his descendant Aragorn son of Arathorn."

       "Is that his name?" Dremma asked. "I thought it was Elless or something like that."

       Bartolo waved his hand. "You want his full name? Talk to Baggins or his gardener or his cousins--I’m certain they’ll all be happy enough to rattle it off for you. But the other night I was assured the King was born Aragorn son of Arathorn, and that he has a spate of other names or titles or something like besides." He wrapped his cloak about him and helped Delphie to don hers. "Thank you for inviting us," he said, his tone almost grudging. Then as he turned to the door and found Bella waiting nearby, her expression a bit wary, he added, "And Bella, thank you, too." He put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and together they headed for the front door, which was opened for them by a much surprised Bella.

       Their trap had already been brought around and their luggage stowed. Bartolo helped his wife onto the bench and then mounted it himself, and with a nod of parting to those who watched from the window of the parlor he released the brake and gave a flick of the reins, and they were off.

       Once they were out of sight of the Chubbs place Delphinium gave her husband a sidelong glance, then grinned. "I cannot believe that Malco said that!" she said.

       "He certainly didn’t think it out before it popped out of him," the lawyer replied.

       "I hadn’t really thought of it, but if we go out to Bree with you we will have to meet Men, won’t we?"

       "You don’t have to go," Bartolo said, surprised to realize he felt disappointed.

       "Oh, I still want to go with you, Barti. I just think it’s time more folk get used to dealing with those from outside the Shire, and if we’re to be part of the restored kingdom we’ll have to learn to get along with those Men who are part of it, too. And I don’t want our children growing up terrified of meeting all Men if it’s true most are nothing like Lotho and Sharkey’s folk."

       "I assure you they aren’t."

       "What kind of folk would we meet at the Prancing Pony?"

       He shrugged. "All kinds--good, bad, indifferent. Most Breelander Men are very much like Breelander Hobbits--more interested in farming or running market stalls and in their next meal than about anything else."

       She took a deep breath and nodded, and Bartolo could feel her relax somewhat, reassured by his words.

       They arrived in Hardbottle shortly after elevenses, and as they drove up to Bartolo’s sister’s smial all eight children, his and Delphie’s five and his sister’s three, poured out the door to greet them. The Bracegirdle children ranged in age from Persivo at twenty-six to little Alyssa who had just turned ten last month. Of the five of them, however, it was Persivo who both delighted and frustrated his father the most, for he was the one who had inherited the most of the Baggins nature from his mother.

       He was taller and more slender than most of the other tweens in the village, with hair of the same striking dark brown his mother’s cousin Frodo had sported. His eyes, on the other hand, matched his hair, being the dark brown typical of the Bracegirdles, and his skin was less ivory and more peach in tone than was seen in Frodo. He’d inherited both his paternal line’s cleverness and his maternal family’s vaunted sensitivity and deep-seated intelligence. But it was the Baggins compassion that took precedence in Persivo Bracegirdle rather than the Bracegirdle taciturnity, and this was one thing to spark wonder and frustration in the heart of his father.

       A windstorm tore the roof off Leno Brockhole’s place? Bartolo shook his head because he’d warned Leno it was probably going to happen as the thatch hadn’t been properly tied down in several years and needed to be replaced anyway; Persivo was found that afternoon up on the Brockhole’s house helping to replace rafters and supports, then came home all upset that not only was the Brockhole house still open in part to the rain expected that night, but he’d found a birds nest in the blown-off thatch with all its nestlings dead. Why the lad had to feel sorry for a bunch of birds Bartolo couldn’t fathom. When the Goold lass fell and broke her wrist Persivo had skipped his lessons in riding three days in a row to assist her family to take care of her. And he was always spending his free time at Gammer Alma’s place, helping her as he could and talking with her, listening avidly to her stories.

       Persivo had inherited his father’s interest in the law and the writing of agreements and contracts, but so far their attempts to have lessons between them had been a failure. There was no question Persivo understood his father’s teaching, but he was constantly seeing more far-reaching consequences of proposed actions and specific wording than his father had ever thought of. Bartolo found this tendency to analyze everything taught both disturbing and confusing. Why bother so with trying to foresee possible future complications?

       Well, there the five of them were, and even Persivo’s eyes were lit up to see them.

       "Daddy! Mummy!" cried Alyssa. "You’re here at last!"

       Begonia, twenty-two, and Pet, seventeen, were hurrying forward with their brother Enrico, thirteen, right behind them. "Dad! Mum! Can we go home now?" "Mum, can cousin Ladro come and stay with us next week?"

       And then they were in the hole, dragged there by Alyssa and Enrico, being chattered at from all sides. "Did you enjoy yourselves?" "We went to----" "No, not yet, Ricki!" "Did you know that caterpillars grow up to be butterflies?" "Uncle Lothario says----"

       At that last name a good deal of the pleasure he knew at seeing his children fled Bartolo Bracegirdle. Lothario hadn’t been here, had he? Of all his closer Bracegirdle relatives besides Timono, the one he had the least respect for had to be Lothario. Lothario was, for a Bracegirdle, quite charming in contrast to the rest of the family--charming and shockingly weak and easily turned by flattery or bullying. He’d not been right out there openly cheating folks and thus destroying the good name of Bracegirdle as had done Timono and Lothario’s brother Bigelow, but chances were he had been involved around the fringes of Lotho and Timono’s activities during the Time of Troubles. His brother Bigelow would most likely have been in the thick of it, but Bigelow loved gambling--just as long as the only one involved in the wager who wasn’t gambling was himself. His habit of using weighted dice and dosing rival ponies in races had finally led some years earlier to him and his son Bedro--as stupid and bullying a lout of a child as had ever been born--to being banished out of the South Farthing on the authority of Benlo Bracegirdle’s stern old dad Benbo as family head. They’d ended up in some obscure little village on the northwestern edges of the Shire, still uncomfortably close to Hardbottle as far as Bartolo was concerned. But to have Lothario here around his and his sister Lavinia’s children....

       Then they were being drawn into Lavinia’s dining room where elevenses had obviously just finished up, and there sat Lavinia and her husband Balbo Hornblower, Balbo’s brother Milton, Delphie’s Gammer Alma Grubb, and Lothario himself. Bartolo forced himself to remain polite for the sake of family harmony, but he was feeling quite out of sorts by the time they’d managed to convince Lavinia they wouldn’t starve during the five-minute drive to their own place and gathered the children’s things and started for home.

       The two lads went ahead on foot, and were opening the doors to the stable by the time Bartolo drove up with the trap. Then Delphie and the older lasses were hurrying away with luggage as Bartolo and the lads saw Dottie out of her harness and into the stall beside her brother Spotty and the trap wiped down and into its place by the small family carriage while Alyssa filled their feed buckets. The two spotted ponies may not have been given very original names, but they were well loved by the family and were always well cared for.

       It wasn’t until they were in the house and settling down to a combination of late elevenses and early luncheon for Bartolo and Delphie that Alyssa said, "Guess what, Daddy?"

       "What, Morsel?" he returned.

       "Uncle Lothario took us to Michel Delving with him and Gammer Alma to see her new will registered."

       "Who wrote a new will for her?" Bartolo asked, suddenly on the alert.

       "Uncle Lothario did. Wasn’t that nice of him? He didn’t even charge her nothing for it."

       "Anything. He didn’t charge her anything for it," Bartolo corrected her automatically, all the while thinking furiously. "Did the deputy Mayor register it right away?"

       "No," Ricki said, shaking his head. "He said something wasn’t written right on the third page and it would need to be done over, so Lothario’s going to have to write it again."

       Delphie was also obviously concerned. "To my knowledge there was nothing wrong with her old will, and there haven’t been any real changes in the family standings. What was he up to, do you think?"

       Persivo gave a sideways shrug, then looking down at his plate he said, "I managed to look at it on the way there, and it seems to me it was giving Uncle Bester more of her farm shares than he’d had before."

       Delphie’s face went a bit stiff. Her cousin Bester Grubb was an acquisitive sort. "So, Bester was behind this, was he? And Lothario was willing to help rewrite Gammer’s will just out of the goodness of his heart, was he? And just how much do you think Bester was paying him to convince Gammer Alma to leave more to him, do you think? I think, Barti, you and I will go over there this evening."

       "Definitely," Bartolo agreed. "Gammer Alma can be talked into about anything."

        He was in his study finding his copy of the last will he’d written for Gammer Alma when Persivo knocked at the open door. "Dad--can I talk to you for a moment?"

        "May--may I talk to you," his father corrected him. "Yes, son--come in." He located Gammer Alma’s file, found the last will, and laid it on his desk while replacing the rest in the drawer where he kept his clients’ files. Once the drawer was locked again he sat down and faced his son expectantly.

       Persivo sat in the chair that sat by the smaller desk where his mother often worked at accounts and where he and his brother and sisters had all learned to read and write. He was studying his hands, then looked up at his father. "When I heard that Uncle Lothario was taking Gammer Alma up to Michel Delving to register a new will for her, I insisted we go with her. I know you’ve always written her wills for her before, and I was worried for her. It didn’t feel right." At his father’s nod he grew more confident. "I managed to slip the will out of Lothario’s bag and read it, and when we got there I managed to get a moment alone with Mr. Isumbard Took and told him I thought this had been written at the request of Uncle Bester and not because Gammer really wanted it done herself. So he spoke with Mr. Baggins, who’d arrived a bit late, and Mr. Baggins suggested to Gammer she walk over to the Whitfoot house to pay her respects, and then when he came back he read the will through thoroughly and said as it wasn’t writ proper on the third page."

       "Written properly--it wasn’t written properly."

       Persivo nodded his understanding. "He said as it wasn’t written properly on the third page," he corrected his former wording.

       "Very well done, son." Bartolo sighed. "Does Gammer Alma have a copy of this will?"

       "I’m not certain."

       "I’ll go sort it out this evening, then. Thank you for watching out for your Gammer’s interests, son."

       Persivo shone with his father’s expressed approval. Then his face grew a bit concerned again. "There’s one other thing, Dad," he said. "We stayed overnight at the inn there in Michel Delving."

       "Who paid for it?" Bartolo asked, interrupting some.

       "Uncle Lothario did. He seems awful flush anymore, Dad."

       Bartolo indicated his own agreement. "So, what else happened there in Michel Delving?"

       "Uncle Lothario went to visit Cousin Timono at the Lockholes. I know as Reggie Bolger as followed his cousin Fatty in the Time of Troubles said as it was all dark and horrid, but they aren’t that way at all. Cousin Timono has a comfortable room with bed and chair and table and desk and privy and all. The walls is all stone----"

       "Are all stone."

       Persivo sighed. "The walls are all stone and the floors, but the room is actually comfortable, I think."

       "You went with him?"

       "I was trying to keep an eye on him." At his father’s nod he continued, "Timono was on about how he hadn’t done nothing----" At his father’s look he changed it to, "he hadn’t done anything, and Uncle Lothario was saying as he understood and it was all too bad they were persecuting him so. But Cousin Timono slipped a note to Lothario while Lothario was standing close to the bars. Lothario read it and shook his head, and Cousin Timono looked all upset and just slumped down in his chair, and Uncle Lothario just shrugged. But Mr. Isumbard Took afterwards asked me if he could talk to me, and he said as Mr. Bernigard Took, what’s the----"

       "Who is the."

       The lad took another deep breath. "He said that Mr. Bernigard Took, who’s the oldest lawyer in the Great Smial and who’s supposed to be the best in the entire Shire, is going to accept three apprentices after Midsummer. He asked if I still wanted to become a lawyer, and said as he’d been advised to let me know that if I want it, I could be one of the apprentices. Do you think I could, Dad? I know that Mr. Bernigard is awful old now, but I’ve heard you say as when you was a lad--when you were a lad--he was the best and knew the most of any lawyer in the whole place, too. Do you think I could? It would be different from studying with you, I know, but maybe it would be easier, ’cause I’d not be as likely to quarrel with someone I don’t know so well."

       "Did Mr. Isumbard ask you about the visit with Timono?"

       "No, but I did tell him anyway, after." Then after a moment Persivo asked again, "Do you think as I could?"

       Bartolo was considering. "Your mother and I will have to discuss it and think on it a time. I won’t say no now, for I know as it’s an opportunity not likely to be offered again. But it would be hard for us, having you go so far away and all."

       Persivo nodded. "I know. But all the lawyers what’s--who have been helping in the Council Hole are all Tooks, and all trained by him. And then--then, once I’m accepted to write contracts and agreements, Dad, would you then teach me about writing them outside the Shire as well? Please, Dad?"

       His father found himself smiling. "If you wish, son. I’d be honored to teach you about writing contracts for the Breelands; and it looks as if I’ll be learning what’s necessary to write one for Arnor in general soon as well. Would you like to sit in with me as I learn?"

       Again the lad smiled. "Could I, Dad? That’s wonderful! I’d love to! But when will we do it?"

       Bartolo shrugged. "Probably in a few weeks. The deputy Mayor will be sending a letter when he’s heard from the King’s Steward about when it’s to be."

       "Will he come here, do you think?"

       "No, we’ll probably go out to meet with whoever it is in Bree."

       Bartolo Bracegirdle found himself very pleased to see the excitement in his oldest son’s features.      

Legal Considerations

       Frodo, as Merry had predicted, refused to elaborate on the visit from his new tenant. All he would say was, "Apparently Faradir told him to work it out with me."

       "You won’t make him leave the property, will you?"

       "Of course not!"

       Pippin commented, "Nice shirt and surcoat his son was wearing. Found it in Bree, did he?"

       Frodo shook his head stubbornly.

       Merry asked, "And who will be writing the lease agreement? Or are you going to sell the land to him?"

       "I have the matter in hand."

       "But----"

       Frodo pointedly changed the subject. "Where," he asked Pippin with an upraised brow, "has your tabard gone? Or have you torn it so badly you can’t wear it any more?"

       Pippin shrugged. "I’ll admit I’ve been stressing it a good deal. So when old Toby suggested I’d do better wearing a sheepskin vest over my mail while having to push through hedges and thickets, Pervinca decided he was right and had it made for me. It took an entire pelt, I’m told. At least there’s no thread from embroidery to hang up on brambles. I’ll save the tabard for those times when I must impress someone or am on Aragorn’s business."

       But when he tried to bring the conversation back to the Hedges, Frodo refused to cooperate, letting it be known he didn’t wish to discuss it further, and with a sigh the two cousins dropped it, shaking their heads at their beloved Frodo’s obstinacy lately.

*******

       Boboli Hedges and his family headed home, their wagon filled with seeds, starts, and chicks. They made the Floating Log and spent the night, setting off the following morning immediately after an early first breakfast for the Brandywine Bridge and beyond, stopping a couple times to make certain the chicks were continuing to do well.

       All seemed designed to speed their return to the outer world--the weather was again mild and warming; the road dry and smooth; and they seemed to have a following breeze that helped ease the load on Poppet.

       There was a market when they went through a village called Whitfurrow, and they were able to pick up some food from the market stalls to tide them over much of the rest of the ride until they reached Bree, well after sunset on the second day after they left Bywater. The following morning they set out again for the farm, happy to know they were on the last leg of their long journey. A horseman approached them, proving to be one of the Rangers, and quietly escorted them a good part of the way, turning away only when they turned up the track Boboli himself had blazed as they finally approached their farm.

       Holdfast met them at the place the track left the woods and entered the clearing that served as the door yard. He watched as his father and brother dropped wearily from the wagon seat, Teoro going around the side of the wagon to take Lister from Lilia and set him at last down on the ground, and his features lightened in relief. "I was hopin’ as he’d managed to catch ye up," he admitted, "but it’s been terrible lonesome here by meself."

       They examined the work he’d finished--a proper hen house and cleverly designed coop for the hoped-for chicks; the finished paddock; the garden plot spaded and ready for the starts and seeds. More of the front parlor was cleared now, and a third bedroom had been started.

       "What’s the Lord Iorhael like?" Holdfast asked them as they ate an early dinner.

       "Him’s nice," Anemone assured him. "Him’s very tall and thin, and his hole is quite grand. He loves to tell stories, too, and we played with his cousins as lives down the Hill from ’im."

       Bob smiled at his younger daughter’s description, then turned to his older son. "His right name’s Frodo Baggins, and he is the one as was adopted by old Mad Baggins as we’ve heard tell of. Like your sister said, he’s rather on the tall side, though his cousins what went with ’im’s taller ’n him now. Fact is, I don’t think as there’s been anyone taller’n his cousins ever in the history o’ Hobbits.

       "We talked a good deal, and I think as we have a proper agreement worked out atween us. He admits as he’s all new at this lord business hisself, and lets on as it was the King’s idea to give ’im all the land as he controls now. He’s been servin’ as deputy Mayor for the Shire since the four of ’em come back from the war, and what we hear is he’s right good at it. Has a good sense o’ humor from what we could tell, but mostly he’s rather retirin’. He don’t seem to be all that well right now. Guess as him was terrible hurt in the war, and don’t like talkin’ ’bout it."

        "Hard to think on Hobbits fightin’ in no wars," Holdfast said, shaking his head.

       "I agree," his father replied.

       "He was afraid o’ Lister," Teo said, "but he treated ’im well enough."

       Holdfast looked at his brother in surprise. "Him fought in a war, but is afraid of a little dog like Lister?"

       Bob shrugged. "Says as he was never around much in the way o’ dogs growin’ up."

       "What happened to his folks what made him need adoptin’?" Holdfast asked.

       "Died when he was a little’un. Stayed with family in Buckland for a time afore his Uncle Bilbo took ’im in. He said as he’ll have a Shire lawyer study with one as knows the laws about lords’ lands ’n see to it as the agreement’s writ up proper ’n all. Give us decent meals and spoke to all of us as if we all mattered." Then after a moment’s reflection Bob added, "I think as we’s come into a sight better situation than we’d realized. He appears a mighty fine soul, lad--a mighty fine Hobbit. I doubt as we could o’ done better if’n we’d tried."

       Soon after the meal they all went to bed. The chicks were safely bedded down, and tomorrow they had a hundred things to do--starts and young trees to get into the ground, a few bushes to plant, stock to take on what would be best to tackle next, a couple trees to fell for use in reinforcing the walls of the smial. It could be over a month before they’d see the Shire lawyer, or so they’d been warned. But in the meantime they’d do what they could to make this even more their home.

*******

       Isumbard arrived first on the day Frodo was to return to work in Michel Delving, and unlocked the door to the Mayor’s office. He’d stopped by the Whitfoot’s house, and learned that Frodo had sent word that he would return this morning, which meant he was likely to arrive at about eleven. He scanned Frodo’s desk to see what new items might have been added in the three days Frodo had been gone to Hobbiton, and saw that the pile of claims for reparations had once again grown appreciably and that there appeared to be three new contracts--it looked like a crop sales contract, a partnership agreement, and the transfer of a deed.

       He saw that Frodo’s mug had been cleaned, and a pitcher sat ready to hold fresh water. He set the covered plate Mina Whitfoot had sent over with him and checked under the napkin. She’d sent a bowl of sauce of apples and a pewter spoon to eat it with; thin slices of ham and cheese, two pullet eggs, and a buttered scone. He replaced the napkin back over the plate, glad that Mina continued to be so thoughtful toward their cousin.

       He’d just come back into the Mayor’s office with the water pitcher filled when he heard voices in the outer hallway from the entrance. "Is this where Gammer has her will signed, Uncle Lothario?" A lass’s voice.

       "Yes, Alyssa. The deputy Mayor will sign it and register it."

       "Is he nice?"

       "The deputy Mayor? Oh, nice enough, I suppose."

       "What is his name? It isn’t Mr. Whitfoot, is it?" They were entering the room--Lothario Bracegirdle, a small lass beside him, a lad in his late tweens and one in his early teens, and old Alma Grubb from Hardbottle. And what were they doing here so early?

       "Will Whitfoot is the regular Mayor, but he’s still recovering from his imprisonment. Frodo Baggins is deputy Mayor."

       "Oh, I know him--he tells the stories at the Free Fair!"

       "Does he now?" Lothario asked as he glanced around the room. Bard noted the brief nod of satisfaction and relief the Bracegirdle lawyer gave when he realized Frodo hadn’t yet arrived, although he schooled his expression quickly enough when he realized he was being observed by the Took. "But it appears that Mr. Baggins isn’t in at the moment. That’s really too bad! Perhaps Mr. Took will sign and register your Gammer Alma’s will, then."

       Bard was glad he could offer a valid excuse, for even if he’d been authorized to sign valid wills he would have thought several times about this one, considering the expression he’d caught in Lothario’s eyes. "I’m sorry," he said, "but both the Mayor and the Thain have agreed that no one is to sign and register valid wills save for the deputy Mayor. And Frodo sent a note that he would be riding over this morning and will undoubtedly be here by eleven o’clock. I would suggest you visit the Mathom House or something similar to entertain yourselves until his arrival."

       Lothario was clearly thinking the situation through. "Mr. Baggins isn’t here, yet, then?"

       Bard found it hard to keep apparent warmth in his voice. "As I said, not yet. He is riding over from Hobbiton this morning. He undoubtedly had business to see to late yesterday or early this morning. There is a wedding he’s helping to prepare for there, you realize."

       "I see," Lothario said. "Well, children, Mistress Alma--we’ll return in a while and see if Mr. Baggins has arrived yet."

       As the group left the room the older lad stayed back. "You go on and I’ll meet you at the Mathom House. I need to use the privy."

       Lothario shrugged. "Don’t take any longer than you need," he suggested, and he led the others out of the hole.

       "Pardon me, Mr. Took," the lad said, "but if you could show me where the privy is?"

       Perhaps if the lad hadn’t in many ways reminded him of Frodo himself Bard would only have pointed the way; but something in the earnest way the young Hobbit looked at him inspired Bard to say, "It’s over this way--I was heading that direction myself."

       Once they approached the door the tween looked out toward the main entrance to make certain the rest were indeed out of the hole, then turned to the Took. "Thank you for showing me, but I doubt Uncle Lothario will give me much time."

       "He’s your uncle?"

       "Second cousin twice removed, actually. It’s this will he’s brought--it’s for Gammer Alma, but I know as she don’t--doesn’t need a new one presented. It’s just not that long since my dad wrote her last revision, after one of our Grubb cousins as was in it died a few months ago."

       Bard nodded, then asked, "Why did Lothario write and present one this time?"

       "I can guess. The farm as she was leaving to Cousin Bredo Grubb in all the other wills this time has Bester Grubb’s name by it. Now, Cousin Bredo’s always lived on it and worked it, and it’s always been understood as he and his family would get it. But Cousin Bester’s wanted it for a long time. I suspect that once Bester knowed--knew that Dad was to be in Overhill at Mr. Malco and Missus Dremma’s house party for a week Bester thought as he’d get a new will writ and signed making him the one as gets the farm, and paid Uncle Lothario to write it that way and convince Gammer to sign it. She can be easy to persuade sometimes."

       "And how do you know what was in her last will?"

       The lad again glanced back toward the door to make certain none had returned. "Well, I’ve wanted to be a lawyer myself for a time, and my dad, he’s been teaching me. He had me go with him after Cousin Lester died so she could decide as what she wanted done with the portion as she’d been leaving to him, so I was there as he made sure the rest was still all the way she wanted it. And now and then he’d show me how it was writ and explain to both of us, me mostly, as why it was writ that way. It’s just that nothing’s changed, and it’s not been that long. As we were walking home across the village he explained he has to sit real still and not speak while she’s thinking, or he could maybe talk her into changing something as she really don’t--doesn’t want changed, she’s so easy to persuade. She just likes to be agreeable, you see."

       "Yes, I see." Bard examined the earnest tween. "You’re Delphinium and Bartolo’s eldest, aren’t you?" At the lad’s nod, he smiled. "That you’re looking out for your great-gammer is wonderful. I’ll advise Cousin Frodo when he comes, and he’ll give your dad time to see it sorted out properly. We found the copy of the last will amongst all the documents that had been left while Will was locked up, and we know it’s not that long since Frodo signed and registered it as a valid will and sent it back to your dad. He’ll question another so soon, and written by a different lawyer when the original lawyer’s still alive and close to her."

       The younger Hobbit looked relieved. "That’s good," he replied. "She’ll be upset once she really understands that she was talked into giving the farm to Bester when she really wants Bredo to have it, you know."

       "So you’re apprenticed to your dad, are you?"

       The expression on the tween’s face twisted. "Well, he’d like that, but we both realize as it’s not working out with him trying to teach me. I don’t know--maybe it’s because I have so much Grubb and Baggins in me or something, but I read something and notice how easy, the way it’s been written, for someone to take advantage of the contract; but when I try to tell Dad he just doesn’t understand what I mean. He knows what was meant and he just thinks as it could only be done as it was meant--or the way he thinks as it was meant, at least. We argue all the time, we do. And since the Time of Troubles got over he’s allowed as perhaps we should find another lawyer what would accept me as a prentice, and I think he’s been considering Cousin Rico."

       "Rico might be good, I’d think, although I’m not certain he’d understand about the problems of wording you mentioned either. But you’re very right, for it was just such phrases as you’ve described that gave Timono and Lotho the idea to change wording just slightly to give them all kinds of advantages that weren’t meant, or to write in common requirements that weren’t needed just so they could declare a contract broken by the other party so Lotho could just take what he wanted. They wrote several contracts to purchase smials requiring the seller had to thatch the roof freshly, then called them broken when his agent arrived on the day the conditions were to be examined when the seller tried to point out the roof was sound, what with it being a smial and all, and there was no way it could be thatched, explaining he thought that clause was only intended to indicate there should be no leaks into the hole. We’ve been amazed at some of the ploys we’ve heard Lotho and Timono used."

       The lad’s eyes opened in dismayed amazement. "They did things like that?" At Bard’s nod he shook his head. "That’s disgusting. No wonder Timono’s in the Lockups." Again he glanced at the doors. "I’d best use the privy quick and get out there, or my little sister will come looking for me--or Lothario hisself--himself. Thanks for listening. I don’t want Cousin Bester taking advantage over my gammer like that, or to see Cousin Bredo cheated out of the farm he’s always worked and loves."

       Once he returned to the Mayor’s office Bard called Hillie, who’d just arrived, over and asked him to go wait for Frodo’s arrival at the public stable. "Tell him Lothario Bracegirdle is here with a questionable will, and suggest he find some reason why it can’t be filed today to give the lady’s regular lawyer time to find out just how Lothario managed to convince the client she needed a new will so soon after the last one was filed."

       Hillie nodded and hurried off, taking some of his own paperwork he’d been working on with him so that his wait could prove productive. Satisfied he’d done the best he could to allow a potentially difficult situation to be diverted before it went too far, Bard took the top ten claims for reparation off to read them.

Why I am Asking for Reparations

       My home in Little Delving was always being gone through by Lotho Sackville-Baggins’s Gatherers and Sharers. I don’t know why they kept coming back to my house, because my wife and me, we haven’t had much of nothing since they first started coming round. They took everything worth anything their first time, even.

       They took my wife’s gold promise bracelet--it was from my gammer Jodacia. They took my Dwarf-made silver shirt studs as my wife gave me--they was from her dad....

       Every time Frodo read one of these requests and knew it to be honest, Bard knew, it seemed to wound him that much the more inside. Many didn’t truly want to receive any money or property back--in most cases all they truly wanted was to be able to share the pain and grief. And Frodo wrote to each and every one, wrote his understanding of their loss, wrote his compassion for their grief, wrote his hope that they could help to ease their pain. An heirloom pocket watch taken here; all the family porcelain there; a silver tea service reportedly made by Men somewhere else; a missing child; a business’s inventory wantonly destroyed; a set of silver spoons stolen--the only item of any worth the family had; a china figure smashed because there was nothing worth taking from the hole; the family dog beaten to death because it had had the temerity to bark at these invaders of its family’s home; the herd of dairy cows taken and slaughtered to give Lotho’s Big Men and the Hobbits who helped them a feast; bales of fine wool destined for the spinners and weavers of the North Farthing purposely broken open and fouled because it was believed treasures must be hidden within; larders emptied; cellars stripped clean; barns set afire....

       Most had made it through the Time of Troubles, and most were putting their lives together again. But the Goldworthys of Pincup would never have their son back again; nor would the Tunnelys from near the beginnings of the Westmarches rejoice to eat the Yule feast from the fine plates they’d used for the past three hundred years; and little Geranium Smallfoot from Budgeford would never again sleep the sounder knowing that their family’s ratter slept in his basket at the foot of her bed and would run and play with her in the fields when they both awoke in the morning. It was such happenings as these that distressed every Hobbit who helped in the Mayor’s office and that tore at the heart of Frodo Baggins.

       Two of the claims he read he marked as totally unlikely; and one he knew to be false but was tearfully written he simply placed in the basket to be investigated to spare Frodo the pain of reading it and then the realization his own compassion had been used against him in order to try to get something more than the family deserved.

       By the time Frodo arrived Lothario had already returned with his party and was waiting impatiently, barely masking his anxiety as to whether or not Frodo would agree just to sign and register the will. Frodo was carrying his saddlebags as he entered the Council Hole, and Everard hurried out to take them from him. "Shall I take these to the Mayor’s house for you, Frodo?" he asked.

       "I can carry them myself when I go for luncheon," Frodo protested.

       "Certainly you could--although knowing you you’ll probably also be wanting to take a number of documents or claims for reparation with you to review," Everard pointed out. "A couple letters just arrived a few minutes ago for Will, and I see there’s one for you as well as a couple of invitations to spring festivals or balls."

       Frodo reluctantly surrendered his saddlebags to the Took, then hung up his cloak and two of his water bottles, bringing the third into the office with him.

       "Nice ride?" Bard greeted him.

       "Beautiful this morning. It’s nice to see the Sun again after the last week of colder, wet weather. And Sam’s trees are absolutely springing up! I’m amazed--that dust the Lady gave him has so blessed the Shire!"

       "You look rested."

       "Rested?" Frodo commented as he took his seat behind the Mayor’s desk. "I suppose so, although I seemed to have had more to do than I’ve had to do for weeks there in the region around the Hill." He looked at the Bracegirdle with interest. "You have a document to have reviewed and registered?" he asked Lothario as Hillie entered and returned to the table at which he generally worked.

       Lothario shrugged and held out his packet of papers. "Only a will to see signed and registered," he said dismissively.

       "I see," Frodo said as he took the will and began scanning it. He turned the page, then got to the third page where he paused, reread something more slowly, then looked up. He turned the document where it could be read by Lothario and asked, "What does this mean?" as he pointed to a paragraph about three quarters of the way down the page.

       Lothario looked surprised, read it, then shrugged. "It’s only a standard notation that the individual for whom the will is written has asked it be written of her own free will," he explained.

       Frodo reread part of the first page, and then the third page, then looked at the elderly Hobbitess who was sitting in a chair near the desk where Hillie was working. "Mistress Grubb," he said, "this will was written for you, was it not?"

       Gammer Alma looked up as if surprised to find the deputy Mayor was addressing her. "Oh, yes," she admitted. "Young Lothario here offered to write it up for me."

       "Did you ask him to write this revision of your will?"

       "No," she said, "He offered to do it."

       "Did you want your will to be rewritten now?" he asked.

       "Well, I don’t think it will hurt anything," she temporized.

       "Did you wish to change any of the bequests you’d written into your last revision, one which was written only a few months ago?"

       "No, not really."

       "Who decided then that the will should be rewritten?"

       She seemed to be thinking, then said, "Well, Bartolo suggested I’d best do a revision then since Lester had died and what I’d intended to leave him might get fought over by the rest."

       Frodo nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "And did he suggest the one you ought to leave that portion to?"

       "Oh, no, he never suggests anything. He’s always saying it’s my will and so it’s my decision. Sometimes he’ll ask me after to make certain as I meant what I said, but he never suggests ahead of time."

       "And has anyone died or been born since you had that last revision made, Mistress Grubb?"

       "Oh, no--no one."

       "Were you unhappy with anyone in your family to the point you wanted to change a bequest?"

       "Oh, no."

       "Did you wish to make any changes?"

       "No, not really."

       Frodo gave Lothario quite a long, searching look. "I see," he finally said, his voice cool. He returned his attention to Gammer Alma. "Then you didn’t request this revision be written of your own will--instead it was due solely to the suggestion of Mr. Bracegirdle here?"

       "Well, yes--but he was so nice to offer to do it...."

       Frodo gave a single small nod. "Oh, yes, I see just how nice he was to offer to do it," he said with barely disguised irony. He straightened the sheets to the will and handed it back to Lothario. "It appears that the ‘standard notation’ on page three is not accurate, then," he said. "Until it accurately reflects the conditions under which this will was revised I cannot sign it; and I will not sign or register a will I suspect was not accurately represented as having been written at the request of the one for whom it was constructed. I wish you a good day, Lothario. Oh, and carry Bester Grubb my hopes he is enjoying good health and a clean conscience."

       Lothario flushed, mumbled something indistinguishable, grabbed at Gammer Alma’s hand, and drew her rapidly out of the Mayor’s office, followed by the two younger children, both of whom appeared surprised, and then by the older tween, who gave a smile of admiration to Frodo as he exited.

       Isumbard watched after Lothario and shook his head, then turned to Frodo. "Now, that was masterfully done. Glad Hillie was able to warn you."

       Hillie looked up from the report he was reviewing on what some of the Big Men had done in the East Farthing. "Actually, Bard, I missed him. Gordo saw me waiting for Frodo and thought I was only taking a break before I headed in to start working, so he got to me and started telling me all about the new bull he’s added to his herd on his farm west of the village. You know how Gordo is--once he starts talking about something he’s truly interested in he won’t stop talking until he’s exhausted himself--I could barely get away when I pointed out Frodo had arrived and I needed to speak with him."

       Bard looked at Frodo with even more approval. "So, you recognized on your own that Lothario was trying to slip a change into that will, eh? Good for you!"

       Frodo shrugged. "As Alma Grubb’s will was the first one we examined when I started working for Will, it rather stands out in my mind. Bartolo and I might not like one another, but the fact remains that he’s almost brutally honest in his work, while Lothario isn’t particularly. When we have that meeting with all the lawyers of the Shire next week there will be several points that will be aimed directly at him. He’d best realize that convincing vulnerable old Hobbits to allow him to rewrite wills to benefit his true clients will not be tolerated." He turned to Tolly. "Will you check the will registration book and see how many revised wills he’s submitted that were originally submitted by other lawyers or by the ones for whom they were written? It looks as if we have another trail of corruption to follow."

       Tolerand nodded. "Certainly, Frodo. That a lawyer of the Shire should take advantage of folks that way is intolerable."

       "I agree." Frodo uncapped his water bottle and poured some of his tea into his mug, capped the bottle and hung it over the back of his chair, and took a sip.

       Isumbard was sharing a look with the other Took lawyers in the room, and they were all nodding, while Tolly was actually making pushing movements as if advising Bard to go ahead and do something. Bard nodded and took a deep breath as he turned to Frodo. "Cousin Frodo, there’s something else we’ve been asked to share with you."

       Frodo looked at the four of them over the rim of his mug. "What?" he asked as he set his mug back down.

       "Old Uncle Bernigard was grilling us about what’s going on here at the Council Hole and how the law was perverted and all----"

       Frodo nodded as he drank again from his mug.

       "----and he’s been very impressed by what we’ve told him about how often you will be the first to notice a questionable clause in a contract."

       "Only," Frodo said as he set the mug down and wrapped both hands about it, "because I’m generally the first to read a contract."

       "That might have been true," Tolly said, shaking his head, "if you didn’t notice them in contracts one of us had already reviewed first before you got here and set it on your desk only because you’d asked us to do so because we hadn’t noticed the hidden clauses or how just minor changes in how it was worded gave it an all new meaning."

       The rest all were nodding and making noises of agreement. Frodo looked at each of them in turn before he asked, "So?"

       Bard continued. "Bernigard sounded more and more pleased the more he heard, and finally he reached for his cane and just held it to him the way he does when he’s contemplating taking the effort to stand up any more, but he was smiling quite widely. ‘I always knew that lad was special!’ he says. ‘Always knew he had the makings of a good lawyer in him! Tell him this--I’ve been contemplating taking just one more batch of apprentices before I die, and I’d be pleased as could be if he’d agree to be one of them. We always need good ones not only to write contracts and wills but also to review them. If he’s considering accepting Will’s nomination as next proper Mayor of the Shire, and I sincerely hope he is, then I think he’d do well to accept my offer. Even if he doesn’t accept the nomination, the Shire would be superbly served with him advising and assisting whoever follows Old Flourdumpling. And after all the years he’s just sort of hidden out there in Bag End when he ought to have been serving more of the whole Shire, we need his assistance in Michel Delving.’

       "I think you ought to take him up on it, Frodo. You’re already very sensitive to just how odd wording can affect meaning as well as how to carefully write a clause to make it mean precisely what it ought to say. Some of the changes in wording you’ve suggested Berni agrees ought to be implemented, and he’s intending to make the suggestion at the meeting of the lawyers next week that they should become the standard wording rather than what we’ve tended to use before. As he’s both the senior legal mind in the Shire and the head of our guild, his word holds a lot of weight; and in six months’ time that will be the standard wording, you’ll find."

        Frodo looked surprised. "But I’ve never wanted to be a lawyer," he objected.

       Hillie shrugged. "So? Doesn’t change the fact you’re probably the second most astute legal mind in the Shire, Frodo Baggins."

       Again the rest were nodding their agreement. Frodo appeared troubled. "But...." He didn’t finish, but took another sip from his mug. Finally he looked up. "I don’t know if I have the time," he said, "much less whether Sam would agree to let me spend so much time as would be needed at the Great Smial dancing attendance on old Berni, although of course I’d welcome any advice I can get from him. Bilbo always had Bernigard write his own most serious contracts and revisions to his wills; and he’s the one who saw to the adoption, of course. I know that for most things Bilbo used Beslo Grubb after he adopted me, but then Beslo was one of Berni’s apprentices, as was Brendi, who’s my personal lawyer now. But I’m not certain I want to study any more about the law than I’ve had to learn just to deal with matters as we do now."

        Bard sighed. "Think about it, Frodo. Just think about it. Berni started studying the law under Fortumbras, you know, and he’s taught all the Took lawyers for generations, not to mention the occasional Grubb, Brandybuck, and even Hornblower over the years. Old Geron, who was master to most of the rest of the Hornblowers and Bracegirdles, was one of his students, after all."

       "And look at how many of them ended up working with Timono," Frodo pointed out.

       "And look at how many of his students didn’t end up working with Timono," Everard corrected him. "Bartolo certainly never did, not that we’ve found any evidence of. In fact, all we’ve found indicates that he was actively trying to counter Timono’s influence. Lotho definitely had his Gatherers and Sharers targeting Bartolo and Delphinium’s hole."

       "I suppose you’re right," Frodo allowed as he took another drink from his mug and reached for the mail. He smiled as he examined the thick packet from outside the Shire. "Ah, a letter from Legolas." He opened it and was soon absorbed in it, smiling as he read.

       Bard, as he removed the napkin from the plate sent over by Mina and nudged it closer to Frodo, glanced at the text of the letter and found he couldn’t understand it at all. "Is it written in Elvish?" he asked.

       Frodo glanced up briefly as if surprised to notice he was standing there. "Sindarin," he said as he returned his attention to the letter. "It’s the most commonly used Elven language in Middle Earth." Then with a smile he added, "After all, Legolas is an Elf, you understand. He writes he’s already headed back to Gondor, and intends to meet with Gimli in Anorien and travel south to Minas Tirith with him. He wishes now he’d come west to Eriador and the Shire when Gimli came in March with the rest of our things and the gifts from Lorien and Aragorn. And he wishes he could be here when Sam and Rosie finally get married."

       "An Elf attending Sam’s wedding would certainly cause tongues to wag," Hillie commented.

       "Too true," Frodo agreed, "although I wish he would come--him and Gimli. It would mean so much to Sam, after all. And if only Aragorn himself could be here to do the wedding."

       "Sam Gamgee would allow anyone beside you to perform the ceremony?" asked Bard.

       "You don’t know Aragorn yet," Frodo said, smiling. "It would be a difficult choice, but you’d best believe Sam would consider it seriously." He finished reading the letter quietly, his smile growing more pensive as he did so. At last he finished and folded the letter back into its packet. He then opened the two invitations and read them, and reached for paper to write replies, pulled envelopes out of his drawer and slipped the notes into them, addressed them, sealed each with wax impressed with his stick pin, and set them on the corner of the desk to go to the Quick Post. He finally picked up the spoon and began eating the sauce of apples Mina had sent as he began reviewing one of the claims for reparations Bard had returned to the stack earlier. Having finished he shared a look with Bard before setting the claim in the basket to be investigated by the committee that would be seeing to it that claims were valid and then deciding what form the reparations would take. Another day of work was progressing in the Mayor’s office in the Council Hole in Michel Delving.

*******

      When Bester Grubb had approached Lothario about the possibility of convincing Gammer Alma to allow a new revision to her will be written leaving him the farm Bredo lived on, Lothario had at first not anticipated any difficulties. Bartolo was the one who usually wrote legal papers for his wife’s maternal grandmother, and he was now out of the village, visiting with Malco and Dremma in Overhill for a week. It would be quite a triumph to put one over on Cousin Bartolo and steal such a march on him. Lothario wasn’t terrifically fond of Barti, for this Bracegirdle cousin was far too morally superior to all and sundry in Lothario’s opinion. He’d deserved all the harassment Lotho had aimed at him, as had Benlo as family head, the two of them constantly counseling others to avoid getting caught in Lotho and Timono’s schemes. Lothario had his suspicions that it was Bartolo who’d advised old Will Whitfoot first that Lotho had named himself Chief Shiriff and had begun issuing new Rules and Regulations for the Shiriffs to uphold.

       The fact that Frodo Baggins was acting as Mayor during Will’s recovery both had believed would work to their advantage. Frodo knew nothing about the law, and would have no reason to question a revision of Gammer Alma’s will right now, none that either Bester or Lothario could think of, at least. They ought to be able to slip this change right by him.

       And so, as soon as Bartolo and Rico Clayhanger were on their way to Overhill with their wives Lothario began his approach. The money was good, after all; and it wouldn’t do ill to have Bester as a permanent client as he could direct more Grubb business his way.

       Cousin Lavinia, who always had a soft spot in her heart for her younger cousin, welcomed Lothario’s arrival in the village; and dear Gammer Alma had seemed surprised to find Lothario approaching her offering to help revise her will but had been just as agreeable as she ever was, succumbing to the Bracegirdle’s charm just as she’d done when younger and he was seeking to cadge treats his own parents had forbidden him at home. In no time at all the desired revision was in his pocket, and Gammer Alma had agreed to accompany him to Michel Delving to see it registered and filed, a move both he and Bester had agreed would make it more likely none would question any changes it contained. Then the idea had struck him to take along Bartolo’s two youngest, as Alyssa and Enrico’s presence would help make it appear that Bartolo was supportive of the changes. Knowing, however, that if Bartolo ever found out he’d taken his two youngest children on such a trip without family supervision he was likely to be the subject of complaints lodged with Benlo, Lothario had agreed to include Persivo in the ‘treat,’ reasoning this would leave Bartolo with no reason to be upset--until he learned Lothario had managed to change the will, and then it would be too late. If Bartolo tried to see the revision itself revised Lothario knew how to make it appear that Bartolo himself was accepting favors from Bredo. There were advantages to being the one Bracegirdle male in the Shire believed to have a somewhat pleasant disposition, after all.

       Persivo’s own interest in following in his father’s profession was common enough knowledge among the Bracegirdles of Hardbottle; and all knew that the lad and his dad quarreled frequently. If Lothario could convince Persivo to accept him as master in an apprenticeship, how wonderful that would be!

       "So, tell me, Persivo--have you begun an apprenticeship under your dad as yet?"

       "No--he and I’ve agreed as he’s not the best to serve as master for me. I think as he’s considering Uncle Rico."

       Rico Clayhanger? Well, that wouldn’t be too bad a situation--he and Rico both lived in the same village a twenty minute walk away from Hardbottle, after all. "Well, that would be fine enough, I think. After all, Rico’s very capable, and writes a good agreement. He could certainly teach you how to write a good, binding contract. And I would be glad to share with you whatever wisdom I’ve managed to garner, of course."

       Persivo considered the offer, then made his charming smile. "Why, thank you, Cousin Lothario," he said. Lothario considered--once he came of age Persivo would make two Bracegirdle males who would be seen as courteous within the Shire.

       "Uncle Lothario," Enrico asked, "how much longer will it take to get there?"

       "Another hour, I’d say. It will be too late to see anyone at the Council Hole today, of course; but perhaps we’ll see deputy Mayor Baggins and have him just sign the paper tonight and allow him to register it for us in the morning."

       "How come Mr. Baggins is deputy Mayor? Isn’t Mr. Whitfoot Mayor?"

       "Will Whitfoot? Well, of course he is, at least until the elections at Midsummer, of course. But he’s still recovering from his time in Lotho’s lockholes, you see."

       "And why was he in the lockholes?"

       Lothario shrugged. "I understand he and Cousin Lotho quarreled, and Lotho’s Big Men took exception to the threats he was uttering and locked him up to protect the Chief Shiriff."

        "But Lotho wasn’t Chief anything. He wasn’t ever accepted as a Shiriff, after all," Enrico pointed out. "He only decided to make himself Chief Shiriff when he had the ruffians to back him up so no one would say no to him any more. Everybody knows that--I’ve heard Uncle Benlo talking to Dad and Uncle Rico about it."

       Alyssa, eager to be included in the conversation, added, "Cousin Lotho had lusions or something like--Daddy said so. Said as Cousin Lotho always had too big of ideas. I didn’t like him and wasn’t sad when I heard as he was dead. He made my mummy cry, when his folk took Mummy’s jewelry, and especial her promise necklace. He said as Mr. Frodo shouldn’t of sold Bag End to Cousin Lotho. But why, if Daddy thought Mr. Frodo shouldn’t of sold Bag End to Cousin Lotho, why did he get mad when Aunt Lobelia gave it back to him?"

       "I don’t know, Alyssa," Lothario responded, smiling to himself at the thought of Frodo reacting to that anger. No, Frodo wasn’t likely to worry too much over who had written the earlier will and revisions for Gammer Alma. As for that dear lady--she was napping as they drove. No, he shouldn’t have any difficulties at all....

       But it turned out differently--completely differently. He didn’t think that Persivo or Gammer Alma had caught on, but Frodo had outright indicated he had no intention of signing any revision to Alma Grubb’s will unless Bartolo himself presented it. And there was a good chance that Lothario himself might end up being investigated by that batch of Tooks in the Mayor’s office. Lothario found himself shivering at the idea. And he certainly would never have expected Bartolo to have done a revision of Gammer Alma’s will during the Time of Troubles. He should have realized that as soon as Lester died Barti would have been right on getting the revision done, which meant that Frodo would have been properly aware there was no reason for a new revision to be written now.

       And then there had been the visit to the new Lockholes to see Timono. He’d been trying to find out if somehow Largo Longbottom could be convinced to blame Lotho’s Big Men for the burning of his fields; but Largo had clearly seen several Hobbits among the Men, and couldn’t be convinced that he’d been mistaken about recognizing Timono. Timono had never gotten along with Largo, and had indicated he looked forward to paying the Longbottom family head off for several business deals gone sour when Largo had managed to catch discrepancies Timono had written into his contracts. He certainly ought to have been more careful to remain unrecognized the night they fired Longbottom’s field, but then Timono had convinced himself that there would never come a time when Lotho would be out of power. Well, that had been a stupid thing to convince himself of, hadn’t it?

       Young Persivo had insisted on going with him to see Timono, although he’d not said anything, merely appearing impressed by how comfortable the room was where Timono was being kept. He and Timono had purposely kept their conversation vague, but when Timono had slipped him the note asking whether there had been any progress with Largo and he’d shaken his head the lad had certainly appeared to notice. He was glad when he was able to give Persivo the slip for a time so he could speak with Bester when the impatient Grubb showed up in Michel Delving to learn what had transpired in the Mayor’s office--he didn’t think Bartolo’s son had noticed; but after he’d given Bester the unwelcome news it had taken a time to find Persivo again.

       And so it was he’d ended up wasting an unforgivable amount of coin hosting three of Bartolo’s children along with Gammer Alma to Michel Delving and back. Ah, well, he’d at least been able to dispose of a few items that had perhaps best not be found in his possession. He’d best take exceptional care in what contracts he write for some time lest he end up in one of those stone-lined rooms alongside Timono. And with that resolve he returned his guests to Hardbottle, intending to remain at Lavinia’s only long enough to convince her not to mention his visit to her brother.

*******

       Midway through the time between luncheon and tea Tolly was bringing a report to Frodo to show him an odd feature to find Frodo had fallen asleep in his chair. This had happened a few times when he was newly come to the Mayor’s office, and had resumed since he’d spent two weeks on the Cotton’s farm in March. The four Tooks exchanged looks, then went determinedly back to work. After a half hour Frodo awoke quietly, appeared embarrassed, and resumed his own reviews. Tolly shared his concerns on the report, they discussed it, and all went on with their work, Frodo working on the report he wished to make next week to the meeting of lawyers.

       Mina Whitfoot came in to invite the Tooks to join them for tea and later dinner, but only Bard accepted. "Pearl is in Budgeford visiting with the Bolgers and helping them resettle in Budge Hall," he explained, "so I’ll be glad to come and avoid Pal and Lanti this evening."

       "They are still driving poor Pippin to distraction?" she asked.

       "Oh, yes. I think Hillie again won last week’s wager on how long he’d last, by the way."

       Hillie laughed, "Ah, yes--I won the equivalent of six silver pennies this time. Our gigantic young cousin is proving very profitable for me."

       As Frodo and Bard were walking across the square toward the Whitfoot house Bard asked, "Have you thought any more about Bernigard’s offer?" The grandson of the Old Took’s younger brother Peringard, Bernigard Took had been a fixture in Tookland and Shire legal issues for over sixty years.

       Frodo paused, considering. Finally he faced his cousin directly. "I don’t see how I can at this time, Bard. If I were to accept election as Mayor I doubt I’d have stamina for both the work here and at Berni’s side; and if I don’t--well, I doubt that Sam would allow it."

       "Is Sam your keeper now?" Bard asked.

       Frodo gave a saddened laugh. "My keeper? Perhaps. You must understand, Isumbard Took--Samwise Gamgee has been as my brother for years, and even more so since we left the Shire. He’s stood by me through trials you can’t begin to appreciate, and has helped me keep grounded when it felt as if my very soul must be torn asunder. I only survived to come back because of Sam, Aragorn, Gandalf, and Lord Elrond; and at times it feels as if a part of me remains somewhere out there.

       "And look at today--I fell asleep again. I simply find I don’t have the stamina I ought to have, and I still can’t begin to eat anywhere as much as I ought to do. Sam knows what I went through better than anyone else, although no one, not even he, can fully appreciate what it was truly like. I came away from the Mountain only because he carried me out and then begged me to crawl by him to such safety as we could find. I’ve remained as long as I have, I think, only for his sake."

       It felt to Bard as if his own insides were twisting painfully. "You’d leave us so soon, Frodo Baggins?" he asked as lightly as he could.

       Frodo looked off westward, not meeting his companion’s eyes. "And when the time comes, will I have any choice? Each time I’ve come back it’s been harder. I’m not as I was, Bard--nothing like I was, and I’m still wounded, inside where I live. And the calling grows stronger...." For a moment longer he remained still, looking west, his expression unreadable. Then at last his chin raised and he straightened, and he turned to continue to the Whitfoot place, leading the way, holding that pendant of his as he walked. Then, outside the Whitfoot’s door, he paused again, looking back across the square toward the inn. "You spoke again with Bartolo’s son?"

       Bard followed Frodo’s gaze and saw Bartolo and Delphie’s children together near the door to the stable, apparently waiting for Lothario and Alma Grubb. He described what Persivo Bracegirdle had told him when he’d met the tween at luncheon at the inn, and Frodo listened without interrupting. At last he said, "It appears the lad is as honorable as his father."

       Bard was surprised. "Bartolo Bracegirdle? Honorable? Since when?"

       Frodo gave a twisted smile. "I’ll grant you Bartolo’s acerbic enough for six of his family, and it’s definite he doesn’t like me at all; but he’s honorable--far more honorable than most realize. He and Benlo are what Bracegirdles are supposed to be like and are more truly representative of them than was Lotho--much less Timono or Lothario. Lothario is far more clever than one would realize. He’ll cover himself by making certain he does only the evil suggested by others, and so he will always appear a follower rather than one who desires always to profit by others. But he’s as low a piece of work as any I’ve ever seen, hiding his detestation of the rest of the Shire behind courteous seeming. He and Sharkey must have truly appreciated one another while Saruman remained here.

       "I’ll make this suggestion--Persivo Bracegirdle wishes to be a lawyer also, you say? Make Bernigard’s offer to him, Bard. Let him have my place. In the end you’ll have a lawyer with the lack of self-delusion the Bracegirdles are famous for, with the stubbornness and responsibility of us Bagginses, and who will serve the Shire faithfully for a lifetime--far more than I fear I could give it."

       Isumbard Took looked for a moment into the eyes of Frodo Baggins, then gave a reluctant nod, turned, and walked back across the square to speak one last time with Persivo Bracegirdle, Frodo looking after him.

Words of Warning

       Bernigard Took rarely left the Great Smial any more, but he asked that the Took coach be made available to carry him to Michel Delving on the day of the legal conference Frodo Baggins had called. He intended to hear what the deputy Mayor would say, and to ask one last time for Frodo to become one of his last apprentices, plus Frodo had sent a request he lead part of the discussion. From what those who’d worked with Frodo in the Mayor’s office had told him it appeared Frodo was far more fragile than he’d been before he left the Shire, although they assured him Frodo hid it remarkably well for the most part. This he also wished to evaluate for himself.

       They arrived in Michel Delving at about elevenses, and found that Frodo had seen to it a selection of bread rolls with cheese and sliced meats, a spring salad, a variety of pickles, and preserves be readied in the banquet hall for their arrival. Over the next two hours more arrived, until an hour after luncheon the meeting was to begin.

       Berni watched Frodo come and go during the time they waited for the conference to begin, called away twice to the Mayor’s office for a time. Frodo was definitely thinner than Berni remembered, and his expression was very solemn. He also looked older than the old Took remembered. Always Frodo, like Bilbo before him, had appeared younger than his years; now he appeared older, his face finely etched, his hair beginning to grey, his walk somewhat stiff, a deepening furrow between his brows. His underlying joy seemed gone, and that caused Berni concern. Frodo Baggins should definitely not be so solemn.

       Among the last to enter the hall were the Master of Buckland, the Thain of the Shire, and Mayor Whitfoot himself, Master and Thain accompanied by their closest aides and followed by their heirs, Will with his nephew Gordolac by his side. Last of all came Sam Gamgee, a vase of hyacinths and primulas in his hands, which he carried to the high table to set before Frodo’s place before returning to the back of the hall to sit by Will Whitfoot while the Master and Thain made their way to the head table to stand on either side of Frodo.

       All quieted expectantly. Frodo wore his grey-green cloak, which he now unfastened slowly to reveal that under it he wore a silver-blue shirt under a dark blue sleeveless garment embroidered with a blue and silver eight-pointed star. All looked at him with surprise as he turned slightly to set his cloak over the arms of the chair in which he would sit. He then looked around the room, a room gone very silent indeed. "I welcome you all to this conference of the lawyers of the Shire, and I greet you not only as the deputy Mayor but in an additional capacity as well--as the individual appointed by our Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar as his personal representative. As such and at his request, I dress accordingly this day, as I dressed for our Lord King’s coronation and for his wedding. If you will all please take your seats."

       The rustle of a roomful of Hobbits sitting down and the soft murmurs that were briefly shared quieted quickly enough. Frodo watched patiently until the last one was seated, then resumed speaking. "As I believe all have now heard, although I doubt all as yet believe, while Peregrin Took, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Samwise Gamgee, and I were gone we went south at the side of the Man who now is King of both Gondor and Arnor; and of the titles applied to us I think the one that we all are most honored to bear is that of the King’s Companions and Friends.

       "During the heady days following the final downfall of Sauron we spent much time with him and his counselors, many of them in discussions regarding the governance of the lands now under the King Elessar’s rule, including discussions of the laws and customs of our own land of the Shire. Our Lord King is familiar with the Shire and the Breelands, for he has overseen the guarding of our borders for much of the last sixty years when he was Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, the Heir of Isildur, and Captain General of the Rangers of Eriador. Some of you have made trips from the Brandywine Bridge to Bree and have found yourselves being escorted by mostly silent horsemen cloaked in silver, grey, or green, said cloaks fastened by silver brooches in the shape of stars. Those were Dúnedain Rangers and almost all the King’s own kinsmen. Or perhaps you have seen them riding the West Road through the Shire on their tall horses. A few of you most likely saw the King himself, although you knew it not. But if you had the honor to hear him sing as he rode behind you it is probable that you remember it well."

       That evoked more whispered comments. Again Frodo waited patiently for them to quiet. "During our discussions, our Lord King ever held up the laws and customs of the Shire as a shining example of how all of the lands of Gondor and Arnor ought to be governed, with simplicity, with honor, with mutual respect of all citizens.

       "Then we four Travelers returned to the Shire to find all in turmoil. At first the trouble seemed obvious enough--the Shire had been invaded by an army of ruffians intent on stripping it of its wealth, dignity, and integrity. Then we learned that this invasion had been invited by my own cousin Lotho Sackville-Baggins, who after I made the mistake of agreeing to sell him Bag End decided that he now had the right to make himself the tyrant of our land. Somehow he’d managed to gain title to most of the inns and all of the major mills of the Shire and far, far more of the major homes and farms than was good for anyone. One of my primary goals as deputy Mayor has been to learn just how Lotho did this, and what I have learned with the aid of the Took lawyers who agreed to assist me is that he did so by perverting our body of law.

       "I was not raised or trained to be a lawyer, and most of my experience with legal matters before I left the Shire was as the adopted heir of Bilbo Baggins and primary beneficiary of his will, and as holder to a number of farm shares and partnership agreements as well as landlord for several properties. No, I did not study the law--instead I studied languages--several languages. Bilbo taught me to translate Sindarin, Quenya, and some Adunaic. And through it all he taught me to respect the power of wording and context. The same phrase might be a compliment in one context and a gross insult in another. Translated literally a word or phrase might be thought to mean something far different than originally intended when it was actually used in the context in which it was presented.

       "We remain involved in an investigation of how Lotho Sackville-Baggins, with the aid of Timono Bracegirdle and several other Shire lawyers, presented contracts in which impossible improvements were required, or in which minor changes in wording left borrowers and sellers of property robbed of the titles to their own homes and farms. Some of those who presented these crooked and inequitable contracts were coerced into doing so; some were tricked; some were eager participants in the scheme. What we do now is primarily to try to ascertain which is which.

       "Timono now sits in the Lockholes himself, although it is in far different conditions than those known by Will Whitfoot, Fredegar Bolger, or Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and the others imprisoned in the old storage tunnels and rooms by Lotho and his Big Men. The cell in which he is imprisoned is lined with heavy blocks of stone, is dry and well ventilated, and contains a proper bed and furniture as well as proper privy and access to fresh water. He receives four proper meals a day. He is allowed visitors. However, he is not allowed to write any more contracts or agreements, and I will tell you plainly that those written by his visitors and those they deal with regularly will be reviewed most closely to make certain they are properly written and do not give one party to said contracts and agreements untoward advantages at the expense of the other."

       All was utterly silent at that pronouncement, although there were some uncomfortable exchanges of glances here and there throughout the room.

       "The King himself is most interested in seeing the results of our investigations; and it is likely that those shown to have been most deeply involved in the scheme to rob others of property, homes, farms, dignity, wealth, food, and freedom will be sent to receive the King’s justice either before Lord Halladan, Aragorn’s first cousin and Steward of Arnor, or possibly before the King himself.

       "Most of the phrases and clauses used to defraud and cheat others were the result of taking standard phrases that were sufficiently vague that they are almost meaningless in and of themselves, phrases that usually indicate roofs must be sound or shutters intact and functional and so on, and then twisting the wording sufficiently to indicate these requirements must now be met literally. How many do you know who found themselves required to dig new wells and install new pumps and drains when existing ones were properly present and functional? How many seeking to sell a house rather than a smial found they were required to plant a tree on the roof to demonstrate the integrity of the hill in order to be paid? How many found themselves required to replace existing chimney pots with others that proved of lesser quality than the originals, to be purchased from purveyors at such incredible distances from the home as to be impossible to acquire and install in time for the inspection required by the buyer?"

       Frodo now examined all quarters of the room, and many were now watching him with wary fascination. At last he continued, "Such perversions of our legal documents will no longer be allowed to be made. I now ask Bernigard Took, Master of the Guild of Shire Lawyers and most senior of you all, assisted by Isumbard Took, to discuss with you just what clauses and phrases were most frequently abused and changed, and how they might be amended so that in the future they can no longer be twisted."

       A great slate had been set up behind Frodo, and several such phrases were already written on it. Bard rose with a felt cloth to wipe it draped over his arm, a slate pencil behind his ear, and a pointer. Those who worked with Frodo had discussed this proposed part of the program for the conference with Berni, and now the elderly lawyer rose to lead the discussion, Bard pointing to each phrase as Bernigard read it aloud and indicated just how the vagueness of language had lent to it having been twisted. As more and more participants at the conference found themselves indicating how each phrase might be better stated or should be deleted completely from future contracts Frodo now sat and observed, sipping frequently from the mug or the glass set by him, or perhaps quietly nibbling at the plate of cold meats, cheeses, and vegetables placed before him.

       After an hour of discussion Frodo rose, and it was amazing how that simple act caught at the attention of all and once again the entire room fell quiet. "We have an excellent beginning," he said quietly, "although there is obviously a great deal of work yet to be done." He surveyed those phrases showing on the slate and how each had been amended. He glanced at Tolly, who had been set the task of copying down the final wording of each phrase. At the shake of Tolly’s head he turned back to his audience. "These were but the most often abused, but they certainly weren’t the only ones. It would be best that we choose several to continue this work, several who are highly skilled with the usage of language or whose contracts have always been among the best and most honestly written." He looked to Bernigard. "Uncle Bernigard, would you be willing to lead this group?" At the old Took’s agreement he looked back at the rest of those in the room. "Do we have recommendations regarding those who should serve in this group?" he asked.

       Several names were suggested before Rico Clayhanger called out, "If it’s cleverness with words you’re after, I’d suggest Lothario Bracegirdle."

       As several others agreed, Frodo and Tolly and Everard exchanged looks. Lothario was indeed clever with words--perhaps just too clever with words, in fact. But to object would be to perhaps tip their hand prematurely--or perhaps to prejudice the Shire against a potentially innocent Hobbit, although none of those who worked in the Mayor’s office truly believed that. Frodo gave a slight nod of decision. "Well, that would be well enough, I suppose; but to balance that we should have one working beside Lothario who is known for the consistent honesty of his contracts. Bartolo, would you be willing to work alongside your cousin?"

       Persivo, who’d accompanied his father, was delighted with the deputy Mayor’s recognition of his father’s honesty; but Bartolo thought he sensed irony in the Baggins’s suggestion and was bristling. But he, too, felt that if Lothario was to be in this committee he would be needed to keep his errant cousin in line. He glared at Frodo. "You think to honor me?" he demanded, and the antipathy he expressed could be missed by none. "I’ll do it, but don’t think it’s for your sake."

       A Bolger lawyer interrupted, "Well, if it’s honesty you’re after, then Brendilac Brandybuck is your Hobbit."

       Frodo exchanged looks with his cousin and personal lawyer, then looked back at the Bolger. "In this case I think not. Brendi is already one of those investigating claims for reparations as well as one who’s been actively checking out the reports of abuses by Sharkey’s folk in the South Farthing. As he has his own regular clients to serve as well as the service he offers the Master of Buckland, to add yet another duty at this point would be to stretch his already extensive duties past what is right for any one individual to carry. But how about you, Eligar? Would you be willing to serve?"

       Eight in the end were chosen, including Bernigard, Eligar Bolger, and the two Bracegirdles. Once all were agreed on the makeup of the committee, those attending the conference again began exchanging looks. At this the Thain rose and all gave him their attention. "I’ve been exchanging correspondence with both our Lord King Elessar and his northern Steward Lord Halladan. As of this time they have no concerns regarding our laws or customs, although the manner in which Lotho and Timono were able to pervert our legal system has caused them concern. That we immediately began investigating how the situation got so quickly out of hand and how it was that Lotho was able to amass so much power so swiftly has impressed both of them, as have the constant reports sent them by our deputy Mayor, who has taken it upon himself to keep both apprised of our progress. The most recent letter I’ve received arrived three days ago with the suggestion we do precisely as we have been involved in doing today--that we launch a review of statutes and wording and revise those we find are too easily twisted from their intent. Indeed, apparently this very process is going on in both Gondor and Arnor as well as the King seeks to make certain the laws of both realms remain in line with one another.

       "It is their suggestion also that we begin to choose candidates to study the laws of Arnor in addition to our own laws, so that we might better deal with situations when our folk cooperate with those in the outer realm. That we’ve already qualified some to write contracts and agreements with folk of the Breelands has impressed them."

       Frodo gave a small smile to his older cousin. "The first of such individuals has already been chosen, Thain Paladin," he said, "and I hope we will be able soon to send out more to study under the realm’s lawyers. At this time there are only two who are free to assist in our business with Bree; it is to be hoped more of our Shire lawyers will now seek to expand into these studies, now that it is at last becoming safer once more to travel freely to Bree and beyond and our business dealings will undoubtedly begin to follow suit."

       There was considerable comment on that amongst the participants in the conference. At last Frodo rapped with the Mayor’s gavel on the table, and all instantly again went quiet and gave their attention to him.

       "As you look around you today," Frodo said solemnly to the lawyers of the Shire, "you will notice that there are also attending a number of the most prominent family heads and their heirs. Unfortunately, the majority of those involved in Lotho’s takeover were Bracegirdles or closely related to them, which places that family in a highly embarrassing position, and I hereby apologize to all within the family who remained honest for the difficulties this situation has placed you under. I know that several such as the families of Benlo as family head and Bartolo as one married to a Baggins were targeted as heavily by Lotho’s folk as were the Bolgers, many of the Boffins, Hornblowers, Longbottoms, Gamgees, Whitfoots, and many others associated with those Lotho carried grudges against for decades.

       "Most of the lawyers who presented Timono and Lotho’s twisted contracts we’ve investigated so far were coerced. To speak to this I’ve asked Algenon Grubbs of the East Farthing to speak to you of how he and others associated with him were forced to present the contracts they did."

       Most were appalled at the threats made against the families of Algenon Grubbs and some of his associates. Then a Sandybanks rose and described how he’d accepted gifts from Timono, only to realize afterwards the items given him had been stolen from the Underhill family in the West Farthing, and how he’d been threatened to be branded a thief unless he agreed to present his share of crooked contracts and agreements. Then the Hornblower family head rose to explain how it had been learned Balco had been altering sales documents after the fact to send food and leaf southward instead of to their proper purchasers within the Shire.

       "But where did it all go?" demanded Odo Proudfoot.

       At that Peregrin Took stood up from where he sat behind his father. "Merry and I can speak to that, for we found Hornblower leaf in Isengard at the southern end of the Misty Mountains." He described the finding of the storeroom near the ruined gate to the vale of Isengard, and how afterwards in the rack and ruin of the fortress he and Merry had found other signs of goods brought thousands of leagues south from the Shire.

       "What were you two doin’ in such a place?" Odo asked.

       "We accompanied the Ents of Fangorn Forest there and saw the walls of the place destroyed and Saruman imprisoned in his own tower."

       "And who destroyed these walls you tell of?"

       "The Ents did. I’ve never seen such a thing before, and I doubt I’ll ever see such a thing again. I will advise all here that they never seek to anger an Ent. They make deadly enemies."

       "But why," asked Dormo Gravely, "did this Saruman want all that food and leaf?"

       It was Frodo who answered that. "He needed food--a great deal of food--to feed his army. He betrayed all in Middle Earth, and all among whom he had served, and sought to make himself either Sauron’s ally or his replacement; and in order to do either he must build an army. Armies must be fed, and in his madness he had taken his own people from their former cultivation of the land and turned them instead to the construction of weapons and armor and the--the raising of those he would have fight for him. Therefore he turned to other sources for food."

       "But weren’t there those closer he could get food from?" Dormo persisted. "Why send all the way north here to the Shire?"

       "No one is completely certain why he first sought out the Shire," Pippin explained. "There was a good deal of debate as to that question in the meetings of Aragorn’s Council, and no one appeared fully capable of saying why the Shire. We know there was a prophetic dream that a number of people had advising folk to seek Rivendell, and it had something about us Hobbits in it." He gave an involuntary glance sideways at Frodo. "But, as for why he was buying leaf--no one understands that, for he never smoked a pipe like Gandalf does, or not that anyone’s ever heard about. Unless he was thinking to use it to make poison. If you soak leaf long enough you can get a poison out of it that kills insects that harm crops. That’s what most folk in Gondor do with it. But if it’s concentrated enough it can weaken or even kill someone who eats or drinks it."

       Saradoc Brandybuck snorted. "Maybe he was just trying to make certain there wasn’t any left for Gandalf to smoke--you’ve told us before this Sharkey was jealous of Gandalf somehow."

       Frodo sighed as he eyed the Master of Buckland. "You very well could be right, Uncle Sara. However, none of us is in any position to find out for certain, as both Sharkey and Wormtongue are gone now." His shudder was clearly seen throughout the banquet hall. He took a deep breath, then looked again out at the room. "One thing that needs to be remembered is that from this time forward all contracts and written agreements and articles submitted to the Mayor’s office will be thoroughly examined before being accepted, and those found submitting documents intended to give one Hobbit an unacceptable advantage over another will be caught and dealt with. And you can be certain," Frodo added, "that you will be caught. Perhaps not immediately--but you will be caught and investigated. I wouldn’t suggest anyone try such tactics in the future."

       "What about Timono?" called someone from the left of the room.

       "He remains in his cell in the Lockholes until our investigation is complete. So far we have found eighteen property sales agreements which were presented or originally written by him but presented by others under coercion in which tops of smials were required to be thatched or tops of houses needed either roof trees or resodding. We’ve found eight in which the seller was required to replace items such as shutters or chimney pots, purchasing materials from specific dealers on the far side of the Shire or even Bree and installing them by an impossible date. We’ve found seventeen contracts in which property deeds used as collateral for loans reverted to Lotho’s or Timono’s possession within a matter of a few weeks or a month, the borrower was refused the right to repay the loan for a year and a day, and he must pay an exorbitant monthly rent on his own property in order to retain the right to make that repayment within a year and a day. We’ve found eight situations so far in which owners of mills or inns were threatened with physical violence toward themselves or their families to force them to sell their properties to Lotho before he took possession of Bag End and named himself Chief Shiriff, and sixteen such cases shortly after he named himself Chief Shiriff. We have found four cases where others seeking to purchase inns or mills were threatened to make them back out of their intended purchases and in which case Lotho and Timono came in immediately after the other sales failed to pick up the pieces."

       "What tactics did he use on you to purchase Bag End?" asked a Goodbody lawyer.

       "He learned I was selling Bag End and came forward with the asking price in cash while those I’d intended to sell it to were still only considering the deal. But he then failed to tell them he’d already purchased the property out from under them and loaned them the money they’d been told I wanted under one of the agreements in which they lost the deed to their home, although the loan agreement was so written that the deed passed to him once he was firm owner of Bag End."

       "But you weren’t cheated?"

       "Had I not insisted my own personal lawyer write the sales contract and transfer of deed it is likely I would have been cheated. I certainly returned to find my cousins were living in their own hole on sufferance only, and that almost all their possessions had been stolen from them. However, if I’d intentionally offered Bag End to Lotho and Lobelia you can be certain I would have asked a far higher sales price."

       "Why did you sell him the holes of Bagshot Row?" asked old Odo.

       "I didn’t. Once Lotho was convinced he was the ruler of the Shire and he had his army of ruffians behind him he’d simply given up the pretense of respecting property ownership."

       "He’d already given up on that nicety," growled a lawyer whose brother’s inn in Frogmorton had been confiscated within a month of Lotho naming himself the Chief Shiriff.

        "At least five of the disappearances of individuals from the Shire have been shown to be directly connected with the transfer of titles for property of some kind--in two cases each a mill or an inn, and in the last case a leaf plantation in the South Farthing."

        All looked to one another.

       Frodo continued, "In most cases that we can tell Timono was involved as well. Once the investigation is complete you can be certain Timono, Marco Smallburrow, and other conspirators will be held accountable before a tribunal of Hobbits of the Shire, and those found most involved will most likely be sent to receive the King’s Justice before Lord Halladan as Steward, or possibly sent south before the King himself."

       Again there was an exchange of looks and comments between those gathered for the conference.

       At last when all had fallen silent Frodo asked, "Is there any other business or question any would wish to present to the company?"

       The Goodbody lawyer asked, "For those who wish to write contracts and agreements outside the Shire--you say the King will provide teachers to teach the proper statutes to be referenced and wording to be used?"

       "According to the last letters I’ve received from the King and his Steward, yes."

       "How do we make it known we want such teaching?"

       "Everard Took right now is keeping a roster of those few who have indicated they wish such teaching or who wish simply to be allowed to work between the Shire and Bree. Feel free to consult him to have your name added to the list."

       Then, after it was plain no others intended to ask anything Frodo nodded. "If that is all, then I thank each and all of you who have attended and declare the meeting over. If you will vacate the banquet hall so that those who have prepared the tea to be offered can ready things within the room, I’m assured that tea will be served within twenty minutes."

       The speed with which the room was emptied was marvelous to see.

       Frodo sought to leave the room as Tolly and Everard removed the great slate, but Bard and the Thain between them steered him toward Bernigard, who alone remained in the hall. "Hullo, Frodo," he said quietly as he looked up into Frodo’s eyes. "I’ve not seen you in a great long time."

       "I know, Uncle Berni, but then many haven’t seen anywhere as much of me as they’ve expected for a great long time it seems, unless they’ve been frequenting the Mayor’s office over the last few months, of course."

       "I’m told you won’t accept my offer."

       Frodo sighed. "I’m sorry, Uncle Berni--truly sorry. But I can’t."

       Bernigard Took examined the Baggins’s face and noted that Frodo was fingering a pendant he wore hung from a finely finished silver chain. "That’s a beautiful pendant, Frodo. Where did you get it?"

       Frodo’s smile was pensive. "I was given it by one of the most beautiful women in all of Arda, Uncle Berni."

       The old Hobbit smiled. "A love interest at last, Frodo Baggins?"

       Frodo dropped his eyes and gave a most gentle shake of his head. "It wasn’t given to signify that kind of interest, for she was already married when she gave it to me. No, not that interest. If you will pardon me, Uncle Berni--I find a headache is threatening to overwhelm me and I want only to go back to the Whitfoot place, drink some willowbark tea, and lie down for a time."

       "You’ll miss the tea?"

       "Uncle Pal will have to officiate for me, I find. Please forgive me. But know that if you accept young Persivo Bracegirdle you won’t be disappointed."

       "A Bracegirdle?" Berni was shaking his head.

       "His mother is a Baggins, remember, and he has a good deal of Hornblower and even Boffin and Grubb in his family. He’ll do you proud, Uncle Berni--of that I’m certain. Now, if you will excuse me...." And Frodo decidedly broke away and left the hall, leaving the rest to look after him.

Lawyer of the Realm

       In late February the King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor sat in his private office reading the latest letter he’d received from Frodo.

       ...It is the perversion of our law that bothers me most, Aragorn. I read these twisted contracts presented by Lotho Sackville-Baggins and apparently written by his cousin Timono and I want so just to weep. And even those who should know how easily words can be twisted to different meanings by varying their order just a bit or by changing the context in which they are presented seem to need me, a scholar and no lawyer, to point out to them how it was done.

       I think this bothers me even more than the brutality known by so many or the outright thefts and imprisonments.

       And now we have a new need--in the past few years, I’ve learned, the number of Shire lawyers qualified to write contracts between Hobbits of the Shire and the folk of the Breelands has fallen to three, one of whom, Timono Bracegirdle, is now imprisoned in one of the new Lockhole cells, and a second one of which is under investigation for his involvement in apparently altering sales agreements to send goods out of the Shire, south to Isengard. Now that it should be safer to resume business associations with the Breelands we need to have more of our own lawyers trained to help write such contracts, and then to write contracts between our people and the folk of Arnor and Gondor.

       You were right when you told your Council that no land can afford to stand solely on its own any more, and that we must work on developing trade between all our peoples. Certainly there were those in the talks held in Minas Tirith who seemed interested in trading for our produce and woolens; and we would do well to find sources for fruits such as the orange fruit and its like, particularly as so many there in Gondor speak of how such fruits appear to help fight off illnesses such as colds and ague and catarrh and the lung sickness.

       Could you find one from Gondor who would be willing to travel north and accept apprentices (or at least students) in the writing of contracts in keeping with the laws of the outer realm? And if at the same time he is willing to learn how the laws and customs of the Shire and the Breelands have traditionally been written it would benefit all sides, I’d think.

       Laws and legal wording--so much of what I do right now focuses on these....

       Aragorn considered, then rose and went in search of Faramir to ask his advice.

*******

       Alvric son of Maerdion of Lamedon was the antithesis of all things Dúnedain. He was not particularly tall, reaching not quite five and a half feet in height. His hair was mouse brown, and rather curly in nature. His face was given to freckling in the summer sun, a trait that had caused him much embarrassment when he was younger. His eyes were blue-green and rather short-sighted. He rode only because not to do so was unthinkable for a gentleman’s son, but he did it with little enough enjoyment--he found he didn’t much care for riding and knowing soreness for days afterwards. He could never have defended himself with a sword if he tried--no one had even thought to question he would be sent out of Minas Tirith during the siege, after all.

       He carried a crystal lens it was said had come from the Dwarves of the North with which to look out at the world in order to see it more clearly, for a good deal beyond the reach of his arms was somewhat blurry in his sight. He loved small dogs rather than hounds, kept three tortoiseshell cats in his rooms, and collected crystals and rocks.

       And perhaps no one had more astute a mind regarding the laws of Gondor than he did. He was first assistant to the Master of the Guild of Lawyers of Minas Tirith and the northern fiefdoms, and would very likely be Master himself one day in spite of his blatant lack of interest in warfare, weapons, and politics. He sometimes served as a magistrate for the Fourth Circle, where he lived in a large house that rented suites of rooms to single gentlemen lacking the desire (and often the skills) to care for themselves or their quarters.

       He was in his quarters on this day, his oversized kettle given him by his sister on its hook over the flames of his fireplace, the fire itself warm, the leaves for the herbal drink he intended to enjoy already in his equally oversized mug. He was lounging in his favorite chair with a copy of the King’s most recent judgments on his lap for his perusal when the knock came at his door.

       He rose, setting aside the transcripts he’d been examining, and went to find out who would be visiting him on the High Day.

       "I’m sorry to disturb you, Master Alvric," explained Mistress Arië, obviously rather flustered, "but you have callers from the Citadel."

       "Callers? Today? Have they said what they want?"

       "I’m rather sorry, but they haven’t--only that they regretted the possible inconvenience but that they had a favor to ask of you." Then she leaned forward to whisper, "One is our Lord Steward Faramir, sir,"

       He automatically shoved his dog Holby back with his foot. The Steward, here? "Then if it is Lord Faramir send him up immediately," he said. He looked back nervously at the room, hoping it was presentable.

       "Shall I bring up some light foods, do you think?" she asked.

       "Yes--some of the yellow wine from Lossarnach would be in order, I think, and your cream cakes that you served at the noon meal, if you have any left. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mistress Arië."

       She smiled and hurried down to show the visitors up to his rooms, then was off to her kitchens to fetch the requested foods for her boarder’s important guests.

       Alvric admitted three Men, all much taller than himself. The Lord Steward looked wonderfully gracious as always as he thanked the lawyer for agreeing to see him with no notice or appointment, and hoped they weren’t disturbing his day too much.

       "Oh, no, not at all," Alvric was saying when the tallest of the three pushed back his hood and all thought of words fled his head. He was certain his face had to have lost all its color as he stood gawking, then collected his startled wits to bow deeply. "My Lord King!" he finally managed. "But I had no idea...."

       "As I sent no warning, how could you?" His Lord King looked somewhat amused. "Prince Faramir had suggested you when I came to him with my questions, is all, Master Alvric. Do you mind if we explain the situation to you, and then you could possibly suggest someone to accept a mission in the north kingdom?"

       "But of course--come in and do make yourselves comfortable...." He found himself looking from the King to his own chair with a measure of regret.

       The King, he realized, was following his own thoughts perhaps far too closely. "I’m sorry," Lord Elessar said rather apologetically, "but not only would I feel uncomfortable taking your chair, but it would be uncomfortably low for me. There are disadvantages to being particularly tall, I find at times. No, I suspect I’ll be more at ease with this stool, if you don’t mind." As he immediately suited actions to words, casually pulling said stool over so he could sit facing his host, it appeared there was nothing further to say.

       As both his other guests seemed more comfortable seated on the divan under the windows looking down on the street, he reluctantly retreated to his chair. For a few moments all were quiet, looking at one another. Holby came to investigate the two strangers on the divan, sniffing at their ankles, while one of the cats leapt off the top of the book shelf by the door to his bedroom and sat briefly contemplating the King before leaping neatly into his lap.

       Alvric watched as the King automatically accepted Marble’s advances, immediately winning her approval by scratching her favorite place under her chin. "Yes," the lawyer said uncertainly, "and if you could give me an idea as to what you need...." He looked from King to Steward and back.

       The King smiled. "I would like to introduce one of my kinsmen as well as one of both my captains and my officials within Arnor, Lord Berevrion. He has been sent south by Lord Halladan, the Steward of Arnor as Prince Faramir is the Steward of Gondor. Lord Berevrion is known in Bree, where they like to give us rather interestingly descriptive names, as the Scribe. He has been keeper of the records of Arnor, such as they’ve been, and our chief legal advisor for the past twenty-two years.

       "To be honest most of the laws of Arnor have been to the point of suspension for the nine hundred and some years since Arvedui died in the ice floes of the far north, for we were much reduced in that time, and much of our lives has been spent just seeking to survive from one day to the next. Our cities were reduced to villages and most of our villages were spread far apart in order to make it harder for the Enemy to destroy all when his folk found one of them, and also to make it harder for us to easily pass the diseases he has ever sent our way from one to the next."

       "Sauron sent diseases to your people?"

       Berevrion answered him, his voice lower and more mellow than that of the King. "Did you not know he has done so ever since the time in which he managed to destroy Telemnar and his family here? Gondor was not the only land devastated at that time, you see. But we have been ever in alliance with Lord Elrond of Imladris, and our Line of Kings has been true and trained by Lord Elrond to use the healing gifts they’ve inherited as the descendants of Eärendil and Elros Tar-Minyatar. We have managed to survive, but at times it has been a very near thing."

       The King continued, "We are preparing there to do as we’ve been doing here, to review the laws of the land. We wish the two bodies of law to be in line, one with the other, of course. Plus there is another need--to prepare those who write contracts and agreements within the northlands to write them in keeping with the laws of the reconstituted combined nation. And we have received a specific request for one to help educate the most active set of lawyers in the northern lands that their contracts and agreements specifically may be properly done. You see, one of our northern peoples has always been given to such considerations.

       "We are hoping you can help us identify a lawyer from here in Gondor, one who is expert in contract law especially, who will be willing to help train those identified among the lawyers of the Breelands and the Shire to write properly constituted and binding contracts and agreements with our folk out of Arnor and Gondor. Plus we believe it will be found instructive for us to be more knowledgeable as to how these folk have governed themselves for the past fifteen hundred years. Where our own people have waxed and waned, the folk of the Breelands and the Shire have increased, slowly but steadily, and have mostly governed themselves and done so admirably well."

       "I’ve heard mention of the Shire--I know I have," Alvric said, trying to remember where. "You say its people have governed themselves and have grown in population where much of the rest of Arnor has been reduced to struggling for survival?"

       "Yes. To their west and south they’ve been mostly protected by the Elves remaining in Lindon and Mithlond and those of our own people who have settled among them--few enough of those, I fear. To their east and north their lands have been guarded by the Rangers of Eriador, although we have patrolled all their borders, if not as much to the south and west as the north and east."

       "And your own people traded with these?"

       "Some, and mostly with those who have come out of the Shire into the Breelands to do so. However, it is only now that the Shirefolk are finding themselves willing to come out from their own borders once more, for the last few decades have been as tumultuous in the north as they have here in the south. But the requests for one to help educate the lawyers of the Shire and the Breelands have come from one we are loth to disappoint."

       "And who is that?"

       "Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer."

       It was probably as well that Mistress Arië arrived at that moment with the refreshments, for Alvric found himself at last overwhelmed with the greatness thrown at him this day. Dealing with accepting cakes and wine from his landlady and then serving them to his guests gave him time to get his confused thoughts back in some kind of order.

       It was the King himself who, momentarily displacing Marble, took the kettle from the fire and poured its contents into the prepared mug for him. "I think you might well need this, Master Alvric," he said, "or perhaps a good sip of your wine. I will admit I am becoming accustomed to people finding themselves somewhat overwhelmed to realize they speak to the King as they would to any other individual, or who find they--find me familiar; but I have learned many do appear to hold Frodo with a deal of awe he himself found most distressing."

       "Yes, I suppose," Alvric said, setting down his plate of cakes on the tray he’d placed on the low table by the door before turning to take the mug from the King. He sat again on his chair, and immediately Holby sprang up to sit between his side and the arm of the chair, watching the cup with interest, then turning his attention on the cake the King had taken before resuming his seat on the stool. When Marble made to resume her place she was forestalled by a look, and sat back, gave the Man a thoughtful examination, then turned to the business of washing her left hind leg.

       After he’d drunk several sips Alvric set the mug down beside the transcripts he’d been reviewing, and scratching the dog’s ears absently he addressed himself to the King. "Lord Frodo is a lawyer among his own people?" he asked.

       The King gave a slight laugh. "A lawyer? No, not exactly. Frodo was trained, of all things, to be a scholar, a linguist, a scribe and copyist, and a bookbinder, or so I’ve learned. However, since returning home to the Shire he has accepted the role of deputy Mayor, as the proper Mayor of the Shire was much injured by being imprisoned during the absence of Frodo and his companions when they left their land to travel first to Imladris and then south and east. As deputy Mayor he has been forced to learn the niceties of the laws of his land."

       "You speak of him being a scholar, copyist, and linguist as if it were an odd choice of professions, your Majesty," Alvric noted.

       His royal guest shrugged expressively. "The number of Hobbits of the Shire who have left the boundaries of their own land in the past fifty years probably doesn’t exceed six dozen all told, and except for Bilbo and Frodo Baggins and Frodo’s companions, none of those I know of has gone further than Bree, a half-day’s ride east from the Brandywine Bridge, where most folk enter their land. Meanwhile the number of Hobbits from Bree who’ve traveled from Bree to the Shire must be considerably fewer. Most Hobbits, both those who dwell in Bree and those who live in the Shire, know nothing of any language other than Westron; a large number are unlettered altogether; and only those from the more prominent families are likely to own any books, although I’ll admit those families do appear to all have remarkably large and diverse libraries from what I’ve been told by Bilbo, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin.

       "To study languages or the history of any people other than Hobbits themselves, to be personal friends with Dwarves or Elves or Men, to purposely write books other than books on decorum or ones family genealogy, to even consider traveling to, much less beyond, Bree--any and all of these provide reason within the communities of Hobbits, whether in Bree or the Shire, to consider the one doing such things at the very least eccentric. In fact, Bilbo Baggins, Frodo’s elderly cousin and guardian when he was younger, was commonly referred to as old Mad Baggins. Much more leniency has ever been accorded Frodo, but his own people have ever found him odd and, apparently, a focus for gossip and speculation."

       Alvric could not believe what he heard. "You mean that Lord Frodo is not honored among his own people?"

       "I doubt the folk of the Shire have any true idea as to what a great one they have among them. From what Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Bilbo have told me there have been attempts to have Frodo elected Mayor of the Shire in his own right, one of their three greatest offices and the one elected position of leadership within their land, since he came of age, but he has never agreed to accept nomination."

       "Then how did he arrive at the office of deputy Mayor?"

       "He was so appointed by Mayor Whitfoot after his rescue from the prison in which he was held."

       "And what perfidy had this--Mayor Whitfoot committed that led to his imprisonment?"

       "None. A Hobbit brought in a small army of brigands to take control of the Shire, and imprisoned the Mayor when he thought to object. However, in time he found that the Men he thought he controlled had actually been sent by the traitor Curunír, who was known in the north as Saruman. This Lotho is now dead, as is Saruman; but since their return Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin have all been engaged in cleansing and rebuilding their own land, and Frodo has been forced to the study of law. He is much concerned with how choice of language was used by Lotho and those helping him to confiscate goods, money, and property belonging to others."

       "And he wishes to see lawyers of his people trained in the laws of the outer realms as well?"

       Having finished his cake, the King reached down and scooped Marble back into his lap, stroking her back. Alvric could see her sisters peering out of his bedroom. "Yes," the Lord Elessar said, "he would see them educated in the laws of the outer realm. Their usual office is merely to help write up contracts of various sorts, sales agreements, and so on; and it has been the desire of Frodo, Merry, and Pippin especially to see trade flourish between their land and the outer realms."

       "They have the authority to see to such things?"

       The King smiled. "Frodo is, at least for the moment, deputy Mayor; while Peregrin Took is the son and heir to the Thain of the Shire, their hereditary leader since the days of my ancestor Arvedui, who was last King of Arnor; and Meriadoc Brandybuck is heir to the Master of Buckland. Mayor, Master, and Thain are the three most influential individuals in the Shire, and where they lead the rest of the Shire will follow."

       "And what of Lord Samwise?"

       Lord Elessar’s face went solemn and somewhat distant, and his hands went still, no longer stroking Marble’s back. Finally he said, in a quiet voice, "He will follow his Master, as he has ever done, and will be full Mayor one day. Mayor, and teacher and teller of tales and history as Frodo has ever been." His head bowed, and with one hand he clung to his knee.

       Lord Berevrion looked to his kinsman, then back at Alvric. "I think he has been granted a vision of Lord Samwise’s future, and perhaps that of Lord Frodo as well. It is one of the gifts of our lineage."

       After some moments of quiet the King looked up, meeting Alvric’s eyes. "All of Middle Earth owes its continued existence to Frodo Baggins. It has been little enough he has asked in return, and one boon he asked of me I did not allow, selfishly enough. If he wishes a teacher of the laws of the outer realm, I would send him one--not that we do not need one to help review the laws of the realm in both Kingdoms, north and south."

       "Then I will go myself," Alvric said.

       Aragorn son of Arathorn looked about the lawyer’s outer room, his face twitching as he evaluated it. He then looked again into Alvric’s eyes. "You have not the look of one who would enjoy the journey, my friend."

       Alvric found himself shaking his head. "My Lord King," he said with far more surety than he would have believed possible had not the Ringbearer’s wishes been part of the situation, "I am the most knowledgeable of all lawyers in Gondor. I would not send one less capable than I am to see to it that the Lord Frodo’s wishes might be met."

       "I will warn you this, Master Alvric--I sincerely doubt you will actually have the chance to meet with Frodo if you go north, for I’ve first forbidden Men to enter the Shire for a time as the folk of that land find their peace after the trials they faced while our four were gone from there, and I suggested that as much as possible Frodo remain in the center of his land for his comfort--although," he continued, his face growing more stern, "considering the situation the four of them found on their return I’m not certain just how much comfort that has offered him. When each day he is faced with the evidence of the perfidy of his own cousin who wrought the rebellion, I fear that there is little comfort to be had no matter where he might be amongst his own."

       Both Berevrion and Faramir were equally curious along with the lawyer. Faramir asked, "And why is it that being in the midst of his own people would offer him more comfort, my Lord Elessar?"

       The King sighed as he lifted the cat from his lap and held her to his chest. "I learned during his visit here that Frodo is blessed with a remarkably strong share of the King’s Gift, a gift finely honed by the effects of the Enemy’s Ring while he carried It and used by the Ring against him. By nature most Hobbits are peaceable and given to enjoyment, and their land I can tell you is rich and fertile, its fields bountiful and its trees beautiful. I remember Frodo telling the envoy from Umbar that Hobbits for the most part simply enjoy, and thought how apt a description that was for his people.

       "But he has returned to a land ravished by the greed and resentment of both his cousin Lotho and Curunír, and must deal with the echoes of that every day. He sees to much of the setting to rights of the legal dealings of the Shire, and leads consultations with family and village heads to see his people’s needs provided for; Merry and Pippin have helped in cleansing the Shire of the last of the brigands hiding here and there throughout the wilder places; and Sam even now is seeing to the replanting of the avenues and groves of trees Saruman ordered wantonly killed during his brief reign of terror as well as the rebuilding of homes and barns destroyed on Lotho’s or Saruman’s orders. Until Frodo feels the Shire is again fully at peace and amity within itself his King’s Gift will give him little if any rest."

       Another of the tortoiseshell cats finally quit the further room and came to settle herself on Alvric’s lap. Holby gave a brief growl of disapproval, then quieted as his master touched his muzzle. The last came out and leapt onto the desk beyond their master’s chair, settling herself in the midst of the correspondence Alvric had been dealing with last. The King looked about at the three cats, then back to Alvric himself.

       "It is one thing to feel moved to go yourself, Master Alvric, but I can tell you with certainty it is not an easy trip, although it would be far easier and safer for you now, traveling as you would be with Berevrion and his escort than it has proven in the past. Lord Berevrion has served as the primary envoy between our cousin Halladan as Steward of Arnor and the court here in Gondor, and as such Berevrion is becoming perhaps all too familiar with the road between here and the north.

       "You have not the look of one who finds the saddle comfortable enough to wish to ride for weeks, nor one who would feel comfortable sleeping under the open sky for nights in a row while between the settlements of Men or Elves. I fear you would find yourself lonely for your companions here and your regular occupations of study and advising; and as you serve as one of our magistrates for disputes you would miss those duties as well. Are you truly desirous to leave your comforts behind for perhaps up to a year?"

       Alvric looked about the room, then licked his lips. "If my rooms might be kept for me while I must be gone," he began, then paused. He thought more deeply, then looked up with decision. "I will admit I prefer to live comfortably, although I will tell you I found I actually enjoyed going to the place of refuge to which I was sent during the siege of the city. I am, of course, concerned for the safety and comfort of my cats while I must be away; but I would take Holby with me as he and I have traveled together whenever I must go between here and my family’s home in Lamedon. Would there be the possibility of furnished rooms to be had in the northlands where I must work? But I will tell you this--I fear if I do not take this opportunity to serve the realm I will ever regret it, particularly if I feel I have somehow failed the Ringbearer. I saw him a few times while he dwelt in the city, particularly during audiences and judgments and during the conferences on the manner in which different lands within Arnor are ruled, and came to honor him deeply for his intelligence and faithfulness and humble nature."

       Faramir gave his clear laugh. "Ah, my friend," he said, "I see another has fallen under the spell of Frodo Baggins and his charm."

       "Aye," the King returned. "Ever he draws those of honor to him."

       Berevrion shrugged, smiling. "Such has ever been true of those who bear the King’s Gift, I think, kinsman." He turned to the lawyer, his expression thoughtful. "I must leave for the north kingdom again within ten day’s time. Can you be ready that quickly? And, as I understand you serve the Guild of Lawyers here, will the Master of the Guild grant you such leave?"

       "Do not worry for me," Alvric reassured him. "I will be ready, although I will admit I do not have a mount at this time. The last time my brother visited me here in Minas Tirith he took Lavas back with him."

       "We have a few steeds left us by Éomer of Rohan after the war," the King said, "horses whose Riders were lost. He felt they might help meet the needs of our errand riders. I’m certain we can find one to suit you from among them, and I can send a message asking him to have one or two more ready for you as you ride through Rohan. If you are to ride swiftly north, it would be best to have at least two horses to change between that none grow exhausted by being ridden all the day. So it is for those in Berevrion’s escort. If you could meet with me at the stable in the First Circle an hour before sunset we will see to it that you are properly mounted for at least the ride to Rohan. And I will see to it your rooms will be kept for you during your absence. And you say your dog travels with you?"

       "Yes--a special carrier my sister had made for me years ago. Holby does well enough in it, and would be most upset if I were not to take him."

       The King exchanged amused looks with his kinsman. "So be it, then. With that I fear I must give over your delightful cat here and we must be on our way, for there are other considerations we must discuss before I can release Berevrion back to Halladan’s side once more." He gently coaxed Marble to the floor and stood up, finished his wine, and having given over his goblet to Faramir to return to the tray he stretched. "I will tell you this--I envy you the ride to Arnor and the Breelands. April is a kind month to the lands surrounding the Shire. And whatever else I might be, I remain the child of the North Kingdom. Until an hour before sunset, then." He bowed briefly and pulled his hood again over his head. Alvric rose hastily and bowed in return, and saw his guests down to the lower part of the building and away, then stood, watching after them, feeling rather bemused.

*******

       Two weeks later he found himself riding through Anorien on a rather small mare whose silky coat matched his own hair for color, their small company already approaching the borders to Rohan. Somewhere the King had found a sturdy cob to serve as packhorse for him, and so he led a tall, rangy grey loaded with a small tent, bedroll, balanced packs of books and scrolls and journals, travel bottles of ink and sticks of graphite and a lead pencil, and five sets of clothing as well as much of the travel supplies for the entire company of five.

       Holby rode in his leather carrier tied to the crupper of Alvric’s saddle, his head usually poked through the open space at the top, watching the scenery and sniffing the wind of their passage with interest.

       Lord Berevrion fell back from where he’s been receiving the report of the scout who’d just returned. "We apparently have a clear road ahead of us all the way to the borders of Rohan," he reported. "How are your thighs holding up?"

       Alvric shrugged. "Better than the last two days, I think. I am sorry I slow you down."

       The northern lord laughed. "It’s nothing like it was traveling north alongside King Théoden’s wain, four Hobbits, a large troupe of Elves, a love-struck Steward and his princess, and Gandalf. At times I wondered whether we’d managed to travel any distance at all during the day; and when the Elves of Lothlorien prepared to turn to their own lands we remained in one place for days as the great Elves and Gandalf held a final council with one another.

       "Not, of course," he hastened to add, "that the Hobbits just by being Hobbits slowed us down. Only it was that Lord Frodo was unable to travel as steadily as the rest of us. Truly the Ring left its effects on him, although one would not know it just to look on him. I think he had the foreknowledge that all was not well with his homeland and he ached to return there as soon as he could do so; but he learned he could not push himself further in a day than we went. And he had the equally strong feeling he must see his kinsman Bilbo Baggins who dwelt in Rivendell before he returned to the Shire. So the Hobbits and Gandalf went east first and rested some days before they finally set off west for Bree and beyond."

       "Then," said Alvric thoughtfully, "Lord Frodo had not completely recovered from his wounds before he left to return to his own people."

       Berevrion shrugged. "He does not like to admit this, but it is true. But considering how many wounds he bore and how they were administered, are you surprised? Had he been a Man and not a Hobbit he would never have survived to reach Rivendell from the Shire. As it happened he was indeed at the point of death when Gandalf and the Great Eagles found him and Lord Samwise in the ruins of the Mountain. They did not know if he would return. Again, had he been a Man and no Hobbit it is likely that had he survived he would have been confined to his couch from that day forward. Instead he awoke and has been able to be among us beyond all hope."

       "And your people call the Grey Pilgrim Gandalf at all times, then?"

       Berevrion nodded. "So he has ever been known throughout most of the north. A counselor in time of need, and one to fight at the side of Kings."

       "Has he been seen since he left Gondor?"

       "Briefly only, and in passing. He parted from the Hobbits near the borders of their land and went to speak with the Eldest who it is said dwells within the Old Forest on the eastern borders of the Shire. He was seen over two weeks afterwards heading east once more toward Rivendell and Elrond’s house. I do not believe he intends to remain in Middle Earth."

       Alvric looked at his companion with interest. "Where would he go?"

       Berevrion shrugged. "He is no Elf, and yet neither has he proved a Man, for he has been in Middle Earth since at least the days of Celepharn of Arthedain. I have seen his name mentioned in the records of all our Kings and chieftains since that time, and most he saw receive the Sceptre of Annúminas, or at least the Shards of Narsil when at last it was judged Arnor was no longer a kingdom save in memory. Nay, I strongly suspect he was sent from beyond the West, and will return there soon enough."

       Not long after midday they reached the borders of Rohan where they were greeted by Riders guarding the southeastern boundaries. They were greeted with honor, and four were detached from the éored to accompany them back to Edoras, which they reached some four days later. Here they rested for three days, and they saw their supplies renewed before they must turn northward again.

*******

       "I have ready for you the second horse my brother Aragorn asked for you," said Éomer King on their first morning. "I only hope he will not prove more than you can handle."

       Alvric was concerned until he noted the smile hidden behind the young king’s beard, but he and Berevrion followed their host out of the city to the lower paddocks.

       "Will you see the Ringbearer when you go north again?" Éomer asked as they walked.

       "I doubt it," Berevrion responded. "He remains yet in the heart of his land."

       "I like it ill that the traitor Saruman came to their land and troubled it so," the king said, his expression hard. "I am somewhat surprised that Saruman could be killed--but as Gandalf Greyhame had already passed through death perhaps I should not feel even that. Just as long as his fellow cannot do the same." Then, at Alvric’s expression of shock and disbelief, Éomer stopped and examined the lawyer’s face. "What? The story of Gandalf’s fall in the clutches of a fire demon is not told in Mundberg?"

       "No!" Alvric said, shaking his head. "Word had spread through the city that Gandalf had been destroyed; yet then he rode into it with the Ernil i Pheriannath before him on his great grey steed, dressed now in white and carrying a far different staff than the one he carried before, yet one more in keeping with his new dignity. All but supposed it was only the newest of many rumors disproved."

       "Nor have we heard the entire tale as yet," Berevrion added.

       "I know not what he spoke to the Council of Gondor of his fall, but I know what tale Aragorn told us when first we met and then later as we rode to Helm’s Deep after Gandalf left our side to seek out Erknebrand and his Men." Briefly Éomer related the tale of the facing of the Balrog on the Bridge of Khazad-dum, the fall and the battle as related by Gandalf, and the sending back. "He told Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas he was sent back naked, and that he awoke where life had fled him, there atop Zirak Zigal, as the Dwarves name it. The great Eagle Gwaihir found him there and bore him to the Golden Wood where the Lady of Dreams dressed him now in white, although I know not how he came to his new staff."

       They turned to finish the journey to the paddocks, and outside one the king stopped and leaned on the wooden rails, his face filled with satisfaction as he watched the milling of the horses within. This paddock held seven animals; two bays, a dun, a deep grey, one nearly white, a light grey, and a gelding so dark a brown as to be nearly black. Alvric found himself watching that particular gelding with interest, his mind distracted from thoughts of wizards destroyed and re-embodied by the sight. The horse was somewhat smaller than the rest, lean yet well muscled. "And no white upon him?" Alvric asked, looking sideways at his host.

       "Only the smallest of clusters just left of his breastbone." The king smiled. "I’d thought to send him north to my Holdwine, but am not certain. One of our pony mares has just thrown a fine foal I think I might send Merry once he has been broken, and a fine stallion he will be, I deem. And he has promised to send me a wagonload of apples at their next harvest, and two great casks of fine cider." He watched the horse move some more, then turned to examine the smaller Man at his side. "I see he has already caught at your imagination. Do you think you would like to try and see if he will accept you as a rider?"

       At Alvric’s nod Éomer nodded, then called out in Rohirric to one of the Men engaged in filling the manger with hay. The Rider answered, also in Rohirric, something that caused the other Men to laugh and the king to smile broadly. He answered back, and all laughed again. The one filling the manger finished his task, then went off to a nearby shed and brought back a blanket, saddle, and bridle. The king meanwhile had slid between the rails and walked further into the paddock. He stood tall, watching as the horses ran first to the other side of the paddock, then turned to examine the Man, then began to circle him, coming closer and closer to him. Alvric watched, awed, realizing precisely how this one was indeed King of the Horselords. The brown turned out of the circle, came closer and closer to Éomer, and finally stopped, trembling, just within reach. The Man reached out, stroked down the horse’s muzzle, then moved closer, allowing the animal to lip his hand. He reached inside his shirt and brought out a wizened apple and offered it to the animal, who took it tentatively, then after crunching it, sniffed at his clothing, its trembling stopped. He laughed and led the animal near the paddock fence. Now the others were coming closer, also nuzzling at him, and he turned to pet several of them, then pushed them gently away. "Sa, sa, my brothers," he crooned to them, "softly now, all of you. Soon enough we will find Riders for you, that you know the fulfillment of your kind. Beautiful are all of you. But for this one, I think we have found the one for him. You may watch, if you wish."

       He beckoned for Alvric to join him in the paddock. "If he is to be yours, you must allow him to come to know you. Come--come closer."

       Several Riders were crowding around the railing as Alvric followed the king inside the rails, leaning on it and watching with interest as the one who’d brought the tack brought a carrot, almost as wizened as the apple had been, out of his shirt and handed it to Alvric. The lawyer held the carrot out to the gelding, and at first it shied away from him, then turned back, and at last emboldened came forward to accept the tribute. Soon it was allowing him to fondle it, and when at the king’s nod he reached for the saddle blanket it took but a half step away, then came forward again at a look from Éomer. It didn’t take long for Alvric to saddle the gelding, whose muscles twitched at the feel of the gear; and at last the Man made to mount. It took four tries before Alvric went before the animal and looked into its gaze. "If you will allow me, we can ready ourselves for our journey. I doubt you will find me that difficult to deal with. However, I have not the time to spend waiting for you to stand still."

       Something in the tone appeared to reassure the gelding, and this time as Alvric set his foot into the stirrup it stayed still, allowing him to swing up into the saddle. At a nod from the king some of the watching Riders slipped a pair of rails out of place, allowing Alvric to ride out through the gap. There were moments of caution on the part of first horse and then Man, then growing confidence. Éomer had followed Alvric out, and now the rails were being replaced as the rest watched Alvric and the gelding come to appreciate one another.

       There was a thunder in the distance, and a small herd of horses, each far greater than the brown, swept toward them, led by a silver-grey stallion of surpassing beauty. The gelding stopped and snorted, pawing at the ground and once again trembling some, but this time in what Alvric realized was eagerness.

       The herd parted like a wave around a great rock as it swept past Alvric and his mount, and as the last ran by the brown turned and broke into a gallop after them. At their advent Éomer of Rohan moved forward, and now stood a fair distance from the rails of the paddocks, his face shining in eagerness as the stallion led his retinue toward and then around him. Alvric saw at least one other stallion in the group, several mares, and two half-grown colts, leggy yet full of promise.

       As had done the seven within the paddock, the herd was now circling the king, coming ever closer and closer, and he was turning, watching them with pleasure and appreciation. At last the stallion turned out of the circling and made one more circuit, widdershins this time, and paused just within reach of the Man. As he’d done before, Éomer reached out to caress the animal’s muzzle, then to scratch behind its ears. The stallion pushed his head hard against the Man’s chest, then turned broadside to him. With a steed leap the king was astride, and the silver was turning to run again with his herd, then pulled out of it as the rest dropped back and found a stand of grass to graze. The silver led the way, and Alvric’s brown followed as together they raced down the plain, first away from the walls of Edoras and along the stream, then turning first west, then about at last.

       It was a heady ride, and when at last the two animals stopped some twenty yards short of the paddock Alvric found himself relieved and saddened at the same time that the gallop was over. Éomer slipped from his steed’s back and embraced the animal. Lord of Men and lord of horses acknowledged one another, then Éomer turned to caress the rest of the herd as they crowded around him. At last the silver stallion came forward to sniff muzzles with Alvric’s brown, chuffed and appeared to nod in approval, then turned away. He gave a neigh of command, and the rest turned from their push at the king and gathered around him, and the small herd turned and began drifting northwest.

       Alvric dismounted and watched after, his arm over the brown’s neck, feeling how eager the gelding was to follow after. He looked at the king of Rohan as Éomer approached. "The Mearas?" he asked.

       The young king nodded. "Yes. It was how our people were convinced, on our return, that I was indeed intended to be the lord of our land, that the Mearas came to greet me and allowed me to handle and ride them. Perhaps the Men of other realms might not understand, but for the Eorlingas--the rightful king must be approved by our steeds as well as our people, and I doubt we would have it any other way." He reached out to the brown. "So, brother, will you have him, then? He saw the desire in you to follow your own lord and allowed it; but now his way is a different way. Will you go with him and the mare already sworn to him and see new lands? I sense he will be a kindly rider. Just don’t try too many tricks on him."

       "Has he a name?"

       "It has been in my heart to call him Jongleur. What think you, Alvric of Mundberg?"

       And so it was that when Alvric mounted to continue the ride north two days later he led both the packhorse and Jongleur.

Quarters in Bree

       The Alvric who some weeks later looked over the land of Eriador through his crystal lens a day’s journey south of Bree, or so Berevrion told him, was much leaner and more muscular than the one who’d left Minas Tirith in March. He’d taken his turn fetching water and splitting wood for cooking fires, he’d erected his own small tent in the evening and taken it down and stowed it in the morning, and had learned to cook a passable meal over an open fire, much to everyone’s amazement. He’d even learned to bathe in a stream or small lake, something he would never have dreamed of doing before he left Gondor.

       Over the past few days as they rode Alvric had been questioning Berevrion about the laws of Arnor.

       "Originally Gondor and Arnor were ruled by the same laws, those worked out by Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion together based on the code they brought from Númenor. There were magistrates and city or village heads within villages or specific sections of larger towns and cities to settle minor disputes while serious offenders could expected to be taken before one of the lords of the realm, and eventually to the King himself if the matter was sufficiently serious or could not be settled under any lesser authority. After a few generations the law restricting the Sceptre to a male heir was rescinded, which proved to be pointless as never has there been a generation when we did not have a male heir; and in the few cases when a daughter was born first ever has the daughter willingly and of her own volition given over her claim to her brother, although that occurred once in Rhuadar and twice in Cardolan. In Arthedain during the years of the divided kingdoms it happened only once that the firstborn was female, but she died of a wasting disease while still a child, and none questioned that she would not be able to follow her father.

       "We had the common laws against smuggling, slavery, spying, espionage, forced marriages, the forcing of women or children to work in unsuitable or unhealthful or unwholesome labor for the gain of the father, husband, or other kinsman or guardian, and so on. We had the common laws of protection for women, children, and the infirm, protecting the inheritance rights of widows and orphaned children, offering education and training and employment opportunities for those who must provide for themselves when their usual sources of support had been lost. We had the laws that ordered that those who labored for a living must not be exploited and their working conditions must be as safe and healthful as possible; that they must be allowed to join guilds that would offer them teaching and training and that would require redress for negligence at the hands of employers...."

       Alvric listened, for these were indeed the common laws of Gondor as well. "How did the royal line go from Kings to Chieftains?"

       "As village sizes decreased and our towns and cities were destroyed by enemy actions and waves of diseases always sweeping in from the southeast, our people formed smaller and smaller villages, most fortified and guarded by one or more of our hereditary lords and their forces. As we were descended from those who arrived in the ships in Elendil’s own direct retinue, already most were of the direct lineage of the royal family of Númenor; we have intermarried to the point that we are all almost equally of royal blood, although the lineage, father to son, of our Kings has never been in question.

       "Eärendur sought to make each of his sons a king in his own right, and split the realm into three lesser kingdoms. His eldest son Amlaith and his heirs of Arthedain continued to make alliances with the sons and daughters of the direct lines of Kings in Rhuadar and Cardolan, and so Aragorn is as directly descended from those two lines as he is from the lines of Isildur and Anárion through Amlaith and eventually Arvedui for Arthedain and the North, as well as Fíriel daughter of Ondoher for the South Kingdom. Plus an examination of the Roll of Arnor will show that a number of younger sons and daughters of royal blood in Gondor who went willful missing ended up in Eriador, allying themselves with our royal lineage, usually with younger sons or daughters, most recently Arien of Dol Amroth who left with Captain Gilthor who was grandson of Argonui, Aragorn’s great-grandfather. Gilfileg son of Gilthor and Arien is currently next in line after Aragorn, at least until Aragorn and Arwen produce a child of their own. Lord Halladan and his remaining brother Hardorn are five generations from the royal line, while I am eight. Most of us are related to Aragorn on both his mother’s and his father’s side, you will find.

       "The villages have tried to remain self-sufficient for the most part, and each has sent out its own patrols, usually coordinated by the Chieftain or his Steward. In the last hundred years our villages dropped to as few as eight and then rose to fourteen. The thirty who rode south to find Aragorn in Rohan were drawn mostly from the troupes from Fornost and two villages in the Angle, north of Rivendell. These particular troupes have done most of the patrols of the West Road which we will reach tomorrow, the Weather Hills, and the borders of the Breelands and the Shire. Those villages south of Rivendell have done most of the patrols of the Misty Mountains toward Hollin; the rest patrol mostly alongside the forces of Rivendell and protect the passes eastward and the northern borders.

       "Aragorn was born in Fornost, the fortified royal fortress city of our lineage. Since Arvedui’s fall it has been rebuilt slowly and carefully. However, shortly after Aragorn’s birth his father removed his family back to the Angle where they lived in the keep ruled by Halbaleg, brother to Aragorn’s mother Gilraen. Arathorn died two years later in a fight with orcs from the Misty Mountains, at a time another of the plagues struck our lands that killed many and cost us many unborn children as their mothers found themselves miscarrying. Lady Gilraen and Aragorn themselves were almost lost to us, and it was given out that the heir of Isildur had died, too; but instead he was taken to Imladris to be raised in safety there. Only when he had come of age at twenty was he told his lineage and his destiny and released to us, and those who knew the secret bore witness that this was indeed the son of Arathorn and Gilraen, alongside Lord Elrond and his people’s testimony to the same facts.

       "Mostly the lord or village head of the settlement has seen to settling local disputes, with the Steward and Chieftain dealing with more serious cases, our few cases of murder or spying as well as disputes between villages or in the families of our lords or village heads. We have but few guilds left, although we hope to see them reestablished now that Arnor is again reclaimed by the King. Halladan and I will be reviewing our records of statutes with you and some of those who have served in place of the Council among us."

       "And what of these Breelands and the Shire?"

       "Bree is at the crossroads between the West Road and the Greenway, which is the name given the old North Road toward Annúminas and Fornost. There has always been a village or city there. The original Dúnedain city was destroyed during the final days of Cardolan, I understand, although other peoples have built there at different times, or so the records and Gandalf tell. The current village was founded about fifteen hundred years ago by a mixed group of Hobbits and Men. There are three other villages that are part of the Breelands besides Bree itself--Archet, Staddle, and Combe. Then just over fourteen hundred years past some of the Hobbit settlers from the Breelands, upset by a recent invasion of their lands by Men from the South who failed to respect them and following another of the plagues that have wracked Eriador since the final fall of Osgiliath, approached Argeleb the Second and asked if there might be a land they could settle that would be theirs and theirs alone, and Argeleb granted them the lands west of the Baranduin, in what had once been the heart of Cardolan. They entered in and settled there, digging their smials into the hills and ridges of the land and cultivating fields, planting gardens, and ordering their orchards.

       "The Hobbits are a peaceful people, much given to farming and handicrafts. For the most part they are devoted to tradition and comfort, and they look on any who display what they see as undue curiosity or a taste for adventure as aberrations. Yet, as Gandalf is fond of saying, they are a people full of surprises. They have lived so long at relative peace that they had forgotten what it is to fight to protect their lands; and so it was that Saruman’s Men took the Shire with what appeared to be ease. But they can be roused when it is needed, and then they are indomitable. From what we understand this Lotho Sackville-Baggins managed to gain control of most of the four Farthings of the Shire within a fairly short time, although his army of Men never truly managed to dominate either Buckland on the eastern shore of the Baranduin, between the river and the Old Forest, or the Tooklands in the Green Hills region of the West Farthing. Once our four returned, each armed and proven, they roused their land, and in little over two days the Hobbits of the Shire had driven almost all of the invaders out.

       "The former Wizard Saruman had arrived in the Shire a month prior to the return of Lord Frodo’s party, and a few days before the Hobbits arrived from Rivendell he ordered his creature Gríma Wormtongue to kill Frodo’s fallen cousin, or so I understand. The letter Lord Frodo sent to Lord Halladan indicated that Saruman crowed about the murder and how weak-willed a being Wormtongue had become, and at that Wormtongue snapped and killed his master, only to be killed himself by Hobbit archers. From the letter Sir Meriadoc sent Aragorn, it appears that after the death of his body a shadow rose up from Saruman’s form, but was blown apart on the winds, and that this appeared almost a parody of what was seen when the Ring went back into the Fire and Sauron’s spirit rose up tall and menacing before a great west wind blew it to naught. It was a mean end to a spirit intended to be a teacher and guardian."

       They rode in quiet for some time before Alvric commented, "In only two days the Hobbits of the Shire took back their land and drove out the invaders? How long had the Men dwelt there?"

       "Some months--nearly a full year."

       Alvric gave a whistle. He remembered the Pheriannath as he’d first seen them: the brief glimpse of a small figure astride Gandalf’s great silver-grey steed, riding up through the city toward the Citadel; the two Hobbits astride ponies riding up from the coronation of the King Returned, the other two walking in the procession; the small figure standing beside the King as their beloved young Steward was raised to Prince of Ithilien, the light seeming to fall equally on him and the King by whom he stood; the same small figure riding before the King himself down through the city as the Rohirrim left to return to their own land; the small figure that stood guard so often on the King himself; the four of them visiting the market in the Fourth Circle, examining a book, baskets of fruit by their sides; the departure on fine, blooded ponies from Rohan....

       "It is hard to imagine four so small of creatures standing up to the reported might of Isengard," he said at last.

       Berevrion’s face was solemn. "You will learn, Master Alvric--never, never underestimate Hobbits. Our folk have esteemed them ever, and particularly since the final days of Arvedui, for the courage and faithfulness of those who came out of the Shire to fight for our King then. Gandalf ever honored them and taught us not to undervalue them; we have never found reason to question his initial estimation of them. Then when Bilbo Baggins left the Shire some eighty years ago to accompany thirteen Dwarves and the Grey Wizard to Erebor to put an end to the terror of Smaug----"

       Alvric had gone white. "You mean that was not but a tale told from the north?" he demanded.

       Berevrion smiled. "Indeed not. Bilbo is Lord Frodo’s beloved older cousin, you see, and it was he who found the Ring in caverns below the Misty Mountains on that journey. He kept It sixty-one years before he gave It over into his adopted heir’s keeping; Frodo bore It seventeen before it was determined what It was, and he agreed to bring It out of the Shire to Rivendell. Remember this--the Shire has ever given birth to extraordinary individuals.

       "There are two things to know about Hobbits--no matter how simple they appear on the surface, underneath they are strong beyond knowing and there will come the time when they will stand for themselves and what they love with a fierceness and determination one cannot anticipate unless one has seen it; and never get between a hungry Hobbit and food."

       Alvric wasn’t certain whether that last was serious or not, but it gave him food for thought. Finally he asked, "Did you speak much with the four as they returned north?"

       "Much, but mostly I seemed to be listening to discussions between them and Halladan as he sought to learn what he must know to take their land into account in the renewed administration of Arnor. As Captain Pippin is the Thain’s heir and Sir Merry is heir to the Master of Buckland and Lord Frodo kinsman to both they could tell us much of their ways."

       "Their Thain has stood in the stead of the King for them since Arvedui’s death, I understand."

       "Yes--in keeping with Arvedui’s own will, Aranarth laid that upon Bucca of the Marish as he made preparation to return to the Shire once the war with Angmar was finally closed. But the main governance of Hobbits rests with their family heads first, then the village heads, who are elected, and then and only then in the hands of Thain, Master or Mayor. Disputes between families are usually settled by the heads of the families coming together, often with the affected village heads, under the mediation of Mayor, Master, or Thain--whichever is closest to the situation, or so I am told. The family heads meet regularly, they tell us, and usually under the supervision of the Thain or his representatives, although the Mayor may also call them together at need, to decide which regions of the Shire might best benefit from the excess of goods or foodstuff on offer from the various families and to exchange the most important information between the four farthings and Buckland. Most of the work of their lawyers is simply the writing up and registration of their various agreements and contracts, as the King already told you; there are very few disputes or incidents requiring legal advisement among them.

       "Their laws are few enough--the right of one to strike a blow ends at the nose of the one he would strike seems to be the gist of it. Most contracts and agreements must be witnessed by at least seven. Property may not change hands without the exchange of at least a coin unless it is to one’s heirs in the execution of one’s will. One may not marry until one reaches the age of at least twenty-five, and even then the marriage must be agreed to by the parents or legal guardians of the marriage partners before the bride or groom reaches thirty-three and majority.

       "Family heads are to see to it all of their name are provided for, and must be willing to aid children born to daughters of the family who make calls on family ties. In most cases all four have told us that a mere call on another individual’s family head is enough to make certain debts are paid or illicit actions are redressed. Until recently they had no gaols or prisons, for wrongdoing was addressed primarily on an individual family level and rarely needed stronger consideration. Now they do have a gaol of sorts, or so I am told, and Lotho Sackville-Baggins’s cousin whose perversion of their contract law was used to aid him to gain control of much of the Shire before the four even left the land is held there now, according to Lord Frodo’s letters.

       "Usually when there is damage to a property, all in the community work together to repair or rebuild as necessary. Damage inflicted on one by another is expected to be redressed promptly by the one who inflicted the damage. Sexual incontinence is almost unheard of; dissolutions of marriages have occurred so rarely Sir Merry said he could think of only one report in the entire Shire in sixty years."

       Alvric shook his head. "It is almost without belief they should get along so amicably."

       "I agree," Berevrion nodded. "But so they have lived within the Shire for over fourteen hundred years now."

       Alvric was very impressed. "I certainly can’t think of any Men who could have done anywhere nearly as well."

       "Nor I," agreed Berevrion. "In the last thousand years there have been yet a few who have betrayed our people from amongst our own, and some who have abused their families to the point marriages have required dissolution. Yet amongst the Hobbits, family sanctions have offered the greatest deterrent against wrongdoing in most cases for over a millennia; and neither has there been the need for a general assembly to deal with wrongdoers until now, although the letters of all four indicate such is expected now, once the full investigation as to how the situation has reached its culmination is finished. And, knowing Lord Frodo, that investigation will be most thorough and impartial."

       He sighed, and added, "The Master is the major authority in Buckland and the farmland of the Marish west of the river; and oversees the flow of goods and services from their region throughout the rest of the Shire, oversees the care for the High Hay, the great hedge bounding their land to the east between Buckland and the Old Forest, and sends most of the Bounders who watch over the traffic over the Brandywine Bridge. The Mayor oversees the Quick Post and its messengers; the activities of the Shiriffs who help keep the peace, make certain property markers remain in their places, help round up strayed animals and report damage to fences and hedges to the affected property owners, see those who’ve drunk too much home safely to their families, investigate reports of fights, and so on; the activities of the bulk of the Bounders of the Shire who watch over the borders of their land from within; and the activities of the land’s lawyers, including the countersigning and registration of most legal documents. As far as the folk of the Shire are concerned, however, his most important activity is to officiate at most banquets involving more than one family, including banquets offered for meetings of family heads. The Thain is in charge of the Shire Muster, the gathering of any armed forces required for the protection of the Shire, mostly comprised of Took hunters with bows; he oversees what little official correspondence has been exchanged with the Council of Breeland, and keeps the records for the Shire to be shared with the King’s representatives should the King come again. Mostly it is his prerogative to call for meetings of family heads in times of general crisis and to make final decisions as to how those crises will be met. And, as the family heads of the two largest families in the Shire the Thain and Master have control of the greatest part of the wealth of the land."

       Alvric again thought for a time. At last he asked, "And how do things differ within the Breelands?"

       "There is a village council in each of the four villages, and a general council with two representatives from each village council plus an elected head, currently Barliman Butterbur, proprietor of the Inn of the Prancing Pony in Bree village itself. Each village council is comprised of both Hobbits and Men, as is the general council. Complaints that cannot be settled between the involved parties are brought before the village council; and serious problems such as major thefts, destruction of homes or barns or crops, murders and highway robbery, go before the general council. Among the Hobbits of the Breelands most family business is conducted by family heads as happens within the Shire--rarely will a Hobbit of the Breelands be brought before any of the village councils, although such is common enough for Men and on occasion visiting Dwarves who have grown too rowdy. Again, laws are mostly applications of common sense and common decency. Records are not as scrupulously kept as is true within the Shire, and an even smaller percentage of the population is literate; but most business dealings are guaranteed by written contracts and agreements, and there are groups of lawyers in each village who see to the writing of these and the filing of them with the head of their local council. Guards on village gates are usually Men who apply for the position; villages are surrounded by wooden palisades. They have no true militia, but when Saruman’s bully boys sought to take over Bree and the Breelands as they later did within the Shire many came together to fight them off, including both Men and Hobbits, as happened under the leadership of Sir Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin within the Shire once they returned and heartened their folk."

       Alvric smiled. "I wish the laws and running of the realms were as simple and fluid, and that we didn’t require a standing armed force."

       One of Berevrion’s escorts laughed. "The patrols of the northern Dúnedain have not been a standing force for a thousand years--we have been a riding force, or at times a creeping force; but we’ve not been allowed the freedom to remain a standing force since the death of Arvedui and before."

       Alvric found that a sobering thought.

       It was when they stopped for the noon meal and he allowed Holby out of his carrier while they prepared and ate that he used his lens to examine the area. "It is such a great land, and with so few folk," he commented to one of the escort.

       "Once this land was as heavily populated as Gondor itself, but the Enemy has seen to it that has not been true since the days of Eärendur," the Man answered. "He encouraged the folk of the Dunlands to attack our peoples from the south, and the chief of his Nazgul came down from the north with the forces of Angmar to assault us repeatedly. Spies from both sources came among us with false intelligence or as assassins to slay our kings and the heirs of their houses or to fire our lands. Then the Enemy learned how to loose plagues across the lands, and ever our peoples have suffered. He encouraged dragons, trolls, and orcs to breed and fall on the lands of Dwarves, Elves and Men; he encouraged the breeding of wargs and great spiders and other, worse creatures. All folk of the North have been repeatedly diminished.

       "My family was once of Rhuadar; Erador there--his ancestors served the King of Cardolan. We have been the Rangers of Eriador now for over a thousand years, until now at last we are restored as the Dúnedain of Arnor and the King’s Men. And this will again become a settled land under the rule of a proper, beneficent King. And we are proud to be Aragorn’s kindred."

       Far to the east he could see the peaks of the Misty Mountains; to the south were forested lands and in the distance a settlement they’d passed in the early morning hours; to the north he could see the line of a plain, growing hillier and forested to the west. A sparkling stream crossed the line of the road, and what appeared to be a ruin stood alongside it just to the west of the road.

       Erador saw the direction Alvric’s crystal was focused. "A farm stood there sixty years back, a prosperous place settled by folk from the borders of Dunland. Then one day our patrols saw smoke and hurried here to find the farm had been fired and its folk all taken or killed. We managed to find the ones who fired the place and were able to rescue the son and two daughters of the farm; but they would not return here again; instead they settled in Tharbad."

       Alvric watched as Holby investigated a rabbit hole dug into the small hill that rose near where they’d stopped, then pocketed the crystal and saw to the transfer of his gear to Jongleur for the afternoon’s ride. The mare, whom he’d renamed Abia, watched with interest, then finally freed went to roll in the grass before returning to be groomed.

       The grey cob received its attention next, allowing Erador and Alvric to return the pack saddle and its gear. All was much lighter than it had been when they left Rohan, of course; and soon enough the cob was also readied for the afternoon’s journey.

       It was as they were preparing to remount that Holby stopped in his return to his master, lifted his head to listen and sniff, and barked the alarm; it could be seen the horses were all looking off to the north. Berevrion and his Men readied themselves in case those riding toward them were unfriendly, but soon enough were resheathing their swords as Alvric scooped the small dog into his arms.

       "Eregiel is coming," one of the escort noted as they watched a lone rider accompanied by a great hound cantering easily toward them. Then out of the scrub to the northeast came a second rider to join the first; again there was a readying followed by relaxation. "Hildigor," the same guard said. "We are expected, apparently."

       Two young Men dressed in grey-green riding leathers and cloaked in grey with the silver stars of Arnor at their shoulders soon drew up their mounts before them. "Welcome, Berevrion," the one with the hound following him called. "Halladan sent us three days’ ride south of Bree to await you, indicating you were due to return at this time. What news from our Lord Cousin?"

       "He is well, Eregiel, and in response to the requests made by both Hildigor’s father and Lord Frodo has sent this one to help in the review of the statutes of Arnor and to work with the lawyers of the Shire."

       The other young Man smiled. "That is welcome word. It appears that Lord Frodo has need to see this done earlier rather than later--Faradir has found a tenant already on one of the lands given to his maintenance."

       All looked at one another with surprise. "A Man has moved onto one of the grants made to Lord Frodo?" Berevrion asked. "When, and how did he take the news that the land belonged to another?"

       "No Man, cousin, but a Perian and his family, driven from the Breelands by the violence of those who assaulted there a year past. They had sought to take the lands just north of the Shire, hard by the Brandywine. The father and his younger children went into the Shire to meet with Lord Frodo and to come to an agreement regarding tenancy, and returned to their intended steading some time past. A letter came to my father a few days ago asking for one to offer training to the Shire lawyer chosen by Lord Frodo on how specifically such tenancy agreements are to be written, and to help choose an agent to administer his and Lord Samwise’s lands in Arnor as they are administered within Gondor. The sooner he can assure Lord Frodo that we can offer him the assistance he has requested, the happier my father will be."

       "Well, it appears that we will be able to do so very soon indeed," Berevrion said. "Alvric son of Maerdion, these are Hildigor son of Halladan and Eregiel son of Miringlor. Master Alvric is assistant to the Master of the Guild of Lawyers in Minas Tirith."

       Hildigor’s smile was wide and satisfied. "Already we have one capable of meeting the Ringbearer’s needs? That will be well received indeed."

       His companion was nodding. "And it will give Master Hedges and his family peace of mind as well." At Berevrion’s look of question he added, "The Hedges family has settled on the grant just north of the Shire, and I’ve found them to be quite delightful, Uncle. Bob tells me his meeting with the Ringbearer went quite well, and the children were enchanted by him and Bag End."

       Berevrion laughed and shook his head. "He told me he appears to be a magnet for children, and that the children of the White City came from all the circles to spy on him and his companions, as apparently had been true in his home before he left it as well. Certainly the son and daughter of the couple who lived next door to him would watch out for him and listen to whatever stories he told with eagerness. It appears to be the same now."

       Eregiel lifted an eyebrow. "So Teo, Lilia, and Anemone all say, and that his younger cousin who lives below him on the hill admitted to spying on him and doting on his tales." He looked from Berevrion to Alvric. "Then I must suppose that as we have no waiting to do we might as well assist you as we can." He examined the small dog Alvric held in his arms. "Artos will be pleased with the company along the way, I think. You brought that one all the way from Minas Tirith?"

       Alvric nodded, giving the hound a wary eye. "He enjoys traveling with me. You are certain yours will not hurt him?"

       "He appears to get along famously with the Hedges’ ratter," was the answer. "Lister was taken rather aback by him at their first encounter, but after the initial flurry of barks the other day appeared to be pleased to see him. You don’t need to be worried for your dog’s safety with him."

       Alvric wasn’t so certain, and apparently Holby wasn’t, either, as he twisted in the lawyer’s arms and resisted going into the carrier, trying to keep an eye on the hound’s activities. At last, however, he was fastened within, immediately poking his head out and locating the bigger dog, barking furiously at it.

       Then they were mounted and heading north again, Erador this time taking his turn as scout and Eregiel dropping back to guard the rear. When he found he could no longer see or smell the hound that followed behind the Ranger, Holby at last turned his attention again to the surrounding scenery, his small nose busy. Hildigor rode alongside Alvric, examining him. "Have you enjoyed the journey, Master Alvric?" he asked.

       The lawyer shrugged. "Actually, I’ve found it far more enjoyable than I’d anticipated," he admitted. "Although," he added, "the four days straight of rain and cold we had as we approached Tharbad nearly convinced me to turn back to Minas Tirith--or perhaps my family home in Lamedon. I don’t particularly enjoy cold weather, I find, particularly when I am riding through rain getting my clothes soaked." He shook himself at the memory.

       Then he asked, "Is there anyplace where I could find furnished rooms within the city of Bree?"

       Hildigor gave a laugh. "Bree doesn’t count as a city, Master Alvric. It is quite small--smaller, indeed, than Tharbad. There are two inns, although the Prancing Pony is larger and has a better reputation than the Silver Fox. You could take rooms there...."

       "Rooms in an inn? I have never cared for inns, I fear. Little privacy, folk coming and gong at all hours, new neighbors and company by the day. It is enough to deal with going from appointment to appointment. To deal daily with the fights of those taken with drink, and poor music poorly played and sung by those who due to ale or wine think they sing more sweetly than the nightingale--I very much fear I would find it distressing and it would do my work ill."

       Hildigor considered the lawyer’s words, finally admitting, "You have a point, sir, although I assure you the Pony is far better than most I’ve seen--not that I’ve seen that many, admittedly. The walls are actually substantial, as is the building; they have proper quarters for Hobbits on the ground floor of one wing, with their beloved round windows and doors; and the floors and stairs are solid. Their food is excellent, and their ale even better, you’ll find. Their wine is perhaps not as good as one could obtain from the Shire--I had the pleasure two years past of tasting some Old Winyards given to our Chieftain some years ago, and that was indeed an excellent vintage; but even the Pony’s is at least passable."

       Berevrion laughed. "You have been to so many inns, youngling?"

       "Well, at least six," Hildigor admitted. "And none of the other five was anywhere near as good as Butterbur’s."

       The older Man was still smiling. "The Pony is a good place," he admitted. "But I can appreciate his objections to staying in the Pony indefinitely--plus there is always greater danger in an inn of having one’s room and possessions rifled and stolen. When we get to Bree we will stay the night, at least, and speak with Butterbur about what accommodations might be available in the town."

       "You think he’ll wish to deal with a group of sinister Rangers?" asked Hildigor.

       "He is not as wary of us as he was," Berevrion pointed out. "And he’s honest, as well as more aware than most as to what goes on with the Breelands. He’ll know who might be willing to let a cottage or furnished rooms if anyone will."

       They arrived in Bree the following day just before midday, having ridden harder than they had for some weeks. Alvric was well disposed to dismounting and remaining so for some days; and it appeared he was in good company, considering the almost unheard groans he heard as his companions dismounted as well. "A hot bath!" he heard Erador mutter, and he heard soft laughs that somehow appeared to be of agreement from several others.

       They took five rooms in all, Eregiel indicating he would ride on to let Halladan know of the arrival. Alvric had a room to himself and Holby, for which he was grateful; and one of the first things he did once his own goods were removed from the cob to his room was to seek out the bathing room, only to find it was already in use by a couple of the others.

       At least they were thoughtfully swift, and in the end he found himself sharing the bathing room with Berevrion, as it proved there were two tubs within the room. "I hope you don’t mind sharing the room with me," the envoy apologized, "but the thought of this has sustained me for four days now. Believe it or not, we Rangers don’t truly enjoy being forced to ride without bathing for weeks at a time. We’ve done so because it has been necessary all our lives; but we so hope that particular state of affairs is no longer considered the norm for us."

       Once again Alvric found himself brought up short by the thought of how dangerous life in the North Kingdom had been for centuries.

       Berevrion had taken a private parlor, and a meal was brought there for them all, after which several men disappeared into their rooms to take advantage of beds with clean sheets and blankets, and for a change soft pillows under their heads rather than packs or rolled cloaks over stones or hummocks.

       Erador remained sitting at the table buttering one more slice of bread. "I’d almost forgotten what fresh bread tastes like," he murmured as he added a spoon of preserved berries. "I keep vowing there will come a time when I won’t have to deprive myself of such a thing, you know."

       Alvric laughed. "If my brother were to know the particulars of the journey he would not believe it of me that I’d actually completed it. Now, when at last we go on to Annúminas, how long will that journey take?"

       "It depends on how long one wishes to ride in a day. Our patrols usually have made the ride in seven to nine days, although one sent as a messenger to Bree can make it in three if one wishes to endanger a horse. We are looking now at good places to set up stations to handle changes of steeds and errand riders from Annúminas all the way to Minas Tirith, and hope to have all properly in order within five years. Then in case of emergency it should prove possible for swift riders to reach Aragorn’s side in little over a week and a half, riding day and night, should such emergencies come. We look to improve the roads as well, and to have special coaches to carry goods and passengers more swiftly and safely throughout the combined realm."

       "You won’t rest now?"

       Erador made a face. "I’ve drawn the first watch. Now, Butterbur is a wonderful host and a most honest Man; but the same cannot be said for all who might be guesting here. More than once we’ve had to protect our own from other guests within the inn. I suspect one day there will be a barracks complex here near the Breelands where most of our folk can remain outside the inn, although I suspect even there a guard will be set throughout the day and night to watch for those who would think to ‘borrow’ from their fellows."

       He laughed. "It was so that our Lord Cousin’s true identity was first made known to most of those within his own company when he returned to us and rode first with our patrols. He was assigned first to the troupe of Berenion, who has ever helped train our newest recruits. My father was in the company, and was one of those who looked on this young Man who’d ridden with Elves with a level of mixed disdain and some awe. One of the others was always needing something, and appeared to think of the rest in the troupe as being so much his brothers they ought not to be upset if he constantly ‘borrowed’ from them. Having torn his own cloak and aware Aragorn carried extras, he went looking without asking for one to wear. He found Aragorn also carried a second sword’s sheath and brought it out to taunt him with it--then found himself spilling out the hilt of Narsil. He described it once to us, the utter silence that followed the fall of the sword’s hilt and the realization of what sword this was and who it must be who carried it. It had been rumored that Aragorn had not actually been killed by the plague that decimated our numbers when he was small; but that this was he was a shock. Orimirion stated he trembled under Aragorn’s gaze, for as young as he was he yet could cause others to quail with a mere look.

       "And Halladan has told us of a quarrel between Aragorn and Lord Frodo as they rode between Minas Tirith and Edoras. It was on a day one of his wounds had again become inflamed, and the Ringbearer was in some distress. Aragorn wished to ease the pain with a draught and the Hobbit was resisting, furious to realize this was happening yet again. He said each was glaring at the other for perceived obstinacy, and it was wonderful to see how each in his own way sought to subdue the other with a look. He advised us not to draw the ire of both upon one of us at one time, for he doubted any of us could survive such combined looks."

       Alvric laughed aloud. "I hope I do find occasion to see Lord Frodo yet again while I am here in the north," he said. "I never saw him angry, although I have observed him commanding his youngest kinsman on one occasion. The folk of the capital always called that one the Prince of the Halflings, yet he was so plainly the youngest of the four and apt to teasing the others."

       He found himself growing more solemn. "I’ve never had the chance to actually speak with any of the Pheriannath, you realize. To find there are such as servants here has been somewhat of a surprise and shock."

       Erador sighed. "Hobbits will employ servants, but it is always from among their own they will do so. But, then, few Men could dream of fitting within a Hobbit hole with any comfort, after all. But for Hobbits to hire themselves out as servants to Men within the Breelands is common enough, I think as much to provide food for themselves as for any other reason. Hobbits must eat a good deal, or so we are told. They are usually pleasant and enjoy setting things in order; and there is no gardener better than one of Hobbit kind--all say this. And most of the lawyers in the Breelands are Hobbits, you will find--lawyers and bookkeepers. There is something about those Hobbits who seek out an education that gives them over to such pursuits for some reason we don’t fully understand."

       Again food for thought.

       Alvric repaired to his room to find Holby had already settled himself on the bed; he laid himself down by the dog and relaxed into the featherbed, soon finding himself sleeping. He didn’t rouse until supper.

       All went out to the common room for the evening meal, and again the roasted joint served proved good, and the ale even better. Alvric was feeling expansive when Berevrion beckoned him over to speak with Butterbur.

       The florid innkeeper was rather wary, but answered easily enough.

       "I don’t know of any that offers furnished rooms regular," he said, "but I do know as Denra Gorse may well be willing to take you as a boarder. She and her brother lived together on the west side of the village, you see; but her brother died in the fight against the ruffians that tried to take over. She’s findin’ livin’ on her own isn’t always easy. There’s some what looks on her in that house as is hers now and would like to have both for themselves, of course. She’s a comely enough woman, you must understand; but the one she might of loved in her younger days died in one of the epidemics, and she’s never looked at any other since. So, she never married, and neither did her brother, bein’ rather shy. He was just comin’ to admire a woman from Combe when the village was assaulted, and so their courting never come to nothin’." He described how to find Mistress Gorse’s house, accepted their thanks, and went off to answer a call from one of the Dwarves who was visiting.

*******

       Denra Gorse sat in her parlor opposite Carnation, who helped cook and clean for her, after a busy morning cleaning out the chimneys. Fell had always taken that chore; but he was gone now. A swift had decided to build a nest in the flue for the bedrooms, causing quite a choking for her the previous evening when she’d thought to warm her chamber before she went to bed. She and Carnation had had quite a time of it, getting the nest cleared away, and the swift had been understandably furious with them, of course; but it was done now and the last of the soot in the bedroom cleaned away.

       "I suppose as I ought to go start yer luncheon," Carnation was saying as she fortified herself with a slice of bread with sugar on it and a cup of tea. "I’ll finish this and...." A ring at the bell interrupted her.

       "Who would call at this time of day?" Denra sighed as she rose to head for the door. "No, you stay there, Carnation--you’ve been taking two steps to each of mine and need to get that bread and sugar down you."

       She opened the door to find a Man the likes of which she’d never seen before--perhaps only an inch taller than herself, with curly hair of a light brown much the color of toast and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He was very neatly dressed in a tunic of golden brown under an embroidered surcoat decorated with an image of a crescent moon. "Mistress Denra?" he asked, rather tentatively. At her nod he continued a bit more confidently. "Oh, good, then I wasn’t mistaken in the directions Master Butterbur gave me. My name is Alvric son of Maerdion, and am a lawyer from the city of Minas Tirith."

       She looked at him, somewhat confused. "A lawyer, a Man?" she asked. "And since when do Men take up the writing of contracts?"

       He colored somewhat, apparently taken aback by her statement. "I’m sorry, Mistress," he said rather diffidently, "but in Gondor all who take up the study of law tend to be Men, as we have none of other races dwelling amongst us. Indeed, I am the first assistant there to the Master of the Guild of Lawyers for the realm. Nor in Gondor are the activities of lawyers limited to the writing and presentation of contracts and agreements. I also serve as a magistrate for the Fourth Circle, hearing disputes and making judgments upon them in the name of the King."

       "What King?" asked Denra.

       He smiled. "You had not heard that there is at last a King again, over both the ancient North Kingdom as well as Gondor?"

       "Well, I’ve heard some odd talk, of course," she said, "but it was just odd sayings as was said by them Hobbits as went through here and caused such a stir at the Pony a year and a half back, the one apparently disappearing as he did."

       He straightened, for he’d not heard the tale as yet. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "you might in the future tell me the story. However, I assure you there is a King once more, and indeed he is one born and raised here in Eriador, for he claimed the Crown of Gondor and the Sceptre of Annúminas as the heir of Isildur. He sent me north to his kinsmen here in Arnor to help review the laws of the North Kingdom so we might bring the laws of both North and South in line with one another, and also to work with the lawyers for the Shire and the Breelands that they might write contracts and agreements that would be binding under the laws of the outer realm. Now that Sauron is no more there will be many more seeking to enter and settle within Eriador; and the Dúnedain of Arnor will once again move freely and openly throughout all of the North Kingdom."

       "What does this have to do with me?" she asked.

       "Master Butterbur indicated that you, of all the folk here in Bree, might be willing to accept me as a boarder, Mistress."

       She was affronted. "And why might I wish a boarder?" she demanded.

       He was beginning to feel very conspicuous, standing on the doorstep while she questioned him. "Please," he suggested, "if I might come in I would be glad to answer your questions."

       She looked out. Mistress Fennel next door was peering out her window, watching; and the Blackroot children were openly gawking. "I’m sorry," she apologized. "I’ve quite forgotten my manners, obviously. Please to come in, sir."

        She led him into the parlor where a Hobbitess of early middle years sat in a low chair opposite the fireplace, a plate with a half slice of buttered bread remaining on it on her lap and a teacup in her hand. "This is Carnation Sandybanks, who does for me," she gave by way of introduction. "Carnation, this is Master----"

       "Alvric. Alvric son of Maerdion of Lamedon, now of the city of Minas Tirith," he explained, then added, "That’s in Gondor."

       "Gondor," Carnation said rather blankly. It was obvious she’d never heard of the place.

       "The South Kingdom," he tried to explain, "where the King dwells for now."

       "What King?" she asked in a tone that reminded him of just how Denra Gorse had made the same question.

       He sighed. This was obviously not going to be easy.

       "Would you like some tea?" asked his hostess. "I can fetch you a mug if you’d like."

       "Tea?" he asked. "I fear we don’t drink tea in Gondor."

       "It’s made by steeping certain leaves in boiling water," she began.

       His face lit up. "Oh--you call it tea here? We refer to it as an herbal drink in Gondor, you see. We also on occasion drink coffee, when we can get the beans from Harad and Khand, of course."

       "Coffee? Ye can get coffee?" Carnation asked, surprised and pleased. "I’ve had it but once, for the beans are very dear to come by. I’ve not seen any offered here in over twenty years, in fact. Some come through the Shire then, ye see, from sea traders, it was said."

       "Coffee," Denra said as if storing the word away in her mind, looking from the Hobbitess to the Man. "You will drink coffee in Gondor?"

       "On occasion," he repeated. "But I would welcome the chance to try your herbal drink."

       "Tea," she corrected him.

       "Tea. I would welcome some--tea. Thank you," he added.

       Reassured, she went into the kitchen and fetched out one of Fell’s mugs and filled it from the teapot, then set the mug and a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar with a spoon and several biscuits from the crock in which she kept such things, and brought it out to him. He’d settled on the sofa, looking just a bit anxious. She found herself feeling slightly amused and more curious than she’d been. She placed the tray by him. He looked at the jug of milk with an expression of confusion as if he couldn’t imagine why it might have been included in the contents of the tray, lifted the mug and smelled it, smiled, and tasted it gingerly.

       "A bit bitter, but quite nice nonetheless," he assured her, examining the sugar, then spooning some into the mug and stirring it expertly. He tasted it again, then smiled more fully. "Thank you very much."

       She slipped a biscuit off the tray and saw that Carnation, having finished her bread and sugar, was quick to do likewise before settling more comfortably into her chair. It was obvious Carnation intended to hear what this one’s business was before she went off to fix the luncheon she’d spoken of earlier.

       The Man sipped at his tea, then finally set it down on the low table that stood between them. "Let me begin again," he said. "I was sent here to Eriador by the King himself." He turned to Carnation and explained, "Just over a year back our Lord King Aragorn Elessar came out of the North and assisted in the defense of our realm against the forces of Mordor."

       Carnation stopped with her biscuit halfway to her mouth and looked at him in shock. "There’s truly a Mordor?" she asked.

       "Oh, yes, there was, Mistress--Sandybanks?" At her nod, he continued, "Minas Tirith, the capital of Gondor, sits in full view of the Mountains of Shadow that have ever been the western walls of Mordor; and Sauron’s creatures have ever assaulted our lands. Last year in the early spring Sauron sent a mighty army to take Minas Tirith, although the army failed to do so. We offered a stout defense from within the city, of course; and the Riders of Rohan arrived, I’m told, in the early morning to raise the siege, followed near midday by reinforcements led up the River Anduin by our Lord Aragorn Elessar himself. When all sent by Mordor had died or fled from the defenders, it was decided that we needed to send an army to the gates of Mordor itself to draw Sauron’s remaining forces out of his land. So it was done, and Aragorn Elessar himself led that army.

       "Once the final battle was engaged all changed, for the Ringbearer at last was able to come to Orodruin and cast into the Fire there the Enemy’s great Ring, and with that gone Sauron lost all, for too much of himself had he put into that Ring. The war was won in the end not by valor in battle but by stealth and faithfulness. Sauron was utterly defeated, and Mordor fell at the last.

       "Lord Aragorn was acclaimed as King for his lineage as the heir of Elendil through his son Isildur’s line as well as the fact he is also descended through Ondoher and his daughter Fíriel from Isildur’s brother Anárion as well. He accepted the Winged Crown that denotes the King of Gondor; and just ere he took our Lady Arwen as wife he was given also the Sceptre of Annúminas by Lord Elrond of Imladris showing he is also acknowledged King of Arnor."

       "Ye’re sayin’ as there’s a King again?" repeated Carnation.

       "Yes."

       "And he’s king of----"

       "Of all the original lands ruled by the Sea Kings from Númenor," he said, finishing her thought. "He is King of both Gondor and Arnor, from the borders of Angmar to those of Harad; from the shores of the Sundering Sea to the west to the Ephel Duath, for the lands of Mordor he has given to those who were once Sauron’s slaves, and the borders of Rhun. Only Umbar is not part of our lands once more."

       "What’s that got to do with us?" asked Carnation.

       "The Breelands and the Shire are part of Eriador and Arnor, and although they will be allowed to continue to govern themselves for the most part they are nevertheless under the King’s protection. I am sent in part to assist the lawyers of the Shire and the Breelands to learn to write agreements and contracts that will be valid in the outer realm as well as here."

       The Hobbitess exchanged looks with her employer. "But why come here? We’re no kind of lawyers, after all."

       He began to feel wary again, and sipped at his tea to give himself some time to think how to state his desires. "I arrived here in Bree yesterday with some of the King’s kinsmen who are on their way back to meet again with his Steward, Lord Halladan."

       "Didn’t see nobody enter Bree yesterday savin’ for some Rangers," Carnation interrupted.

       Well, he’d been warned that the people of Bree had always tended to treat the Rangers of Eriador with a level of disdain and distrust, and he could see it in the eyes of both the woman and the Hobbitess. "Those you know as the Rangers are the descendants of Elendil’s own people, mistresses," he explained carefully. "They have never sought to cause discomfort during the days of uncertainty when their numbers have diminished so; but they have guarded your lands and the lands of the Shire secretly for a very long time. Only when those who patrolled this region went south to aid their kinsman Aragorn did their guard fail, not for lack of care for your people, but because he truly needed them elsewhere. They returned last fall accompanying the Ringbearer and his companions as they returned to their own homes, and the patrols have been resumed. However, they find that refugees from Dunland and other nameless lands entered Eriador in large numbers while the last of the war raged, and they are hard put to identify those who seek to make an easy living off others from those who merely wish to settle lands of their own. But if they can do it the Rangers will keep those who enter the region from causing any more distress to the folk of the Breelands and the Shire."

       Carnation and Denra exchanged looks. Denra asked, "So, explain again why I might wish to accept you as a boarder."

       He sighed again. "It was the suggestion of Master Butterbur this might be true," he explained. "He said that you had lived here with your brother, but that he had fallen in the defense against those who sought to invade your land as happened also in the Shire. He continued, explaining that there are those who have importuned you here----"

       "Impor-whatted?" asked Denra, feeling this must be somewhat insulting.

       Alvric stopped and tried to think how he might explain without giving more offense. "He said some have bothered you, trying to push themselves on you, Mistress Denra. He indicated they appeared to wish to force you to marry them so they might have a fair wife and your home and property. He indicated that he believed that if there were a Man residing in your home it would deter the suitors--keep them from pressing their unwanted suits on you," he explained, seeing the confusion both expressed.

       The expressions of both his interrogators had cleared, and now they were looking at one another with consideration in their eyes. Carnation said slowly, "That would certainly give that Bender Cotman something to think about, Miss Denra."

       "I agree," Denra answered. "He’s been the most persistent and offensive of the lot, and all because he knows I can’t myself easily throw him off the place." She examined him with new interest. "You wouldn’t mind standin’ beside me from time to time to let the fools know I’m not alone when I say I’m not interested?"

       "No, I wouldn’t mind at all. I’ll admit this, though--I won’t be here at all times, for I’ll need to go north to Annúminas from time to time."

       "There’s a place called Annúminas?" asked Carnation, her curiosity fully aroused.

       "Oh, yes, the ancient capital of Arnor, some seven to nine days north of here on Lake Evendim, or so they tell me. It and the fortress of Fornost have been much diminished since Arvedui’s death, but are being rebuilt in preparation for when the King comes again to reside for a time in Arnor. He speaks of a conference in a few years involving notables from Bree and the Shire and other lesser lands here in Eriador as well as across the Misty Mountains, and including Elves and Dwarves that all might discuss how border disputes might be handled and how they will deal with trade and so on."

       "So, a good part of the time you wouldn’t be here at all," clarified Denra.

       "Even so, Mistress Gorse."

       She nodded, thinking. "Could you help sometimes with the cooking?" she asked.

       "I’m not an expert at cooking, as I never tried it before I left my rooms in Minas Tirith to travel here, but I’ve learned some along the way. Yes, I’d be willing to help cook if you would be willing to teach me more. How much would you wish to accept for my room and board?"

       The discussion went on for some time; and Carnation slipped off to the kitchen to get luncheon started while they considered what might be done and how, then came back to become part of the further debate. At last he asked, "Do you live here, Mistress Sandybanks?"

       "Live here? Oh, no--nothin’ like that. My husband 'n his brother and our families share a hole in Bree Hill. It’s a big place, it is, but Flora and our children see to it. I help to bring in some extra money and food, don’t ye see? Takes a good deal o’ provender raisin' young’uns, ye must understand."

       "I see," he said. "Then your home is truly dug into the hill?"

       "Oh, yes, it is. Nice, comfortable place it is--we’ve nine bedrooms and two bathin’ rooms and a privy, four larders and two pantries and a huge kitchen and three parlors...."

       He was much taken aback. "I’d never have dreamed a hole dug into a hill could be so large," he said.

       "Ye must be careful with the ventilation shafts, ye see," she explained, "but it works out well. There’s some as prefers houses as they usually have windows for most o’ the rooms; but give me a good smial any day, I says."

       "I see."

       "Ye’ll see some o’ the childern from time t’ time, but mostly they stays at home 'n helps about the place and with the gardens 'n all. We’ve a big vegetable garden near the Commons, and flowers in the dooryard."

       "I see. Well, I look forward to meeting them. Shall I write up the agreement, or would you prefer to have it only verbal?"

       "You’d write it up?" asked Denra.

       Carnation continued, "Ye’d not have a Hobbit lawyer write it?"

       "I am a lawyer of the realm, after all," he said, smiling. Then he thought, "But there is one more thing I forgot to mention--my dog. Holby came with me all the way from Minas Tirith, you see. My sister took the cats while I must be gone, but I brought Holby with me. It would have destroyed him had I left him behind."

       "A dog?" Denra asked.

       "Oh, yes, a small, smooth-haired dog, black and white. He’s quite sweet, you’ll find. I’ll feed him and see to it he gets his walks as I do at home at Mistress Arië’s establishment, you see.

       "And who’s that?"

       "My landlady where I live in Minas Tirith. I don’t care to be forced to take care of a house of my own, and have no family living with me. And with my work I must spend a good deal of time in the Citadel or the archives or working alongside my Master or hearing disputes in the magistrate’s court, so I’m not a good deal of time in my home. The rooms suit me well. She offers suites for a number of Men who are in similar situations or who spend only a few weeks in the White City each season, preparing our meals and seeing to the caring for our rooms. But those of us who keep animals must see to them ourselves. I always purchase the food for my cats and Holby myself."

       Denra was intrigued. "You keep cats and a dog?"

       "Yes, three cats, all sisters and all tortoiseshells. I find I rather miss them; but I couldn’t have very well brought them all this way."

       "We do have a mouser, although during the day she prefers to spend most of her time outside. If she accepts your Holby I think we’ll accept him, too."

       And so it was decided.

       When at last he set out to return to the Prancing Pony for one more night it was with the understanding he would be paying two silver coins of the realm per quarter to have the room in which Fell Gorse had slept, the use of the second parlor for his own purposes, and free run of most of the rest of the house as well in return for help with the cooking a couple nights per week and assistance with maintenance for the place. He found himself hoping nothing complicated would be needed, as he wasn’t certain how to do much in the way of repairing shutters and so on. But tomorrow morning he and Holby would be moving into the house of Denra Gorse, and he’d be starting a new way of life for his time in Arnor.

Correspondence with Lords and Lawyers

       Frodo was sitting in the sun room at the front of Brandy Hall, a mug of soup beside him along with bread-and-butter and a cup of juice, when Merry came in carrying letters. "I was up to the Bridge when the King’s messenger arrived, and I thought you’d appreciate having this letter as soon as possible. It appears to be from Lord Halladan," Merry commented as he handed the thin missive to his older cousin.

       "Where’s Pippin?" Frodo asked, looking about as if the Took would pop out from behind one of the pieces of furniture in the room.

       "He’s out with Mac today, going over the stable records. Says that since his father won’t give him any proper training at home in Tookland he’s going to have to search it out here, apparently."

       Frodo sighed as he slipped his finger under the seal and opened the document he’d been given. Merry positioned himself to read over Frodo’s shoulder, but was disappointed to realize it was in Tengwar script rather than Westron. Frodo gave him a sidelong look and a shake of his head, then turned his attention back to the letter. Finally Merry asked, "Is it anything important?"

       Frodo looked up, then gave a small smile and a shrug. "No, just an answer to an inquiry I made of him a few weeks back. I’m rather surprised to receive it so quickly--it’s not been that long since I wrote to him."

       "What’s it about, Frodo?"

       Before answering Frodo took a deep breath. "Oh, it’s mostly about the request I made for a lawyer of the outer realm to work with our Shire lawyers. Aragorn has sent one to us from the Guild of Lawyers in Minas Tirith, apparently. Of course he won’t work only with Shire lawyers, for he’ll be working with Halladan and what experts in the law they have in the North Kingdom to do a review of the laws of Arnor."

       Merry sighed. "I’m glad I won’t be a part of that, then," he said. "It’s bad enough trying to figure out how Dad receives all of his rents. Did you know that the rent from the folks at Haygate Farm is to be paid in poultry? They must give the Master ten hens ready for the pot once each quarter. And the tenants of Greenbriar House must present him with five ells of cloth each Yule, while the Redbluffs who live down near the road to the Sarn Ford send him two barrels of salted fish on Midsummers."

       Frodo smiled. "The hall must be fed, after all."

       "When do you need to be back in Michel Delving again?"

       "Next Monday."

       "You’re not walking home, Frodo."

       Frodo remained quiet for a moment, then asked in a carefully neutral tone, "I’m not?"

       "I need you to ride Berry home to Sam."

       "You could just lead her."

       "I could, but why when you can ride her?" Then when Frodo looked somewhat moodily down at his lap he stated, "And after all Pippin and I will be riding with you. Keeping up a conversation with someone so far below us once the two of us are mounted and you are walking can be trying, you realize. Besides, one would think that as far as you’ve walked in your life you would have had your fill of it."

       At last Frodo looked up to meet his eye. "That was out there. This is here, at home in the Shire."

       "I understand, Frodo. You know, we can make a point of taking bridle trails and avoiding the road if you still wish to see the Shire in the wilder places. But I promise you, I’ll not be led off any proper trail on any shortcuts through the forest or marshes. After hearing the tales of how you three got lost and ended up on Bamfurlong Farm I have no intention of coming up on the wrong side of the dogs of some farmer I don’t know."

       Merry was gratified to see he’d managed to evoke a laugh out of his favorite older cousin, and that Frodo was reaching down to take a drink from his soup.

*******

       On his arrival at Michel Delving the following Monday Frodo learned that a letter from Bree had managed to escape the vigilance of both Merry and Pippin and had been delivered here and set upon the Mayor’s desk. The writing on it was unfamiliar, and it was written in a green ink on a writing paper of a soft grey color, folded and sealed with a blob of green sealing wax into which the shape of a holly leaf was impressed. He found himself thinking of the great gate trees that had once stood on either side of the doors to Moria with a feeling of regret, and broke the seal rather slowly.

       Everard was watching him with curiosity, he realized when he was done reading it. "And who do you know in Bree?" the Took lawyer asked him.

       "It is from the lawyer Aragorn sent north from Minas Tirith," Frodo explained. "He’s arrived in Bree and has taken rooms in a home on the west side of the village, apparently. He sought to let me know of his arrival and that he is available to meet with whomever I please to send out to him. He’s not to go north to Annúminas for some weeks yet, apparently."

       "Well, that appears to have been a swift enough journey," Everard noted.

       Frodo gave an abbreviated nod of agreement. "Of course, he was traveling only with Dúnedain Rangers intent on getting home as swiftly as possible, not with a group that was dawdling along the way as we appeared to do," he said thoughtfully. "He speaks of being relieved to be off a horse for a change."

       "Then you didn’t come home swiftly," Everard noted.

       "We had but a single mount each, and had been advised by Aragorn to take it as easily as we might. We were still recovering in part from our exertions from the quest, after all." Frodo sighed, then looked at the pile of requests for reparations and the second of documents to be signed that had built up during his absence. "I see I have work to do." And with an absent nod of acknowledgment to Bard as the taller lawyer entered with a plate on which sat a half a pastie and a mug of small beer he reached for the first claim.

*******

       When on Hevensday Bartolo Bracegirdle arrived with a new partnership agreement to file on the part of his cousin Hyacinth he was rather surprised when Frodo handed him a letter in return. He opened it, then looked up with suspicion. "It’s addressed to you, not me," he noted.

       "I know, but I felt you needed to know that the lawyer from Minas Tirith has arrived and you can arrange to meet with him at any time within the next few weeks. This leaves me with the distinct impression that after the weeks of his journey from Gondor he is eager to be about his more usual pursuits for a change."

       So advised, Bartolo read the letter closely. "So, I’m to be the first to be sent out to him?"

        "Yes, naturally. Timono is not in a position to be sent, of course; and Balco has been placed under house arrest by his family head as the evidence mounts that he did indeed alter sales agreements in order to send leaf and produce south to Isengard. Plus there is the agreement you have accepted you should write to consider. When do you think you could look to meet with Master Alvric in Bree?"

       "Perhaps in four days’ time," Bartolo said. "I’ll need to go home and advise Delphie, of course."

       "Of course," Frodo nodded. "Thank you, Bartolo."

       The Bracegirdle examined Frodo’s eyes with some suspicion, but saw no sign of disparagement or hidden meaning there. He almost wished he did, for accepting the thanks of this of all Hobbits seemed unnatural to him. "I’m only doing my duty, Baggins," he found himself saying roughly, and he started to leave, then turned back. "Will you advise this Alvric, or shall I?"

       "I’ll leave it to you this time," Frodo said, his expression rather wary again. He reached for his mug of tea and sipped from it, watching after Bartolo as he left the Mayor’s office.

*******

       "There’s a letter for ye," Carnation advised him as she entered the parlor where he worked examining the volumes forwarded by Lords Halladan and Berevrion. She set the tray down on one of the lower tables, and he saw she provided a cosied pot of tea and a tray of cakes common to this land as well as a mug and spoon, and the bowl of sugar she’d learned he liked to have come with the tea.

       The letter lay on the tray beside the mug, apparently inside an envelope of cream-colored paper. He rose from behind the table he used as a desk and came around to pick up the envelope, examining it closely as he returned to his chair. The lettering was in a straightforward hand, remarkably lacking in embellishments. One who considered himself a "plain" soul, most probably, but who yet found simple white in his stationery to be somehow offensive. Too plain, perhaps?

       Alvric examined the wax used to seal the envelope--a simple beeswax, unadorned by any impression of a seal. He sniffed the pleasant odor of the wax--the bees had apparently fed primarily on clover, he judged. One of his younger uncles had kept bee hives on his farm, and during one memorable summer had taught a young visiting Alvric much about determining what nectars the bees had been feeding on by the scent of the wax and taste of the honey.

       Having broken the seal, Alvric slipped out the paper within and unfolded it.

                                                  24th May, 1420

Master Alvric,

       My name is Bartolo Bracegirdle, and I am a Hobbit from the Shire. Deputy Mayor Frodo Baggins has appointed me the first of the Shire’s lawyers to avail myself of your teaching. This is to advise you that I will be arriving in Bree with my family on 28 May, where we intend to take rooms at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. We will be available after that to learn what you would teach us. As directed by Mr. Baggins I bring a variety of the contracts and agreements we are accustomed to write to teach you the manner in which we customarily write them, although we are now engaged in studying new wording for some phrases that were abused by those who caused the most trouble during the time the Travelers were absent from the Shire.

       I will send a messenger to you when we have arrived so that you may make ready for our coming. The one form of contract I am in most need of writing at this time is the form of writing an agreement of tenancy for one living on land granted to one for purposes of maintenance. Indeed, I am at rather a loss in understanding first why such lands are granted much less why this form of support would be necessary.

                                                  Yours,

                                                  Bartolo Bracegirdle

                                                  Garden Place

                                                  Hardbottle, South Farthing

       As he was reading there was a knock at the door to the house, and he could hear Mistress Gorse answering it, then a discussion between Denra and another, apparently a Hobbit, he judged from the timbre of the voice. A moment later she came to the door to his parlor and knocked. "Master Alvric, Nob has come from the Prancing Pony with another letter for you."

       He looked to see the smiling face of the Hobbit who worked as house servant to Barliman Butterbur, and inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Master Nob? It is good to see you. How might I help you?"

       "It’s a letter to you from the Shire, sir," the small Hobbit answered. "Mr. Baggins o’ Bag End has sent a letter to old Barliman, and this was included inside and 'twas directed as it ought to be forwarded to you."

       The stiff paper was a simple white, although the quality was excellent; it consisted of two sheets folded in threes and sealed with a blob of reddish wax into which a jeweled star had been impressed. It was a most unusual signet, and Alvric found himself curious. He turned it over to see the address written in a most graceful and familiar hand, for several of the King’s earliest circulars had been copied in it. The King had employed Lord Frodo to copy documents and advisements during the Hobbit’s stay in Minas Tirith? Well, he could certainly see why--a most graceful hand he had, after all. He turned the paper over again and lifted the seal carefully, wanting to preserve it. Then he unfolded and smoothed the papers.

                                                  from the Office of the Mayor

                                                  Council Hole, Michel Delving

                                                  May 23, 1420 S.R.

Dear Master Alvric,

       I believe we met briefly in Minas Tirith during one of the conferences our Lord Aragorn Elessar held regarding how legal records are kept, although I admit I do not recall you clearly. Please forgive me, but I have found my memory is not what it once was.

       As I believe you are aware, at the time my beloved friend Samwise and I were ennobled, Aragorn granted us some lands both in Gondor and in Arnor for our maintenance. He has told us that this is customary for those who have been made lords of the realm. It seems an odd custom, but it appears we have little choice in the matter. Most of the lands granted us in Gondor were well established and tenanted and already had in place individuals to receive the rents or fees or lord’s portion of the enterprises due us, and it was simple, with Aragorn’s guidance and that offered by the bankers he recommended, to appoint an agent to regularly examine the properties and carry the monies due us to Minas Tirith to be added to our accounts.

       Aragorn had indicated the lands he was granting us in Arnor were far to the north and vacant. To learn that one of them is immediately adjacent to the Shire itself was a surprise; and that one had settled there believing it unclaimed and was now learning he needed my permission to do so was a shock. Mr. Hedges entered the Shire to seek me out, and together we have attempted to work out an agreement regarding how the tenancy and its rents should be met. I have little need for coin at the moment, and Mr. Hedges has little enough to spare; and so both of us have agreed it would be more convenient and beneficial to accept rents in the form of produce, or at least for the next seven years. My cousin Saradoc, who is Master of Buckland, oversees a special benefit intended to serve those Hobbits dwelling in Buckland and the Marish who cannot provide for themselves due to illness, disability, or the loss of family members who customarily worked the land for their sustenance, such as father, brother, husband, or cousin. I wish my portion of the produce of the Hedges’ farm added to that store as anonymously as possible.

       The lawyer I have chosen to represent my interests in this matter and to oversee the writing of the agreement is the husband of a second cousin on the side of my father’s mother. Bartolo Bracegirdle is also related by marriage to my cousin Bilbo, whom I usually address as an uncle, although he is actually my first and second cousin once removed on each side. It was my Uncle Bilbo who adopted me as his heir when I was still a lad of not yet twenty-two. Bartolo was a nephew to Bilbo’s cousin Otho’s wife Lobelia, and thus first cousin to our lamentable cousin Lotho. Bartolo is, however, as strictly honest as Lotho was a scoundrel.

       I would advise you of certain facts regarding Bracegirdles in general and Bartolo in particular. The family tends to be very literal-minded, and is straightforward to the point of bluntness. Please do not take offense, therefore, if Bartolo appears abrupt or to have little patience with discussions of reasons for why things are done as they are--it is simply a common feature of being a Bracegirdle. Please bear with him as patiently as you can, for it will prove worthwhile in the end, you will find.

       The other fact is likely harder to accept--Bartolo loathes me. He has always loathed me, in fact. He has found me impossible to understand over the years, and so he detests me. His wife Delphinium, on the other hand, being a Baggins through and through for all her Grubbs and Chubb and Boffin and Bolger relations, is as sweet, kind, thoughtful, and responsible as one could ever hope to meet. She loves Bartolo deeply and brings out the best in him, and together they have five delightful children--or at least I hope they are delightful, for I’ve seen little enough of them over the years.

       As a result of Bartolo’s long-time antipathy toward me we have had very little to do with one another. Yet I respect Bartolo’s integrity and discretion greatly.

       It is a difficult concept for others to appreciate, but I have always been a very private individual. As a child I was a constant topic of Lobelia’s gossip as well as the gossip of Brandy Hall and Buckland, particularly after my parents died when I was so young. As a result I have little patience for others seeking to know my business now I am an adult. The folk of the Shire don’t appreciate fully what we did in the outer world during our sojourn to the south and east, and to be frank I am just as happy this is true. That I would choose Bartolo to oversee my business dealings with Arnor no one will believe at first, although in time Merry and Pippin will appreciate the humor in the situation.

       Please do not bother trying to explain why I have had these lands granted to me--Bartolo Bracegirdle is not going to appreciate it, and I don’t wish to have to try to explain how it is that in the outer world I am Lord Frodo to all and sundry, from the dairyman from whom I purchase my cream and butter to those of the Quick Post who deliver the letters addressed to me here in Michel Delving or at home in Bag End. I wasn’t going to write you myself, but feel honor-bound to try to explain the situation before you find yourself totally confused as to why my representative appears resentful once you meet him.

       I welcome you to the North Kingdom. I regret it is unlikely I will meet with you during your time here, but I hope you find your visit in Arnor pleasant and productive. And bear my greetings to Faradir, Lord Halladan, and Lord Berevrion.

                                                      Yours ever,

                                                      Frodo Baggins

       Alvric smiled as he finished the letter. He looked at Nob’s honest face. "Thank you, Mr. Haywood," he said, to which the Hobbit flushed with pleasure. "It appears Mr. Bracegirdle will be here in Bree with his family on the twenty-eighth. I therefore ask you to advise Mr. Butterbur of this fact, and try to make him as comfortable as possible." He pulled out a brass farthing and tossed it to Nob, who smiled to receive it.

       "Thank you, Mr. Alvric, sir," Nob said, knuckling his forehead. "I’ll be off and let old Barliman know then, sir." So saying, he turned and went scurrying off with a "Thank you, too, Miss Denra," addressed to the woman as he left.

       Denra smiled after him, shaking her head, before turning again to her tenant. "You’ll be meeting soon with some of those you’re meant to deal with, then?" she asked.

       He nodded. "A lawyer of the Shire, apparently, regarding a tenancy agreement for lands granted for maintenance, or so I’m told. I’ve never written such before, so I’ll have to examine some of the documents our Lord Prince Faramir sent me as examples of the various document types I might be required to assist with so as to assure myself of the proper form."

       "What does it mean to be granted lands for maintenance?" she asked.

       "When an individual has been ennobled it is customary for the Lord of the realm to grant that individual the livings of lands and properties and even businesses here and there throughout the realm to give him an income for his service to the realm. Usually it takes the form of being granted the formal deeds to properties held either by the Lord of the realm or in the name of the realm itself.

       "After the downfall of Sauron the two individuals who made the dark journey to and through Mordor to see to the destruction of Sauron’s great weapon were made Lords of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, an unusual situation as Elves and Dwarves honor them as much as do we Men of Gondor, Arnor, and Rohan. Our Lord King Elessar granted lands both in Gondor and in Arnor to them. If the land is leased out or rented to tenants, they pay their rents to the Lord holding title to the land. If there are businesses on the property, then a portion of the income generated by the businesses is paid to him. If the land is farmed a portion of the produce or the money for which it is sold goes to him. In this manner the lord granted the living is able to pay for his own needs and the services of those he employs, and to pay for the weapons or tools he needs to use in the specific service he offers to the realm. In return he helps pay for those improvements to the land that benefit him in the long run and he offers his protection to those who live on the property."

       "And folks here in Bree are lords of the realm?" she asked, still uncertain what it meant to be such a one.

       "No, not here in Bree--there are two such inside the Shire, though. And I must meet with the lawyer for one of them."

       She was again shaking her head in the wonder of it all. "Hobbits of the Shire, lords of the realm? Wonder what their own folks think of such an idea?"

       Looking at the letters lying before him Alvric found himself shrugging. "I have no idea," he answered her. "Apparently, neither Lord Frodo nor Lord Samwise intend for their own to know."

       Her eyes widened as she looked at him. "They’re not telling their own? Oh, the more surprise when at last others must find out, then. You can’t go on forever hiding such things, after all--or can you?"

       Alvric found himself looking down at the two letters a bit uncertainly. It was the question of the moment. Just how long could Lord Frodo Baggins hide the fact he was a lord of several realms?

A Trip to Bree

            Persivo was watching out for his father as Bartolo arrived home, and hurried to the stable to help unharness Dottie.  Ricki paused in the act of mucking out Spotty’s stall to listen as his father instructed, “When the stable is clean and the ponies fed we’ll need to have the coach wiped down and prepared for tomorrow.”

            Persivo straightened with anticipation.  “We’ll be making the trip to Bree, then?”

            Bartolo nodded.  “The deputy Mayor received a letter from the King’s lawyer.  He’s just arrived from the King’s city, and will be able to meet with us as soon as we can get there.  Appears as he’s taken rooms there in the village in a private home.  I sent a note from Michel Delving indicating we are on our way and will meet with him in four days.”

            His older son cast a quick look toward the hole, then turned back to his father with a level of concern.  “Mum probably won’t take too well to having to pack in haste, Dad.  It’s not much in the way of warning.”

            The lawyer gave his own instinctive glance that way, then shrugged; he’d not thought on that aspect of the proposed journey.  “That may be,” he said, “but as I’ve already sent word we’ll have to do the best we can to arrive on time.  Your mother’s a canny one—she’ll come through.”  And grabbing his bag out of the trap he turned toward the smial.

            Petunia was waiting to open the door for him and take his bag.  “You’re home earlier than we’d looked for, Da,” she said after giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

            “Yes—there was news at the Mayor’s office.  Where’s your mother?”

            “In the kitchen, teaching Lyssa to roll out a pie crust.  We’re to have chicken and mushroom pie for dinner.”

            “Good.  Now, I want you to go up to your room and start packing clothes for you and Lyssa for our trip to Bree.  We’ll need to leave early tomorrow if we’re to make it on time.”

            Pet gave a shriek of excitement.  “Really, Da?  We really get to go to Bree?”  Then she paused, growing more concerned.  “But that’s not much time to get ready, you know.  What kind of things should I pack?”

            “A couple of nice dresses for each of you, but mostly clothes that will do well for a prolonged journey—enough for ten days, I’d suggest.  Three night dresses and a dressing gown each, I’d say, and of course your brushes and proper ribbons and kerchiefs.”

            “You don’t want me to pack for Begonia, too?”

            Her father sighed.  “You remember the last time anyone tried to pack for your sister—she had a right fit that they were all the wrong things, and wouldn’t speak to you or your mum for three days.”

            Pet laughed.  “And it would serve her right at that if she does do it up wrong this time.  Well, I’ll hurry to get the packing started, although I’m certain Mum will make me put a good part of what I choose back once it’s put together.”  And she turned and headed down the hall toward the bedrooms, pausing along the way just long enough to leave the bag on the chair inside the door to his study.

            Bartolo watched her disappear, then turned toward the kitchen, pausing to take a deep breath before he went in.  Alyssa was leaning over a low table working on rolling out the promised piecrust, her mother standing behind her, her hands on her daughter’s to gauge the pressure being used.  “Now, turn the roller the other way and do it again, dearling,” she said.

            Begonia looked up from where she stood by the stove, stirring the pot of simmering filling.  “Daddy’s home,” she said, her face lighting with delight.

            Delphie looked up, her eyes brightening as she pushed a curl out of her eyes.  “You’re early home, love,” she commented with a smile.  “No problems with the partnership agreement, then?”

            “Oh, no.  Although I was advised the King’s lawyer has arrived in Bree.  I sent off a note advising him we’ll be in Bree on the twenty-eighth.”

            Delphinium straightened with dismay.  “The twenty-eighth?  Bartolo Bracegirdle—what possessed you to make such a promise?  Why, we’d have to leave tomorrow!”

            “I know, sweetling—right after first breakfast.”

            “No!” objected Alyssa.  “We can’t miss second breakfast—I get to make it and I was planning bread dipped in egg and fried in a skillet.  I know you love that, Daddy.”

            “Surely we won’t have to leave that early, Barti dear?  Couldn’t we load the coach between meals and leave after second breakfast?”

            Bartolo shrugged, but secretly was pleased, for that was what he’d truly planned on.  “I suppose—and certainly we can’t afford to miss Alyssa’s fried bread.  Blueberry syrup?”

            “Blueberry syrup, or cherry jam.  We have lots of both in the root cellar.”  Alyssa smiled with satisfaction.  “The Gatherers and Sharers didn’t manage to find the door to it.  We hid it well, didn’t we, Daddy?”

            He smiled at her, then looked at the lass’s mother.  “So, Delphie, you think we will be able to leave right after second breakfast, then?”  At her nod of commitment he said, “I’ll go out and speak to Greenman about keeping an eye on the place and feeding the cat then.”

            “We can’t take Feathers, Da?” asked Alyssa, looking stricken.

            “Pay attention to your pie crust, daughter,” her mother admonished her.  “No, we can’t take Feathers.  You know she hates being in the carriage or trap when it’s moving—she’d most like leap out and get lost somewhere in the Marish and mayhaps get eaten by some farmer’s dogs.”  Chastened, the lass turned back to her rolling out.  Once she was certain the child was doing it properly Delphie asked, “How long will we be on the road, do you think?”

            “We’ll drive to the Floating Log in Waymeet tomorrow and stay there the night.  Then we’ll go on to the Bridge Inn and stay there a night, then on to Bree the following day.”

            “How long will we be there, Daddy?” Begonia asked, forgetting her stirring.

            “Watch the filling, lass, or it’ll scorch.  I’m not certain—not more than a week, probably.”

            “Two week’s worth of clothing, then,” Begonia noted.

            “No more than ten days’ worth, or there won’t be room in the coach.  They have laundresses in Bree, and we’ll have what’s been worn so far cleaned before we leave to return home to the Shire.”

            Nodding and obviously planning what she’d take, Begonia turned back to her pot, then after a couple stirs she turned, dismayed.  “You haven’t set Pet to choose out my clothes, have you?”

            “No—not after the last time.  No, you’ll do it yourself, and no one will help you, although you’re to show your mother what you plan to take so as to make certain as she approves.  And no more than two very nice dresses.”

            “Mummy!” she protested, but in this Delphie agreed with her husband. 

            “We’re not going to be attending a good many parties, dearling.  Much of the trip will be traveling, so you’ll need clothes that won’t show the dust for that part of it.”

            Begonia turned back to her filling with a subdued, “Yes, Mum.”

            Once the piecrust was folded over to be laid out in the tin and Alyssa started on trimming it, Delphie asked, “And was Ricki mucking out the stalls when you arrived?”

            “Yes, he was.  I take it that was punishment?”

            “Yes—I’d set him to weeding the tomatoes and picking aphids off the pea vines, and he slipped off next door to play at conkers with Jessup and Able instead.  I hope that Vigo will let us pay his lads to watch the garden while we’re gone, or we’ll not have much in the way of vegetables this year.”

            “I’ll speak to him about it.  But I doubt he’ll disagree.”  So saying, Bartolo headed out to speak to their neighbor.

            During dinner most of the talk was focused on what food they’d need to take.  “I can go to the inn and order up some pasties to take—we can pick them up along the way,” Bartolo suggested.  “How many loaves of bread do we have ready?”

            “Four, two of them large crusty loaves.”  Delphie thought for a moment.  “We could slice those two across and put slices of cheese and roast lamb between them and then slice them for individual portions—we have that joint I roasted the other day we can use, and we’ll need to use it up—we can’t leave it, after all.  I can fill bottles with sweet, cold tea for us to drink, and we have plenty of dried plums from last fall we can take with us.  And I’ll put a couple chickens to roast in the embers tonight.  We have some carrots left in the stores, and then whatever we can get along the way.”

            Pet suggested, “There’s the cake I baked this morning we can take also, Mum.  We were going to have it for afters, but it would be better to eat along the way, don’t you think so, Da?”

            Ricki asked, “If we get pasties from the inn, can we take bottles of ginger beer as well, Dad?”

            Bartolo looked at his younger son appraisingly.  “Do you think lads who slip away from their chores to play at conkers deserve ginger beer, Enrico?”

            The lad flushed.  “I said as I was sorry, Dad, and I did a good job mucking out the stalls—didn’t I, Persivo?”

            By bedtime all was in surprisingly good array for the following morning.  Begonia had only had two fits of temper when her mother insisted she not take a particular frock, and Alyssa had finally realized she wasn’t going to be allowed to take her blue dress with the silver lace.  “Much too fancy,” her father said, shaking his head.  “It would be lost on the good folks of Bree, I suspect.  No, the yellow frock would be far more suitable, lass.”  Each one was allowed to take three favorite possessions suitable to keeping them distracted in their rooms at the inns, and their mother made certain two slates and several chalk pencils were ready to take with them so they could play naughts and crosses or doodle while they traveled.

            Next morning, while Petunia oversaw Alyssa’s preparation of second breakfast the rest saw the coach loaded, and Bartolo inspected the harness to make certain all was in readiness.  The children hurried through cleaning the kitchen and dishes as soon as the meal was ended, and there was a last-minute grabbing of cloaks and checks to see all was in order, and Ricki headed next door to leave the key with Vigo Greenman while Persivo and Bartolo harnessed the ponies to the coach.  Finally Delphie, the lasses, and Ricki were bundled inside while Persivo and his father mounted the box; Bartolo slapped the reins and released the brakes, and they were off.

            They ate elevenses and luncheon along the way, and stopped in a village for tea.  By the time they arrived at the Floating Log Alyssa was tired of traveling and thrilled with the novelty of staying at an unfamiliar inn.  The next day the ride was shorter, and they arrived at the Bridge Inn early in the afternoon, allowing the children time to do some exploring before tea while their parents purchased food to eat along the way during the trip from the Brandywine Bridge to Bree.

            During dinner Persivo asked, “Will we see anyone along the road tomorrow, Dad?”

            Bartolo shrugged.  “According to what the deputy Mayor tells, it’s possible we might meet a Ranger along the way.  Says as they’re the King’s own folks and that they guard the borders, after all, and that they’ll often escort travelers between the Shire and Bree.”

            But the one who approached them wasn’t a Man cloaked in grey or green or silver with a star on his shoulder, but instead was an exceptionally tall individual with long golden hair braided at the temples, a bow and quiver over left shoulder, a long knife tucked into his belt.  He rode a tall roan horse, its lines sleek and smooth, its hackamore, reins, and neat saddle decorated with small chiming bells of silver.  A look at the almost unnatural grace and the pointed ears told Bartolo that this was an Elf.  He was surprised, for he’d almost been convinced that Elves were only features in old tales—the kind of tales favored by the likes of Frodo Baggins.  The lawyer drew on the reins, and the ponies stopped, although he could tell they were trembling with excitement. 

            The Elf paused also, then rode forward to meet them.  He gave a surprisingly graceful bow from his steed’s back.  “Glorinlas Gildorion at your service,” he said, introducing himself.  “You travel unaccompanied to Bree?”

            “Yes,” Bartolo answered carefully.  “I am Bartolo Bracegirdle, this is my son Persivo, and inside the coach are my wife Delphinium, our three daughters, and our younger son Enrico.”  He examined the Elf, then flushed as he realized his interest might be seen as intrusive.  “Please forgive me, but I’ve not seen one of—of your people before.”

            “I return to my kindred from Imladris,” Glorinlas explained, “but I will not be long delayed if I accompany you until you reach the Breelands.  I’ve not seen nor heard any indication of enemies this day, although few would think to challenge me at this time.  However, the Dúnedain have managed to take four renegade Men as prisoners in the past fortnight in the region immediately surrounding Bree, and so it would be wise to remain on guard.”  So saying he turned his horse to ride alongside of the coach.  As he began to pull somewhat ahead, Spotty and Dottie began to pull at the traces, not waiting for direction from their master, unwilling to be left behind by the Elf’s mount.  Once the coach was well on its way he fell back to ride even with the box.

            “Where’s Imladris?” Persivo asked.  “I’ve not heard of it before.”

            “It is our name for Rivendell,” the Elf explained.

            Pet asked from inside the coach, “Were you going to ride through the Shire?”

            Glorinlas gave a remarkably graceful shrug to one shoulder.  “Our people have always rejoiced to pass through your land, although we have not done so openly for many years.”

            Alyssa pushed herself up even with her older sister.  “Where is your family?”

            He smiled at her.  “My people are right now ranging south of the Western Marches, west and then south of the borders of your land.  We are soon to pass through your lands going eastward for a time before most take the last road west.”

            “What makes it the last road west?” asked Alyssa.

            “Many of my people will now take ship to Elvenhome, now that the greatest danger to Middle Earth is past.  Our time is now passing away swiftly, and I doubt many Elves will remain in Middle Earth once the Lord Elessar leaves it, although that will not come to pass for many years yet, possibly another century, more or less.”

            “Who is Lord Elessar?” asked Enrico, shoving at Pet from the other side.

            “It is the name taken by the King of Men at his coronation.  He is a worthy one indeed, and as greatly honored by our people as by his own.”

            “Have you met him?” asked Petunia.

            “Yes, several times in years past as he has coordinated the defense of these lands with my folk.  We are not great warriors such as have ever set forth from Imladris, but we have ever fought the Enemy’s creatures wherever we have encountered them.  No love have we for the orc-kind, or for wolves or wargs or trolls.”

            “Have you ever fought a dragon?” asked Ricki.

            The Elf laughed, although it was in a kindly way.  “Not for many years.  Nay, it was Bilbo Elvellon who helped see to the destruction of the last dragon of whom my people were aware.  But that was not in these lands—it was far to the east of the Misty Mountains, east even of Thranduil’s realm.”

            Persivo straightened.  “Are there people outside the Shire named Bilbo?”

            Glorinlas again gave his graceful shrug.  “Bilbo Elvellon is from your own folk.  I believe you know him as Bilbo Baggins.  The Dwarves tend to refer to him as the Esteemed Burglar Bilbo Baggins.”

            “But Elvellon isn’t his name, Mr. Gildorion,” objected Ricki.

            Again the Elf laughed.  “Elvellon isn’t a name—it is a title.  For a mortal to be named an Elf-friend is an honor indeed, as it is to be esteemed by Dwarves.  Nor may I be properly addressed as ‘Mister’ Gildorion.  Would anyone speak of you as Mr. Son of Bartolo?”

            At that Delphinium managed to pull him back onto the seat proper, and indicated that Pet and Alyssa had best sit down as well.  “You could unbalance the coach,” she cautioned her children.  “And if you sit down properly you can still see Mr.----”

            Glorinlas again laughed.  “You need not speak of me by more than my name, mistress,” he advised her.

            “Please forgive them, Mr. Glorinlas.  They’ve never seen an Elf before, you must understand.”

            Begonia called out, “Then Gildorion means you’re Gildor’s son?  Who is Gildor?”

            “My father, and the lord of our clan.”

            “Oh.”  The thought that this one was a lord’s son was sobering.  They all looked at one another thoughtfully.

            Finally Persivo asked, “Do you know Bilbo Baggins?”

            “I’ve been in his company several times when he dwelt here in the Shire, and I certainly saw him while I consulted with Lord Elrond in Rivendell.”

            “Cousin Bilbo is in Rivendell?” asked Delphinium, surprised.

            “Yes, he has dwelt there for many years now.  He is now aged in the reckoning of your kind, and I do not believe he will be able to live many more seasons.  You are all kindred to him and Lord Frodo, then?  It is an honor to meet any who are family to Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.”  Again he gave a respectfully deep bow to the Hobbits.

            Bartolo found that bow made him feel very uncomfortable, as did the title of Lord applied to Frodo Baggins.

            “You know Cousin Frodo also?” asked Delphie, her amazement growing.

            “I’d seen him walking about your land in the company of Bilbo a few times, always from a distance; but I met him first as he left the Shire.  A most responsible individual, and most faithful in the end.  Always we have honored your people for your stewardship of the lands granted you by Argeleb; considering the service given all by Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took we cannot help but honor your people the more.  Each aided greatly in fighting the evils of these times, and all of Middle Earth owes them a debt that perhaps can never be fully repaid.”

            Bartolo felt his hair prickling on the back of his neck.  “It’s not as if they did anything special—they’re naught but Hobbits, after all.”

            The Elf looked at him, his expression most surprised.  “They did nothing special, you think?  To remove from your land the token of the greatest of evil and to go into the darkness of the black lands to see to the destruction of the thing—you see that as nothing?  To face down the Lord of the Nazgul, and to fight before the Black Gates—to offer themselves for the safety and lives of others you see as meaningless?  Have you of the Shire no understanding of what has happened out here in the outer world in the past two years?”

            “Well, it’s not as if we were involved.  We had Lotho and that Sharkey and their Big Men to deal with, you see.”

            Glorinlas gave another of his shrugs, then fell back to trail the coach for a time.  Delphie poked her head out of the coach’s window to look up at her husband.  “I fear you’ve managed to offend him, Barti,” she sighed.  She looked back, concern in her eyes, then looked up again at Bartolo.  “Do you know anything about all this fighting he was talking about?”

            The lawyer shook his head, for the little he knew he’d taken an oath not to discuss, and he didn’t begin to understand most of what the Elf had said.  He looked back.  Glorinlas and his horse were tall enough he could see the face of the Elf clearly, and the expression was watchful and utterly self-contained.

            They stopped at midday to eat their luncheon, and Petunia approached the Elf as he sat his horse to invite him to join them.  He looked at her for a few moments, then swung down, and with a word to the animal in his own tongue he followed her to where the rest of the family sat in a clearing opposite the Barrowdowns.

            Bartolo glanced briefly at his wife, then looked at the Elf.  “I—apologize if I appear to have spoken out of turn.”

            Again the Elf gave his graceful shrug.  “It is not as if I weren’t warned by Master Bilbo that your people would have little knowledge of how the war affected the rest of the lands.  However, to learn you were so ignorant of the services offered by those four who left the Shire was—unexpected.  And you did have to deal with the traitor Saruman and his actions against your land.”

            “Who is Saruman?” Ricki asked.

            “I believe they called him Sharkey there in the Shire,” Glorinlas answered.  “He was a great one, but was corrupted by the thought of the power that might have been his should he ally himself with the Nameless One or if he might seize control of the Enemy’s weapon.  He apparently learned that It might dwell in the Shire and convinced one of yours to allow him to send his folk to seek It, under the pretense that they were aiding him to take power over your land and people.  It was an evil decision, and for the Ring-bearers to return to such a situation was most unfair, although they acquitted themselves well.”

            Alyssa looked at him curiously.  “Do you ever visit the Shire?” she asked.

            At last he smiled again.  “My clan often travels through your land going east or west.  We have not done so openly for many years, though, for your people are often overawed when you see and recognize us.  We have a forest hall we visit from time to time near the village you know as Woods Hall.  I suspect it was named in honor of our retreat there.”

            Ricki was examining his weapons.  “Are you any good at archery?” he asked.  “You have a bow….”

            The Elf laughed.  “Yes, I have had many years to perfect my skills.  We Elves are often excellent archers, although I believe the best among us within Middle Earth is Prince Legolas Thranduilion of the Great Woodland Realm east of the valley of the Anduin.”

            “Where’s that?” asked the lad.

            “East of the Misty Mountains.  Long his land was known as Mirkwood, but as the Enemy is now cast down it shall be known as Eryn Lasgalen once more.  That means the Forest of Green Leaves.  It was once among the greatest of realms of our people here in the mortal lands, and it will know its greatness once more before its dwellers make the choice to sail West or to remain here in Middle Earth and dwindle alongside our memory.”

            “But why would you want to leave?” asked Alyssa.  “The bad Men are gone now.”

            The Elf looked at her with a sad smile.  “Our time in Middle Earth is over.  More and more of our folk hear the Sea calling to us in our hearts, and we know we must go to the place appointed to us in the Undying Lands.  The times of the Elves are past, and the time of mortals, particularly Men, is now come.  At least with Aragorn Elessar you have a wise and blessed King over you for what time he knows.  I only hope that his descendants follow in his mold.  My father and Lord Elrond tell me that when they look on him it is as if he holds within him the spirit of Elros Tar-minyatur himself, and none among mortals was ever more blessed than he.  Plus he has taken to wife the Lady Arwen Undómiel, and the blood of the Eldar will run through their descendants even more strongly than it has heretofore.

            “Rejoice, child of Bartolo, for you will know a time of peace such as has not been known in Middle Earth for over two thousand years in the count of mortals.”

            He accepted some cold chicken and a pastie, and offered the rest a share of the dried fruit he carried, fruit that in spite of its form seemed to burst with a sweet flavor.  He listened to Delphie and the children talk, and listened to their tale of Bartolo’s commission to seek training from the King’s lawyer sent all the way from the southlands.

            “Have you ever been there in the south where the King lives now?” asked Begonia.

            Glorinlas shook his head.  “No, for our folk rarely go out of our own ranges.  My father has been there, and he has been east of the mountains and into what were the lands of Rhovanion, long ago before the failing of the Kings of Gondor and the kingdom of Arnor here in Eriador.  He went recently again south to Gondor for the marriage of the Lord Elessar to the Lady Arwen, and returned north alongside the four of your folk who went upon the quest.  He is heartened that Aragorn Elessar is able to draw the love of so many to himself, and appears likely to heal the long rift between my people and the children of Aulë.  That Elves and Dwarves would come to labor side by side with one another and would each come to honor the skills of the other is not a situation that has been known in Middle Earth since the fall of Moria.  Yet this looks to come to be now that Legolas Thranduilion and Gimli Gloin’s son have come to love one another as brothers, following Aragorn and Frodo as members of the Fellowship.  Both have sworn to bring craftsmen of their own folk to Minas Tirith to see it rebuilt once more, healed of the wounds of the long defense against Mordor.”

            Persivo asked slowly, “Then, there is really a place called Mordor.  I mean, it’s not just a place in the old stories.”

            The Elf shrugged.  “And where did you think the old stories came from, young Hobbit?  Most are taken from the histories of Middle Earth, you must realize.  Long ago, when he went south to Rhovanion, my father detoured to look across the Dagorlad, the ancient battlefield where the armies of the Last Alliance fought against the Dark Lord’s forces at the end of the Second Age, to see the ruins of the gates of Mordor.  When he was in Gondor for the King’s marriage he was able to look across the Great River at the ramparts of the Ephel Duath, and saw that those black mountains now sport green as for the first time in well over three thousand years living trees begin to grow upon their flanks.  The land of Mordor itself may still be dry and sere, but its walls begin to support life again.”

            Delphinium watched the Elf for a time, then finally asked, “You say that my cousins Bilbo and Frodo are—what did you call them?  Elvellon?”

            “Yes, Elf friend each has proven, although each is honored by all peoples with whom they have dealt.  The cleverness of Bilbo in dealing with the dragon Smaug was overshadowed only by his integrity in forcing the Dwarves to deal honorably with the Elves of Mirkwood and the Men of Dale and Laketown.  He stopped a war between those who in the end proved to be allies when they were attacked by orcs and wolves from the Misty Mountains.  As for the accomplishments of Frodo Baggins—never has any mortal of any kind done as well as he and Samwise Gamgee, not since the First Age of Middle Earth.  Not for nothing have the Northern Dúnedain and our people sought to protect your lands from evil, for it was through the labors of your people that so much evil was brought down.”

            “Then they are heroes, Frodo and Bilbo, and Frodo’s gardener friend?”

            The Elf smiled.  “As are Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck.  But the same is true of all who stood against Mordor’s might at the end, for all offered themselves as shield to the rest of Middle Earth.  All are to be honored, I think.”

            He turned then to Bartolo.  “And Frodo has set you to learn the law of the reunited realm as it affects your land, then?”

            “Yes, so we can write proper contracts and agreements with the outer realm and make certain our own judgments are in line with the King’s law.”

            “He plans well for the future of your land.”

            It was Bartolo’s turn to shrug.  After a time of examining the lawyer, the Elf continued, “You must realize that your kinsman is greatly honored in the outer world.  I see he has not told you the whole of his doings, and I must suspect he has his reasons, and probably most strong among them is his awareness that your people, having been isolated for so long, have little understanding of the dangers that have beset most of the lands of Middle Earth.  It is difficult to explain when you have no concept of what an orc might be like, or a warg, or the Nazgul, although they did enter your land in the guise of Black Riders.  Of course, none of those who have left these lands has had much awareness of the outer world and the creatures that fill it until they chose to face the choice to abandon your land’s isolation; but all have acquitted themselves very well, as I’ve said before.  And now you help to bridge the gap between the Shire and the renewed realm of Arnor, and I must honor you for your coming part in bringing the Shire into more awareness of the rest of Middle Earth.”

            Bartolo again felt uncomfortable at the compliment just paid him, but he was beginning to feel an understanding of why the Travelers failed to describe their adventures to those within the Shire.

            They soon packed up the remains of their luncheon, saw the two ponies back into their harness, and were ready to finish the journey to Bree.  Bartolo looked with approval at the clearing to see how well they had erased signs of their brief stay there.  “This is a good enough place,” he commented.  “It makes a good place to stop to rest along the road between the Shire and Bree.”

            The Elf indicated his agreement.  “We often pause our own journeys here as well, as do the Rangers when they patrol your borders.  There is the stream that runs alongside the meadow for water, and many edible berries cover the bushes surrounding it in the proper season for them.”

            Ricki pointed across the road at the tumuli.  “I’d like to explore over there,” he said.

            But Glorinlas was shaking his head.  “No, small master,” he said, “you must not go there, not until the burial ground is cleansed of its dark inhabitants.  It is a place of great evil and danger at this time.  Many have been taken by the wights that have infested the place since the fall of Arvedui, and I suspect it will take the full power of the King to once again open it to the cleanliness of Arda’s proper airs again.  Few have escaped from that place when the wights are abroad.”

            Persivo shivered involuntarily.  “What is it?”

            “The burial grounds of the rulers of Cardolan, when this region was part of that lost kingdom.  Great kings, princes, and nobles are buried there, along with those they honored most.”

            Bartolo assisted his younger son to enter the coach and stowed the steps before latching the door.  “Well, nobody’s going in there today,” he said to no one in particular, and he nodded to Persivo to climb onto the box, following him rapidly.

            The Elf mounted his horse, and he rode alongside the coach for the rest of the journey, mostly singing in his own language as they traveled the road.  Once they came within sight of the gates he drew back and nodded for Bartolo to go on.  “I leave you here, and suspect that when you are ready to reenter your land a Ranger will accompany you.  Good fortune to all of you.”  And after offering them his blessing he indicated again for Bartolo to drive on, and with a deep breath once more the Bracegirdle slapped the reins and drove on, forcing himself to focus on what was to come.  The west gate of the village was open, and soon they drove in past the palisade and up the cobbled street to the sign of the Inn of the Prancing Pony.

In Bree

            “Da, will we have to stay here?” asked Lyssa, much subdued, as she stood in the inn yard, once coach and ponies were entrusted to Bob in the stable.  “It’s so—so big!”

            He gave her a hasty smile of reassurance.  “They have Hobbit-sized rooms on the north side of the inn, and I think you’ll find them comfortable enough, lass.”

            A Hobbit named Nob opened the door for them and led them to where Barliman Butterbur sat over his ledgers.  “Mr. Butterbur, sir—Hobbits from the Shire here to take rooms, please.  Mr. Bracegirdle, sir, as has been here afore.”

            “And which Mr. Bracegirdle is that?” growled Butterbur.  Then, on recognizing the lawyer he smiled.  “Oh, that Mr. Bracegirdle, is it?  Welcome, sir—it’s been a time since we saw you last here at the Pony, sir.  So, you’re the one as the lawyer from Gondor is to see at this time?  And this is your family?  Good, good.  Mr. Alvric let me know you would need rooms, and we have them and the private parlor in the north wing ready for you.  Nob will take you.  Your sons, and daughters—very likely lasses they are, at that—and your wife?  Welcome, Missus Bracegirdle; welcome to the Prancing Pony.  And I hope you will find all comfortable for your stay.  Well, Nob—take them on, why don’t you?  Off with you.  And we’ll be bringing a tea in for you in half an hour’s time, if that suits you.”

            Feeling a bit ruffled by the innkeeper’s bustling talk, they gratefully followed Nob down the passage to the private parlor and the rooms beyond.  “I think as you’ll find all in order, Master, Mistress.  The bathing rooms are along that corridor—just let me know if you’d like to use them and I’ll get the fire lit under the boiler for you and bring you towels.  Privy is next to it, and you have basins in your rooms for the washing of hands and faces.  There are two rooms here, if that’s acceptable for you—Mr. Bracegirdle—one for you, your wife, and a truckle bed for the youngest here, and one for the other childer through there—four narrow beds there are in there.  Although perhaps the little lass would like to sleep with one of her sisters rather than in your room?”

            Lyssa chose to sleep with Begonia, and shortly a tea was brought and all sat down for it.  “Well,” Bartolo noted over the cucumber sandwiches, “It appears we made it in good time.  I’ll send a message around to Master Alvric and arrange for Persivo and me to meet him in the morning shortly after second breakfast.  For today, would you like to do some exploring of Bree?”

            An hour later they were out going through the lanes of the bustling crossroads town, and Delphinium and the lasses had already noted six shops they wanted to go through the following day, while Ricki had found the sweets shop and a shop he was dying to visit that sold wooden toys, and had spotted a group of lads in a lane playing at roopie.  He looked up at his dad.  “Do you think as they’d let me play tomorrow, Da?” he asked.

            “Well, you won’t know until you ask, will you?” his father answered him.  “But don’t be too disappointed if they don’t.  Townshobbits are often suspicious of newcomers, I’ve found.”

            Enrico nodded, thinking on his father’s words, and noted where the lane was in relation to the inn so he could hopefully find it the faster in the morning.

            Supper was excellent, and soon Delphie had the two youngest, grumbling through their yawns, into their beds with the promise the other three would follow them soon enough.

            “It was a fine enough trip,” Delphie noted as she collapsed into a chair in the parlor.  “And the rooms are very comfortable.  Although the town feels so strange, what with all the houses with upper stories and all.”

            Bartolo nodded.  “I know,” he said.  “First couple of times as I was here I felt terrible out of place.  But the folk are decent enough, most of them, at least.  So far I’ve not had trouble with any here, Big nor Little.”

            Persivo began, rather tentatively, “What did he mean, Mr. Butterbur, that is, about you being that Mr. Bracegirdle, as if there was another Mr. Bracegirdle he didn’t like?”

            His father’s face became stern.  “You have to remember, lad, that Lotho and Timono both came out here on occasion, and I doubt as either would be remembered happily here any more than they are in the Shire.  Lotho was always an arrogant ass, and Timono probably cheated folk here in Bree as much as he did folks at home.”

            Petunia looked at her father, shocked at his use of such a description for Cousin Lotho.  Delphie sighed, advising her daughter, “I know you didn’t have the chance to come to know Lotho well, Pet, but he took the Bracegirdle abruptness to lengths no other member of the family even dreamed of.  When you think neither Benlo nor his father could stand him, much less your father, that’s an indication he was a truly horrid person.  Even Frodo couldn’t bear him, and Frodo could get along with almost everyone.  Not, of course, that either Lotho or Lobelia either one ever gave him much of a chance.”

            Both Petunia and Persivo noted the sour look on their father’s face that always seemed to appear when Frodo Baggins’s name was mentioned. Their mother and Begonia didn’t seem to notice, as Begonia noted, “Mr. Baggins seems a nice enough person, although from what Persivo says he was rather short with Cousin Lothario.”

            “Lothario was trying to change Gammer Alma’s will to be different from what she wanted, Gonya,” Persivo said rather primly.  “He could have said far more than he did, but he was trying not to upset us.”

            “He is quite a nice person, our cousin Frodo,” Delphie said.  “One of the nicest, really.”  She gave her husband a sideways look of defiance, and his expression became even more stonelike.

            “I’m going to bed,” he announced, and went into his room and shut the door behind him.

            Petunia watched after her father, then asked in a very soft voice, “Mummy, why doesn’t Daddy like Cousin Frodo?”

            Delphie shrugged her shoulders helplessly as she looked at the closed door.  “I’m not completely certain, for Benlo respects Frodo a good deal, as did his father.  Not, of course, that Benlo will ever be a friend to Frodo, if you understand me, for they’re not the type of folks who will ever be close to one another.  Frodo is very intelligent—perhaps the smartest Hobbit I’ve ever heard tell of.  Perhaps it’s only that Frodo’s smart but has never wanted to do anything besides studying Elvish.  I don’t think your dad feels that is a particularly useful occupation.”

            “I didn’t ever think I’d ever meet an Elf,” Begonia said.  “No wonder Cousin Frodo likes them.  And they seem to like him a great deal.”

            Persivo said quietly, “They do more than like him.  Glorinlas Gildorion called him Lord Frodo.  He said Cousin Frodo did something more important than we can understand, but no one in the Shire seems to know what it was.  I know he isn’t as happy as he used to be, Cousin Frodo, not like he was before the Time of Troubles when he told stories at the Free Fair.  And he keeps rubbing at his shoulder when I’ve seen him, like it hurts.”

            Delphie dropped her eyes to her lap.  “I don’t know what happened out there, but it’s plain that Frodo and his friends managed to impress a great many people.”  She sighed.  “Well, perhaps the rest of us should follow your father’s lead and go to bed.  Persivo, you and your father have to meet with the King’s lawyer in the morning, after all.”

            “Yes, Mum,” Persivo said.  “Come on, Pet, Gonya, the sooner you’re in bed, the quicker I can follow.”  Once they had gone into the children’s room and shut the door he turned to his mother.  “Mum, has Cousin Frodo ever been rude to Dad?”

            “Not that I’m aware of.  But your father is all Bracegirdle, lovey, and Bracegirdles aren’t the easiest folk to get along with, you know.  Your father is a very sensitive person, and sometimes----”  She glanced guiltily at the door before continuing, “Sometimes I think he sees criticism where there is none.  It’s just he’s so different from Frodo—intelligent, but in a different way; quick to see how someone could take advantage of someone else, although that’s not his own inclination; very practical.  I think he just doesn’t understand Frodo anywhere nearly as well as Frodo understands him, and realizes that’s true and resents it.”

            “I don’t think he needs to resent it,” Persivo said thoughtfully.  “I get the feeling Mr. Frodo envies Dad.  At the banquet for the lawyers, as we were leaving, he was watching Dad and me leaving with Dad’s hand on my shoulder, and I could see grief there that it wasn’t him with his hand on his son’s shoulder.  Why didn’t he ever get married?”

            She shrugged again.  “I don’t know, not for certain.  He and Pearl Took—everyone once was certain they’d marry, but she threw him over.  Then he seemed to be opening up to Narcissa Boffin—and then Bilbo left, and that was that.  I don’t know if he just didn’t bother to follow up on any other love after Bilbo left or if it was something else, but since then he’s not looked at a lass with anything more than courtesy, not that I’m aware of.”

            He nodded his understanding just as Pet, dressed in her nightgown, opened the door.  “We’re changed now, and are getting into bed.  You can get ready now, Persi.”

            “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder.  “Will be right in.”  He sighed as he rose and came to stand by his mother’s chair.  “I’ll go to the privy first.  Thanks, Mother.  I do love you so.”  He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then turned away toward the corridor Nob had indicated led to the privy.  Delphinium watched after him, secretly glad he had so much Baggins to his nature.  She had the feeling Persivo wouldn’t spend anywhere near as much time as his father did fighting enemies and criticism that existed only in his imagination.

*******

            Alvric woke early.  A message had come from the Prancing Pony to advise him that Bartolo Bracegirdle of Hardbottle had arrived yesterday, and he wished to meet shortly after second breakfast.  Alvric had been observing Carnation Sandybanks with great interest, and had decided that Berevrion’s advice not to stand between a hungry Hobbit and food had not been as lightly given as he’d first supposed.  How she could eat as much as she did he couldn’t tell; but there was no question that, small as she was, she ate more per meal than himself, and far more times during a day.  Yet she was not a lazy soul by any standard, and often would continue on with the work of the day when a woman from among Men would have flagged.

            He’d advised Denra and Carnation of the impending meetings with Mr. Bracegirdle, and immediately Carnation had begun planning menus.  “How long will he be meetin’ with ye?” she asked.

            “I’m not truly certain, but probably at least three hours a day for several days.”

            “He be meetin’ with ye alone, or with others?”

            “I’m not sure, although it would be customary, as his family has apparently accompanied him here to Bree, to host him and his wife and children at least once for a formal meal, perhaps on the second night of our meetings, and then again on their last night here.  Or, so it is done in Gondor.  As to whether or not others from his family will attend on him during our meetings—well, I hadn’t thought to enquire.”

            She nodded.  “Mayhaps one ‘r more of his childern’ll be with ’im on some days, although probably not on all days.  I’ll prepare for at least two a day, then.  He’ll be a’comin’ when? After second breakfast?  Well, that’ll leave elevenses, luncheon, and p’rhaps tea to ready each day.”

            “If you’ll give me a list of what provisions you’ll need, I’ll purchase them at the market.”

            Denra laughed.  “You’d do better to give the coin to Carnation and let her get them—they’ll give her a better bargain than they will you, bein’ a Man and an outlander and all.  And with all her family to help, they’ll get it here in a timely manner as well.”

            Now he waited rather impatiently, wondering just what type of person he’d be faced with, fussing with the copies of maintenance agreements with which Prince Faramir had provided him.  When he heard the knock at the door, he felt relieved, for it appeared that at last Mr. Bartolo Bracegirdle had arrived----

            Except, the voice he heard answering Denra as she opened the door was not that of a Hobbit, or at least unlike those of any Hobbit he’d as yet heard, whose voices tended to be higher in tone than most Men.  No, this voice was low, that of a big Man, he judged; and the tone of voice of the response given by Denra indicated a level of mixed anger and distress.  Alarmed, Alvric hurried out of the second parlor toward the front door.  Holby, waking to find his master leaving the room, rose and ran after him.

            “But you can’t think to keep this place up all on yer own, Denra Gorse.  It’s way too much fer a woman alone….”

            Alvric found himself full of fury on Denra’s behalf, and decidedly controlled his anger.  He straightened and stalked to Denra’s side at the door.  Peering through his lens over her shoulder, he saw a broad Man with wiry ginger hair and beard standing on the walk to the house, hands on his hips, a sardonic look on what could be seen of his face.  The lawyer considered the situation.  He’d seen such individuals in the magistrate’s court in the Fourth Circle often enough, Men who considered themselves both irresistible to women and capable of convincing solely on the basis of brawn.  “I take it, Mistress Gorse,” he said calmly, “that this is Bender Cotman.”  Holby peeked his head around her leg and yapped at the Man.

            Denra looked over her shoulder, apparently surprised to find him there.  “Yes, Master Alvric,” she said.

            Alvric nodded, pushed his dog back inside gently with his foot, then gently pressed past his hostess, shutting the door behind him and stuffing his lens back into the pocket he’d had sewn into the seam of his surcoat.  “Well, Master Cotman,” he said, “I beg to inform you that Mistress Gorse is not, at this time at least, alone.  She has accepted me as a boarder, and while I am residing in Bree I will be assisting her as I am needed, and she resides under my protection and that of the Lord King Elessar.”

            “Under yer protection?” Cotman asked.  “And who’s this King Elessar?”

            “You hadn’t heard the news that there is once again a King over both Arnor and Gondor?  I assure you there is, and he will not tolerate his subjects being bullied.”

            “Bullied?  And who’s it as ye’re accusin’ o’ bullyin’ folks?”

            “I’m accusing you of trying to bully this woman.  Must a woman be married to the likes of you in order to hold the property she’s inherited?  It has never been so in Gondor, and I doubt such is tolerated by the Dúnedain of Arnor, either.  And now that the Lord Elessar has claimed all of Eriador once again as his lands within Arnor, insisting that this woman must accept your protection solely because you say she must do so it is not lawful.”

            “And what do ye know o’ the laws o’ Arnor?”

            “I am first assistant to the Master of the Guild of Lawyers for the realm, a legal advisor to the Citadel of Minas Tirith and the houses of the King and his Stewards, and a magistrate of the King’s justice for civil law.  I assure you that I am well versed in the laws of Gondor and have been advised my brief runs to offering judgments within Bree and Annúminas during my tenure here.  Would you like to see my letters patent?”

            “Yer what?”  The farmer was taken aback by such a speech.     

            “The letters of authority sent by the King himself authorizing me to represent the laws of both realms.”

            Cotman considered for a moment, then asked, “And who is it, then, as’ll see to it as these laws as ye’re on about is upheld?”

            “I believe Lord Berevrion left three of the King’s Men here at the Prancing Pony.  Shall I summon them?”

            Alvric watched the farmer closely, and noted with satisfaction the growing level of confusion and uncertainty the Man’s demeanor reflected.  He’d learned early in his service as a clerk in the magistrate’s courts that speaking confidently was enough to establish his authority with most folk.  However, he decided he would visit Butterbur’s inn and speak with whatever Rangers might be there to see to it Denra’s home was seen being visited by one of them, for such would add more deterrence against further visits from Cotman and his ilk.

            “Ye’re plannin’ on stayin’ here in Bree long?”

            “I will be here in Arnor for some time, most likely for at least a year.  During that time I will be traveling at times between here and the northern capital of Annúminas and most likely the King’s fortress of Fornost as well.  However, when I must be away I will see to it that the King’s kinsmen who patrol the lands surrounding the Breelands and the Shire see to it Mistress Gorse remains unmolested.  And now, unless you have specific business with Mistress Gorse or wish to visit with her as a neighbor, it would perhaps be advisable you leave.”

            Bender Cotman was standing indecisively, his head slightly turned away, examining Alvric out of the corner of his eye.  At last he straightened.  “I’ll be leavin’, then, but not only ’cause o’ the likes o’ ye,” he said, his fury barely suppressed.  “But with yer interference----“

            Alvric allowed himself to laugh.  “My interference?  Mistress Gorse, do you wish this individual to remain on your property?”

            “No!”  Her voice was determined.  “I wish him to go.”

            Alvric turned back to the Man.  “It appears I’m not interfering at all, and that it is Mistress Gorse’s own desire you should leave.  Please do so, or I shall send to summon one of the King’s Men to escort you away.”

            The face between beard and hairline was heavily flushed, but Cotman at last turned and stomped away.  He had no idea who might be the King’s Men the stranger spoke of, but he had no stomach for more of a confrontation that day.

            Denra watched after her unwelcome guest, delighted.  “Well,” she said softly for Alvric’s ears only, “there’s no question that Barliman was right.  Thank you!”

            He turned to briefly smile at her, then pulled out his lens again, looking down the lane toward the high street through Bree, for he thought he’d seen a couple unfamiliar Hobbits headed their way.  Yes, there were two Pheriannath following Nob toward Denra’s house, one perhaps of middle years with a rather closed expression on his face, and what appeared to be a youth of the race, taller, and very familiar in appearance—until one saw his eyes.  Instead of the remarkable blue Alvric expected to see, the eyes of this young Hobbit were a dark brown and openly curious as his attention was caught by the obviously angry Bender Cotman, watching after the Man as he disappeared back toward the center of the town.  Nob’s expression brightened as he saw Alvric standing outside the door to the Gorse house, and he stopped to gently nudge his older companion, pointing their way.  Bartolo Bracegirdle gave a nod of understanding, started forward, then paused to reach into a pocket in his trousers for a money purse from which he pulled what appeared to be a copper to give Nob.  He said something to the youth, ignoring Nob as he knuckled his forehead, then came forward purposefully, returning the purse to his pocket.

            So, these were the Lord Frodo’s relations by marriage.  From what he’d seen of the clothing worn by Hobbits in Bree, both were well dressed indeed, the clothing well cut of excellent cloth.  The father wore a shirt of dusky green, his other garments different shades of brown.  The son, who carried a documents case, wore a gold shirt with careful embroidery about the placket and on the cuffs, the rest of his garments green.  Alvric returned his lens again to his pocket and bowed respectfully.  “Master Bartolo?  Welcome.  I am Alvric son of Maerdion from Lamedon in Gondor, and this is Mistress Denra Gorse, whose house this is.”

            “Welcome to Bree, Mr. Bracegirdle,” Denra greeted him. 

            The older Hobbit paused, looking from one to the other.  “Mister----” he began, obviously uncertain how to continue.

            “You may address me as Master Alvric, sir,” the Man responded.

            “Thank you, Master Alvric.  You don’t use surnames in Gondor?”

            “No, although many are further identified by their professions.”

            “I see,” the Hobbit said, although it was plain he didn’t truly do so.  “My older son, Persivo.”

            The lad gave a tentative yet respectful bow of his head.  “Master, Mistress,” he said.  His voice was still youthful, and had a different timbre to it than had Frodo Baggins.  Alvric found himself inspecting Persivo with interest.  Yes, very similar indeed to Lord Frodo—and yet different, also.  More color to his face, the face indeed of that of a youth uncertain of how precisely he should respond to the apparent friendliness of this strange Man.

            “Well, Master Bartolo, Persivo, if the two of you will come in.  Mistress Gorse has given us the use of the second parlor for our consultations.  This way.  Oh, and don’t mind about Holby, my dog—he’s protective but friendly enough.”

            While Persivo leaned down to allow Holby to smell his hand and administer a pat, Bartolo looked at the woman as she accompanied them to the door of the second parlor.  “You are unmarried, Mistress?”

            She gave a brief polite smile.  “So far, Mr. Bracegirdle, sir.  I lived here with my brother, but he died in the defense of Bree, when the ruffians attacked us and tried to take over.”

            “I see,” he said, looking away.  “We had our difficulties with ruffians as well, there in the Shire, although it apparently took us longer to rid ourselves of them.”

            “So I understood from the stories as has come from the Shire this past few months,” she said.  “Carnation as does for me was preparing some tea and cakes for your refreshment as you work—she’ll most like be in shortly.  Nice to meet the both of you.”  And with a brief near-curtsey she turned away, headed outdoors to work among her flowers.

            Alvric had managed to acquire a low table appropriate to the stature of most Hobbits, as well as a few chairs, and now he saw his guests seated at it, and after making certain there was a large pad of paper on the desk as well as graphite, ink, and quill pens and associated items, he took up the examples of maintenance agreements and brought them to the table.  He gave the younger Hobbit another examination as Holby curled up under Alvric’s chair.  “I hope you won’t find this all too dry,” he cautioned Persivo.  “Writing contracts can be boring, and discussing how to write them even more so.”

            “Oh, but I like writing contracts,” Persivo assured him.  “I wish to become a lawyer meself—myself, you see.  Dad has been working with me, teaching me some, and he said I might come with him so as we both can learn how to write proper contracts for the outlands.”

            “I see.  How do individuals wishing to serve as Shire lawyers learn their trade?”

            Bartolo answered, “They are apprenticed to an experienced lawyer, one who’s been approved by the Mayor and Thain as one allowed to accept apprentices.  We’d thought to have Persivo apprentice to me, but….”

            Alvric smiled.  “I think I understand.  It is often harder to accept being apprenticed to a family member than to an outsider, or so it has been found true in Gondor.”

            Father and son were both nodding.  Persivo asked, “Were you apprenticed?”

            “Yes, starting when I was seventeen.  I could not think prior to that time what I would wish to do with my life, and so only continued general studies until we began to study the controversies surrounding the coronation of Eärnil.  Ondoher had died, having married his daughter Fíriel to Arvedui, then the heir to his father, King of Arnor; and his two sons had died as well.  It was then that Arvedui returned to Minas Tirith, claiming the Winged Crown for himself and Fíriel jointly as she was Ondoher’s remaining child as well as through his own claim as heir of Isildur, who, after all, was the elder of Elendil’s two sons.  It was then that arguments broke out regarding the claim the descendants of Isildur might hold on the kingship of Gondor, which after all had always been passed down through the heirs of Anárion, Elendil’s second son; and I became fascinated with the various laws used in arguments by each side as to the legitimacy of Arvedui’s claim.  In the end the Council rejected Arvedui’s claim and installed Eärnil instead, who was a descendant of Ondoher’s great-grandfather but who had lived all his life in Gondor and was properly an heir to Anárion, but Eärnil lived but two years more, leaving the crown to his unmarried son Eärnur, who disappeared into the darkness of the Morgul vale some years later, leaving no one in Gondor with a claim of the blood of Anárion strong enough to be accepted as King.

            “Had we only accepted Arvedui’s claim all might have gone well for both lands, for there was still might enough in Arnor and Gondor combined then to oppose the evil of the remnants of Mordor.  Sauron might then yet remain in hiding in Dol Guldur where he was known as the Necromancer, but his Nazgul had taken Minas Ithil on the borders of his former realm of Mordor and there gathered armies that ever harried our lands and peoples.  Instead the two lands remained divided, and when the Witch-king of Angmar came against Arvedui and the forces of Arnor almost he prevailed, and only the belated arrival of a fleet from the southlands led by Eärnur helped to win the day.  However, Arvedui had died by then when his ship foundered in the ice floes of the far north, and so although his heir survived the peoples of Arnor had suffered so much loss no longer would Arnor hold itself a kingdom, and so Arvedui’s son became a king with no Kingdom; and a few years later Gondor became a kingdom with no king.

            “That started my fascination with the law, which is sufficiently complex in Gondor to keep my attention and earn my devotion.  I was accepted as apprentice by one of the chief legal minds of Lamedon, who was, after all, a distant relative; later, he transferred my apprenticeship to the Master of the Guild of Lawyers in Minas Tirith, for my interest in legal arguments surpassed his resources.  I fear my interest in writing proper contracts is probably not as great as your own, Persivo, for my first love remains the interpretation of law.”

            Bartolo appeared totally confused.  “What do you mean, the interpretation of law?  What’s to interpret?  There’s what’s right and what’s wrong, of course, and that ought to be plain enough.”

            “Oh, but you are correct, Master Bartolo—right and wrong indeed ought to be plain enough; but I fear we Men are too devious to accept such simplicity.  I am told your laws and the administration of them are simple indeed compared to the laws of the Dúnedain to which we outdwellers cling.  I suppose all started innocently enough—someone did something that left someone else hurt, and so a law was crafted outlawing that action—except….  And there are always exceptions that must be taken into account.”

            “I don’t understand,” objected Bartolo.

            “There is a law against murder, the killing of another person.  However, can you think of no case in which the killing of another person ought to be legal?”

            Persivo answered readily, “When you are attacked or someone else is attacked, and you fight and kill the person to protect those who have been attacked, that’s not murder then.  I mean, no one sought to accuse those who fought against Lotho’s Big Men to drive them out of the Shire of murder, for many of them had murdered our own folk.”

            “Exactly, Persivo.  Self-protection has become the first defense that may be offered that allows the one who has killed another to indicate he ought not to be found guilty of murder.  But what of someone whose life has not be actively threatened, but whose happiness is threatened?  A woman whose husband has habitually abused her and her children, or a farmer whose neighbor seeks to claim his cattle because his bull got through a hedge and covered the neighbor’s cows, and so the owner of the bull seeks to claim the calves as his own.  Oh, I assure you that situation has indeed been argued in the courts of the realm of Gondor, for I served as legal advisor to the one who did kill his neighbor.  Once it was proven the neighbor had purposely made the gap in the hedge in order to allow his bull access into his neighbor’s field so as to make claim on the calves, and had used the paternity of the calves to deprive his neighbor of his cows’ offspring to the increase of his own herd, I could show how it was my client was driven increasingly to distraction by the continual decrease to his own resources that in the end, when he caught the Man in the act of reopening the gap he came to kill his neighbor.  He was not found guilty of murder and executed, but did spend some time imprisoned for overreaching his authority to protect his property by killing instead of bringing the neighbor before the magistrates to reveal his perfidy.  Yet in the end he was able to return home to the comfort of his family, and once again he raises fine cattle.”

            Bartolo Bracegirdle’s expression revealed revulsion, while his son’s expressed fascination.  Alvric continued, “And so it was that I have chosen to study civil law and the claims of authority, and had become an advisor to Lord Denethor and his younger son Faramir, who was ever more interested in matters of administration than was his older brother Boromir; and when our Lord Elessar arrived to place his claim for the Winged Crown, it was to me that Lord Faramir as acting Steward turned to study our body of law to find the precedents on which to accept or deny Aragorn Elessar’s claim.  In the end we chose to accept his claim, and I truly believe it was not only lawful that Arvedui in his day proffered his own claim, but also that law then more truly required us to accept it than to place Eärnil on the throne of Gondor.  Certainly by rejecting the claims of Arvedui we placed both realms under far greater hardship than either would have known had the Kingship been properly resolved then.”

            “Then,” Bartolo commented slowly, “lawyers in Gondor don’t write contracts and agreements and wills?”

            “Oh, but we do, and as is true here that is the bulk of the business for most lawyers of the realm.  But there are those such as I who specialize in other questions; and it is because of my broad knowledge of the law I was sent to Arnor to assist in the review of statutes here to assist in bringing the two bodies of law into alignment with one another.  I have a thorough grounding in contract law, of course, although I will admit I’ve never written a lease regarding property awarded for maintenance before.  However, Prince Faramir has provided me with several examples of such agreements for us to refer to so that we can develop a proper agreement to meet the needs of Lord Frodo.”  So saying, he set copies of one agreement before himself and Bartolo, and they began to examine the contract.

            It was quickly obvious Persivo was far more astute regarding the vagaries of language than was his father, constantly noting how wording affected how the contract would be interpreted.  His father was obviously impatient with these discussions at first, but managed to hold his impatience as they went forward, realizing the lawyer from among Men appreciated Persivo’s comments and was actively instructing him as to why he was right or wrong in his evaluations.

            They accepted the tea and small cakes brought by Carnation, Persivo with a smile of recognition and thanks, Alvric with a distracted nod and murmured word, and Bartolo with a simple look before returning his attention to the document.  They broke for elevenses and repaired to the dining room where Alvric sat nursing another cup of tea while the Hobbits ate heartily, Holby left complaining, shut into the parlor while they ate.

            Persivo paused, halfway through a third scone, and asked uncertainly, “You are not yet hungry, Master Alvric?”

            The Man smiled.  “Men aren’t required to eat as much as Hobbits do, and do not eat as much during a meal.  I will eat heartily enough at luncheon, which is not so long away, you must realize.  But the cakes I ate earlier are still staying with me.  Please forgive me I cannot join you thoroughly, but don’t be disturbed on my account.”

            After finishing his scone, the young Hobbit asked, “Why have you and Glorinlas Gildorion spoken of Frodo Baggins as Lord Frodo?”

            Alvric paused, trying to think how to answer, for Lord Frodo had indeed asked this not be revealed.  He set down his cup, and sighed.  “This title was granted to him for the service he performed for the lands while he was gone from his home.  He has asked particularly I not discuss it further, as he feels it a matter that should remain private for he believes it has no bearing on his life within the Shire.  I fear that to learn more, you will need to question him and his companions, all of whom know the details of what was done.  But on granting such titles it is customary for lands for maintenance to be granted at the same time, and such was done in this case, both within Gondor and within Arnor.  I understand from Lord Berevrion the practice of granting lands for maintenance has continued here in the north as has been customary in Gondor, and that he also has had lands granted for his maintenance.  And, by the way, Lord Frodo made the specific request he does not wish his title to be discussed within the Shire, again for the purposes of privacy.”

            Bartolo searched the Man’s face.  “But you know what he did?” he asked sourly.

            “All within Gondor, most of the Dúnedain of Arnor, the Elves of Eriador, and the Dwarves of Erebor, the Misty Mountains, Blue Mountains, and the Iron Hills all know what he and Samwise Gamgee accomplished, and why they have been honored as has been done.  I believe the Ents of Fangorn Forest and the Great Eagles also have had a part in recognizing their great deeds.  Indeed I believe it was the Great Eagles who first insisted that they be honored, a request all others swiftly agreed to.”

          “But, what did they do?” demanded Persivo, obviously frustrated not to understand.

          “They were instrumental in seeing to it that Sauron was brought down, although all people of honor aided in that great struggle.  That is all I am permitted to say at this time.”

          “But,” Bartolo said, “they’re only Hobbits of the Shire!”

          “One did not need to be as great a warrior as Boromir the Bold or as great a leader as our Lord Aragorn Elessar to do what was needed at the last.  And we have learned the strength of your people in some ways exceeds that of the rest of the peoples of Middle Earth.” 

          Alvric looked up to see that Carnation stood in the doorway from the kitchen with a basin of stewed fruit held between her hands, and her eyes were shining with surprise and pride at his words.  He gave a small smile, then looked back to the two Hobbits from the Shire.  “You will find that the King’s kinsmen honor your people greatly for the honor the Hobbits of the Shire have ever shown forth.  As we came north Lord Berevrion spoke with greatest pride of the service your Bucca of the Marish and his archers offered the realm during the last battles with the Witch-king of Angmar, and admitted that it is told others also came forth to aid the armies of Arnor in that war.  And certainly what was done by Bilbo Baggins is greatly honored.  Indeed, his integrity has become a watchword among the Elves of the Great Wood and the Men of Rhovanion and the Dwarves of Erebor, and they spoke freely of his great spirit and shining example when they came to show respect to our new King just after his coronation.  Nobility is something that transcends racial barriers or accidents of birth.

          “Now, while you finish your fruit, I will take Holby out for a short time and then go back to prepare the next set of documents we will discuss.”

          As he went back to the second parlor he was aware of the three sets of eyes seeking to bore holes in his back, Carnation’s full of excitement, Persivo’s frustrated, and Bartolo’s with a level of resentment he still failed to understand, and all of them curious almost past bearing.

          By the time luncheon was served Bartolo realized he’d learned a great deal about just how important it was to be careful of wording in writing a contract that it not allow one party to take undue advantage of the other.  The second maintenance contract was so written that, if it were to be strictly followed, it allowed the lord for whose benefit it was written to take almost all proceeds from the smithy that had been established on the affected property.  “That being true, the smith himself is left with insufficient to support himself and his family, much less to keep the smithy open,” Alvric pointed out.  He examined the designation of the lord, and sighed.  “I see—it was written for Lord Baldor of Anorien.  A rather unpleasant Man he was, if I recall the story correctly.  He was assassinated in the eighteenth year of Lord Denethor’s stewardship, and no one looked overly hard for the one who slew him.  Not even the other lords of the realm worried too much over finding the assassin, although a number of Dunlending spies were arrested in Anorien and in Rohan, and no similar assassination occurred elsewhere in the realm.

          “The problem with allowing such exploitation of tenants is that once the inequities of such a contract are found out, there is no incentive for the tenant to work hard, as he is allowed to keep so little for himself.  Instead, such contracts tend to push tenants into dishonesty or sloth and loss of hope, and costs the one for whose benefit the contract was written the respect of honorable folk everywhere, to the point none grieved for the death of Lord Baldor.”

          “The way no one mourns for Lotho Sackville-Baggins, except for Cousin Frodo,” Persivo commented.  “At the banquet, every time he must say Lotho’s name he grieved—you could see it in his eyes.”

          Bartolo appeared surprised by that observation by his son.  “They never liked one another,” he said.

          “Did Cousin Lotho ever give him the chance to like him, Dad?  I know that until now Aunt Lobelia never said anything nice about Frodo Baggins, but everyone says that when Uncle Otho died he was very nice to her, and the two of them have been very nice to one another since he came back.  She gave him back Bag End, after all.”

          Something about that caused a wave of anger to cross Bartolo’s face, although it was swiftly masked.

          As they ate luncheon with Carnation and Denra, Alvric brought up the subject of the formal dinner he had planned for the following evening.  “I am uncertain how many there are in your family,” he explained, “but I would have all of you attend.  How many more children do you have?”

          Bartolo shrugged as he sipped at his soup.  “There is Enrico, my younger son, who is thirteen, and three daughters, Petunia, Begonia, and Alyssa, who’s the youngest at ten.  Ricki was going out to see if the local lads will allow him to play at roopie with them, while the lasses and their mother were going to check out the markets and shops today.”

          Alvric nodded, exchanging looks with Carnation and Denra.  “Then we will plan a meal for the seven of you, and perhaps one or more of the King’s Men who might be here in Bree.  I was told by Lord Eregiel that Faradir, who has been given the task of surveying Lord Frodo’s holdings here in Arnor, should be here in a few days with the proper deeds and titles to be delivered into your hands, that you might deliver them further.  When he arrives he will attend our meeting here.”

          “Very good.”  Bartolo’s face was carefully controlled, although the Man sensed the Hobbit was still angry.  Certainly when Lord Frodo had noted in his letter that Bartolo Bracegirdle loathed him, he had been correct.

          In the afternoon they considered the third and final maintenance agreement sent by Prince Faramir, one that had been written so much to the benefit of the tenant that the Lord received nearly nothing of value at all.  “In this case, the tenant was the brother of the lord to whom the land was granted, and he would not have his brother give more than he felt his brother could afford to give.  In the end his brother came to loath him for his very mercy, and he sought to betray him to agents from Umbar.  It caused no end of trouble for some years, I regret to say.”

          Persivo was obviously appalled.  “Are there so many Men of dishonor in the world?” he asked as his father sipped from the glass of ale provided by Carnation.

          Alvric shrugged.  “Unfortunately, there are indeed many Men of dishonor in this world.  However, there are also very many who are honest and decent.  One will find in the end the type of Man you would seek, either true or false.  Most Men, however, are a mixture of goodness and pettiness, much as I must suppose is true of most Hobbits.  And with our Lord Aragorn Elessar as the great example of how Men are meant to be, I find myself anticipating that for the remainder of his reign we will know mostly honor and truth in both Gondor and Arnor, for that is the type of Man he will draw to the forefront, much as Lord Frodo seems to draw out the best in those he must deal with.  He speaks highly of you, by the way, Master Bartolo.”

          The Man was secretly pleased to see the Hobbit almost choke on his drink.  However, Bartolo managed to control himself, and after wiping his mouth carefully he said stiffly, “Baggins said he would allow me to contact you.”

          “And so he did, Master Bartolo.  However, he has written to the King of the lawyers of the Shire whose honesty and virtue he most admires, and your name was on that list.”

          Bartolo’s face flushed.  It was a compliment he’d certainly not thought to hear spoken in this place.  Alvric was amused he’d managed to so disconcert the lawyer from Hardbottle, and looked forward to pricking the antipathy Bartolo held toward his wife’s cousin at least once daily.

A Formal Dinner

       Alvric and Holby accompanied Bartolo and Persivo back to the Prancing Pony to check with any Rangers of Arnor who might be still in residence, reminding both not to discuss Frodo’s title or possible deeds with the others in their party. He took his leave as they passed the common room, and Persivo’s last glimpse of him was of the short Man followed by his dog working his way toward a table in the corner where some exceptionally tall Men appeared to be sitting, Men who rose respectfully as the lawyer approached.

       On hearing the family was invited to a formal dinner at the residence of the lawyer among Men, Begonia was ecstatic, then immediately began bemoaning the fact her father hadn’t allowed her to bring her finest frock. At last Bartolo interrupted his daughter’s monologue. “Lass, put it by and be done with it. There’s no question that Master Alvric is indeed of quality, but his landlady is common enough, although a worthy woman from among Men. The frock you’re grieving us all over would be far too fine to wear in her home. It is, after all, a private home we’ll be visiting in, not the King’s hall.

       “And what did you learn about your client?” asked Delphinium with interest.

       Bartolo’s face closed up, although Delphie thought she sensed a bit of uncertainty. “About that, beloved—I’m afraid as I can’t speak much about the situation, and neither is Persivo to say much. The client has demanded his privacy be respected, and I’ve been required to take the oath of secrecy on his behalf.” There, it was out, his attitude made plain. Delphie was surprised, and she saw that her older son looked rather uncomfortable. He’d not been aware that his father had been sworn to secrecy, obviously.

       After dinner Persivo and Petunia went out of doors to a covered patio on the east side of the inn where there were game tables and sets for chess and draughts. At an unspoken communication between brother and sister, Pet began to set up one of the boards for a game of draughts. After they’d made their opening moves she gave her brother a searching look. “Well,” she demanded, “what happened today?”

       He shrugged. “Apparently I may not identify Dad’s actual client, although I wish he’d told me earlier. Today we mostly went over three examples of documents for leases of property granted for maintenance.”

       “What does that mean?” she asked.

       He sighed as he tried to make full sense of what little had been said of the subject. “There are some who are named lords of the realm, apparently usually for some great service they’ve offered; and as they’re named lord they’re granted properties for their maintenance. I’m not completely certain what that means, though, for we didn’t discuss that particularly. One of the documents he showed us was properly written, one was written to cheat the tenant, and one was written to greatly favor the tenant, only the lords who wrote the two last ones didn’t do well by it all. The one who thought to cheat his tenant was apparently murdered, and he was seen as so bad even the other lords didn’t care to find out who did it; and the other was treated awfully by his tenant, who proved to be his own brother. Apparently it’s best when writing such agreements to make the lease payments sufficiently substantial that the tenant feels he is dealing with someone who is indeed worthy of honor and who honors himself appropriately; but not so much you are seen as cheating others.”

       “Oh,” Petunia said. Then she asked, “Did you speak any more of Cousin Frodo Baggins?”

       Persivo felt frustrated, for it appeared neither he nor his father were supposed to speak even to his sister or mother about Frodo and his business. “Yes, some. He’s well respected out there for whatever he did, but he’s forbidden others to speak of it. He’s apparently afraid for his privacy.”

       “Did he know why Glorinlas Gildorion spoke of Cousin Frodo as Lord Frodo?” Persivo shrugged elaborately. Pet pouted. “It’s not fair, not being able to speak of it, even,” she complained.

       “Yes,” her brother commented. “Your move.”

       “Did you have nice meals?”

       “Yes. Mistress Gorse has a Hobbitess who does for her, and Missus Sandybanks is an excellent cook.”

       “What is she like—the woman from among Men?”

       “Enormously tall, or so it seems—just about as tall as Master Alvric. He’s not so tall as Mr. Butterbur, and is far more slender. His clothing seems odd, but becomes him well enough. She is, I think, rather pretty—she has lovely eyes, Mistress Gorse. She’s unmarried. She lived there with her brother, but he died fighting the ruffians when they tried to come here as they did in the Shire. She apparently has a suitor, but she doesn’t seem to like him, and as we were coming to the house we saw Master Alvric send him away. The Man is very tall and rather broad—built more like a Hobbit than like Master Alvric, but with a big, bushy beard and hair. He was very angry as he went stalking past us.”

       “Does he know the new King, Master Alvric?”

       “Yes, he appears to. The King showed him a letter sent him by Cousin Frodo, and in it he said that Dad is one of the most honest and honorable of lawyers in the Shire.”

       “Did he really?” Petunia asked. Then she paused in thought. “How did Da act when he heard that?”

       “It right took him by surprise, it did. I don’t know as Dad noticed, but I think that Master Alvric told him on purpose. I mean, Dad made it rather obvious he doesn’t like Cousin Frodo Baggins very much. It’s odd, you know, thinking that someone like Frodo Baggins likes our dad better than Dad likes him.”

       The next day was much like the previous one, although they were now going through the documents Bartolo had brought with him to show the types of agreements and contracts commonly written in the Shire. He described the conference Frodo had called of the lawyers of the Shire, and explained how he was on the committee charged with rewriting the clauses that had been exploited by Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Timono Bracegirdle.

       “In this the instruction you’ve been giving my son has been important, for I’ll be keeping much of it in mind to share with the rest when I must meet with them just before the Free Fair at Midsummers. Much of what you and Persivo said at first just went rather over my head, but I’ve been listening as much as I can, for I understand now just why it is that Baggins has insisted it’s necessary such things don’t have the chance to happen again.”

       “I understand that this Lotho was your kinsman.”

       Bartolo’s face again clouded with anger. “Not that I like admitting to it. Yes, Lobelia was my own aunt, and he was my first cousin. And a totally unpleasant fellow as he was. Ambitious, you see—far too ambitious for a Hobbit. I asked Baggins why he sold Bag End to him—after all, that was part of why old Bilbo adopted him as his heir, to keep Lobelia, Otho, and Lotho out of the place. He said it was because he had to get out of the Shire quick, for he had something he’d thought was a treasure that turned out to be otherwise, and he tried to sell the hole to his older cousins who’d probably have sold it back to him when he came back, only Lotho found out and that was that. Made an offer in cash for what Frodo’d asked of Ponto and Iris, then went on to try to cheat Ponto and Iris out of their place, too, Lotho did. Nasty one, Cousin Lotho, and we’re well rid of him. Benlo, who’s Bracegirdle family head, struck him and Timono both out of the family book, and that was too good for either of them, far as I’m concerned.”

       Persivo had gone pale. “He didn’t! Cousin Benlo couldn’t of done such a thing!”

       “He right well did, Persivo Bracegirdle—first Yule after the Travelers left the Shire. It was already apparent Lotho’d gone as bad as bad, and Timono with him.”

       “I don’t understand,” Alvric began.

       “The greatest punishment we can offer is to strike someone from the family book and deprive them of the benefits of family ties. Only thing worse is to run them out of the Shire and banish them, although that usually follows being stricken from the book.” Bartolo’s face was very grim. “And if Lothario doesn’t straighten up he’s likely to follow next. Benlo’s been mighty patient with him and his brother Bigelow, but the two of them will insist on keeping on with their foolishness.”

       “And Lotho, in spite of having a different family name, was yet in the family book for the Bracegirdles?”

       “For his mother's sake.  And the Sackvilles and the Bagginses. He was family head for the Sackvilles, you see, and wanted to be family head of the Bagginses as well. Got that idea from his mum and dad, both of whom thought it would be wonderful to see such a thing. Not that being family head of the Sackvilles was much, as there’s only a couple left of the name at this time. Family’s been getting smaller and smaller for years. Same with the Bagginses. Still some Bagginses here and there, but most are older or were born daughters. Most sons of the Baggins name have been born dead or sickly for the past generation, it seems, and there’s not more than four or five males other than Frodo all over the Shire I’d hazard. Who will follow Frodo as family head if he doesn’t marry and father a child I have no idea. In the usual run of things Ponto, as the oldest Baggins living now, would be next, but he’s been bedridden much this past year, and isn’t up to it, neither Ponto nor his wife Iris.”

       Bartolo sighed, took a sip of the small ale Carnation had provided as a drink, then continued his explanation. “Lotho’s grandfather was old Bilbo’s Uncle Longo. He married a Sackville lass, the only child of old Perdo Sackville, as was family head for the Sackvilles. There were three other Sackville males then, but none of them was suitable, Perdo felt, to be family head after him, so he agreed that if Longo were to take Sackville as part of his family name when he married, he’d name Longo next family head for the Sackvilles after him. Well, Longo died before Perdo did, so Perdo named Otho to follow him, Otho having come of age before his gaffer died.

       “As next closest relative to Bilbo, Otho Sackville-Baggins was his natural heir, since Bilbo’d never married or fathered a child. But once Otho married my Aunt Lobelia any good feelings Bilbo might have held toward him were lost, for Aunt Lobelia had as poisonous a tongue as anyone could have. So Bilbo decided to adopt an heir instead, and brought Frodo back to Hobbiton as where he’d been born to live with him in Bag End, and properly adopted him. Frodo’s own parents had been close to old Bilbo, after all, and died of an accident when Frodo was just a child. Bilbo, as family head for the Bagginses, had the responsibility for seeing to it as the lad was raised properly; but he let Frodo stay in Brandy Hall with his mum’s family for years before settling on him.

       “Aunt Lobelia told it about as Frodo had been quite the rascal as a young one, always in some scrape or another. I don’t know as how true that was, for Frodo wasn’t in much trouble ever there in Hobbiton. Aunt Lobelia, Uncle Otho, and Cousin Lotho all hated him on principle from the moment word came as the lad was coming to stay with Bilbo. But the lad was able to pay back Lobelia in her own coin, and she never truly got the better of him, no matter what she said.

       “When he bought Bag End from Frodo, Lotho thought as he’d become family head for the Bagginses, too; but it was Lotho himself as failed to read the sales agreement this time, for Frodo’d written into the contract the headship for the Bagginses went to Ponto next if he died or left the Shire and didn’t return within two years. Lotho was wild with anger, and he targeted all as had been close to Bilbo or Frodo, and Ponto and Iris in especial, along with the Thain, the Master, and Frodo’s tenants in the holes along Bagshot Row, down the Hill from Bag End. Frodo says he didn’t sell those smials to Lotho, but Lotho just sort of took them over anyway and moved the Hobbits as lived there into these ugly brick hovels as he’d had built the other side of Hobbiton. It was right ugly for a time.”

       “Lord Frodo wrote his own agreement for the sale of his home to this Lotho?” Alvric asked.

       Bartolo’s face twisted into a mixture of disgust and superiority. “Write a sales contract--Frodo Baggins? No--not him--never had time for study of the law until now. No, had his personal lawyer, that Brendilac Brandybuck, write it up, he did.”

       The Man was startled. “Lord Frodo has a personal lawyer--someone other than you? Then why--?” He didn’t finish.

       The disgust in the Hobbit’s face became more notable. “Oh, now as it’s safe again for Hobbits to travel to Bree and back, we’ll be having more as will wish to be qualified to write contracts between our own folk and those from here in Bree and probably your folks, too, once as all realize there’s an honest profit to be had from it. But as it was--it’s not been safe, what with reports of ruffians and footpads along the road, for many to come out, and most wouldn’t travel out on their own. Last ones as have been qualified to write contracts with folks in Bree have been Timono, Balco Hornblower, and me. With Timono in one of those new Lockhole cells of Frodo’s and Balco on house arrest for changing crop sales agreements to send crops out of the Shire instead of to those as needed them at home in the Shire, Frodo didn’t have much of a choice to write this lease maintenance agreement of his, did he?

       “Although I suspect as the Master will be having Brendi and perhaps another lawyer from Buckland as part of the next party to come out to learn from you, and most like the Thain will send out a few of those from the Great Smial, perhaps Isumbard or Tolly. After all, as the Brandybuck and the Took, Saradoc and Paladin have the greatest reason to have their own lawyers trained to write proper contracts out here.

       “Brendi is much of an age with Frodo, and apparently when they were lads together in Brandy Hall after Frodo’s parents died they ran in the same gang. They’ve not been the friends Frodo ever was with the Master’s son and the Thain’s, but they’ve always worked well together. And Frodo wouldn’t have agreed to sign any contract Lotho brought him--he trusts Brendi, and with reason. Was taught in the Great Smial by old Bernigard Took himself--Berni’s the head of our Guild of Lawyers, you see. I suppose as Berni’s also qualified to write agreements outside the Shire, but as he’s too old to do much in the way of traveling he’s not written any such contracts for years now. But he’s offered to take my Persivo as an apprentice after Midsummers, and I can’t think of a better teacher for writing contracts and agreements within the Shire.”

       Persivo’s eyes began to shine. “You’ll let me go to the Great Smial, then, Dad?”

       “Well, your mum hasn’t agreed as yet, but I’m all for it at this point. You deserve the best preparation, you wish to become a lawyer of the Shire. You deserve the best of everything, son.”

       Alvric saw the pride reflected in Bartolo Bracegirdle’s eyes as he looked at his son, and realized that the taciturn lawyer loved in his son probably the very qualities he disparaged in Frodo Baggins.

       Early that evening the Bracegirdle family walked sedately through Bree to the home of Denra Gorse, Enrico keeping up a running commentary on how bored he expected to be all along the way. “They’ve not even a lass to talk to, much less any lads,” he groused to Persivo. “What kind of dinner is it to be for me? You know Lyssa--she’ll be glad to have any new person listen to her carry on, especially if’n they’ll tell her she looks pretty in her frock and that her ribbons are nice colors, and Gonya’s about the same. And you’ll have both Master Alvric and Petunia to talk to--at least Petunia’s able to carry on a decent conversation. And Mum and Da will be talking to Master Alvric and Mistress Gorse and all--but for me? I’ll just be left out, again.”

       “Didn’t the lads we saw let you play at roopie?” Persivo asked.

       “They did yesterday ’cause they were a player short; but their pal was back again today and all I got to do was sit on a stoop and watch them. None of them was wanting to play at conkers or nothing like that.”

       “I’m sorry, Ricki,” his brother told him. “I’ll do my best to remember to talk with you, too. Is that all right?”

       Ricki nodded, but it was plain he was resigning himself (with a level of resentment) to an evening of boredom.

       Mistress Gorse met them at the door, obviously somewhat nonplussed. “Oh, so here you are at last. Welcome, welcome. Master Alvric’s there in the first parlor with Master Eregiel, who’s here to represent the King’s Men. Oh, but I never dreamed….” She was shaking her head as she accepted the wraps of her guests and ushered them into the first parlor, then went back to hang the cloaks and shawls on the pegs in the entrance hall.

       The room was set for a combination of Hobbits and Big Folk, they realized, for there was a low sofa and a number of low chairs and cushions of a proper height to accommodate Hobbits or children from among Men, as well as a taller sofa and three chairs intended to be used by adult Big Folk.

       Master Alvric and the other Man who were already there rose courteously at the arrival of the Hobbits, as did the gentlehobbit and lad already in the room. “Ah, Master Bartolo and Persivo--greetings,” Alvric said. “And this is the rest of your family? Wonderful. I’d like to introduce Mr. Helko Sandybanks, who is husband to Mistress Carnation, and their son Bedlo. It was thought that Enrico would enjoy the evening better if he had someone near his age with whom to speak and possibly play during the evening. And this is Eregiel son of Miringlor of the Dúnedain of Arnor to represent the King’s folk here within the northern kingdom.”

       Bartolo and Persivo bowed politely at the introductions, followed (after a pointed nudge from Pet) by Enrico, after which the Shire lawyer introduced his family and offered their services to the company.

       Eregiel son of Miringlor was quite the tallest individual any of them had ever seen. He was tall with hair nearly black in color, falling cleanly to just above his shoulders. His eyes were a clear, discerning grey; his cheekbones high, his body well muscled. Unlike many of the Men they’d met so far he was beardless, and the skin of his face was as smooth as that of any Hobbit they’d ever met. He was dressed in dark riding trousers and a shirt of a dark blue under a sleeveless knit garment of dark green embroidered in white with an eight-pointed star. But what caught their attention was the fact he was armed, the black leather sheath for a long knife thrust behind his belt. By his chair lay a great hound of a red-gold color, and beside him Holby, who had obviously given over his own suspicions of the bigger dog. A cat lay across the back of the larger sofa, lifting her head to examine the newcomers before returning her attention to the two dogs, her paws working at the fabric of the sofa's cushions.

       “Mistress Carnation is in the kitchen, finishing up the meal, and has been refusing all aid other than that of her daughter Freesia, who is with her now,” Alvric informed them as Denra joined them. “Dinner should be served shortly.”

       “Thank you,” Delphinium answered him as gracefully as she could manage. “I understand you came all the way from the King’s city?”

       “Yes--our Lord King Aragorn Elessar sent me here to assist in the review of the laws of Arnor as is being done to the south in Gondor, and to serve the needs of the people of the Breelands and the Shire at the request of our beloved Lord Frodo.”

       Delphie exchanged a startled glance with her husband. “My cousin Frodo is loved, there in Gondor?”

       “All four of those who came out of your land to the succor of all of Middle Earth are deeply honored by those who know how we have benefited by what they did. I regret to tell you that Lord Frodo has requested--strongly--that I not give you the specifics of what he did or why, for I believe it brings back memories of such darkness that he would rather not inflict them upon the folk of the Shire. I can tell you that what he and Lord Samwise accomplished could have been done by no others, and served to bring down the power of Sauron of Mordor, while Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc each saved countless lives with little thought to their own safety. Their deeds will live on in song and story throughout Middle Earth for all times.”

       “Except,” noted Delphie with a good deal of irony discernible in her voice, “within the Shire itself, where they actually live.”

       “Then you are a kinswoman to Master Frodo?” asked the other Man, Eregiel son of Miringlor.

       “Yes, we are third cousins. My grandfather Bingo was younger brother to Bungo Baggins, who married Belladonna Took, dug out Bag End, and was father to old Bilbo. Granda Bingo married Camellia Chubbs and took on her family name, making his children Chubbs-Bagginses, but my dad Fando didn’t like the hyphenated name the way his older brother Falco did, so reverted to just Baggins. So, I’m first cousin once removed to Bilbo and third cousin to Frodo on the Baggins side, and more distantly related on the Chubbs side, while Bartolo is a cousin by marriage through his Aunt Lobelia to Bilbo and more distantly related to Frodo via the Hornblowers.”

       Eregiel looked rather confused by this information, and Delphie could see the lawyer had noted it and was amused. She decided she rather liked Master Alvric, and her awe of the other Man was ebbing somewhat. She examined him closely. “You are one of the King’s kinsmen, I believe?”

       “Yes--I am one of his distant--cousins. He and my father both entered the service of the Rangers at the same time under Lord Berenion, and Ada was one of his lieutenants serving along the border of Angmar. My grandfather served under his father Arathorn, and was present when Lord Arathorn died.”

       Enrico was examining the Man curiously. “Do you always have a knife with you?”

       Eregiel shrugged. “All of us tend to go armed at almost all times. I rarely put my knife from me, I’ll admit. It is difficult for one raised to be a warrior, living so close to enemies such as orcs, trolls, and wargs or invaders from Angmar all my life, to think that times of safety will remain so long enough not to have a weapon at hand. And it is my duty, as one of the Rangers of the Dúnedain of Eriador to be ready to protect others at any time.”

       Bedlo’s ears perked up. “Are you really a Ranger?” he asked. At the Man’s nod, he said, “I thought that all Rangers had beards.”

       Eregiel laughed. “I am still rather young, being only twenty-two. Most Men begin growing beards around the time they are sixteen, but that isn’t always true of many of our people. Aragorn’s beard didn’t start growing until he was about twenty-six, he told me a few years ago, and it grows very slowly. He shaved not long before he met the Hobbits in early October, he told me in his last letter, and his beard wasn’t fully grown back in until he was crowned King in May. He tells me things like that to reassure me that in time my beard will probably come in, too. Although there are some Dúnedain who never grow beards. Maybe it’s because we have Elven blood--most Elves never grow beards, either. In fact the only Elf I know of who has a beard is Lord Círdan of the Grey Havens.”

       “But, if you’re only twenty-two----” Begonia began. “You’re almost the same age as Pet there, and there’s no way she’s an adult.”

       The Man again shrugged. “Men mature more swiftly than Hobbits do,” he explained. “We tend to reach our full growth by eighteen at the latest, and are judged adults among our own folk when we are twenty, although from what Aragorn tells me the age of majority differs by a year or two in different lands, usually between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one, apparently. Most Men will marry between the ages of sixteen and thirty; among the Dúnedain of Eriador we usually wait until we are between forty and sixty, as we tend to live longer than common Men. Although Lady Gilraen, the mother of our Lord Aragorn, was in her twenties when she married Lord Arathorn. Most Men will live nowhere as long as you Hobbits might be expected to live, although we of the Dúnedain tend to live longer than even Hobbits do. Again--it’s the Elven blood we carry.”

       “Have you ever killed any enemies?” Enrico asked.

       “Yes,” Eregiel answered him, his face more solemn. “I found myself involved in my first battle when I was eleven. A troupe from Angmar located our village and sought to kill us all, and I found myself on the walls with a bow. I believe I killed at least four of those who were attacking us. Killing enemies isn’t something to be particularly proud of, I think; it’s just something that must be done from time to time to protect others.”

       Enrico and Bedlo were exchanging glances. The idea that a warrior wouldn’t be particularly proud just of being a warrior was something new to consider. Petunia asked, “How long have you known the King?”

       “All my life,” Eregiel answered. “In fact, he was there when I was born. My naneth lost her first two children, so my father insisted that Aragorn attend for the third birthing, hoping I would be born safely.”

       Denra Gorse appeared scandalized. “Your father would have a Man attend a birthing?”

       “Aragorn is probably the greatest healer among Men living in Middle Earth today,” Eregiel explained. “When a woman keeps experiencing difficulties in carrying children to term or in giving birth, often having a healer present who truly knows how to assist can assure the child will be born safely. Lord Elrond began training Aragorn as a healer from his earliest years, after all.”

       “It was due to the aid our Lord Aragorn was able to give to those hurt near to the death in the Battle of the Pelennor that led to his recognition as the rightful King of Gondor,” Alvric added. “He was called by Mithrandir to attend on our beloved Lord Faramir, and he was able to call Faramir back from the Gates themselves, or so it is told. He then went on to call the Lady Éowyn of Rohan back to herself--she had nearly succumbed to the Black Breath; then Sir Meriadoc, and then many others. Once this became known within the capital of Minas Tirith all began to acclaim him as our King.”

       “Sir Meriadoc? Do you mean Merry Brandybuck?” Persivo asked. “He was hurt in this battle?”

       Alvric and Eregiel exchanged looks before Alvric turned to the Hobbit and explained, “Know this, Persivo--all four of the Pheriannath who came south to our need nearly died as a result of their determination to aid as they could. Our Lord Aragorn Elessar drew all four of them back from the Gates of Death. Sir Meriadoc came to the Battle of the Pelennor riding before the Lady Éowyn, who disguised herself as a Rider of her people that she might follow her uncle and brother to the defense of the West against the might of Mordor. Captain Peregrin was inside the city, where he’d taken service under our Lord Steward Denethor. Both acquitted themselves far better than anyone had expected.”

       “And my cousin Frodo Baggins?” demanded Delphinium. “How about him and Sam Gamgee? What did they do?”

       “As I stated, Mistress Bracegirdle,” Alvric said carefully, “Lord Frodo has specifically requested his part in the affair not be discussed or revealed. But you can be assured their role in bringing down Sauron is the most greatly honored, for they showed the greatest willingness to do all that was necessary to see their service rendered. I do not believe either thought he would return home again, alive or dead.”

       At that moment a Hobbit lass came out of the kitchens. “Mistress Denra,” she said deferentially, “Mum says that the supper is on the table.”

       With an obvious feeling of relief, Denra rose from her chair and led the way into the dining room. Two tables had been pushed together, one designed for Hobbits and a taller yet smaller one for Men, set at the moment for three individuals. Denra took the chair at the far end of the taller table, with one of the Men at either side; the rest took their places on either side of the lower one, with Carnation taking the end. All stood uncertainly, watching Master Alvric. He looked rather embarrassed as he explained, “I hope you don’t mind if I indulge in the Standing Silence--it is commonly practiced in Gondor. It will only take a moment….” So saying he turned toward the west, followed by Eregiel, and stood quietly before turning back to the rest, murmuring, “Thank you,” as he pulled out his chair, then paused as he eyed Denra for permission before all of them sat down.

       Bartolo had noted this practice over the last two days as Alvric had joined them for luncheon. “What is this Standing Silence?” he asked. Alvric explained the practice of showing honor to the inhabitants of the Undying Lands and beyond, and Persivo nodded his head.

       “So, probably the Captains began practicing the Standing Silence while they were down south, then?”

       “Well, I saw the Pheriannath mostly only at feasts, where our Lord King Elessar himself always led the Standing Silence, and of course they observed it with the rest of us. Do they still do so?”

       “They and Cousin Frodo did so at the banquet for the lawyers of the Shire, didn’t they, Dad?” Persivo asked, turning to his father.

       At Bartolo’s nod, Delphie looked up at Eregiel as she shook out her napkin and set it in her lap. “And you observe it, also, Captain Eregiel?”

       “I’m a mere Ranger, Mistress Bracegirdle, and no captain at this time. Yes, I tend to observe it--Aragorn introduced its observance after his earlier service in Gondor, and many of the northern Dúnedain practice it.”

       “Earlier service in Gondor? Our Lord Aragorn served in Gondor earlier in his life?” asked Alvric, obviously surprised to learn this.

       As Carnation and Denra began the service of the meal from opposite ends of the tables, the Hobbitess gave Alvric a look of disapproval at this discussion, feeling it inappropriate at the beginning of the meal. As Denra didn’t interfere, however, she felt herself constrained from expressing her feelings in any more forceful manner. Alvric failed to notice.

       Eregiel spread his own napkin neatly as he answered, “Yes, long ago, a few years after he returned to us. He appears to have foreseen it would be advisable to learn more about both Rohan and Gondor, for he indicated to his Council here in Eriador he intended to serve in both lands, and then perhaps to visit the lands of our enemies as well. He traveled first to Rohan and took service under their king at the time, Thengel, grandfather to their current king Éomer. He served under Thengel for some years, coming in time to lead an eored or armed company, before deciding the time had come to go to Gondor where he offered his service to Lord Ecthelion, who was then Steward of the realm.”

       “I was unaware of any northern lord coming to Gondor,” Alvric said as he sipped absently at his soup. He paused, his spoon stopping halfway to his mouth. “Unless….”

       Eregiel smiled with amusement as he swallowed some of his own soup. “Of course, he did not identify himself plainly, serving under an assumed name. I understand that both Thengel King and Lord Ecthelion held him in great respect, although he became somewhat estranged from Lord Ecthelion’s son.”

       Alvric straightened, his spoon clattering as he returned it to his bowl. “Our Lord Aragorn was the Lord Captain Thorongil?” he asked. At the other Man’s nod, he laughed with delight. “How rich!” he exclaimed. “It is no wonder, then, that he was somewhat familiar with our laws and statutes, as well as with the archives of the city. Why, as a member of Ecthelion’s Council he helped to draft some of our laws.” He shook his head. “It is probably as well, though, that Lord Denethor died when he did, for I do not believe he would have welcomed the return of the one he thought of for so long as his rival. I wonder how our beloved Captain Boromir got along with him? Certainly Prince Faramir and he have become close friends and associates, as is true of his ability to cooperate with Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.”

       “Lord Faramir has become a prince of Gondor?”

      “Oh, yes--during the first week or two of his reign our Lord King raised our new Steward to the rank of Prince of Ithilien, and so Faramir remains a peer to his uncle.”

       “He will not seek to dwell in Minas Morgul, will he?”

       Alvric shuddered. “Indeed not. Too long have the Enemy’s creatures dwelt there--our Lord King has indicated the place will be torn down, stone by stone. Nay, Prince Faramir builds his new keep in Emyn Arnen, or so it is rumored about the White City.”

       Eregiel sighed as he looked down into his bowl. “Alas, that the city of Isildur should have come to such a state.”

       Helko Sandybanks looked up at the two of them. “You sayin’ as there was an Isildur?”

       Bartolo looked at the two Men out of the corner of his eye, then looked across at Carnation’s husband. “From what I can tell, many of the old stories we have heard all our lives really happened.”

       Eregiel raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Aragorn was the heir of Elendil, Isildur, Valandil, and Arvedui. After his father’s death, Aragorn was fostered in the House of Lord Elrond of Rivendell for eighteen years, until he came of age when he turned twenty years. He is the Dúnedan, the Man of the West, and now at last King of both Gondor and Arnor. And so Middle Earth is renewed as the King reunites the ancient kingdom, taking to wife the daughter of his ancestor Elros Tar-Minyatur’s brother, Arwen Undómiel.”

       Helko and Bartolo exchanged unbelieving looks before the former demanded, “And how is it as he can marry ’is ancestor’s brother’s daughter? I mean--this brother’s dead, i’nt he? Bein’ an ancestor, after all.”

       “Elros Tar-Minyatur was one of the twin sons of Eärendil the Mariner and the Lady Elwing, both of whom were descended from marriages between Men and Elves. To the sons of Eärendil was granted the choice of the Peredhil, to choose the life each would lead, either as a Man or in accordance with the life of the Eldar, and Lord Elrond chose the latter while his twin brother chose the former. It is over six thousand years since Elros Tar-Minyatur became the first king of Númenor, and his brother has lingered in Middle Earth all of this time. And now the Lady Arwen has made her own choice, and will linger here in Middle Earth with her mortal husband to know a mortal’s life, and a mortal’s death also when that is granted to her.”

       Carnation’s face was totally disbelieving. “But Elves--they’s just stories!”

       “I’m sorry, but they’re not,” Petunia said. “We met an Elf on our way from the Shire to Bree--Glorinlas Gildorion, and he knew all about our Cousin Frodo Baggins.”

       Eregiel smiled with pleasure. “You have met Lord Gildor’s son? A great leader of his people he will prove for what time he chooses to remain here in Middle Earth. I doubt his father will linger much longer, for it was his vow to remain until Sauron was cast down, and that is now accomplished. I suspect he will sail for the Undying Lands soon enough.”

       “He had a bow and a long knife like yours, only curved,” Enrico informed him.

       “I was sixteen the one time I met him,” Eregiel said. “He allowed me to try his bow. I was not strong enough then to properly bend it.”

       Carnation gave the Bracegirdle children a politely dismissive look, and rose to fetch the next course. Freesia started to rise, too, but Petunia smiled at the younger lass and said, “I’ll go with her. I’m older and can carry more. I’ll be glad to assist your mum.” Uncertain, the younger child cast a questioning glance at her mother, who gave a shrug. It was a courteous offer, after all. Freesia sat back down by Alyssa, and Petunia followed Carnation into the kitchen.

       As Carnation, with a sniff, carefully lifted the fowl onto platters and gave two of them to Petunia, Petunia said apologetically, “I’m sorry to have contradicted you, Missus Sandybanks. I realize as I ought not to have done so, and especially not in front of your children and guests. But we did meet an Elf on the way here--he insisted on accompanying us, for he said as four ruffians had been taken by the Rangers hereabouts and he didn’t wish for us to be in any danger. And he said it was little enough as he could do seeing as what our cousin Frodo Baggins and the other Travelers had done for all of Middle Earth.”

       “Frodo Baggins--he’s the one what’s a Lord o’ the realm now, as Master Alvric tell it?” Carnation asked, pausing in her work of taking a fourth fowl and placing it on a separate platter.

       “Apparently so,” Petunia said, “although we don’t know as why he’s that.”

       “Did something’ terrible dangerous, I think,” Carnation said in low tones with a cautious look at the doorway to make certain no one overheard. “Somethin’ as only a Hobbit could do, it ’pears.”

       Petunia looked over her shoulder, her own fair brow furrowed in thought. She looked back at Carnation. “But what is it as a Hobbit can do as a Man or an Elf or such like can’t?” she wondered. Carnation shrugged, then shooed her off with her platters, coming quickly after with a couple large bowls of mashed taters and one of beans cooked with bacon and mushrooms.

       Talk had now shifted to safer, more mundane subjects--the excellent quality of the meal, Persivo and Bartolo’s lessons with Master Alvric, the Bracegirdles’ impressions of Bree, and in time how the Time of Troubles had affected the Shire. Bartolo described the realization that their lives were no longer their own and how the ruffians had seemed to be everywhere, and then the additional realization that they and Benlo, of all the Bracegirdles, were being particularly targeted because they’d stated publicly that Lotho had no right to do what he’d been doing. Delphie recounted the theft of the family jewelry, Timono’s pretense at commisseration, and how in the end her promise necklace had been found with him in a drying shed on a leaf plantation. Enrico told how he and other lads had hidden themselves to watch out for the coming of the Gatherers and Sharers and would warn the villagers when it was time to send their valuables and prettier lasses to the bolt holes.

       “We hid the door to our root cellar,” Lyssa explained proudly. “Dad and Persivo and me, we did it, and they couldn’t find it and take all our food.”

       “And as soon as Lords Frodo and Samwise and the others returned, it was over, like that?” asked Alvric.

       “Apparently,” Bartolo admitted grudgingly. “Although Baggins doesn’t appear to have done much--was insisting they not kill the ill-begotten wretches.”

       Alyssa was impressed, and looked at her mother. “What does ‘ill-begotten wretches’ mean, Mum?”

       “Shh!” Delphie told her youngest daughter, her face flaming.

       Eregiel, however, was nodding with approval. “Indeed a wise one, Master Frodo,” he murmured. “He doesn’t wish for your people to learn to let loose a desire for vengeance, which is all too easy to do and can lead to its own horrors. Aragorn had written me that Frodo was a worthy one, and I see he is correct. How does he do assisting the rulers of your land?”

       Bartolo was taken aback. “Don’t know about rulers--he’s serving as deputy Mayor, and is doing a fine job of that, from what all can tell. Never was interested in learning about law or such like, but he’s proven a deft hand at recognizing when someone’s written a contract to take advantage of another.”

       “He’s had no training in law? What has been the focus of his interests, then?”

       “Elvish. He studies Elvish and history and poetry, and he translates things, and copies books and papers for folks. Never has needed to do anything useful, of course--too much money and not enough drive.”

       Eregiel’s lip twitched. “It sounds, then, as if he’s had much the same education as our Lord King, for he, too, was trained in the histories and languages of Middle Earth, as well as diplomacy, poetry, music, and the use of weapons as well as the policies and creatures of the Enemy.”

       Bartolo’s face paled, then flushed some. Eregiel continued, “Who was it, then, who led the revolt against the Big Men?”

       “The Captains, as we call them--Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. And Sam Gamgee got the Quick Post up and running smoothly again, and has helped in fixing up all as the Men and Lotho and that Sharkey did to ruin our land. Has been replanting trees and fields and gardens, redigging smials and rebuilding homes and businesses and all. He just married a few weeks back.”

       “So Halladan told me. He sent some blankets my naneth and his own wife wove to them as a wedding present. He thinks highly of all four of them, of course; and he’s enjoyed Master Bilbo for years during his infrequent visits to Imladris, of course.”

       “Who is this Halladan?” asked Helko.

       “He is our Lord Aragorn’s first cousin, and is now the Steward of the northern kingdom since his brother Halbarad’s death in the Battle of the Pelennor.”

       “Then if we have anything as we needs to bring to the attention o’ the King----”

       Eregiel finished, “You need to bring it to our Lord Steward Halladan’s attention.”

       “Where does we find ’im?” asked Helko.

       “His rounds at the moment bring him here to Bree every couple months. You know him as Slowtalk.”

       Helko, Denra, and Carnation exchanged startled looks. “Slowtalk?” asked Helko in shocked tones. “Slowtalk is this Lord Halladan? But he’s a Ranger!”  It was obvious that it had taken this long for the realization to finally hit home as to the nature of the Rangers he'd known of all his life. 

       “As am I,” Eregiel pointed out reasonably. “That’s what the Rangers are, you must realize--the remnants of the King’s protective forces here in the Northern Lands. And it is likely, as you know Halladan, you knew our Lord King Aragorn Elessar as well, for he, too was a Ranger who often patrolled the lands surrounding the Breelands and the Shire. He was known here as Strider.”

       Helko stood up, his face gone pale. “No!” he insisted.

       Alvric gave Carnation’s husband a compassionate look. “I’m sorry, but it appears it is true. After all, we have Rangers in Gondor as well, serving mostly in the waste places between our lands and the lands of our traditional enemies. Even our beloved Lord Prince Steward Faramir served among the Rangers of Ithilien--indeed, he was their captain.”

       “As here in Eriador my cousin Aragorn son of Arathorn, now Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, served as chieftain of the northern Dúnedain peoples and captain general of our Rangers,” Eregiel explained. “Do sit down, small master, and be at ease.”

       “You’re really a Ranger?” Helko repeated as he at last sat once more. “But Ranger’s in’t nothin’ but vagabonds….”

       Eregiel sighed. “So we’ve been seen by many not of our own people,” he admitted. “However I assure you we are in truth highly respectable.”

       “But that Strider--he went off with them Hobbits from the Shire, and never come back again!”

       “Although they did return with Mithrandir, and went on, back to the Shire to its relief,” Alvric pointed out. “After all it is because of Lord Frodo I was sent here by our Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar--and, by the way, Telcontar in Westron means far-strider.”

       Denra Gorse suddenly began laughing with abandon. At last she choked out, “How very funny--the very folk as we here in Bree has always thought to be wanderers and dangerous is the King’s own folks! And Strider--the most dangerous o’ the lot--he’s the King?”

       “Indeed!” Eregiel replied, his own eyes alight with amusement. “The Heir of Isildur has at last reunited the two realms, and brings full dignity back to both.”

       The rest of the meal progressed with a good deal of quiet amongst the adults, although Begonia, Alyssa, and Freesia were soon discussing their favorite shops and walks about the region, while Bedlo and Ricki eyed one another. At last Bedlo said, “My friend Odo says as yer a fair roopie player.”

       Ricki straightened, surprised. “He did? Then why didn’t he ask me to play today?”

       The Sandybanks lad shrugged. “Suppose as it’s ’cause I come back today from the visit me da ’n me made to Coombe. I always play with the lads, after all. He says yer better’n Trask, though. He’s headin’ off to Staddle, though, t’see ’s aunt. Leavin’ tomorrow, he is. Want to play with us then?”

       Alvric watched Bartolo’s younger son with satisfaction as the child’s eyes became alive with pleasure at the thought of being included.

       The dinner was finally proving a success, apparently, with Helko surprised to find himself talking of farming with Eregiel. “Oh, yes,” Eregiel admitted, “most of us who are of the northern Dúnedain are fair farmers--we’ve had to be, you see, for we’ve needed to support ourselves. My ada would come home from a campaign against orcs along our eastern borders, and would often take over the guiding of the plough from his uncle. Said he preferred ploughing to fighting any day. And we’ve always bred excellent horses and hounds on the lands we administer.” He glanced over his shoulder at his own hound, who’d come to the door of the chamber and laid himself across the entrance, watching his master with interest.

       “How about that Strider?” asked Helko.

       The young Man laughed. “Ah, Aragorn was never given much to farming himself, but he is a gardener of note, believe it or not. Because a true healer must be aware of herbs as much as the manner of easing stomachs or stitching wounds, he was tasked with assisting in the gardens of Rivendell from his earliest years, often working alongside Lord Elrond himself.”

       Alvric found himself grinning. “Indeed--he’s had an herb garden created behind the Citadel of Minas Tirith, and he and his bride work it between them whenever they find themselves with the time at hand. I am told also that the two between them involve their ministers and counselors and even at times guests in the caring for it, and often judge the nature of the Men by their willingness to dirty their hands with honest labor.”

       “That’s my kinsman Aragorn indeed,” chortled Eregiel. “Yes, he’d do that in a heartbeat, perverse soul he is.”

       “He and Lord Samwise often worked on it together during the stay of the Pheriannath in the city,” Alvric continued, “and Lord Frodo often worked beside them. There were many tales told, and much amazement to find our new Lord is one who does not put himself above such pursuits. As for Lord Samwise--he was ever finding plots of land to tend whenever he found time on his hands, and together with the King assisted in the refurbishment of the herb garden for the Houses of Healing. It quite put the Master Herbalist of the Houses out of countenance, for he had ever held himself aloof from the labor necessary to keep them growing.”

       Eregiel laughed aloud. “Oh, Aragorn told us stories of when he served as Thorongil and his encounters with the Herb Master’s assistant at the time. I can see him turning the whole of the Houses upside down with his insistence on cleanliness above all other considerations, with gentleness insisted upon with those who must dwell there for a time. And the Valar aid any who fails to prepare a draught as directed when he is there--I thought once I’d never survive to face the enemy in a few days when I was aiding him in treating one of our Men who’d been swept from his steed when it swerved under a low limb, and who’d suffered a bump to his head and a sprained knee. I did such a botch at the preparation of the poultice Aragorn had set me to make. He made his displeasure at my incompetence most obvious.”

       Alvric considered as he finished the compote presented as a pudding. “He himself works hard to see to it he is ready to serve those he protects as well as possible, whether it is in practicing with his weapons or making certain the herbs he uses when he aids in the Houses are fresh and of the highest quality or studying the laws of the realm. I was amazed to learn he is as fluent in Haradri and Rhunic as he is with Westron and Sindarin.”

       “I’m not certain how many languages he speaks,” Eregiel agreed, “but it is definitely beyond the norm. He is also fluent in Quenya and more than one of the Silvan tongues, and some of the languages of the folks east of the Misty Mountains as well. He indicated in the letter he sent me he found Bilbo and Frodo Baggins both kindred spirits, with their shared love of languages and poetry and music. He speaks also of Master Frodo’s skill and extraordinary grace in dancing, and how he danced at the wedding feast for himself and the Lady Arwen. Although he also expressed grief, for he saw that perhaps Master Frodo might not agree to ever dance again, for he has not the endurance he once had.”

       “He’s not danced at the Free Fair for many years,” Bartolo commented.

       “And Daisy noted he didn’t even dance at Sam’s wedding, although he’s danced at other parties even when he was no longer being invited to dance at the Free Fair,” Delphinium noted. “He was always one of the best in the whole of the Shire.”

       “Why’d they stopped askin’ ’im to dance at the Free Fair?” Carnation asked.

       Delphie colored slightly. “Had to do with some of the lasses,” she admitted, then added hurriedly, noting the housekeeper’s expression, “Oh, he was never less than proper with them, not Cousin Frodo. But every time he’d dance more and more lasses would just be swept away--he is, after all, an extraordinarily handsome gentlehobbit; and when he dances it lifts your heart so. But once old Bilbo left the Shire it was as if he just didn’t notice lasses any more; and many of the lasses’ mothers were wanting to protect their daughter’s from having their hearts hurt when he wouldn’t look at them after.”

       Helko listened, amazed. “Not interested in lads, was he?”

       Delphinium’s face flushed markedly, and Bartolo felt himself compelled to set the Bree Hobbit straight. “No, he’s never been that sort. Never been any impropriety in his life--not since he come of age, not Frodo Baggins. Was head over heels in love with Pearl Took when he was younger. She fell in love with him after seeing him dance at the Free Fair, first time as he danced the Husbandman’s Dance there, and set her cap for him, she did. Took a couple years to wear him down and get his interest in return, but once he give his heart he did it thoroughly--always has done all as he’s done thoroughly, Baggins has--it’s his way. Then Aunt Lobelia managed to have at Pearl during a trip by her family to visit in Hobbiton, and that did it for their romance. She threw him over, and ended up accepting the suit of a Took cousin--married Isumbard and that was that. Frodo never looked at another lass.”

       “He was looking back at Narcissa during the Party,” Delphinium corrected him. “Was finally seeing she’s loved him as long as Pearl has--but after that--well, that appears to have been the end of romance for him.”

       He shrugged, his face dour. “He was a strange one, but our children have always been safe enough with him,” he murmured as he picked up his water goblet. He drank from it, and said no more after he set it down.

       The younger children went off to play and Delphie insisted on aiding Denra and Carnation clean up after the meal; Begonia went out to watch Enrico, Alyssa, and the two Sandybanks children; and once Pet indicated she’d assist the ladies and began clearing away the table the menfolk retired to Alvric’s parlor. Eregiel had brought a map of Eriador with him, and now they examined it together as he explained where the various lands that had been mentioned were in relationship to the Shire and the Breelands.

       Helko was impressed. “Didn’t realize as how large the Shire is,” he commented. “Much bigger’n the Breelands, it is.”

       “Yes,” Eregiel confirmed. “And it’s a lovely and fertile land, much as the Breelands are as well. Now that the King’s peace will be known throughout Middle Earth we’ll be looking increasingly at trade, which is another reason we are glad your lawyers are eager to accept Master Alvric’s instruction. Aragorn looks to see fruits such as the orange fruits, lemons, limes, citrons, and grapefruits sent to the Shire from such places as Dol Amroth, and in return would love to see more potatoes and pipeweed shipped south to Gondor. And all look to improving their horse herds by adding stock from Rohan. Plus he’d love to have more fine woolens available in Gondor, and indicates he feels the best he’s ever seen come from this region.”

       He produced a second map, one of most of Middle Earth this time. “Now,” he said, “this shows how all our lands join on one another….”

       An hour later all met again in the dining room for tea, juice, and rolls and fruit to soothe the stomach before all returned to their quarters for the night. Bartolo noted that his wife was now completely comfortable with both Denra Gorse and Carnation Sandybanks. Delphie smiled at their hostess. “I thank you for such an interesting and pleasant evening,” she said. “I’m sorry we must leave as soon as we must; but I’ll ever be grateful to Cousin Frodo for affording this chance to learn more about Bree and the chance to meet you all.”

       Bartolo looked about the room before adding (with a bit more reserve), “Yes, I feel as we’re learning a good deal now. Thank you both, Master Alvric and Mistress Denra, and of course you, also, Missus Carnation. You’re certainly among the finest cooks I’ve met.” He was surprised to see how the Bree Hobbitess’s face glowed at the compliment.

       Soon they were leaving. Alvric waved away Carnation’s offer to stay long enough to help with the final clearing away. “It’s little enough--I can assist Mistress Denra. And it was a wonderful, delightful meal, after all. But you’re not usually away from your family during the evenings, and you’ve been working hard all day, for which I can never thank you enough. Now, off with you and enjoy your husband’s company.”

       Eregiel accompanied the Bracegirdles back to the Prancing Pony, agreeably answering Enrico and Lyssa’s questions as they walked, although it was obvious he was keeping a portion of his awareness on the streets and homes about them. At last Persivo asked, “What are you watching for?”

       The young Man sighed. “As I told you, I’m a Ranger of Eriador. I’ve been trained to watch for enemies everywhere, and I’m on watch right now. The worst ambush I ever experienced occurred on the edge of one of our own fields, you see.”

       It was a sobering thought to take with them as they turned into the Pony’s doors and sought their rooms in the north wing.

Shadowing Rangers

          The next two days were interesting as the two Hobbits of the Shire were joined by a third Hobbit, a distant cousin of Helko Sandybanks, Ora Watercress, a lawyer of Bree itself.  He arrived the morning after the formal dinner, shortly after Bartolo and Persivo, and introduced himself.

          “I certainly hope as you don’t mind if I join you,” he said almost apologetically, “but as it appears there’s a fair number of folks likely to be heading north to the building up Dead Man’s Dike way, some of my clients are interested in being considered as sources of goods that might well be needed.  Therefore we have an interest in learning as how contracts and proposals ought to be written and presented for our own folk to be taken seriously.” 

          And so, much of that day was given to consideration of how sales contracts and delivery agreements were written, comparing how they were done in Gondor, the Shire, the Breelands, and in Arnor itself, using as examples some ancient contracts written some centuries earlier that Eregiel had left with Alvric the previous evening.  Here Alvric found himself having to do much of the translation, for these documents had been written in Sindarin and Adunaic, the latter tongue he was at a loss to translate.

          “I know this language was used extensively in Númenor,” he said, “but it has not been used in many centuries that I know of in Gondor.  Even the Sindarin used here is somewhat different than that spoken in Gondor--and I suspect it is a purer form of the tongue than we use, for here it is spoken by Elves as well as Men while in Gondor no Elves have lingered.”

          “But how could they have contracts so old as these are supposed to be?” Ora asked.

          “According to the little Ranger Eregiel told me last evening before our other guests arrived, near Fornost caverns were being used to house the archives of Arnor much as has been done for at least two millenia in Gondor, with the major archive of the realm being housed in the stone chambers and caverns hollowed beneath Minas Tirith.  The constant temperature and dryness adds much to the life of those records and materials preserved within them.  He tells me Argeleb the Second, the king who granted the lands of the Shire to the Hobbits who live there now, contracted with Dwarves to have those caverns expanded and made more proper to their use; and although at one time Fornost fell to the forces of Angmar the hidden entrances were not found by them, and so many records were preserved past the fall of the Kingdom.  He states, however, that most of the records that were of greatest importance were taken to Imladris to be housed in the archives there, including the Rolls of the Kings and the records of the lineages of the lords of the North Kingdom.  So it is that those records have been amended over the years, and the King could provide proof he is indeed descended from Elendil and his sons Isildur and Anárion both.  Although the strength of his healing gift and the words of the sons of Elrond added authority to his claim to the Winged Crown, not that any with any knowledge of history could question it once Elrond himself arrived in Minas Tirith and surrendered to him the Sceptre of Annúminas.”

          Alvric looked off, shaking his head at the enormity of the wonders he’d seen in the last year.  “Elves and Dwarves both again visiting Minas Tirith, and the folk of the Pheriannath appearing out of legend to free us of the terror of Mordor upon our borders.”  He looked back to meet Bartolo’s eyes.  “Who would have believed so many folk yet lingered in Middle Earth, and would make themselves known to the people of Gondor in this time?  You Hobbits may have considered yourselves somewhat isolated, but at least you have had commerce with Men and Dwarves, and have perhaps, at least some of you, known Elves, or at least of them, all of your lives.  And we have dwelt in a great nation with ties to other great nations, but the only race beyond our own we have dealt with has been the twisted race of orcs for time out of mind, to the point that since the death of Eärnur it may as well have been that the other races had not existed as far as we were concerned.  And through our Lord King Aragorn Elessar all these and more have again been made known to us, and now visit us yet again.”

          That evening again Persivo and Petunia went out to the porch where the games were set, and as they played a game of drafts the lad told his sister what had been said that day.

          “You didn’t discuss Cousin Frodo Baggins today, then?” she asked.

          He shook his head.  “Although, what he said about Pheriannath appearing out of legend to stop Mordor being a threat is important, I think.  Pheriannath is their name for us Hobbits, after all.  But how could Hobbits stop armies?”

          “I don’t know.  Certainly the Captains learned to fight with swords, and how to figure out how to best fight the ruffians.  Destria’s da was one of the Shiriffs who was supposed to arrest them when the Travelers came away from the Shiriff House by the Bridge, and he took off his hat with the feather in it when he saw they were planning to fight back.  He said Captain Merry knew just what to do and set up everything so there wasn’t much the Big Men could do once they was surrounded.”

          “But they didn’t know how to fight before they left the Shire, not like Eregiel’s learnt to do all his life, Pet.  Someone had to teach them.”  Persi was quiet for a time.  “Cousin Frodo said at the banquet for the lawyers that they went south with the one who’s King now.  I suppose he might have taught them some.”

          Pet shrugged, and jumped two of her brother’s pieces.  “Destria’s da said Cousin Frodo Baggins didn’t help fight.  Instead he seemed to be more worried our folk might hurt someone what wanted to stop fighting, and Merry Brandybuck told him he wouldn’t stop the ruffians by feeling sorry for them.  He did have a sword, though, and so did Sam Gamgee--swords and mail, same as the Captains, but Sam Gamgee’s was goldish, and Cousin Frodo Baggins’s mail was finer, like it was made of wire instead of rings like the others.”

          The lad looked up to catch her eye.  “Well, he and Sam Gamgee are called ‘Lord’ now--you heard Glorinlas Gildorion and Eregiel.  But if he helped fight in the wars down southaways, then I suppose as he might of decided he doesn’t like fighting any more.”

          She nodded slightly.  “I wouldn’t like fighting, I don’t think.”

          He looked down and appeared to be studying the board when he confided, almost grudgingly by the sound of it, “Every time the Gatherer and Sharers come--came--I wanted to strike them all, maybe beat them into bloody pulps.”

          Petunia looked at her brother in shock.  “You did?  But you never tried any of it.”

          “Too many of them as tried it ended up being beaten back, Pet, and either killed or dragged away to the Lockholes.  You heard what they did to Will Whitfoot and Fredegar Bolger and some of those as followed Captain Freddy--almost starved the Mayor and Captain Freddy to death, they did.  That’s why Cousin Frodo Baggins is deputy Mayor, after all, ’cause old Flour Dumpling is still recovering.  They must of hurt his leg, too, for when we saw him in Michel Delving he had a cane and Missus Whitfoot was putting a stool under his leg as he sat on the bench by his door.  And I heard Missus Greenman telling Gammer Alma as Captain Freddy has a healer living with him now, for his heart was hurt from him not getting right treatment or food.”

          “I wonder why they call Cousin Frodo Baggins the Ring-bearer?” said a voice near their elbows, and both jumped as they realized Alyssa had come out to join them and they’d not heard her arrival.

          “Who calls Cousin Frodo Baggins the Ring-bearer?” Petunia asked, once she was over her startlement.

          “Well, the Elf Mr. Glorinlas called him that, and the Rangers who’ve been to the Prancing Pony have called him it, too.  I heard them today, when three went to the marketplace and were having some pasties and sausages at a food-seller’s stand.  One of them, an older one, was sayin’ as it was a shame as his own folk didn’t appreciate just how important it was what Lord Frodo did, and another one agreed and called him the Ring-bearer, too.”

          Persivo and Petunia exchanged glances.  “Mum’s rings never came back to her,” he murmured.  “We got all the rest back when they found it with Cousin Timono, but not her rings.  And Mr. Goold and Missus Goold didn’t get their rings they give each other as promise gifts.”

          “Cousin Hyacinth didn’t get her rings back, either,” Petunia said.  “She was telling Auntie Lavinia of it.  She had two, one from her Gammer Bracegirdle and one from her Great-gammer Baggins, and she didn’t get either one back.  She has most of the rest back.  And she says as even Cousin Lobelia had the ring she kept what had been worn by her husband Otho taken by one of the Big Men as stayed at Bag End.”

          “So--they wanted rings in especial?” Persivo asked, summing up what they now realized.  “But they took those rings after Cousin Frodo Baggins sold Bag End to Lotho and was gone, for he left Hobbiton afore--before the Big Men even came into the Shire.”

          “But what’s so special about rings?” Alyssa asked.  “Why’d they want rings?”

          “We don’t know,” her older sister told her.

          “Did Cousin Frodo Baggins have any rings?” asked Persivo.

          “I guess he inherited the one his dad used to have,” Pet commented.  “Cousin Hyacinth was telling Auntie Lavinia Cousin Drogo Baggins used to wear one all the time, and that Cousin Lobelia told how hard a time they had getting it off his finger after he died, for his body had bloated in the water.”

          “Ooh, that’s awful!” Lyssa said, shuddering.

          “Was Cousin Drogo’s ring special or something?” Petunia wondered.

          No one could answer that question, and at last, once Petunia had managed to take Persivo’s last pieces, they put the counters away and went back to their rooms, no closer than they’d been to begin with to understanding what it was that Cousin Frodo Baggins and his gardener friend had done to earn them each the title of Lord.

*******

          There was an envelope lying on the tray on which breakfast was brought the following morning.  The writing was rather simple, Petunia noted as she saw it was addressed to her mother and picked it up to give it to her, not anywhere as graceful as that of Delphinium Bracegirdle or as ordered as that of Bartolo.  Delphinium accepted it with a murmured thanks, and swiftly had it open and was reading it.  “What is it?” Bartolo asked as he finished setting the stud into his shirt cuff and joined the rest at the table.

          “It’s an invitation to spend the day with Helko Sandybanks’s family in their hole in Bree Hill.  It appears Flora Sandybanks is to have a luncheon for those who help to arrange the garden fair right before Midsummers, and having heard from her third cousin twice removed Elko Grubb of Hardbottle about the gardens we have about our hole at Garden Place she thought I would like to attend.  And the children are invited also--Beldo is looking forward to playing with Rikki, while Freesia wants to introduce the lasses to her sisters and have a tea party for her dolls with Alyssa.

          “Tell me, children,” she said, turning to her progeny, “would you like to go, too?”

          Begonia, Alyssa, and Enrico were all immediately excited, but Petunia found herself less so, for she’s had her own plans for the day.  But it appeared there was nothing for it, so once they’d seen Bartolo and Persivo off to their day’s meeting with Master Alvric and Master Ora she found herself helping Alyssa into a dress appropriate for both visiting and play, then helping lace up Begonia’s frock, then rushing herself into the first frock she could find that was hers. 

          She liked Mr. Grubb, and was glad he’d written to his cousin in Bree about the Bracegirdle gardens, although she knew that the gardens at Bag End in Hobbiton were supposed to be the most beautiful of their kind in all the Shire.  But at the same time she was disappointed, for she had wanted, if possible, to speak with one of the Rangers privately.  How she was to do it she had no idea, for she’d not be allowed to go into the common room of the Prancing Pony alone, of course.  It was one thing for mothers to take their children into an inn for a luncheon or early tea; quite another thing for a young lass to go into a common room alone in the daytime--that was Not Done, as her mother would remind her, not by a lass of any breeding, at least. 

          She’d thought perhaps to stand outside the inn until a Ranger came out, but then she wasn’t truly certain there was a Ranger left in town.  Master Eregiel had ridden out northward yesterday at midmorning, with a smiling yet somewhat solemn wave of acknowledgment to the younger children of Bartolo and Delphinium Bracegirdle.  Were there any others in town today?

          The Sandybanks’ smial was quite a cheerful one, and the table for the luncheon was already in place in the front garden.  There were nine Sandybanks children, for Freesia and Beldo had two sisters and two brothers and three cousins--two lads and a lass.  Agatha was the eldest of Freesia’s sisters.  She was nineteen and was very interested in the local lads; and she and Begonia were quickly as thick as thieves, chattering about frocks and lads and whispering about their experiments with drawing the eyes of certain lads or how they tried to avoid the eyes of others.  Dorido was sixteen, and rolled his eyes at the talk of the older lasses, quickly absenting himself to go play at golf with the older lad cousins and the other teen lads who lived about Bree Hill.  Bedlo and Enrico helped some with the setting out of chairs, stools, and benches, then left to play roopie, while Alyssa, Freesia, and her younger sister Bettina quickly set out the little table made for the smaller Hobbit children, and soon were involved with their own tea party, one soon joined by little brother Dardo, who was only a faunt of five, after all, and then by the lasses of other Hobbitesses come to the luncheon.

          Petunia felt a bit left out, and soon realized that Freesia’s cousin Ronica felt much the same.  Ronica was sixteen, and much shorter than Pet was, but when at last she and Petunia were released from their help in setting out plates and tiles on which to set the serving dishes they found themselves retreating to the far side of the yard.  “Well,” Ronica said, “at least we ain’t expected to sit and take part in the talk.  I have some pocket money saved up--would ye like to go to the market and have a pastie there?  It would be far less boring than listenin’ to them goin’ on about how the walkin’ routes will be set up for those doin’ the judging.”

          “Could we?” Petunia asked, surprised at the freedom the younger lass claimed for herself.

          “Mum’ll be glad to see the back of me, for fear as I’ll play a prank like I did last year when I dropped a frog in the punch bowl just afore Missus Averia Sackville dipped herself up some.  It was quite funny, really, for Missus Sackville is quite full of herself, you see; but Mum was terrible embarrassed.  I had to apologize and all, o’ course, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat and Mum knows it full well enough.  Well, would ye like to go?”

          Surprised and pleased, Petunia agreed, and the two of them quickly received permission; and with a few coppers from her mother to tie into her handkerchief, she set off at the side of her smaller companion for the marketplace.  “How is it,” she asked Ronica as they left Bree Hill and headed for the center of the village, “that you have a cousin living in the Shire?”

          Ronica shrugged.  “We’re related through me mum’s folks in Archet.  Ye see Mum’n Uncle Ned were Underhills.  Lots of Underhills live in holes along the ridge there on the east side o’ town.  Uncle Ned’n Mum was second and third o’ ten childern.  When Gaffer Bando died the year so many was sick o’ the ague and the cattarh and the lung sickness, Uncle Ed inherited the farm, and Uncle Ned’n Mum decided as they oughta leave so’s him’n Gammer Platina wouldn’t have to work harder to feed them’s well as the littler ones.  Mum wasn’t of age yet, but she felt strong as it was time for her to find her own way.  So they come here to Bree, ’n’ Mum took a job with me gaffer Ram mindin’ the little’uns, as our gammer here’d died o’ the lung sickness, same as Gaffer Bando.

          “Dad was eldest, ’n’ him’n Mum fell in love, ’n’ when she turned twenty-six they was married.  Uncle Helko was already in love with Aunt Carnation, ye see, ’n’ them was married not long after, ’n’ they decided to share a hole.  The little’uns all moved out as they got old enough, and Gaffer Ram, he died last year o’ old age.

          “Anyways, Gammer Platina Underhill, she had an older cousin what went to Buckland to work fer the Brandybucks, ’n’ she married a Grubb what moved to Hardbottle, ’n’ their grandson’s our cousin Elko.

          “Gammer Platina, she was born a Bagger, she was.  She said as the Baggers is related to the Bagginses and the Sackinses and the Sackvilles, you go far enough back, and she had a scroll to show it, she did.  Uncle Ned’s got the scroll now, not what he can read it.  Gammer Platina, she could read it, though.”

          “Your Gammer was born a Bagger?  I never heard of them.”

          “She said her family come long ago from over some mountains, far, far away, long, long ago.  Said as they kept it all on the scroll what was in the family for a long, long time.  Ye know the Sackvilles ’n’ the Sackinses ’n’ the Bagginses, though?”

          They’d stopped, having come to the market square.  “Well, of course I know the Sackvilles and the Bagginses.  My mum was born a Baggins, and our Cousin Frodo Baggins is family head--he had it from his Uncle Bilbo as was family head before him.  And our dad’s cousin Lotho was family head for the Sackvilles, not what the Sackvilles even want to allow for it now, as horrid as he was.  He’s dead now, and Roto, as is family head after him, writ him out of the book.”

          Ronica looked up at her, shocked.  “He didn’t!  What in Middle Earth’d him do to get writ out of his own family book?”

          Petunia shook her head, not wanting to talk about it, but when the other lass kept insisting, she at last admitted, “You know all them Big Men what come up here as tried to take over the Breelands and the Shire, don’t you?  Well, he invited them to come into the Shire, and used them to take over everything.  And he was buying up all kinds of property he didn’t have a right to, and was cheating folks, too, he was.  The last one as come in was Sharkey, only he had his servant Wormtongue kill Lotho, or so everybody says.  Only no one knows what he did with Lotho’s body after--they’ve not found it yet, at least.  When his mum realized just how awful things were ’cause of him even she didn’t blame Cousin Benlo for writing him out of the Book of Bracegirdles--Aunt Lobelia was my dad’s own aunt, after all.  Dad says as probably Cousin Frodo Baggins is the only family head as hasn’t written him out of a family book--he thinks Cousin Frodo’s just too soft-hearted.”

          “That’s awful.”  Ronica was still shaking her head, unable to understand how any Hobbit could be so bad he’d be written out of two of the family books he belonged in.

          Looking around the square, Petunia was heartened to see a tall figure in a grey cloak heading toward another tall figure, this one dressed in a black cloak edged in silver.  “Oh, there’s a Ranger!” she said brightly.

          Ronica looked around, and on spotting the one in grey nodded.  “Yes, that’s Black Glove.”

          “Black Glove?”

          The smaller lass nodded.  “It’s what we call’im, ’cause him wears a black glove on his right hand.  And you look close, you’ll see as his sword’s on the wrong side, too.”

          “There’s a wrong side for a sword?”

          “Yes.  The rest all wear theirs on the left, ’n’ him wears his on the right, you see.”

          “Oh.  What kind of Man is the one in the black cape?”

          “I dunno.  They’re new ones, those in the black.  They’re mostly real tall, like the Rangers, but they dress nice, they do.  All that silver broidery on the front with the tree and stars....”

          Petunia straightened up, shocked.  “Trees and stars?  A white tree and seven stars?”

          Ronica nodded.  “You know about them?”

          “Oh, yes--Captain Peregrin wears that--says as it’s his uniform from the King.”

          “There really is a King?”

          “Oh, yes--everybody says so--Cousin Frodo Baggins, Captain Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin and Samwise Gamgee--they all say so.  So does Master Alvric and that Elf we met, Mr. Glorinlas Gildorion, and even the Dwarves at the Prancing Pony.  There was two as went by our parlor last evening, talking about whether or not they’d go with their kinsman Gimli south to the King’s city to help fix it up after the war.”

          Ronica’s eyes were large.  “You really, really met an Elf?”

          “Yes, as we were riding here we did, on the road from the Brandywine Bridge to Bree.  He rode alongside us, and told us about seeing our Cousin Frodo Baggins years ago, and Cousin Bilbo, too.  He said they’re both Elf-friends, and I guess it’s a very special thing to be an Elf-friend.”  She looked back toward where they’d seen the Ranger and the other Man in black, but didn’t see them anywhere about, then finally spotted two figures, one in grey and one in black, headed for a particular food vendor’s stall at the end of the row.  “There they are.  Let’s go closer.”

          Getting closer to the Men was not easy, however, for it seemed everyone in Bree (save for those Hobbit ladies attending Flora Sandheaver’s luncheon, of course) was in the market square seeking some special item or another, and that fully half of those were between the two Hobbit lasses and the food stall where the two tall Men were purchasing something to tide them over.  But at last they came close enough to hear them.

          “And they call these what?” the black-garbed stranger asked.

          “Pasties.  They are very popular here in the northlands, you will find, and are filled with a variety of different meats and vegetables.  But for the best drink in all of the Breelands you must have some of the ale from the Inn of the Prancing Pony--Gandalf laid it under a spell of excellence to last at least seven years, and the spell has slightly more than five years left to run at this point.”

          “Gandalf?”

          “You know him as Mithrandir, there in Gondor.”

          “I see.  Well, at least a few of the missives I carry are intended for him.”

          “I will be heading for Rivendell in a few days and will deliver them to Elrond, who will see them into Gandalf’s hands, if he is not dwelling there at this time.  The missives I bear from Lord Halladan are back in my rooms in the inn, so we will need to go there that I might fetch them and give them into your hands.  And how was my beloved Lord Cousin when you left him?”

          “The King?  Very well indeed.  He and our Lady Queen were to leave three days after me to do a progress through Lossarnach, and Master Galador was in quite a terror that our Lord Elessar and Lady Arwen would quite ignore protocol at some untoward time and reveal just how approachable they are.”  They both laughed.  “And what news of the Ring-bearer?” the messenger continued.

          They could hear the voice of Black Glove grow more solemn.  “He seeks to serve his own people and to make right what his benighted kinsman allowed to go to evil.  All four have labored deeply, and it is told us that Lord Samwise has wed, his vows heard by Lord Frodo himself.”

          “There was some talk of the need for the Shire to be scoured there in the Citadel, but it has been difficult for us to accept there would be any among the Pheriannath, particularly one so closely related to the Ring-bearer himself, who would be so apt to evil.”

          “Saruman did his work well, from what we can tell.  His folk had this Lotho convinced he commanded them, only letting him realize they had taken full control at the end.  The Ring-bearer’s letters to Halladan are full of the grief of it.  That he should undergo all he did, only to return to find his own land as heavily beset as any other was most unfair.  But the other Periannath rose up at the call of Sir Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin; and Lord Samwise has seen to much of the renewal of the land while Lord Frodo labors in the Mayor’s office to bring all back to rightness again, and to find out all the ways his people’s laws were perverted to allow this to come to be.

          “Ah, well, come, and we will head for the inn so that we can do the exchange of correspondence.  Did you go to the gate at the Brandywine Bridge yet?”

          “Yes, yesterday afternoon.  I met with some of your folk who appear to patrol the road between the Shire and here in Bree, and they showed me where I might safely camp during the night.”

          The two were drawing away toward the main street, and the lasses, their own planned purchases of pasties forgotten, followed after in their wake.  Suddenly, however, instead of continuing down the High Street toward the inn, the two of them turned off on a lane to the right, and the lasses immediately turned after them, trying to find where they’d gone.

          Petunia was disappointed, for she saw no sign of the two tall figures anywhere along what could be seen of the lane.  But as she turned to express her frustration to her companion, a great hand clamped down on her shoulder, and she looked up into the eyes of the Ranger she’d been following.

          As had been true of Eregiel, he had eyes of a clear grey, and he was obviously very observant, to have realized he was being trailed by two young Hobbitesses.  He was bearded, and his hair was mostly straight and hung to his shoulders, and very dark save for the small amount of grey at his temples.  What age he might be Petunia couldn’t begin to guess, but there was a look of sternness to him that quite unnerved her.  She was reminded of the walk back to the inn the other night, and Eregiel’s explanation that he was always on guard when he must go from one place to another.

          She realized his other hand was on Ronica’s shoulder, and Ronica was so terrified she feared the younger lass might do something horrid, such as to faint away.  “We don’t mean you any harm,” Petunia said with more force than she’d realized she had in her.

          “Rarely do any of the Hobbit-kind offer a threat to any individual, but even more rarely will a Hobbit lass follow one of us, or even seek to look at us up close as you two have done, much less listen to our conversations.”  He was examining the two of them closely.  “Now, this one is indeed a lass from the village here,” he explained in low tones to his companion, “but this other I would say is from the Shire itself.  It has been several years since I’ve ridden the Road west of the Brandywine Bridge, but this weaving is from the South Farthing, I’d say.  I know of only one party from the Shire to be abiding in Bree at this time, so I must assume this is the daughter of the lawyer sent out by Lord Frodo to take instruction from Master Alvric of Gondor.  Am I correct, young mistress?” he added, straightening to his full, amazing height.

          “Yes,” Petunia admitted, embarrassed to hear her voice break into a squeak.  “My father is Bartolo Bracegirdle from Hardbottle.”

          He nodded.  “I am sorry to have startled you, but as Rangers we are trained to note when we are being observed or followed, and then have learned to seek knowledge of who it is who does this as soon as we can.  So, now I know one of our train; what is the purpose of your interest?”

          Petunia straightened the bodice of her dress as she recovered her dignity.  “I didn’t know we were doing anything wrong.  It’s only I’d wanted to speak with a Ranger today, if I might, and as it appears Eregiel has left----”

          His eyebrows lifted.  “You know Eregiel’s name?” he asked, amazed.

          “Well, yes, for we had dinner with him the other night at Mistress Denra Gorse’s house, there with Master Alvric.”

          “Don’t your people use your proper names here in the Breelands?” the one in black and silver asked.

          There was a look of sardonic humor in the grey eyes of Black Glove as he returned his attention to the other Man.  “No, for the folk of Bree tend to call us by the names they devise themselves.  Eregiel they have begun calling ‘Hound Man,’ and they know me as Black Glove.”

          “Hound Man?” Ronica said.  “Him’s a new one, and didn’t used to come here until after the rest o’ ye left for a time.”

          “Yes, that’s right, for he’s only fairly recently come of age and finished his time under Berenion--the one your folk always knew as the Bear.”

          She gave a most unladylike whistle.  “The Bear?  Me dad’s told stories o’ him from years back, what him did when Dad was but a faunt.  Him was a tough one, him was, wadin’ into fights’n all.”

          Black Glove laughed.  “Well, let me set things aright.  I am Gilfileg son of Gilthor, at your service, and this is Erengil son of Berestor of Ringlo Vale of Gondor, one of the King Elessar’s messengers from Minas Tirith, the southern capital.  He has been sent north with messages to officials of the north kingdom, such as Lord Halladan, the Steward of Arnor, Barliman Butterbur as head of the Council of the Breelands, others of the King’s kinsmen among the Rangers of Eriador, and the Thain, Master, and Mayor of the Shire, plus the King’s Friends within the Shire.”

          “Like my Cousin Frodo Baggins?  He’s truly the King’s friend?” Petunia asked.

          “Indeed, all four of the Travelers are the King’s friends, and are honored greatly by all peoples, and certainly this is true of Frodo Baggins.”  He looked about.  “If we stay here, we will very quickly be seen--two such Men as we speaking with two such maidens.  Come--there is a private place near here.”  So saying, he turned and led them along the lane to a door in the rear wall behind a house, checked both ways, then put his finger through a knothole, something clicked, and the gate opened.  He waved the others through, and followed, closing the gate behind them.

          They were within a surprisingly spacious yard behind a narrow house.  “Our Lord Arathorn, Aragorn’s father, had this house purchased for him.  Lindor was a warrior among us, and served Arador and then Arathorn. He was wounded in the next to last battle Arathorn fought, and lost his right hand.  He and his wife Anelisë came to Bree and took over the running of the place.  Now and then, when we must have Men here to either rest or to be our eyes and ears within the town, the house is opened to them. None give the inhabitants much heed, although their neighbors have learned that if any is in need the old couple, whom all know as the Greenwillows, will do what they can to aid them.”  He led them to a pair of garden benches that faced one another over a bed of sweet William, and indicated the lasses should take the lower bench, one which was still rather high, leaving their legs dangling.

          “So,” he said, “you wished to speak with a Ranger.  I’m not certain how advisable that is, for if it gets out that anyone who wishes can actually approach us and carry on a conversation, I fear our reputations as ne’er-do-well vagabonds will be quickly forgotten.  Then who will seek to ignore us pointedly any more?”

          It took a moment for Petunia to realize the Man was joking, and suddenly she found herself giggling, followed by Ronica.  Both Men were grinning broadly.  A door opened and a tall woman with her white hair coiled tightly about her head came out, took in the sight of the four sitting on her garden benches, sniffed, and went back in.  A few moments later she was back with a tray on which rested a jug of cider, four mugs, and a plate of sweet buns, which she brought to set on the end of the bench on which the two young Hobbits sat.  She looked the lasses over, then commented, “Miss Ronica, does your mother have any idea where you are?”

          “We told her we was goin’ to the marketplace for pasties, for she’s givin’ her luncheon today.”

          “Oh, I see.  So, she’s seeing to it Mistress Sackville’s punch doesn’t get another frog in it, is she?”

          Ronica flushed as she murmured, “Yes’m.”  The two Men laughed openly.  Now they were all beginning to feel more at ease, Petunia was beginning to notice more about the Man in black, the one who’d been introduced as Erengil.  He, too, was quite tall and well muscled, and in many ways he resembled the Ranger, although his hair was a bit longer and had more curl to it than Black Glove’s.  He, too, had clear grey eyes, and appeared to be alert and discerning, much as had proven true of Eregiel and the Ranger by him.  He unfastened the cloak he wore and draped it over the bench by him, revealing he wore a tabard over silvered mail, the tabard black and heavily embroidered with a tree with white blossoms under seven stars and a depiction of a shape with what appeared to be wings.  “It’s like the one Pippin wears,” Pet said softly as she looked him over.

          “You mean you know Captain Peregrin himself?” the Man answered.  “Then he did wear his uniform home again.  Excellent.  I will inform the King when I see him again.”

          “He wears it when he must be about the King’s business,” Petunia answered, “or at least that’s what he says.  He has some Shire clothes now, but not a lot yet.”  Then, she asked, “Do you know him?”

          “I was of the Guard of the Citadel, and was one of those present when he took his vows of service under the Lord Steward Denethor, although I didn’t see him that often until after the Battle of the Pelennor, for he must serve on Lord Denethor himself.  After the battle, when word came that the Steward had died in the Hallows, he stood his service in the Houses of Healing, attending on Lord Faramir and spending much of his free time with his kinsman Sir Meriadoc, who had been stricken in his defense of Théoden King of Rohan.  He acquitted himself very well at the Black Gate--that all agree, though it nearly cost him his life.  I am amazed at the resilience of your folk, for all four who came to our aid withstood terrible wounds and recovered so well from them.”

          “Even our Cousin Frodo Baggins?”

          “Yes, even your Cousin Frodo Baggins.  He and Lord Samwise were both very near death when they were found, you see, and had to be called back to life by the power of the King.  Even then they lay in healing sleep for two weeks in the reckoning of Middle Earth before they woke to our praise.”

          Pet could feel her face color.  “But what is it they did?”

          “They haven’t told you, Lord Frodo’s kinsman?”

          “No,” she said, shaking her head.  “I’d like to understand.”

          “You must realize,” the other Man explained to Erengil, “that for a Hobbit to tell his own story is seen as putting himself forward, and there can be few greater breaches of etiquette among their people than such a thing.  From what my royal kinsman tells me, Master Frodo was already a most retiring sort who preferred to let his actions speak for themselves, and he has forbade his kin to speak of it to those who do not need to understand.”

          “Then I suppose I must follow suit,” Erengil said, “although Captain Gilmaros will be most distressed to hear that those in your land know the least of what was accomplished by these four.”

          “Who is Captain Gilmaros?” Pet asked as she absently took one of the buns.

          “The captain of the Guard of the Citadel of Minas Tirith.  When he is in the city and does his duty as one of the King’s Guard, your Captain Peregrin serves under the orders of Captain Gilmaros and Lord Hardorn.”

          “And whose orders does my Cousin Frodo Baggins listen to?”

          Erengil laughed.  “Lords of the realm aren’t usually expected to need to answer to the orders of any but the King and their wives, although I have heard Lord Samwise make very strong suggestions a time or two to Lord Frodo for the sake of his health that he responded to.”

          “And from what Berevrion and Halladan tell me, he questioned the suggestions of the King on more than one occasion.  I fear Master Frodo Baggins has a distinct mind of his own, if all I hear is true.”  Black Glove shook his head.  “But all say he is a most responsible individual, and it appears he has surrounded himself with those who are like-minded.”

          “Can you tell me how he lost his finger, at least?” Pet asked.  Ronica looked at her with surprise, for this was a detail of which she’d been unaware.

          The faces of both Men became very solemn.  “He lost it when he was saved from a fate worse than death,” Erengil said quietly.  “He once told me it was better to have lost his finger than what could have been lost, and he would rather have died indeed than what was befalling him at the time.  To have been taken at the last by that....”  He shuddered visibly and went quiet.

          “Do you know why Sharkey wanted rings?” she added rather tentatively, after a moment.

          Both Men looked at her closely.  “They wanted rings?”  Black Glove’s voice was almost stern.  “How do you know they wanted rings?”

          “Well, the Gatherers and Sharers took lots of things, and especially silver and jewelry; but although they’ve found a lot of things and returned them, they’ve never returned any rings that were stolen--not that we know of, at least.  We were talking about it last night, my brother and little sister and me.  And we were wondering if the ring Cousin Frodo Baggins would have inherited from his dad might have been special or something, although they had a time getting it off him after Cousin Drogo died, Great-aunt Lobelia told my Aunt Lavinia.”

          Erengil looked at the Ranger and asked something in a language neither Pet nor Ronica understood.  However, Petunia heard two words she did know--as Black Glove answered, she heard the words Bilbo Baggins.

          “Did Cousin Bilbo have something to do with it all, then?” she asked in the silence that followed whatever the Ranger said.

          The two Men exchanged looks, and at last Black Glove said, “The ring worn by Master Frodo’s father would have meant nothing to anyone other than those in his family, although the fact it was a ring obviously would have drawn the attention of Saruman’s creatures to it, for they indeed would have been directed to particularly find rings.  However, I can say no more than that without the permission of Frodo Baggins.”  He sighed.  “Have you seen your Cousin Frodo Baggins since his return?”

          She shook her head.  “No, for I’ve not been that far from home till now, and he hasn’t visited Hardbottle.  He’s been back and forth to Michel Delving, and maybe a couple times to the Tooklands and once to Buckland that I know of; but he’s not been down in the South Farthing.  But my da’s seen him, and my brothers and my little sister.”

          “How do you know he’s lost a finger?”

          “I’ve heard it from folks who did see it’s gone.  But nobody seems to know how he lost it.”

          “You know what Captain Peregrin’s uniform tabard looks like.”

          “He’s ridden through Hardbottle with Captain Meriadoc, on his way to the southern borders.  I’ve seen them both with their armor and their swords and their special clothes to wear with them.  I’ve seen Samwise Gamgee, too.  But I’ve not seen Cousin Frodo Baggins since the last Free Fair we had, almost two years ago.  Cousin Lotho didn’t let us have a Free Fair last summer.”

          “Do you like your Cousin Frodo?”

          She nodded.  “He seems nice, and my mum likes him--says he’s very, very responsible and thoughtful.  And even Cousin Benlo likes him.  Benlo’s family head for the Bracegirdles, you know.  He wants Cousin Frodo Baggins to be elected Mayor this summer.  Ever since Mayor Whitfoot made him deputy Mayor, Benlo says Cousin Frodo’s the best thing to happen to the Shire.  And he tells the best stories, all about Elves and dragons and such.”

          Erengil laughed.  “One day they couldn’t find most of the pages who work in the Citadel, and it turned out he had them out in the King’s garden, telling them a story about someone playing tricks on some giant spiders.”

          “Oh, I’ve heard that story.  Cousin Bilbo was supposed to have done that when he went with the Dwarves to steal the treasure from the Dragon.”

          Black Glove asked, rather carefully, “Did you know Bilbo Baggins?”

          Pet shook her head.  “No, for he left the Shire before I was born.  But everyone knows he was supposed to have stolen treasure from a dragon.”

          “As indeed he did,” Black Glove smiled, “the wily old Hobbit.  I doubt I would have believed his tales if Gandalf and various Dwarves hadn’t assured me they were true.  As for the tale of the spiders, I have it on the best of authority that story is told a bit fancifully, but that it is also perfectly true.  Both Prince Legolas and Lord Gloin have verified it.  Prince Legolas has spoken of taking his hunters and scouts to follow the Dwarves’ back-trail through the forest and finding the clearing where the Spiders had hung the Dwarves from the trees, with the twelve sets of silk, each obviously slit open by an Elven blade, still hanging there, blowing in the breeze.  It gave the Elves of Thranduil’s citadel no end of confusion, trying to figure out what had become of the wielder of the Elven blade.”

          “You have met Prince Legolas?” asked Erengil.

          “When he came to Rivendell--I had been riding with an Elven patrol up in the pass when he came over it with word for Gandalf of Gollum’s escape, close on the heels of Lord Gloin and his son and their companions, including two envoys from Brand of Dale’s court.  The Creator was drawing those who had word of the matter to Elrond’s home for the last council on Sauron’s actions.”

          Finally over her abashment, Ronica asked, “But who is Sauron?”

          “The tales of Mordor are not told here?” asked Erengil.

          The smaller Hobbit lass shook her head as she neatly ate her second sweet bun.

          Black Glove sighed.  “Erengil, having served in Minas Tirith within sight of the walls of that land, could tell you much.  Sauron was one of the servants of the Powers who followed Morgoth into evil, and on the vanquishment of his chosen master remained here in Middle Earth, seeking first to find a way to bring Morgoth back, then seeking to take his master’s place as the lord of evil, an ambition he was accomplishing when Elendil led our peoples out of the ruin of Númenor to found the twin kingdoms of Arnor here in the north and Gondor there in the south.  Sauron raised a last army of the creatures of terror and such Men as worshiped him, and sought to destroy all who stood in opposition to him, and for ten years they fought him--the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, until at last, when Gil-galad and Elendil both died at his hands to bring him down, Sauron fell and Elendil’s remaining son Isildur was able to cut from him the--the token of his power, for he’d created an item in which to concentrate much of his will to evil.

          “It took three thousand years for him to gather sufficient strength and power to fully rise again, but in the end Sauron did so, and returned to Mordor to build another great army, seeking again to fully destroy all who denied him authority over them, and this time he was utterly vanquished, although again at great cost.  And each of the four who came out of the Shire to our aid faced the evil of the Enemy as he could, helping to destroy his power.  But we were only successful because that item in which so much of his will and power was concentrated was still kept from him, until at last It came to where It might be destroyed.  All would have been for naught had that come again into his hands, for with that in his possession he could have overwhelmed all opposition.”

          At the utter seriousness to be seen in the eyes of the two Men and one Woman who companied them in this quiet garden, Petunia felt the hair at the back of her neck and on the top of her feet stand up, and felt a shiver take her.

Learning More

          Bartolo and Persivo were at the inn when Delphie and the children returned to the Prancing Pony, as Alvric had terminated their lessons at noon for Highday.  Tomorrow at noon Bartolo would attend a meeting of the Bree Council at the Grange Hall on the north side of the village where Alvric would speak of the renewal of the two kingdoms and the impact that fact might be expected to have on the Breelands and the Shire.  Then on Sunday Master Alvric intended for Bartolo, Persivo, and himself to ride out to the property where the tenants were digging their smial to discuss the lease agreement.  Barti and Persi, therefore, sat together at the table in the parlor given to their use, working together on crafting that contract.  They would resume their meetings with Master Alvric on Monday, said lessons to continue until the morning of the Highday; next Sterday it was hoped the tenants would come to Bree so that the agreement might be signed, after which they would most likely return to the Shire.

          “And you, lass,” Barti said to Petunia, “how did you enjoy your day?  Your mum and sister tell me you and Mistress Carnation’s niece came off into the marketplace.  Did you stay out of mischief?”

          “We saw a Ranger and one of the King’s Messengers,” Pet said carefully.  “He wears the same uniform as does Pippin Took, the King’s messenger does.  He bowed politely to us, as did the Ranger.”

          “I see,” Barti commented, lifting the mug by him to take a swallow as he looked over its rim at his daughter.  “The black garment with the embroidery?”

          She nodded.  “They met in the marketplace, and spoke of exchanging dispatches.  The Ranger spoke of his Lord Cousin.  Apparently he’s one of the King’s kinsmen as well as Master Eregiel.”

          Delphinium considered her daughter’s report thoughtfully.  “It sounds as if many of those among the Rangers are indeed the King’s own kindred.  And if they guard the borders of the Shire and the Breelands, then it is obviously at his command.  So, tell us of today’s lessons.”

          There was little enough to tell--mostly today’s discussions had again focused on contracts for delivery of goods and services, with a few comments at the end on how wills were prepared and dealt with as a response to Ora Watercress’s comment that it was likely he’d be spending much of his afternoon working on a will for one of his clients, a Mannish farmer who worked land a couple miles toward Archet. 

          Another invitation arrived as they were finishing their tea, and Barti and Delphinium and the children found themselves dressing for dinner with the family of Mister and Missus Ora Watercress.  The Watercresses had a comfortable hole on the eastern side of Bree Hill, where they lived with their son Basso and his wife Orchid and their two small children.

          They were greeted warmly by Ora’s wife Stevia, who proved to be extraordinarily substantial for a Hobbitess.  “It’s so good of you to come,” she assured them in her rather deep voice.  “Ora has been speaking of little else for the last two days.  And your own folk sent you out to learn from Master Alvric?  Where is it you live within the Shire?”

          Dinner was almost ready to go upon the table when they arrived, and soon they were seated in the dining room with a large roast of pork before them.  Once they were past the prescribed period of quiet comments about the quality of the cooking and appreciation for the invitation, Ora asked, “How was it that your folk learned that this new King of ours was sending a lawyer of the realm here to Bree to offer this teaching?”

          Bartolo shrugged.  “I was so advised by our deputy Mayor.”

          “Deputy Mayor?” asked Basso, intrigued.  “What happened to Master Whitfoot?  He’s been your Mayor for years, hasn’t he?”

          Barti nodded.  “Yes, but he’s not been strictly well since the Time of Troubles, although he’s much improved in health by now.  Those Big Men who took over the running of the Shire threw him into a gaol of sorts they made out of the old storage holes in Michel Delving, and on the orders of the Chief they took about everyone else they found who appeared likely to give trouble there, too.”

          “We were among those who joined the fight against the Big Men as tried to take over here,” Ora said after sharing a look with his son.  “Our cousin Willie Banks was one of the five as died in the fight, and Taro Underhill, who came from Staddle sixteen years ago to set up a market stall for his family’s produce--he died, too.  We hear that you didn’t fight, there in the Shire.”

          Barti colored, while Persivo went pale and stiff, his cheeks quite pink.  “At first,” the lawyer said, laying down his fork, “most folks in the Shire weren’t aware anything was going on.  Suddenly the rumor flew through the Shire that Lotho Sackville-Baggins had declared himself Chief Shiriff, now as he’d bought Bag End from his cousin Frodo Baggins and had moved into it.  We all laughed--who would believe that?  Why, he’d tried to join the Shiriffs years ago, and they’d never have him--not him, as much a Bracegirdle as he was.  We Bracegirdles aren’t exactly Shiriff material, for we don’t tend to be the kind of folk as most Hobbits want to laugh and joke with, you know; and anyone as tries to just order a Hobbit who’s drunk to go home and sleep it off is likely to end up with a punch to the nose.  Those as become Shiriffs tend to be the hearty kind, those who don’t mind tramping about the Shire for days on end or searching out strayed cattle and sheep, and who can jolly a fellow into realizing he’s had two or three too many and it’s time now to go home.  Lotho simply wasn’t the sort who could do such a thing.

          “But it seems as most of those Big Men as tried to take over here just went there, and were joined by others sent of a purpose to help Lotho take over.  Suddenly there were Big Men all over the place, about everywhere throughout the Shire.  It didn’t help that Lotho had been quietly buying up property throughout the Shire, here, there, and everywhere.  He’d bought up all the mills, and most of the inns and taverns; and those he didn’t own yet he took over--closed them all down.”

          “You taken this Frodo Baggins to task for letting this Lotho bloke get his head swelled too big?”

          Delphie said, her voice tight with suppressed emotion, “At first we couldn’t, for he’d left the Shire.  Although as soon as he returned, him and his two cousins and his gardener that went with him, they got it all sorted out.  Cousin Frodo is still sorting it all out, and all say he’s doing a marvelous job of it as deputy Mayor.”

          Orchid asked, somewhat carefully, “Then you, as Bracegirdles, are related to this Lotho and to this Frodo Baggins both?”

          Barti and Delphinium exchanged glances before Delphie answered her.  “Unfortunately, in the case of Lotho at least, yes.”  She went on to outline the relationship of her family to both Frodo and Lotho, continuing on, “When he heard Frodo’d run out of money and was looking to sell Bag End and go into retirement in Buckland among his mother’s folk, Lotho made an offer for the place, somehow believing that would make him the Baggins as well, only Frodo didn’t let the headship of the family go with the smial.”

          “Seems as Lotho’d made contact with this Sharkey from far down south, and most of the Big Men as came into the Shire were sent by him,” Barti continued.  “With them nearby, there wasn’t a great deal anyone could do to defy Lotho and his folk, especially once he began to send out his Gatherers and Sharers.  All we could do was make use of the boltholes and hidden storage tunnels, hide what we could, and hold on till help came.”

          “So, this Frodo Baggins is deputy Mayor now, is he?” asked Ora.  “And he left the Shire?  Where did he go?”

          Persivo looked at his parents, then answered, “Actually, from what we’ve heard, they came here first, then they went south themselves to Gondor with the one as is King now.  They’re all friends with our new King, it seems.”

          “They came here?” asked Ora, disbelieving.  “When?”

          “Just over a year and a half ago,” Delphie said.  “He came here with Peregrin Took, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Samwise Gamgee.”

          “But no Bagginses came then--an Underhill did, but not a Baggins.  We saw them in the Pony, Basso and me.”

          Delphie colored again.  “Maybe he wasn’t giving his right name, but I assure you it was my cousin Frodo Baggins.  If he came with a Brandybuck and a Took and a Gamgee, it was Frodo.”

          “But they left Bree with that awful Strider!”

          “So we understand, although from what we can tell they have a great deal of respect for the Man.  But then it appears we all should respect him, as he’s our King now.”

          The adult Watercresses all set down their own forks and knives and stared at her with disbelief.  Stevia’s eyes were all but popping.  “You’re joking!”

          But Bartolo was shaking his head, finding a perverse pleasure in responding, “Oh, but this Strider you knew is evidently our new King indeed.  He was chieftain of the Ranger’s folks, and was descended directly from Arvedui Last-king.  Carried Elendil’s sword and everything from what we’ve been told by Mr. Eregiel the other night.”

          “But Elendil’s only a story!” insisted Orchid.

          “That’s what we thought, too,” Delphinium assured her.  “However, it appears that his was a true story.”  She took another bite of potatoes and gravy, then once she’d swallowed she set her own fork down thoughtfully.  “I remember when I was little more than a faunt, sitting on Cousin Bilbo’s lap when he was telling tales in the Common in Hobbiton, telling the story of how Elendil the Tall came from Númenor with his sons at the Breaking of the World.  He assured us it was a true story, but my parents told me it wasn’t.  Now it seems it was true indeed.  Bilbo said he’d heard the whole story told in Rivendell when he was traveling with the Dwarves, and my parents used to laugh at that.  Apparently they ought not to have done so.”

          Ora looked at his son.  “Helko was right?” the older Hobbit asked.

          “So it seems,” Basso said.  He looked back at their guests.  “How did you folk get rid of the Big Men as came into the Shire?”

          Bartolo shrugged.  “It was the Captains--Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took--the Master and the Thain’s sons.  Did you see them when they came back through here?  From what we hear tell they stayed a couple nights at the Prancing Pony before they came rest of the way home.”  At Basso’s tentative admission he’d seen them at least, Barti continued.  “Were they wearing that mail of theirs when they were here?”

          “Yes, and swords.  We were all amazed, for we’ve not seen Hobbits with swords before.”

          “It seems as this Strider saw them trained to use those swords of theirs, and that all four of them fought in the war down in this Gondor and Mordor.  Although from what I’ve heard of Frodo Baggins he doesn’t like using his own sword.  While the rest were besting the Big Men, Frodo was seeing to it as they didn’t hurt any of those as laid down their own weapons.  Insisted they just be shown the gate at the Brandywine Bridge as Lotho’d had raised and thrown out, those as gave up.  The next day they all rode for Michel Delving and opened up what the Big Men called the Lockholes and freed all those as were imprisoned there.

          “Old Will Whitfoot was thin as a lath, he was, with a cracked kneebone.  He’s about ready to take back over now, but he wants to retire and has let it be known he’s nominating Frodo as his successor as proper Mayor.  Although I’m not certain as Frodo feels up to continuing on.”

          “Whyever not, Barti dear?” asked Delphie, surprised.

          Bartolo shrugged again, not certain if he’d said too much.  “Frodo was apparently sick in March--stayed in Bywater for two whole weeks, you know, there just before Sam Gamgee finished with the restoration of Bag End so as Frodo could move back in.”

          “Did Baggins buy the hole back from this Lotho?” asked Basso, intrigued.

          “From what that Sharkey told everyone, Lotho’s dead,” Barti admitted.  “We’re not certain, for no one’s found his body yet.  But it seems Sharkey had this odd fellow as came with him kill Lotho in his bed or something like, and the Worm creature hid the body somewhere.  Probably someone will find it sometime--we just have no idea when.  Aunt Lobelia heard tell of Lotho being killed, right there in Bag End, and she couldn’t bear the thought of going back there.  Was nowhere as grand as she’d imagined all those years as she and Otho’d dreamed of what it would be like to live in the place and be the Bagginses as well as the Sackvilles.  So she had me, as her lawyer, reconvey the property back to Baggins.  Took a gold coin off him for it, I did.”

          “What was he doing with a gold coin?  Many gold coins there in the Shire?” asked Ora.

          “Well, certainly the Thain and the Master control enough in the way of gold to see to the needs of their own folk in the Tooklands and Buckland,” Barti allowed.  “But from what I’ve learned this particular coin was sent Frodo by the King himself.  First coin struck of the new King’s coinage, we’re told by Isumbard Took.  Had a black seal on it and all.  Almost hated to see it go back to Baggins, but old Lobelia wrote it in her will as she wished it returned when she died.  Hear tell as he carries it wherever he goes, right there in his pocket.  He was certainly shocked enough when I took it out of his hand when I threw the deed to Bag End on the Mayor’s desk--I’ll say that.”

          “Why did the new King send him a gold coin?” persisted Basso.

          “How do I know?  All I know is that the King and Frodo like one another full well--or at least Frodo Baggins loves the King enough for both.  You can hear it in his voice, he just speaks of the Man.”

          “Strider the Ranger--the King?” asked Stevia, still apparently not having taken in that fact.

          Persivo suddenly was rummaging through his pocket, finally pulling out one of the larger copper coins of the new coinage.  “Here--I got this yesterday on the way home as I bought a new steel pen in a shop off the square.  It’s one of the new King’s coins, they tell me.”  He passed it to Master Watercress, who examined it curiously then focused on the face of the King.  He paled once more, and passed it on to his son.

          “It can’t be!” Basso insisted.  “It can’t be Strider the Ranger!”  He looked up in shock and turned his gaze from his father’s face to Persi’s.

          “Let me see,” Orchid said as she took the coin from her husband.  She looked carefully at the face depicted, then whispered, “Hills and valleys, Basso--I’ll swear as it is Strider.”  She looked at it again, then finally reluctantly handed it to her husband’s mother.

          Stevia now examined the coin closely, shaking her head throughout in disbelief.  “Him’s the King now?  But how?”

          “However it was done,” Persivo said quietly as he finally claimed the coin back from his hostess, “our Cousin Frodo Baggins was apparently involved.  But Mr. Eregiel wouldn’t tell us the details, nor will Master Alvric.  All they’ll tell us is that all four of the Travelers were involved in fighting the Enemy, and all four almost died, and that the folk of Gondor and the King’s kin here in Eriador all honor all four of them.”

          “But why would Cousin Frodo Baggins not use his right name when he came here?” Begonia asked.

          “You say you two were there, the night they came through Bree and stayed in the Prancing Pony?” Bartolo asked Basso and Ora.

          So Basso described the night there at the Prancing Pony and the dance on the table, and the sudden, inexplicable disappearance of the mysterious Mr. Underhill and his reappearance by Strider and his insistence he’d just fallen under the table and crawled away.  “But he couldn’t of done so,” Basso continued.  “I mean, he was falling when he went invisible, like, and he was falling forward.  The table fell over, and he was falling in front of it.  Couldn’t of lit under it, he couldn’t.  A flash of gold there was, and then we couldn’t see him at all.  He’d pulled his hand out of his pocket, for he’d had it in there just before the table fell over.  Don’t know if he’d had a gold coin himself, but I saw it clear as clear--that flash of gold, and then no one could see him at all.  Gone, he was.”

          “That song as you tell of sounds like some of old Bilbo’s nonsense,” Barti sniffed.  “Frodo could dance, of course--no one better than him at dancing, you know.  And his voice was fair enough, I suppose.”

          Delphie gave her husband a disdainful glance.  “Really, Bartolo Bracegirdle.  Frodo’s voice was excellent, although he was best at dancing.  But I never heard tell of him dancing on tables as a regular thing.  I mean, he liked a good ale, although he always tended to drink more wine than ale, from all I ever heard of him.  But he never had a reputation as one who was drunken often.  I doubt as I’ve heard of him being drunk more than five times since he first was allowed to go to an inn by Cousin Bilbo, and that’s been well over twenty-five years back now.”

          “Well, we all thought as he was well into his cups when he got up on that table, interrupting the tale as the young one was telling,” Basso said.  “Mayhaps he wasn’t, not really; but there’s no question he was a good dancer.  Far more graceful than what one usually sees from one what’s got up atop a table, you know.”

          Delphie nodded.  “Oh, but he’s always been an excellent dancer.  He was several years younger than I, but I danced with him a few times over the years, and watched him more.  You saw him dance, then you had a real treat, for he’s not danced publicly in about ten years, I think.”

          “I still can’t take it in,” Ora sighed, his attention back on Persivo.  “When we heard tell of the attack on the Pony that night----”

          Delphie and Barti exchanged glances.  “The inn was attacked?” Barti demanded.  “Why?  Who did it?”

          “We aren’t certain.  There were strange folks about, there were--big, big Men all got up in black, plus a number of rough folks come up the Greenway from the south.  Whether it was the Black Riders or the brigands from the south we don’t know; but we’ve heard tell as the room that the strangers from the Shire were supposed to sleep in was broken into and the beds cut to ribbons.  Only they weren’t there, see?  Slept in a parlor, they did; and next morning they were supposed to leave quietly with that Strider, but couldn’t leave at once, for the ponies and horses in the stable at the inn were all gone, too.  Had to look all over to find a pony as they could buy to carry their supplies and luggage.  Bought that wreck of a pony as Bill Ferny kept.  He’d not had it all that long, and he’d almost starved it to death, what we could see as they left.  But I’m certain as it was far better off with them headed north-aways than it had been with Ferny.”

          Getting somewhat excited, Basso continued, “Then the end of October they came back.  None of us had wanted to go out for months, not since the brigands come.  Suddenly word went through Bree that the bad times were over, and that those Shire Hobbits that had gone with that Strider were back, and Gandalf the Wizard with them.  I think it was the first time I’d been to the Prancing Pony of an evening for months, it was, just to see them.  We couldn’t believe the changes in the two--Mr. Brandybuck and Mr. Took, you understand.  The one had been so short before, and now the two of them were both so very tall for Hobbits.  And they had their swords and wore them.  They were all dressed quite fancy-like, they were, especially those two.  And the way they held themselves--it was so different.  For all they were laughing and all, it was plain they’d--seen things--done things.  And that Mr. Underhill that had danced on the table the last time--he was the quietest.  Sat watching the others while he stayed in the common room, although he was the first to go to bed.  Ben Mossybanks started calling for a song, but everyone just stared at him.  Mr. Underhill, his face got very white save for spots of pink on his cheeks, and one look at his face was enough for me to know no one would talk him into doing what he’d done the last time--not that anyone else wanted strange things happening in the Pony again, mind.”

          “Except he’s not Mr. Underhill,” his father reminded him.  “His real name is Baggins, as these have taken pains to tell us.”

          “He was ever so nice,” said one of the little lads, “the one what dressed most like a Hobbit and had the darkest hair.  He stopped in the marketplace and bought some horehound drops before they left, and gave some to Dek and me.  And the others were watching out for him, all of them.”

          “Horehound drops?” asked Delphie, a reminiscent smile on her face.  “Frodo was always bringing horehound drops when he visited in Overhill.  My little sister always looked forward to his horehound drops and his stories.”

          “He didn’t give me any when we went to the Council Hole and the Mayor’s office,” Alyssa commented.

          “And where was he to get them?” Persi asked.  “They’d only just got the inn reopened by then.  The sweet shop wasn’t open yet.”

          “He’s always loved children,” their mother reminisced.  “I can’t think why he never married.”

          “When Pearl married Isumbard Took----” began her husband.

          “You saw him at the Party, Bard,” his wife answered.  “He danced with about everyone, and was finally looking back at Narcissa.  He was finally over Pearl and looking to see who was seeing him.”

          “Frodo Baggins has always been a bit odd,” Bartolo shrugged.  “But what else can one expect, brought up first in Brandy Hall, wrong side of the river, and then by old Mad Baggins himself?”

          Obviously annoyed, Delphie snapped, “Would you rather deal with Cousin Lotho?  After all, he was born and raised right there in Hobbiton, center of the Shire, and was half Bracegirdle!  And for all he was eccentric Cousin Bilbo was one of the canniest folk as you could hope to deal with.  As for Frodo--he’s always been the most decent soul in the Shire.”

          “He swims.”

          She gave a disgusted sigh.  “You don’t trust him because he swims?  You yourself pointed out he grew up near the Brandywine.  His mother was the Master’s sister, after all.  Of course he swims.  And he’s as graceful in the water as he is on the dance floor--or at least he was.  They tell me he didn’t dance at his friend Sam’s wedding.”  Her expression had gone sad and thoughtful.

          They’d resumed their interrupted meal, and for a time they ate quietly, Basso and Orchid’s little lads eyeing their guests curiously.  Then the talk turned to a discussion between Ora and Bartolo on differences between how contracts were written in the Breelands and the Shire, while Orchid, Stevia, and Delphinium eventually began comparing Midsummer festivities.  By the time they were ready for their puddings the subject of Frodo Baggins had been largely forgotten.

*******

          They didn’t stay late, and Persivo was glad enough when they returned to the inn.  He and Petunia went off to play another game of draughts, and she told him quietly about the meeting earlier in the day with the Ranger and the King’s Messenger.  He beat her handily that evening, and they returned to the parlor to find their father had gone to the bathing room with Rikki, and their mother was combing Alyssa’s curls dry, their two sisters having gone to bathe just after they’d gone out.

          “But how could Cousin Frodo Baggins just disappear, falling off a table?” Lyssa was asking.  “Did old Cousin Bilbo Baggins leave him his ring what made him invisible?”

          “Oh, sweetling, that was but a story,” Delphie assured her.

          “That’s not what Cousin Frodo Baggins said at the Free Fair time before last when we went, Mummy.  He said that old Cousin Bilbo Baggins really did go with the Dwarves to get their treasure back from the dragon, and you know Mr. Glorinlas said the same.”

          “But I’ve never seen Frodo ever wear a ring, not even the one that used to be his dad’s,” her mother pointed out.

          “But if it was a ring to make you invisible you wouldn’t see it, would you?” Lyssa pointed out with the straightforward logic of a child who has it all worked out in her head.  “I mean, if it was a ring of invisibility you wouldn’t see either it or him if he put it on.”

          “And that’s not the type of thing one would show off, is it, Mum?” Begonia added as she brushed her own hair.

          “And maybe that’s what they were looking for--the ones who wanted jewelry--that ring that made you invisible,” Lyssa continued.  “No one as had rings taken ever got them back, did they, Mum?” she asked, looking up into her mother’s face.

          Delphinium paused, a lock of Alyssa’s hair caught in one hand, the comb held still in the other.  “Not that I’ve heard tell,” she finally admitted.  “But, morsel, there aren’t rings to make folks invisible.”

          “You didn’t used to think there were things like dragons either, did you, Mummy?  Dragons or Elves?”

          Persivo noted that his mother had colored at that.  “No, dearling, I don’t suppose I did.”

          “Then if there are dragons and Elves, maybe there are rings of invisibility, too.  And they do call Cousin Frodo Baggins the Ring-bearer as if that’s something important as he did.  I’ve heard the Rangers who was here call him that.”

          “You’re certain they were talking about my cousin?”

          “Yes, Mummy.  One said he had a letter to the King from Lord Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer himself.  I heard him telling Mr. Eregiel, only I didn’t know as it was Mr. Eregiel then, for we hadn’t had dinner with him yet.”

          Persi and Pet found themselves exchanging glances.  Their little sister was proving very perceptive indeed, they thought.

*******

          Sterday was a market day, and once Bartolo had set off for Mistress Gorse’s house to accompany the Mannish Lawyer to the Council meeting, Delphinium and her children set off for the market square.  Bored after a time with examining bolts of fabric and ribbons, Persivo, Petunia, and Enrico received permission to go off on their own for a time as well as sufficient pocket money to get themselves a couple pasties to tide themselves over to tea.  They’d settled themselves at a table designed for Hobbits near the stalls that provided freshly prepared food when a group of Dwarves settled themselves at the next table, very obviously leaving one place open for a companion the children must assume was fetching some refreshment for the rest.

          The older Hobbits had been ignoring the Dwarves until Rikki suddenly punched his brother’s arm.  “Persi,” he hissed, “they’re talking about us.  They’ve figured out we’re Hobbits of the Shire, and not from Bree.”

          The attention of Persi and Pet immediately fixed on the Dwarves, and it was obvious Rikki was right.  Three of the five were examining them directly, while the other two were giving them sidelong glances.  One of them, a somewhat shorter Dwarf with dark hair, rose and approached their table.  “Orin son of Bofur at your service,” he said with a most polite bow.  “You three are Hobbits of the Shire?”

          After a glance at his sister and brother, Persi rose, bowing himself.  “Persivo Bracegirdle son of Bartolo Bracegirdle, at the service of you and your family.  And these are my sister Petunia and little brother Enrico.  And, yes, we are from the Shire--from Hardbottle.”

          “Then you possibly don’t know the Ring-bearer--Frodo Baggins, then?”

          Persi felt himself flushing with mixed excitement and a surprising amount of embarrassment.  “I’ve seen Cousin Frodo Baggins a few times over the years, mostly at the Free Fair at Midsummers, although the last time was a few weeks ago at the Mayor’s office in Michel Delving.  But I have to admit I don’t really know him well.”

          Orin looked back at the others with an expression of triumph.  “I thought that perhaps you might know him.  I’ve not properly met him myself, although I saw him a few years back while we were traveling through the Shire.  Dorlin pointed him out to me as the nephew of the Esteemed Burglar Bilbo Baggins.  You do resemble him, you must understand; and you are obviously Hobbits of the Shire, and not those from here in Bree.”

          “Come, join us, if you’d like,” Persivo asked politely.  “Would you like a partridge pastie?  We have an extra few.”

          Orin son of Bofur agreed, and they were quickly seated together as a sixth Dwarf joined the other table bringing a platter of pasties and mugs of ale.  “I’m a sculptor among us,” he explained, “and our group has decided to go south to Minas Tirith to assist in the reconstruction there.  I’m told there’s a fair amount of damage done to statuary and wall carvings as well as to homes and guild halls and businesses, especially in the lower circles of the city, that needs repair, and Gimli has purposely asked Dorlin and me to assist in that.  I’d hoped to perhaps meet Lord Frodo or Lord Samwise or one of their companions while we went through the Shire; but it appeared that we were at least a day behind them all along the way as we traveled the Road.”

          “Then you’ve heard about what they did while they were away.”

          “Well, of course.  Gimli shared a great deal with our council when he returned to Erebor for last winter.  I came from Erebor to the Iron Hills earlier in the season to speak to my grandsire and granddam about the decision to go south, and they are in agreement I should follow Gimli and afterwards perhaps settle in the new caverns he’s discovered in Rohan and help open them.  It will be a mighty enterprise, and to know that both the Lord Elessar and Lord Éomer are as eager to see them opened as are we Dwarves is heartening.  I’ve never met the King of Rohan, myself; but the few times I met Lord Aragorn I was most impressed by him.  A most worthy soul he is; and it’s a matter of pride to know that my Cousin Gimli assisted him to win his Crown at last.”

          Rikki asked, “Why do you call Bilbo Baggins ‘the Esteemed Burglar’?”

          Orin laughed.  “When my father joined Thorin Oakenshield to seek out the Lonely Mountain to help find a way to perhaps steal the Arkenstone of Erebor back from Smaug the Dragon, Gandalf indicated that what the enterprise needed was a professional burglar to creep in and scout about, and perhaps actually find the gem and bring it out to them.  Plus my father was very superstitious, and didn’t like the fact that as only twelve Dwarves agreed to go with Thorin that made a party of thirteen.  You must understand--we Dwarves don’t like the number thirteen.  Not a good number, you know.  Now, twelve--that’s a good number--divisible by one, two, three, and four as well as six; a very good number, twelve.  But thirteen?  I ask you--what use is it?  Too large to be particularly useful of itself, and not divisible by any other proper number.  So when Gandalf suggested they take a burglar my father was all for it, for that would make fourteen, which is at least divisible by two and seven.  A far more propitious number than thirteen, you see.  And Gandalf suggested Bilbo Baggins.”

          The three young Hobbits didn’t begin to see at all, but were too polite--and astute--to admit they didn’t begin to understand what the problem might have been.  “But why do you esteem Bilbo Baggins?” asked Rikki.

          Orin smiled behind his dark beard.  “Why shouldn’t we?  He was clever and resourceful, did all that was expected of him and more, and had enough personal integrity to shame Thorin Oakenshield for allowing himself to become infected with the Dragon sickness.  And if he hadn’t seen the weakness in Smaug’s armor and let the thrush know, Bard the Bowman wouldn’t have known where to aim his black arrow so as to bring the Dragon down.  We all esteem Bilbo for his part in returning the Kingdom of Erebor to us and helping to see to the Dragon’s demise as well as for his attempts to remind us that quarreling with the Men and Elves nearby was destructive to all in the end.  Why, he even attempted to aid in the defense when the wargs and orcs came out of the Misty Mountains to assault our folk, even though he’d never had training in how to wield his sword.  My folk were shamed to realize that a Hobbit showed far more integrity and courage than they’d displayed to date, and it helped cool and clear their heads.”

          “And you respect our Cousin Frodo Baggins, too?” asked Petunia.

          “We respect all four of those who left the Shire the last time.  Again, they gave an example of courage, integrity, and willingness to spend themselves for the safety for all of Middle Earth beyond what others had thought of, and we were moved to cooperate with others, even the Elves of Mirkwood, to fight against the Enemy and his folk from both Mordor and Dol Guldur.  Between their example, that of Lord Aragorn Elessar, and that of Gandalf and the wisdom all shared from Elrond of Rivendell, we were prepared this time to fight together.  And now that the great war is over, we are finding ourselves cooperating with the Wood Elves of Mirkwood in the restoration of Aragorn Elessar’s southern capital, and will undoubtedly assist in its time with the restoration of the northern capital as well.”

          He examined them closely.  “And why are you here in Bree, Hobbits from the Shire as you are?”

          “Our dad and I are learning how to write contracts binding to the outer realm,” Persivo explained.  “Our dad was the first to be sent out for this training.  Cousin Frodo Baggins chose him for the training, you see.”

          Orin smiled.  “Excellent,” he said.  “I think no people should think to remain isolated from now on.  And certainly Lord Aragorn has indicated we will all benefit from increased trade.”

          At that moment the rest of the Dwarves rose.  “Orin,” one called, “if we don’t get our supplies now we won’t be able to leave at dawn tomorrow.”

          “Coming,” Orin called back as he rose.  “I thank you for sharing your pasties, but as Dorlin indicated we intend to leave early in the morning.  I wish you success in your studies, young Hobbits, and a good journey back to your home.  And if you see the Ring-bearer, convey our respects.”  He gave a deep bow and turned to hurry after his fellows.

          “See!” Rikki said.  “He called our Cousin Frodo Baggins the Ring-bearer, too.”

          Petunia nodded absently as she watched after the Dwarves.  “Yes.  Maybe Alyssa is right, and Frodo Baggins did have a magic ring.”

          “Maybe,” Persi agreed.

*******

          Alvric was straightening his surcoat as he approached the front door, where he found Carnation peering out through a crack.  “What is it?” he asked.

          “Another of Miss Denra’s suitors,” the Hobbitess hissed.  “That Delric Safflower this time.”

          He moved to the window to the side of the door, and could see a Man of medium build headed their way, carrying a rather ragged bunch of flowers in his hand.  Alvric personally thought the flowers appeared to be rather an afterthought, and as if they’d been snatched up from the verge and along garden walls as the Man walked through the village.  “Does she like this one?” he asked.  “I mean, should I allow him to knock on the door?”

          Carnation shrugged.  “He’s been here but the oncet,” she murmured, “and was polite enough, I suppose.  Not as she’s truly keen on him, what I can tell.”

          Alvric went back through the house to the still room where Denra was preparing a simple involving, from what he could tell, dandelion flowers.  “Mistress Denra,” he informed her, “I understand that Master Delric Safflower appears to be coming.  Shall I allow him to knock, or would you rather I sent him on his way?”

          She looked up with a sigh.  “Actually, he’s been one of the milder ones,” she said, “although I’m rather busy at the moment.  Perhaps you should suggest he return somewhat later in the day?”

          “Gladly,” he returned with a bow, and he returned to the front of the house where Carnation was opening the door to the caller’s knock. 

          “Yes, Master Safflower?” Carnation asked. 

          “Mistress Sandybanks, a pleasant Sterday to you.  I was wondering if Miss Denra was free.”

          Alvric moved into the gap in the doorway.  “Greetings, Master Safflower,” he said courteously.  “I’m sorry, but Mistress Gorse is involved in her still work.  She asks if you would consider calling back later in the day?”

          Safflower appeared to be taken aback, and looked between the Hobbitess and the Man.  “I--beg your pardon, Master.  I had no idea she was already in company.”  Alvric merely gave him a polite smile, until at last the visitor recalled himself, and found himself considering the bunch of flowers he held.  “I see.  Well, Master, if you will--will see to it that she receives these.”  With that he shoved the flowers at the lawyer and retreated rapidly and with a degree of confusion.

          When Alvric returned to the still room with the flowers, she gave a quick glance and a shake of her head.  “Mistress Mugwort will have his hide,” she predicted, “once she realizes he made off with some of her snapdragons and pinks.  She’s terrible proud of her snapdragons, she is.”

          “So I gathered from what Carnation has had to say.  Shall I put them in water?”

          “If you will,” she said, and indicated where a vase sat on a shelf.  “I suppose you could place them in the parlor.  And when will you be leaving?”

          “Master Bracegirdle ought to be here any time now, and we intend to leave immediately on his arrival.”

          “I don’t believe you will encounter any difficulties before the Council,” she commented as she saw the bottles she was working with corked and set upon the proper shelves.  “And I do thank you for reseating the stone for the stoop.”

          “I’m grateful to Master Helko for the aid he gave me in seeing it done--but it proved far simpler than I’d expected.”

          “He commented that you didn’t need very much direction, as if you’d done such work before.”

          “It wasn’t much different than laying paving stones at my uncle’s estate, I found.  I used to assist him when I was younger, with tasks about the place and with the skeps.  He kept bees, you see.”

          “I see.”  She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back at her.  “Did you help extract the honey from the combs?”

          “Oh, yes--I’d prepare the smoke smudges and help smoke the skeps, and even helped with the removal of the combs.  Once I helped capture a swarm and see it settled in a new skep.  I felt very excited.  Bees are actually very peaceful, you see, unless they feel threatened.  I found I liked working with the bees.  Now, hornets--that’s a completely different matter.”

          They both laughed.  “Yes, quite different from bees, hornets are,” Denra said, smiling.  “If you ever choose to give up lawyering, you might look to keep bees hereabouts.  I don’t know of anyone as keeps them at the moment.  The Heathertoes family used to keep them, but when Mat died in the defense of Bree itself they gave it up.”

          Alvric’s expression became more solemn.  “I grieve that such troubles came upon the Breelands and the Shire.  And to learn that Curunír betrayed these lands as he did Rohan and Gondor was such a shock!  The Wizards, after all, were all sent to succor all of Middle Earth, not to seek to take power over its lands and people.”

          He took out his lens, polished it on his surcoat, and examined the room through it, nodding his approval of the careful lines of bottles and jars.  “My mother used to work diligently in her still room,” he said quietly.  “She would brew the most delightful cordials, as well as certain draughts for when we were ill.  She’d be delighted with yours, I think.”

          Denra flushed a bit at the compliment.  “I do some brews, and then certain draughts for the use of the local healers.”

          He smiled as he met her eyes.  “That is wonderful.  I suspect the King would have enjoyed purchasing certain medicaments from you when he needed them, had he been aware you prepared them.  Did you ever sell to any of the Rangers?”

          She shrugged.  “A couple times to the Scribe, and once or twice to Strider----”  She stopped, and colored even more as she looked more deeply into his eyes, a delighted smile on her lips.  “Then--if Mr. Eregiel is correct, then I did sell to the King!”

          He laughed.  “He will most likely recognize your name, then.”

          She washed her hands in the basin nearby and dried them on the linen towel that lay there, then took up the basin to take it out to empty over the flowers outside the back door.  He followed her.  “I wonder if he’ll remember Fell’s name?” she said as they walked through the kitchen.  “I know he used to purchase honey from Mat Heathertoes and that several of the Rangers bought apples from the Appledore orchard.  But as Fell didn’t die here in the village itself it seems his name keeps getting left off the lists.”

          “Where did he die?”

          “He’d been visiting in Combe--seeing Agatha, the girl he’d come to fancy.  Her family raises sheep, and she spins and dyes wonderful yarn, you see, and they bring yarn, threads, and mutton into Bree about four times a year to the market here.  He was on his way back home when he saw the forces massing against our village.  He knew the lands better about here than they did, so he slipped into Bree to give warning, then after seeing to it as I was safely taken to the Prancing Pony in case they broke through the West Gate and fired any of the houses hereabouts, he slipped back out with three other Men to keep an eye on the ruffians.  They were spotted and attacked, and I understand as he was hit over the head with a club.  The other three got away, but not Fell.  They didn’t find his body for three days.  They’d treated it awfully, they had.”  She leaned against the doorway, the now emptied basin almost forgotten in her hands, her eyes bleak.

          He sighed.  “I see.  So many I knew died, also, in the war.  My cousin Garaldorn was a warden for the docks in Pelargir.  Some of the scout ships for their armada fired a warehouse, and a wall fell on him and crushed him.  And a friend marched on the Black Gates along with our Lord Aragorn Elessar and Prince Imrahil and Éomer King of Rohan.  He died there, I understand.  Captain Peregrin Took marched also with the Army of the West, and managed to kill a great troll.  They say he saved a friend from among the Guard of the Citadel as well as at least two others, although he was almost lost himself when the troll fell on him as it died.

          “As for what the Enemy had done to cause consternation and grief amongst the defenders of Minas Tirith--the Master of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers tells of finding the head of the son of a friend cast over the wall by Mordor’s catapults.  The enemy was vicious and merciless in its assaults on Gondor’s lands and people; while what Curunír did in Rohan--never have I heard the like!  The King has been most disturbed to hear he sent villains and half-orcs here to the Breelands and the Shire, and his pride for the courage all showed in casting them out is great.”

          Her eyes brightened and she straightened.  “The King is proud of us?” she asked.

          “Indeed,” he assured her as he slipped his lens back into his pocket.

          Just then they heard Carnation calling from the front of the house, “Master Alvric--Master Bartolo is coming!”

          He hastily filled the vase with water from the pump, then drying his one hand on the leg of his trousers he hurried off to the first parlor to set the vase of flowers on a table and then went to the front door, Holby rousing from his place by the fireplace to follow after, his stump of a tail wiggling rapidly as Alvric greeted the Shire lawyer.

Progress Reports

            Among the letters laid on the deputy Mayor’s desk was another written in green ink upon grey vellum, and Frodo found himself smiling as he broke the seal into which the shape of a holly leaf had been impressed and opened it.

My beloved Lord Frodo,

            I rejoice to report that the teaching of Master Bartolo and his son Persivo goes apace.  Master Bartolo is most intelligent, although I regret to say he shows little imagination, which is needful to appreciate difficulties before they befall.  The same is not true of the son, however, for young Persivo has a clear appreciation of how important it is not to allow words in a contract to remain ambiguous or contain a double meaning for fear such uncertainty might be abused.  I can see how he is more similar to this cousin Timono than is his father, although I rejoice to report that as far as honor goes he more clearly follows his father’s example.  His father speaks of apprenticing Persivo to one they speak of as “old Berni,” whom I am given to understand is the Master of the Guild of Lawyers within the Shire.  I believe the boy will do very well.

            We have added another Hobbit lawyer from here in Bree to our class, one who writes contracts for goods and services most predominantly.  He does not yet fully accept the renewal of the rule of Arnor and return of the King, although that is likely to change soon.  Meanwhile Master Bartolo and his son are coming to a more full appreciation of how their way of life mirrors and contrasts with the world of Men.  Rejoice, Lord Frodo, that your people are less complex and subtle than are Men, for you are spared much of the grief we who judge in the courts of the magistrates must face daily.

            We hosted the family of Master Bartolo yestereve for a dinner here in the home of Mistress Denra Gorse, who has graciously allowed me to board with her, using the rooms once inhabited by her brother Fell, who died during the attempts of Curunír’s folk to take power over the Breelands and the Shire.  I find myself quite liking Mistress Delphinium and the rest of the children born to her and Master Bartolo, and find myself admiring how Persivo and Petunia particularly more resemble their mother than their father in temperament and thought.  Meanwhile Mistress Carnation Sandybanks, a most wonderful Hobbitess who--does--for Mistress Gorse--that is how it is said, is it not?--is shocked to learn that there are yet Elves lingering in Middle Earth and that the Rangers she has been accustomed to distrust all her life are actually our Lord King’s own folk.

            There was one further guest at that meal--young Eregiel son of Miringlor, a cousin of some sort to our beloved Lord Aragorn Elessar.  He made much clear to Mistress Gorse and Mistress Sandybanks and Master Bartolo and their families about the true nature of the Rangers of Eriador and the desperate nature of the war fought elsewhere against the Enemy of all, although we have been most careful not to allow your particular part in it all to be described in accordance with your will in the matter.

            I find I rejoice to work so closely with one of your own kinsmen to assist warmer intercourse between my people and yours.  Master Bartolo and Persivo will ride with me to meet with the family that inhabits the property given to your maintenance on Sunday where we will work to finalize the terms of the lease agreement with them.  I must report that during our studies it has become obvious to young Persivo that the property in question has been granted to you and that the lease agreement to be written and signed is being done for your benefit; however, he also agrees to abide by the oath of secrecy accepted by his father, and will not speak to any other, not even his mother or sisters or brother, regarding the identity of the parties involved until proper leave is given by you.  However, there is no way I could begin to hide the fact you and Lord Samwise were ennobled in the outer world, not when your titles have been gladly proclaimed to them by Elves and Men before they met with me.  How much longer you may expect to hide that fact within your own land I have no idea.

            I wish you joy and the pleasure of the coming days as spring flowers into high summer.  And may the Valar continue to keep and prosper you, my beloved Lord Frodo.  A laita te.

                                                            Yours,

                                                            Alvric son of Maerdion

            The deputy Mayor didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed to know that his title and rank were known by the family of Bartolo and Delphinium Bracegirdle.  He knew he could trust the lawyer to keep quiet about it all once he returned to the Shire, and believed Delphinium and Persivo would follow suit; but as to what might be expected from the younger children--who could say what they might allow to let slip?  Although, once he thought on the case, he felt relief at the thought that few would accept the word of such younglings as the small lass and lad he’d seen in the office here a little over a month past.

            “A fascinating letter?” asked Tolly as he brought a mug of cider to set on the desk before Frodo.

            Barely sparing Tolly a glance, Frodo nodded as he saw the letter refolded and slipped into the folder in which he carried those contracts he took with him to review when he left the Mayor’s office.  “Regarding the progress Bartolo Bracegirdle is making in his studies on how to write proper contracts and agreements binding within the King’s lands,” he admitted quietly.  “He’s doing well, apparently.”

            “That’s good,” Tolly said, smiling.  “Honest as the day is long, Bartolo is, for all his Bracegirdle prickly nature.  How went the wedding in Bywater?”

            “Excellently well,” Frodo said, smiling up to meet his distant cousin’s eyes.  “Tom and Marigold appear quite happy, and Old Tom is fair beaming to know this double knot between his family’s and Hamfast’s.  No one appears to begrudge the thought taken away from the farm and its crops, although I was pleased at how the folk at the surrounding farms have given assistance at seeing to it the plowing and planting and cultivation were made in a timely manner.”

            “The strawberries are coming on apace,” Tolly noted.  “The Green Hills seem to be covered with strawberry plants this year, in fact, and there are white stars of the flowers everywhere.  I suspect we’ll have a bumper crop of them this year.”

            Frodo smiled, remembering a prank pulled on him the previous summer in Gondor.  “Well, it should keep even Pippin’s belly filled,” he commented.  “The young scoundrel!  Just don’t let him take any into the bathing rooms.”  And with a lighter heart Frodo began looking over the first of the claims for reparations set on his desk that day.

*******

            “This King--we hear tell he’s of the Rangers?” demanded one of those attending the meeting in the Grange Hall.

            “Yes, the chieftain of their forces.  He is descended directly, father to son, from the one you know as Arvedui Last-king, and came to the southlands to the defense of our capital against the direct assaults sent by Mordor.”

            “But, there isn’t any Mordor!” objected a Hobbit lawyer from, if Alvric remembered correctly, the village of Archet.

            Alvric took a deep breath to steady himself against the impulse to anger he’d felt.  Finally he said, “Just because your land has remained far from the thought and threat of Mordor all these years does not mean Mordor has not existed.  I must assure you it has endured, along with its cursed Master and his armies.  Few enough of the Enemy’s folk have come northward from Gondor, southward from Angmar, or westward from the Misty Mountains to trouble your lands of Bree and the Shire; but that has not been true of other lands and realms. 

            “Erebor of the Dwarves was lost when Sauron encouraged a Dragon from the northern wastes to fly south and east over the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood to the Lonely Mountain and Dale.  It took the cooperation of those survivors of the assault who fled to the few Dwarf-holds remaining in the Misty Mountains and the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains and a Hobbit of the Shire, Bilbo Baggins, to mount an assault on the Lonely Mountain to draw the dragon Smaug forth; and then the courage and skill of the descendants of Dale to see the dragon felled at the last.  Even then Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Eagles needed to fight together against a vast army of orcs and wargs come south from the Misty Mountains to seal the defeat of Sauron’s assault on their lands and peoples.

            “Now at last Sauron is defeated utterly, and again only because Hobbits of the Shire have left it to go at need elsewhere to see what needs doing done.”

            “You mean them Hobbits as come through here a year and a half back, then again in the fall?” demanded one of the few Men who attended the meeting as a member of Bree’s Council.

            “Yes, I mean those four.”

            “But what they told on their return--Black Riders and flyin’ beasts like but unlike dragons, fiery mountains and flowerin’ trees--it’s not to be believed!”

            “If you do not desire to believe the truth, that is your affair, of course, Master.  However, as one who has walked the devastation of the fields of the Pelennor before the walls of Minas Tirith, who saw the King crowned by the hands of Mithrandir himself, who rejoiced to give honor to the Ring-bearers, who saw the carcasses of fell beasts and múmakil gathered with great labor and burned along with the enemy’s catapults, I must tell you I have no choice but to believe.  For the first time in living memory when Anor rises over the peaks of the Ephel Dúath it does not illuminate the clouds of ash spewed forth by Orodruin, what you know as Mount Doom, in its torment.  Once again the city of Osgiliath rises on both sides of the River Anduin where it has lain in ruins for so many centuries, and we do not look to it falling again to Mordor’s troupes.  Our city walls are being repaired as I speak by Dwarves gone south to give honor to our Lord King Elessar; and the letter I received yesterday from the King’s city speaks of the arrival of Elves from Eryn Lasgalen to bring life again to its gardens and gifts of trees and singing birds to the delight of our people.

            “I have stood before the White Tree renewed in its flower in company with the King of Gondor and Arnor, and have seen the damage wrought by Nazgul, orcs, trolls, and evil Men and beasts.  I have seen the villages and fields of western Rohan growing anew out of the ashes left by Curunír’s armies as he sought to take that land for his own.  I have ridden in company with the King’s own kindred north up the way from the Gap of Rohan, and have seen now Hobbits, Ents, Elves, and Dwarves as well as the lands of your peoples--lands and peoples as much the stuff of the legends of my people as Mordor and the Winged Crown have featured in the tales you tell your children.”

            There was a general muttering amongst the company, but what he could determine of its import led Alvric to allow it to go on uninterrupted for some moments.

            Then the door opened, and Alvric noted that a group of Rangers as well as a Man in the Black and Silver of the King’s service had entered.  He bowed respectfully in their direction, then straightened and turned to address the assembly, which had gone silent as they examined the newcomers with mixed suspicion and curiosity.  “I now greet those who have come to represent our Lord King Aragorn Elessar, sovereign of Gondor and Arnor.  As I do not know all of them personally, I will have them introduce themselves.”

            “Black Glove,” he heard murmured as one of those in the grey-green cloaks led the rest further into the room.

            When again all had gone quiet the Ranger spoke at last.  “Yes, you know me as Black Glove.  However, my true name is Gilfileg son of Gilthor, and I am one of our Lord King Aragorn Elessar’s closer kinsmen.  We are of the Rangers of Eriador, and are the descendants of Elendil the Tall of Númenor and his people.  Once it was our people who filled all of the northlands with our cities, farms, and villages; but Elendil was hated deeply by Sauron both for the opposition the Man gave him when he came to Númenor and did his best to destroy the integrity of our lands and people, and again for the renewed opposition given when he returned here to Middle Earth to learn Elendil and his sons had survived to arrive before him and had set up lands of their own.

            “That hatred was compounded when Isildur managed to cut from Sauron’s hand the Ring of Power Sauron had again taken to himself as he made one more bid to crown himself Lord of all of Middle Earth, and when Isildur bore It away, allowing It to be lost in the depths of the River Anduin.  Always Sauron has attacked both Gondor and Arnor, and most especially those of the Line of Kings.  Eärendur did little good when he sought to make each of his three sons king each of his own realm; with Arnor divided into three Sauron found it easier to attack each smaller land on its own, and so he managed at the last to destroy two of the three Kingdoms and their rulers, until at last only Arthedain remained to take rule over the fullness of Arnor once again.

            “But we never again found ourselves respected by all of the peoples of what had been Arnor; Dunland was able to free itself of the control of both Gondor and Arnor, and has always listened to the blandishments of the Black Lands and Dol Guldur.  I cannot begin to recount the number of times our lands were invaded by their forces, or how much damage they have done to Arnor through the footholds they cut for themselves in what had been Rhuadar.  Ever Angmar has assaulted us from the north, although once Cardolan was no more the forces of that land have ever focused more strongly eastward where we of Arnor have maintained our largest remaining strongholds.  Those of your peoples who had settled amongst us there along the Mitheithel we moved westward for your safety, which is why Hobbits are now concentrated now here in the Breelands and the Shire, for those of your folk who refused to either move westward or return over the Misty Mountains back to the valley of the Anduin were destroyed by the forces of Angmar and southern Rhuadar.

            “We are what remain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, and as the protectors of your lands we have remained, working secretly to guard your borders against those forces stronger than you could deal with yourself.  And, unlike the folk of other lands, you have had little reason to fear goblin orcs or trolls, or the great wolves, for we have ever sought to keep them away from your lands.

            “My Lord Cousin is now King again of Arnor, and to him Elrond of Imladris has surrendered both the Rod of Annúminas establishing his rule over the northern kingdom as a whole once more, and the hand and heart of his beloved daughter, the Lady Arwen Undómiel, as his wife and queen. 

            “Now that my Lord Cousin is the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, we of the Rangers of Eriador will be more frequently seen throughout the northern realm, and our guard over your lands will be more open.  You will be allowed self-rule in almost all things; but in your dealings with the outer realm you will need to bow to the King’s laws--laws I doubt you will find particularly difficult to accept, as he has chosen to do his best to follow the example of the Shire and Bree in seeing the statutes of the two kingdoms rewritten.”

            After a moment of quiet murmuring, at last one of those present asked, “If your right name’s Gilfileg, why’n’t you told others this afore?”

            The small group of those in the grey and green of Rangers gave small laughs, and finally one of the older in the group answered, “And if we’d told you our true names and purposes openly, Dugal Sorrel, would you have believed us?  How many of you have accepted there are yet Elves living within Middle Earth?”

            “You believe them still here?” the Man identified as Dugal demanded.

            “I’ve ridden many times with the Elves of Rivendell and Lord Elrond’s sons, Elladan and Elrohir,” the second Ranger answered.  “Our Lord Aragorn dwelt in Imladris itself in the House of Elrond as a child to keep him safe from Sauron’s repeated attempts on his life, and was trained in warfare and healing by Elrond and Glorfindel and Elrond’s sons themselves.  Ever has Rivendell offered its own guard on Eriador alongside our patrols.  Ever we have dealt with the Elves of the Grey Havens, and our fishing and trading ships have sailed alongside theirs.  Ever we have traded with the wandering tribes and those who linger in what was the great kingdom of Lindon west and south of the Shire.  Elves pass through the Shire and the Breelands regularly, in fact, although they allow few to glimpse them, wary of dealing with those who view them with suspicion and superstitious fear. 

            “Few enough Elves remain in Middle Earth, and until now few among other peoples have they dealt with openly.  Now that Sauron is at last defeated more will leave Middle Earth at the last, and in time it is likely that none of the Firstborn will remain in the Mortal Lands.  Until then, it behooves us to learn what we can and what they are willing to teach us before they abandon us forever.”

            Sorrel then turned to Alvric, asking, “And you, Man of Gondor as you name yourself--do you believe in Elves?”

            Alvric gave his own small laugh.  “I have heard of Elves all my life, and have read the correspondence they shared with the lords of Gondor regarding the claims of Arvedui toward the Winged Crown.  Letters there were from Elrond of Imladris, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower,  Erestor, Lindir, Galadriel and Celeborn of Laurelindórenan, and others each offering it as his or her opinion that Arvedui and his beloved wife Fíriel together held strong claim toward the rule of Gondor, particularly as Fíriel was the only surviving child and heir of Ondoher, who had worn the Winged Crown last.  Almost I would have believed Elves but the stuff of legends in this modern day were it not for persistent stories out of Rhovanion about continued commerce with the Elves of Lorien, as infrequent as that might be; and more current tales about the woes of Mirkwood, said to be ruled by Thranduil and his sons.

            “Then came the last assault of Mordor upon Gondor itself, and when the black ships of the Corsairs of Umbar arrived they carried not more of our enemies, but the forces gathered in haste by Aragorn, who would be our King, and accompanying him were three of Elf-kind--Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil; and Lords Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris, the sons of Lord Elrond himself.  After the coronation of our Lord Aragorn there came another great riding of Elves out of the north, as Elrond himself came with the rulers of the other Elven lands to see Aragorn established as King of Arnor as well as of Gondor, and to see the wedding made between our King and Lord Elrond’s daughter.

            “When one has spoken to the likes of Elrond and Glorfindel, Thranduil and Celeborn, it is difficult to continue to disbelieve in Elves.”

            Again there was quiet murmuring throughout the room as those gathered discussed this news amongst themselves.  At last a Hobbit rose and stepped forward.  “Most of you know me--Hob Tunnely of Staddle.  I’ve told you all afore as I’ve seen Elves crossin’ my fields, and now mayhaps ye’ll choose to believe me.”  With that he stepped back and sat down again on the bench where he’d been seated with others from Staddle, and he took what could only be described as a defiant puff at his pipe.

            “Many of those Elves who regularly pass through the Shire will do so via Staddle, and so I will add my own testimony to yours, Mr. Tunnely,” commented Gilfileg.  “They prefer to approach the West Road from the north rather than to pass through Bree itself.”

            Again there was murmuring.  At last the older Ranger straightened himself.  “You have known me as the Bear.  My true name is Berenion, and I am one of those who train our younger Men when they seek to enter the service of the northlands as Rangers of Eriador.  This one beside me is Erador, one who was born in one of the most southern of our villages, in what had been Rhuadar.  The other there is Faradir, one of the aides to our Lord Halladan, who has been doing a survey of lands given for maintenance to two of our most recently named lords.  Faradir and Erador you have seen often enough in recent years; it has been longer since you last saw Gilfileg or myself, as we have served mostly along the northern and eastern borders of our realm for at least the last decade.  We are all cousins to one degree or another to our beloved Lord King Aragorn, and rejoice that in these latter days he has restored our realm once more.

            “We will not seek to cause difficulties to your people, but would ask that you put aside your long suspicions toward us now that we will again openly frequent the Breelands once more.”

            “And will you lord it over us and the folk of the Shire?” demanded Dugal Sorrel.

            “When have we lorded it over either the Breelands or the Shire?” Gilfileg asked.  “Even in the days of the Kings we never did so save when we forbade you to treat newcomers to the region unfavorably.  As for the Shire--out of the deep respect all hold for those who came out to help see the end of Mordor’s power, we will respect its sovereignty ever.”

            All had gone very quiet.  At last a Hobbit from Archet asked, “And how in Middle Earth did Hobbits of the Shire help put an end to Mordor?”

            “With great grace and faithfulness,” responded Gilfileg.  “Aware at last of the dangers facing all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, those four who passed through Bree each did much to see to Mordor’s fall.  We are alive and free today only because of what they did and due to their example of courage and endurance against the worst Sauron and Saruman could throw at us.”

            Alvric saw how all present were exchanging looks of surprise and, too often, disbelief.  “Courage?” he heard one Hobbit comment quietly to the Man seated beside him.  “Since when have Hobbits of the Shire been brave?”

            “You yourselves were brave in facing down Saruman’s ruffians when they tried to invade Bree,” Erador said.  “Had anyone told you that an army of half-orcs were coming your way to try to take over your lands but that you would successfully stand against them, would you have believed it?”

            “What do you mean, half-orcs?” asked Dugal Sorrel.

            “Saruman, known in Gondor as Curunír, had somehow been interbreeding orcs and Men.  How it was done, we don’t know; but we were advised by both Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc that this was true, and of the few we’ve identified as having been expelled from the Shire, two have been found bearing the orc taint in their blood.”  Gilfileg’s words were answered by another long, questioning silence.

            “Orcs--they the same as goblins?” asked one of the Hobbits.

            “Yes.  They are called yrchs in the Elven tongues, and orcs by most of us among the Dúnedain.”

            Barliman Butterbur at last broke the silence that followed that pronouncement.  “You say those Shire Hobbits were brave?”

            “Yes, very brave.  I’m not saying that they were fearless, for fearless and brave are not the same thing, you must understand.  But in spite of their fear each of them went on to accomplish remarkable feats, for they realised that giving into their fears would leave others in danger that they could not bear others should have to face alone.”

            Ora Watercress asked, “And that Hobbit that came here from the Shire and left with that Strider, the one who called himself ‘Mr. Underhill,’ what was his real name?”

            “His real name is Frodo Baggins.  He was advised by Gandalf to use a false name when he left the Shire as it was known the Enemy’s creatures were searching for a Hobbit named Baggins.”

            “And why was they lookin’ for a Hobbit name of Baggins?” asked another Man in the group.

            “It was known that a Hobbit named Baggins had found an object of interest to the Enemy during his journey over the Misty Mountains, and that he’d taken it back to the Shire with him when he returned to his home.  The Enemy sent his creatures in search of any Baggins who might know something about the whereabouts of that object.  Bilbo Baggins had left the object in question to his kinsman Frodo, and Frodo left his homeland to take it out of the Shire and hopefully to draw those who were searching for it away from his land and people.”

            “Did they find this thing?” asked Butterbur.

            “They found Frodo with it twice, but could not manage to capture him.  Others of the Enemy’s creatures threatened him several more times, and I am not certain how many times he managed to elude capture or escape from it.”

            “And he really knows this new King of ours?” asked Ora Watercress.

            Alvric answered, “Oh, yes, he knows this new King of ours.  I saw him at the King’s side first at the coronation before the gates of Minas Tirith, riding in the King’s company several times during his stay in Gondor, attending on the King during the wedding of our Lord Aragorn Elessar to the Lady Arwen, dancing at the King’s wedding feast, and during several of the King’s audiences and other feasts, as well as attending meetings with some of the officials from our Guild of Lawyers.”

            The one in black and silver now spoke up.  “I am Erengil son of Berestor of Ringlo Vale in Gondor.  I was a Guard of the Citadel and now serve as one of the King’s messengers.  I, too, saw all four of the Pheriannath from the Shire frequently in company with the King and Queen during their stay in Minas Tirith, and came to know Captain Peregrin Took personally as he, too, is of the Tower Guard.  I saw him take his vows of service under the Lord Steward Denethor son of Ecthelion, and renew his vows to our Lord King himself with the Ring-bearer standing witness.”

            Bartolo Bracegirdle wasn’t certain what made him add, “And I’ve seen letters as Frodo Baggins has received from Master Alvric, who was sent here by the King, and have heard the talk of all four.  I’m convinced they all know the King.”

            Gilfileg finally stated, “Other than the fact that it was due to a request made directly to the King by Master Frodo Baggins that a lawyer of the realm be sent to offer instruction to the lawyers of the Shire as to how to prepare contracts and agreements to be legal under the laws of the outer realms, whether or not he was the one who appeared in Bree under the name of Mr. Underhill is unimportant to the purposes of this meeting.  Are you prepared to choose lawyers willing to also receive such training during Master Alvric’s stay here in the Breelands?”

            “Why’d this Baggins want a Mannish lawyer sent up here to begin with?” asked Sorrel.

            “First, because he found that a good reason why the takeover by the ruffians who invaded the Shire was successful was because a couple of lawyers of the Shire conspired with his cousin to write illegal and inequitable contracts allowing that cousin to gain title to much of the land and property of the Shire that meant most to the land’s people, and on which he could house many of the ruffians as his own private army,” Gilfileg explained.  “He wishes that should such a situation happen again the properly constituted officials of the Shire might call upon the assistance of the officials of Arnor to help see things set right again, and he wished lawyers of the Shire prepared to write properly binding contracts and agreements with the outer realm.”

            “But what does he care?”

            “Frodo Baggins is family head for the Bagginses of the Shire as well as currently serving as deputy Mayor until Mayor Whitfoot is ready to return to full service.  As Lotho Sackville-Baggins was officially one of his own family of name and as deputy Mayor, Frodo Baggins has the responsibility to investigate this situation and make it right.”

            One of the lawyers from the Combe contingent examined Alvric closely.  “Why should we bother learning the laws of the outlands?”

            Ora Watercress gave a snort.  “I don’t know about your clients, Rodric Sackins, but I have several as deal in woolens and linens, wines and root vegetables, pottery and leather goods, wagons and teams as wish to help supply those as will be working to restore the old cities to the north.  We’ve seen the ridings here of groups of Men heading that way--Men carrying plans for the rebuilding of the old capital.  We’ve heard them talking in the common room at the Prancing Pony and have answered their questions when they’ve come to the markets looking for sources of fabrics and foodstuffs.  My clients, knowing as there’s those willing to pay for their goods and services, want to make certain the sales agreements are done properly that the King’s folks will see them properly honored for payment when the time comes.”

            Again the company broke into a low buzz of more excited comment.  Finally Barliman Butterbur asked, “Beggin’ your pardon and all, Master Alvric, but just how long are you intending to remain here in the Breelands?”

            Encouraged by a smile given him by Black Glove, Alvric set himself to answering questions regarding his personal mission within Arnor.

Appreciating Honors

            As they walked back to the Prancing Pony together from the Grange Hall, Bartolo Bracegirdle considered the question he wished to ask of Alvric son of Maerdion.  He was disturbed to find this question working its way through his thoughts, and under normal circumstances such a question would never have occurred to him.  However, these were not normal circumstances, and he was not dealing with a normal lease agreement, and definitely he was not working on writing a contract for one of his normal range of clientele.

            “Master Alvric,” he finally asked aloud, “why do all these folk call Frodo Baggins the Ringbearer?  Even you did today.”

            Alvric sighed.  He glanced around him, although whether it was to make certain they weren’t in immediate danger of being overheard or to assure himself Holby was following properly the Shire lawyer couldn’t be positive.  They weren’t, of course, the only party headed back toward the High Street and the inn; but they’d been among the last to leave the Grange Hall, having remained to speak with Master Watercress along with a number of other lawyers from Bree village who hoped to perhaps form the core of the next class.  The Rangers and the King’s Messenger were already gone ahead, and it didn’t appear that anyone else was close enough to overhear them now--not to Bartolo at least.

            At last Alvric answered, although of course it wasn’t the answer Bartolo found himself wanting.  “It goes back to the heart of the matter that Lord Frodo does not wish discussed, Master Bartolo.  Why he seeks to hide this I cannot fully appreciate, save that first he does not believe your folk will fully appreciate what it means; secondly, he appears to desire to protect you from the full horror of what he and the others faced; and thirdly, he does not desire to have to answer questions about it or have to discuss it on a regular basis.  I understand now more fully what it means to be one of your folk with your innocence of the ways of the outer world, and where even your Mayor and Thain hold not the authority to truly command or rule others but instead merely to suggest and guide and to form and govern the forces that serve and protect your people from within your borders. 

            “It was a matter of much amazement that although none questioned the right of Captain Peregrin or Sir Meriadoc to be addressed by their military titles--or at least when they wore their uniforms, none of the four of them appeared particularly comfortable with the idea of Lord Frodo or Lord Samwise having their ennoblement acknowledged aloud.  Within the Citadel all who are employed and serve within its precincts were instructed to speak to all four as “Master” and no more, unless Captain Peregrin or Sir Meriadoc was accoutered for duty.  Often when Master Samwise was addressed by title he would truly fail to appreciate it was himself that was being addressed; Master Frodo would go markedly pale and he would either turn away and refuse to recognize the one addressing him or would employ a look that it was learned could quail the greatest and most arrogant of the lords of the realm and the most influential and powerful officers of the forces of Gondor.”

            Bartolo was surprised to find his lip twitching.  “Used the Old Took’s Look on them, did he?  Him and old Bilbo--both were good at it.”

            “Look?”

            Barti shrugged.  “Old Gerontius, him as we’ve always called ‘the Old Took,’ was famous for his ability to quell foolishness with his expression.  He lived to the age of a hundred and thirty.  Old Bilbo was one of Gerontius’s grandsons, and Frodo’s a great grandson, and Merry Brandybuck and Peregrin Took are great, great grandsons.  For the most part old Bilbo was an amiable soul, but he inherited the Look and a tongue to match, and when truly annoyed would employ both.  Now, usually when he’s unleashing the Look, Frodo won’t speak at all, although when he is forced to speak he will do so, short and to the point and enough to singe the tips of your ears, or so it’s said.”  Alvric noted that Barti flushed a bit.

            “I’ve never heard tell of either Merry or Pippin using the Look, much less Thain Paladin.  But for Frodo Baggins--he could use it even as a teen.  Plus, apparently after he went to live in Bag End with old Bilbo, at some time he learned how to fight.  Aunt Lobelia, of course, told it about he was quite the bully with that punch of his; but the Shiriffs and our Boffin relatives insisted she was turning it all around--that the only time he ever punched anyone was to stop them from hurting or bullying others.  Lotho and that Ted Sandyman, the miller’s son in Hobbiton--they both got punched by him a time or two--great louts, they always were as lads.  But I’ve never heard tell of him ever striking anyone more than once, actually.”

            Alvric, he noted was beginning to smile appreciatively.  The Hobbit examined the Man’s face.  “Then he hit someone there in the King’s city, did he?” he finally hazarded.

            Alvric nodded.  “Yes--an envoy from Umbar who thought to accost and abuse him.  It was apparently the second time the fool had approached him with indecent proposals that day, and it appears this second time he was quite intoxicated.  I’m told Master Frodo was apologetic for the fact it took two blows to subdue the Man.  But Prince Legolas of the Great Forest and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth were both quite impressed, and the description given by our Lord King’s Elven brothers, who witnessed the event, was quite lyrical.  Apparently no one had told our Lord Aragorn Elessar that your kinsman had such a skill, and he’d proved to be barely capable of protecting himself with a blade.  Had any of those seeking to train him known he was so talented they would have sought to train it further, although it is difficult to effectively use ones fists against those armed with swords or knives.”

            “What about this King of ours?”

            Alvric shrugged, although a smile of pride was clear to be seen.  “All say that he is among the greatest among Men in the wielding of sword and knife, although his kinsman Lord Hardorn, who is captain of his personal guard, is almost as good with a blade and is said to be better with a bow and--other weapons.  Both, it is told, were trained in warcraft by the Elves of Imladris, and there are no greater warriors anywhere than Elves, or so it is said.”

            After a moment of thoughtful silence Barti asked, “What happened to the envoy?”

            The Mannish lawyer gave a sigh.  “He was taken to the prison for the night and brought for the King’s judgment the next day.  He was ordered branded and into enforced servitude, somewhere here in the north.”

            “Branded?”  The Hobbit felt confused.

            “With a hot iron, with a D to indicate he is a degenerate.  The leader of the embassy failed to seek to intercede on his behalf--and neither did he seek to intercede for the spymaster and slaver who was condemned with him.  The three remaining envoys were ordered out of the city and our lands, and sent back to Umbar with a treaty of our devising to present to their lords.  None of them felt in a position to seek to negotiate better terms, for the King himself is capable of quelling others with a look, or so we have found.

            “Indeed,” he continued, remembering tales he heard from Lord Berevrion on the way to Bree, “I am told that when your kinsman and our King quarreled both were seeking to command the other with his own look.”

            Barti stopped short, shocked at the idea.  “But Frodo appears to love the King.  He speaks of him and his eyes grow soft and he looks right proud.”

            “And our Lord King certainly loves Lord Frodo.  However, even those who love one another dearly will quarrel at times, and both our Lord Aragorn Elessar and Lord Frodo are filled with great self-will.  Such is necessary for one seeking to rule such a people as ours, and was definitely needed for one charged with the quest for Mount Doom such as Lord Frodo achieved.”

            “What is this Mount Doom?” asked the Bracegirdle.

            The Man turned away and continued to walk toward the inn, although they continued on slowly.  At last he said, “It was a volcano--a fiery mountain from which molten rock flowed, in the heart of the land of Mordor.  It is said by those who went to the final battle before the Black Gate that when all was done and the Black Tower collapsed and the walls and gates of the land and much of its army were swallowed up by the earth itself, that they could see the Mountain, far, far off in the distance, tearing itself apart.” 

            Suddenly the Man stopped, his face white with alarm.  “I may speak no more of that, save that Orodruin served in its day as Sauron’s forge, and there it was he forged his greatest weapons for use against the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  Whenever he sent out his battalions of orcs against the people of Gondor he would torture the mountain to spew forth vast clouds of ash that they not be forced to march under the direct light of the sun, for his folk could not bear the light of Anor, while mountain and cave trolls will turn to stone if exposed to sunlight.  There were many trolls, I am told, who were sent against the city of Minas Tirith, and it has caused us much difficulty to deal with the forms of those among them that turned to stone when the wind changed and the Enemy’s clouds were ripped away and the light of day was allowed to shine upon the battlefield.  Not all trolls react so to sunlight, though--many of the great fighting trolls merely fled eastward again through Osgiliath, back toward Mordor’s walls.”

            As they reached the inn’s doors, Bartolo paused.  “I still have not received the title and deed for this land Baggins has been granted, and I cannot finish the lease agreement properly without those.”

            Alvric opened the door to the place and held it politely for his companion to precede him.  “I know.  I believe, however, that this Faradir who came to the meeting earlier has been entrusted with them.  Shall we see if he is within the common room?”  And followed by Holby they went into the Inn of the Prancing Pony.

 *******

            Begonia was furious.  “Alyssa--look what you’ve done to my hair ribbons!  Mummy--she’s ruined them, using them on the hair of her new doll!  And they matched my best frock!”

            “Well, Dolly needed some, and only you had some of the color to match her dress,” Alyssa reasoned.

            “But you didn’t have to cut them up like that!” her older sister wailed.

            “They were too wide and long for her if I didn’t,” the younger lass began.

            “But they weren’t yours--they were mine!  And Auntie Lavinia said she had to order them special for me!  Mother!”

            Bartolo, who’d walked into this scene, hastily backed out again and hurried back to the common room.  He’d had too much experience with Begonia’s temper when someone ruined one of her things to want to be there now.  No, he’d allow Delphinium to deal with it, not that she’d thank him, of course.

            Master Alvric sat still at the table in the corner with the three Rangers who sat there, Faradir, Berenion, and Gilfileg.  It seemed odd to see the shorter Man sitting in the midst of the three tall kinsmen of the King, his light hair, fine and somewhat wispy after being blown about by the wind out in the streets and lanes, quite a contrast to the sleek, darker hair of the three Rangers.  Gilfileg noticed his approach and spoke to Faradir, who rose and brought a higher stool from a position between this table and the next to allow the Hobbit to sit much at a height with his companions.

            Many of those who enjoyed the Pony’s hospitality and ale that night watched him with quiet exclamations of amazement that any Hobbit, even one from the Shire, would seek out the company of such folk.  But others watched with growing curiosity and even admiration--the word that the Rangers were the King’s own folk was making its rounds throughout Bree, and although not all fully believed the news as yet, still those who felt free to associate with them were coming to be accounted as being important.

            “I thought you were going to retire to the private parlor so as to spend the evening with your family,” Berenion said.

            Bartolo shrugged, turning to address Jape the barman and request a half of the inn’s finest, then turned his attention back to the older Man across from him as he laid the great file he held down on the table’s top.  “My daughters,” he said, his posture rather stiff as he perched himself on the stool, “have chosen to quarrel tonight.”

            The Man laughed.  “Ah, daughters!” he said, shaking his head in sympathy.  “What mine will do to one another at times is beyond belief.”

            “Do they fight over hair ribbons?”

            “No--neither appears to care for hair ribbons.  However, let Gloringilien touch her sister’s bow, or Gilmorien Glorin’s harp, and one would think a pair of wargs were warring behind the doors to their rooms.”

            The Hobbit looked at the Man amazed.  How old he was was difficult to determine, but he must be elderly; his hair had a good deal of grey to it, and his beard was almost totally white.  And his daughters claimed ownership to bows and harps?

            Realizing how his words appeared to have shocked the lawyer, the Man explained further, “Our home is in a walled village some fifteen miles south of the border with Angmar.  Many of our women are trained in the use of a bow, and many in the use of other weapons as well, for when our enemies come, whether Men from Angmar or orcs and trolls from the mountains, they will not spare women or children--this they have proven many times over.  My wife died twenty-six years past with an orc arrow buried in her side.  I will not have the same happen to my daughters if I can help it.  They are far better archers, both of them, than any orc, and their bows boast better range than those wielded by orcs.  No enemy has come close enough to our walls to send arrows over it since my daughters and several others of our women began training with the bow, shortly after their mother’s death.”

            Remembering Eregiel’s statement that he always was on guard, and that the worst ambush he’d fought against had taken place in his own people’s fields, Bartolo was once again struck by how dangerous life was for other peoples, and he felt his scalp prickle.  “And for us,” he commented, “goblins are rarely thought of save for the claim that the Bullroarer knocked the head off the leader of those who sought to enter our lands in the Battle of the Green Fields and it landed in a rabbit hole, leading to the interest we have in our sport we call golf.”

            “We are told those came from Moria.  You are fortunate, for such are much smaller than most of their kind, and less capable under the light of sun, moon, or stars.  How they got past our guard we have no idea, but after their leader died those who survived fled your borders, and we were able to find and slay a goodly number, or so it is reported in our annals.  Of course, the number of those who patrolled the borders of the Breelands and the Shire was far smaller in that time, for we were recovering from another of the waves of illnesses the Enemy ever sent against us.”

            “Your people guarded our borders even then?”

            It was Gilfileg who answered, “Yes, as we’ve ever done.  You cannot appreciate how much we have ever rejoiced to know there are at least a few retreats within Eriador where most of the time all is well and peaceful, and where the dangers facing most of Middle Earth rarely come.”

            Jape returned with the requested mug of ale, followed by Persivo, who asked rather tentatively if he might join them.  “Begonia and Alyssa are almost at blows, Dad,” he reported, “and both intent on getting Pet to side with them.  She’s about to barricade herself in our room to get away from both of them, and Mum is hard pressed to keep Gonya from slapping Alyssa silly.”

            “I see, lad,” Barti said, his face clouded.  “Would you like a half?”

            Persivo smiled.  “Oh, yes, Dad,” he said appreciatively at this recognition of his maturity.  Barti looked his request at Jape, handing him two coins instead of one, and the barman nodded his understanding as Faradir found and fetched a second taller stool and brought it for the younger Hobbit’s use.  “Thanks so much,”

            Faradir smiled, commenting quietly, “It is my honor, sir,” to which the lad flushed.  “For the sake of Lord Iorhael I would do almost aught ever requested of me by those of your people...” he continued until Gilfileg elbowed him in the side.

            “From what Berevrion has told me, every time you addressed him so Master Frodo would go white with embarrassment, and the rest would roll their eyes,” the Man with the black glove on his hand commented, his expression rather severe.

            “Iorhael?” Bartolo asked.  “The directive I have from--from my client indicates this is his name in Elvish?”

            “Yes, in Sindarin,” agreed Gilfileg.  “Once word went abroad that Frodo son of Drogo was fleeing the Shire pursued by the Black Riders, the meaning of his name was noted and further reports were made in Sindarin with his name translated to that tongue as well, for such would have less chance to capture the attention of the Enemy’s creatures should such reports be overheard.  Not all who are allied with the Rangers of Eriador and the Elves of Rivendell are literate, after all; and written missives in such hands could all too easily attract the attention of those such are employed to avoid.”

            “Yet I do not feel comfortable speaking of him as if he were but a commoner,” Faradir objected.  “He and Lord Perhael accomplished so much, after all....”  At a glare from Gilfileg, however, the Man went silent.

            Jape returned with Persivo’s half-pint, nodding at Persivo’s word of thanks and looking back over his shoulder with narrowed eyes as he turned back toward the bar once more.

            Once the barman was out of earshot, Alvric explained to the Hobbits, “It is customary for those ennobled to have documents filed in their names identified in either Sindarin or, in some cases, Quenya.  Lord--Master Frodo did not appear to be particularly uncomfortable with that of our customs, and even admitted that he had been known to use that name within the Shire when he was dealing with some to whom he did not wish to identify himself properly.  Apparently ‘Frodo’ itself is not precisely a commonly used name among you?”

            Barti shrugged, a slight scowl on his face.  “I understand it’s been used a time or two in the past, but Baggins is the only one I’ve known in my lifetime.”

            “Iorhael is occasionally bestowed upon children within Gondor as well,” Alvric admitted.  “I knew one child so named when I was younger, and there is a merchant and artist in the Fifth Circle of the city of Minas Tirith who has that name as well.  I purchased a painting of the city he did shortly after I was accepted as a lawyer of the realm.”

            “I never heard of Baggins introducing himself as Iorhael,” objected Barti, setting down his mug.

            “He spoke of it during a meeting with the Guild of Lawyers of the capital he attended alongside the King,” Alvric explained.  “He did not relate the specific circumstances, however, only said that at times when he did not wish to be recognized as himself he would inform those he’d recently met to address him as Iorhael.”

            “Well, there’s none from Michel Delving to Whitfurrow or within Buckland or the Marish who wouldn’t recognize him, I’ll warrant,” the Bracegirdle insisted.  “Well, maybe those down south-aways in Buckland, perhaps, or far north in the Northfarthing, or near the borders toward the Western Marches or through much of the Southfarthing.  But most of those as are Bracegirdles, Goolds, Longbottoms, Hornblowers, and such even in the Southfarthing are relatives and would recognize him from the Party, even if they’d not seen him since old Bilbo left Hobbiton.”

            “Who is to witness the agreement?” asked Persi.

            “Baggins has indicated he wants it witnessed by Oridon and Ordo Goodbody, and Merimac Brandybuck for the Shire, although I’ve not yet heard who will witness them from outside the Shire,” his father answered him.  “Oridon and Ordo are his bankers of discretion, you understand, and would be bound by their own oaths of secrecy against speaking further about it all.  I don’t know much about the Master’s brother, but I doubt, once Frodo asked him to keep quiet about it all, as he’d speak of it to others, perhaps not even to Saradoc.”

            “Merimac Brandybuck has an excellent reputation even here in Bree,” Faradir said quietly.  “In the days before simply riding between the Bridge and Bree became dangerous he was often sent here to conduct Buckland business.  I escorted him a time or two.”

            Having drunk half his mug of ale, Persi looked curiously as Gilfileg.  “I know you are called Black Glove, but was wondering why you always wear one?  Do you ever take it off?”

            “At times,” the Ranger admitted, “although not particularly often, not among those who don’t know me well.  However,” he continued as he undid the fastening that held the glove tight about the wrist and worked it off his hand, “I do so to spare others from seeing this,” displaying his right hand, pale white where the rest of his skin was darkly tanned, from which his middle and ring fingers were missing.

            Persivo and Bartolo straightened in shock and revulsion as a look of compassion filled the face of the Mannish lawyer.  “Years ago,” Gilfileg said quietly, contemplating how his hand had been maimed, “I asked for and was granted permission to go south to Gondor to serve in its forces.  Always there have been a few of us who have done so, although few among whom we served have realized where we came from.  I was seriously injured while out on a scouting mission along the borders of Mordor and Rhun, and I had to hide for some days.  The wound festered, and I could not take time to properly clean or care for it, much less get to a proper healer.  In the end, having exhausted my water and refusing to take water from the Dead Marshes I made a foray eastward, and lost consciousness on the edge of an oasis beyond the borders of Rhun.  There I was found by a warlord among the Rhunim and was taken as a slave.  However, he also had the healer of his company see to my wounds, and I recovered.”

            “And that’s how you lost your fingers?” asked Persi.

            “No,” the Man admitted, shaking his head, “not then.  After I was recovered a council of the warlords was called, and my new master was required to bring me before them.  They thought I was from Gondor and wished to know what information I could give them regarding Gondor’s forces and their movements.  I told them I was a new recruit who had been a hunter and tracker before, which was true enough, although I was not quite as new a recruit amongst the Rangers of Ithilien as I told them.  I insisted I knew nothing of the movements of Gondor’s armies, as I was too newly accepted among the Rangers, and kept on insisting that even when they sought to torture the truth out of me.  What little I told them was of changes done some weeks before I was separated from my own troupe, and as they already had knowledge of those changes it was of no real use to them.  After they removed the second finger and I still refused to change my story they finally believed me.  I lost consciousness then, and I was told afterwards I called out in Adunaic--they by then were certain I originally came from Umbar.

            “As I left Aragorn’s side with his permission to go southwards, he advised me that if I were ever given the care of children I was to remain with them until they began training as warriors.  My master set me as tutor to his grandsons.  That Aragorn is subject to foresight is well recognized amongst us, you understand.  Now that I found myself given the care of a Rhunish lord’s grandchildren I felt honor-bound to remain with them for as long as they were allowed to remain with their mothers. 

            “Once they were removed to the warrior’s tents, however, at last I realized it was time to leave them, and so I escaped.  So long had I remained with them without trying to escape they had no idea I would attempt such a thing; but my years with them had given me knowledge of their lands and habits and the placement of water sources, and it was simple to find my way out of their lands and back to the company of other scouts and Rangers from Gondor.  I’d thought to remain in the service of Gondor for some years more, but the commander to whom I was taken in Ithilien brought me not to Captain-General Boromir but all the way back to Minas Tirith to an audience with the Lord Steward Denethor himself.  He saw that my hand was now disfigured and would not accept my service again, although I am by nature left-handed and the loss of these fingers does not impede my use of a blade.”

            So saying, he replaced his glove.  “So,” Persivo said slowly, “the fingers are stuffed to make it appear your hand is normal?”  At a nod, he continued, “Is that how Cousin Frodo Baggins lost his finger?”

            But the Man was shaking his head.  “It has been made plain to us that this knowledge your cousin does not wish made known to your people.  I fear that you need to ask that question of him, although whether or not he would answer you I could not say.”

            “He didn’t,” Bartolo Bracegirdle almost growled, and all turned their attention to him.  But at their looks of curiosity he merely glowered, and Alvric changed the subject.

 *******

            When they returned to the private parlor they found Delphinium sitting with her head back and a damp cloth across her eyes.  She lifted the corner of the cloth as they entered, giving her husband a distinct glare.  “That was a cowardly retreat, Bartolo,” she commented, replacing the cloth and leaning her head back again.  “Lyssa is in disgrace, and I requested that trundle bed for her use for tonight, at least.  She’s been sent to bed in our room.  Begonia was furious when I told her to go to bed also, but at last she went.  Petunia tried to get her calmed down, but at last I sent her out to the porch where the games are to get away from all that she not make things worse.  Enrico came in filthy from playing with the other lads--apparently they were seeking to construct a hole.  He just returned from the bathing room and I’ve sent him off to bed as well.  I’d say give Gonya another half an hour and it should be safe for Pet to go to bed also.”  With that she removed the cloth and laid it on the table as she rose.  “Now I think I will go to bed and seek to imagine I don’t have two such as Begonia and Alyssa.  Good night, Persi, Barti.”  So saying she turned to the room she’d been sharing with her husband and went in, closing the door firmly behind her.

            The remains of a simple meal sat on the table, and the two of them sat down to serve themselves.  At last Barti said, “You may as well go out when you’re done eating, son, and fetch Petunia back in, although if you would wish to remain and play a game of draughts I doubt your mother will fault you.  It is still early, after all.”

            Persi nodded.  “Thanks, Dad.”  Then, after a time of silent eating, he asked, “Was everyone shocked to learn this Strider is our new King?”

            “The subject of which Ranger it is who’s the new King didn’t come up,” his father answered, somewhat dryly.  “Just accepting the fact that there is a new King and that he’s been chieftain of the Rangers appears to have been more than enough to handle for most of them, it seems--that and that the Rangers themselves are actually decent folks and not feckless wanderers who only happen to break up fights in town.”

            Persi grinned appreciatively.  “And that our four are all friends with him must be almost more than they can bear, I’ll wager.”

            Barti’s expression grew more distant.  “Yes.”

            Realizing that there must have been some talk also about Cousin Frodo Baggins that his father didn’t wish to discuss, Persi focused on eating the rest of his supper as quickly as he could.  At last Barti snapped, “Don’t bolt your food, lad--you’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”

            Flushing, Persi murmured, “Yes, sir,” and slowed down his eating.  Yes, his dad was unhappy about what he’d learned about Frodo Baggins--Bartolo’s children were becoming far too familiar with the expression. 

            Once he’d finished eating Bartolo opened the packet that contained the deeds and property titles he’d been given, and quickly his expression grew even more sour.  At last he looked up.  “As you go out, would you ask one of the Rangers to join me here.  I can’t read these things!”

            As he rose Persivo gave a long look at the document his father was examining, noting it was written in a script he’d never seen before.  “What language is that?” he asked.

            “No idea!” his father growled.  “Some form of Elvish, I must suspect.  Well, get on with you!”

            Persi hurried out the round door from the Hobbit’s parlor and started back down the corridor to the common room, but met his quarry near the stairs to the upper floors where the four Men had stopped to talk before Alvric and Holby left the inn for Mistress Denra’s home.  Seeing them all standing, he felt a bit faint--it had been easier when he’d sat atop the tall stool in the common room than now when all were standing and the three Rangers towered even over Master Alvric.  “I beg your pardon, Masters,” he said somewhat diffidently, “but my father asks if one of you might join him in our private parlor.  We neither of us can read those deeds, you understand....”

            Gilfileg gave a deep sigh and both he and Berenion cast looks at Faradir, who at least had the grace to flush.  Alvric, however, was focusing on Persivo.  “Oh, I ought to have thought of the fact that these deeds would not be written in Westron.”  He looked to Faradir.  “Are they written in Sindarin or Adunaic?”

            “Partially in one and partially in the other,” the Ranger admitted.

            Alvric was shaking his head.  “And I do not understand more than the most basic of Adunaic,” he sighed.  He looked at the other two.

            Gilfileg and Berenion exchanged glances, and at last the younger of the two gave a brief nod.  “I’ll go, then,” he said.  “I’m more fluent in written Westron than you are, having served in the south kingdom.”

            Faradir objected, “But Lord Iorhael is conversant of Sindarin.”

            “Perhaps, for certainly Master Bilbo is knowledgeable of the language, and has studied Quenya as well.  But how likely is it, do you think, he is fluent also with Adunaic?  Master Bilbo had known Dwarves and Elves prior to his removal to Rivendell, but little in the way of Man to that time--and probably none who wrote and spoke in Adunaic.

            “However, as the one to write the lease agreement is Master Bartolo and not Master Frodo, he has need of one to translate.  I wonder if I can get any paper from Barliman?”  So saying, he indicated the rest should return to their rooms and he nodded for Persivo to accompany him first to find Master Butterbur and then show him the way to the private parlor used by the Hobbits.

            At his father’s indication he should withdraw, Persi hurried out of doors, finding his sister playing a game of Fox and Geese with the King’s Messenger, who’d changed from his uniform tabard to a long-sleeved shirt of an undyed linen.  Erengil was describing his home, and soon Persivo was also rapt as they listened to his words, picturing in his mind a building of stone three stories high, surrounded by high hills and low mountains, almost hidden in the valley of a swift-moving river.

            “Is that how the King’s home is like, also?” asked Pet as he finished.

            “I know little enough of what the homes of his people here in Eriador are like, save that Gilfileg tells me villages are small and scattered, and usually fortified.  His home now, however, is the Citadel of Minas Tirith in the Seventh Level at the top of the city, and it is a mighty place, adjacent as it is to the Tower of Ecthelion.  The Citadel itself is a massive building, of course.  At the front is the entrance to the Hall of Kings, tall and austere....”   Persivo, who sat himself nearby, listened along with his sister, fascinated by the description the Man was giving of white stone buildings and black slate roofs, great statues and paved courtyards, ramparts and a tower many stories high, the White Tree before it with the fountain beside that.

            At last Petunia sighed.  “I can’t imagine such a thing,” she admitted, “so big a place and so high as you say.  The King must feel lost within it at times.”

            “Yes, I suppose he must indeed feel so, for all he has now his wife beside him, for he tells he spent most of his years wandering the wild places of the lands, as a Ranger of Eriador and a mercenary in other lands besides, even sailing the Sea on the trading ships of his people.  He often wakens in the night, it is said, and goes out to walk through the gardens and about the Citadel, often finding his peace beneath the White Tree.  And it is told that when the Pheriannath dwelt in the White City after the victory over Mordor, Lord Frodo would often walk with him and they would take comfort speaking together under the light of the stars.  It appears both were often restless in the night.”

            “I wonder if Cousin Frodo is still restless at night?” Petunia considered.  “But if he likes gardens at night he ought to be happy living in Bag End again, for everyone says that the gardens there are the most beautiful anywhere in the Shire--or at least they used to be, before Lotho moved there.  But since Cousin Lotho and that horrid Sharkey are both dead and Aunt Lobelia gave Bag End back to him, Sam Gamgee’s supposed to be making the gardens right there again.  Cousin Benlo says that Lotho and his horrid Big Men had built ugly sheds all over it, but that they’re all gone now.”

            Erengil was shaking his head.  “He and Lord Sam spoke often of the beauty of the gardens of his home.  To return to find such destruction must have torn at the hearts of both.”

            “It must have,” agreed Persivo.  “And from what Cousin Benlo said last time I saw him, they’d had to redo much of the inside of the hole as well, for the Big Men had done much damage of the walls and floors and such.  I know it was months Cousin Frodo stayed on the Cotton’s farm the other side of Bywater before he returned to Hobbiton. “

            Erengil shook his head.  “After offering their lives for all of Middle Earth to see Mordor brought down, neither Lords Frodo nor Samwise ought to have had to find such.  Was it so with Sir Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin as well?”

            Pet answered, “From what we heard, Lotho’s folks never quite made it into Buckland or the Tooklands properly, for the Brandybucks and the Tooks all did their best to keep them out.  It must of been easier for the Brandybucks, as they live the other side of the river and to get beyond it was hard with the Ferry damaged and the boats all hid and the roads mined.  The Tooks set archers all around their inner borders and shot at any as tried to come in, I understand, although a few managed to get enough into both lands to fire some fields and farms here and there.  And the Big Men were all looking to catch any Brandybucks or Tooks as they could find as well as them as tried to argue with them, and took them all to the Lockholes they had in Michel Delving.”

            Persivo shuddered as his sister finished with what she’d said, adding, “I’ve seen them--those Lockholes.  They was--were just storage rooms with walls made of beams and boards--whatever the ruffians found to make outer walls and doors of sorts out of.  Many of those as were locked up in them were just nailed in.  Not like the new ones as deputy Mayor Frodo’s had fixed, as have stone walls and floors, good beds and privies and tables and chairs and all, clean and dry and comfortable, at least.  Those as helped Lotho take over, those as was the worst, at least--they’re properly locked up so’s they can’t hurt others, but they’re not kept from having light and air or made to live with their own stink.”

            Erengil sighed.  “Sounds as if Lord Frodo’s continued to be a wise and compassionate one, then.  But it will distress our Lord King to know his friend’s own home and gardens were so damaged and that he’s become convinced his own land requires a prison now.”

            They sat quietly together for a time before Petunia asked, “Was it bad--the war, I mean?”

            The Man nodded, his eyes sad.  “I don’t remember when there wasn’t a war, it seems, for Sauron has ever had his orcs and trolls and other slaves and allies assaulting our lands all my life.  My uncle was one of those who sailed on Gondor’s warships that patrolled our coastlines to watch for assaults from Umbar and Harad and other lands, and he lost his leg when I was only six and was sent home to the Ringlo Vale, after his ship was attacked by Corsairs.  His ship won the battle, but it was at the loss of almost half the crew dead or wounded.  My cousin came to Minas Tirith, and because he was such an excellent archer and he was an experienced one in mountainous and forested terrain--he’d been trained as a hunter as a youth--he was chosen to become a Ranger of Ithilien.  He barely survived the assault on Osgiliath, but he also was gravely wounded and was in the Houses of Healing for three months.  My company was sent out upon the Pelennor twice during the siege of Minas Tirith, both times behind Prince Imrahil and his Swan Knights.  Much of what we did was to bring those who had been injured within the city walls, and after the siege was broken and the battle won we helped to set up the healers’ tents on the edge of the battlefield and brought the injured and dying there.

            “I was set to guard the encampment for those Men who fought for the Enemy--their commanders often treated their own wounded as badly as they did ours, and I had to save a few of the enemy soldiers from their own captains.  I wasn’t sent to the battle before the Black Gate--I offered, but my captain asked I remain behind for he said he respected my cool head and felt I could help see to it order was better kept there before the city.  As Men were released from the Houses of Healing or the city of healers’ tents I was set to give each duties to perform as he could, so I saw how many tried to serve, as sorely wounded or crippled as they might be.

            “The walls of the city are within sight of the Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow that served as the west walls of the land of Mordor; and beyond their heights could ever be seen the smokes and steams released from Orodruin, Mount Doom, the great volcano of that land where Sauron had his own forge.  All within the city could see the great brown clouds of ash released before Sauron sent his Nazgul to lead his armies against Osgiliath and the capital; and then again after the King led away the great army that assaulted the Black Gate.  We felt the moment when the Cormacolindor stood upon the brink in the Sammath Naur, and then felt the earth shake as the Ring fell into the depths of the volcano, into the fount and river of fire that lay at the roots of it.  We saw the great rising of shadow as Sauron rose that last time, then the lightening of the air as the West wind came to tear away the last of his veils and the might of Mordor fell to nothing.”

            The two young Hobbits looked into the eyes of the Man, lost in the memory of that time as he was, saw the awe reflected there.  “We saw the first transports of the injured from that battle, and the returns of the greenest troops.  The reports given of the battle----”  He was shaking his head.  “Our men were outnumbered many, many times, and were all ringed about.  It ought to have been a slaughter of our entire army, but that was forestalled when the Cormacolindor reached the Fire and the Ring went into it.  The two of them ought to have died there, but they did not.  The great Eagles came to help in the battle, and they helped ward off the assaults of the Nazgul themselves--then when the Ring was destroyed they carried Mithrandir in search of the Cormacolindor, helping to rescue them when they lay dying on the sides of the remnant of the Mountain.”

            He looked into their eyes.  “It was not the fighting strength of our armies or the endurance of our forces that won the war at the last, but the determination of two to reach the Fire as they could.  All wondered that they were yet alive when found, although there was question for many days that they would remain that way.  Yet they prevailed, and many who would have died lived and returned to the delight of their loved ones, and our children at least will know relative peace.”

            “We could see brown clouds--south and east of us,” Persivo said.

            “I am not surprised.  When were they dispersed?”

            “March twenty-fifth, last year in the spring.  I wrote it in my journal.”

            Erengil nodded.  “Yes, that was the day.  The end of Sauron’s might, for without his Ring he cannot rise again.  And the Valar would not receive his spirit among them.  He is left less than the whisper of malice within the mind.”

            He looked out at the sunset to the west.  “You had best go in, for it grows late.”

            “Yes, thank you,” Petunia said, rising, and Persivo did likewise.  Erengil rose and gave a very respectful bow, and the two young Hobbits found their way into the inn.  Begonia was apparently asleep, snoring slightly, and her face still a bit flushed and marked with tears of anger, when Petunia changed to her night dress then peeked out to let Persivo know he could come in at any time.  For a time the lad sat watching and listening to his father and Gilfileg working on the deed that was for the property on which the client’s new tenants were now living, but at last he tired of it and followed his sister into the bedroom, wondering how long his father would be at it.

 *******

            Alyssa found the trundle bed provided to be uncomfortable, and missed the comfort of sleeping with her sister.  She woke frequently and wished she had her picture book of poems her mother had found at the public market at least to look at.  Whoever had done the pictures had done a wonderful job, she thought, and the short poems were funny. 

            Apparently her mother was also having difficulty sleeping, considering she’d lit the lamp and was lying on her side reading the book she’d bought for herself at the same time she’d bought the smaller volume for her daughter.  Then the door snicked open and her father entered, obviously exhausted as he rubbed his eyes.

            “Did you get the deeds today?” her mother asked.

            “Yes, at last--not that most of them do me much good, or at least not yet.  Most of them are copied in different languages, and I’ve learned one is an Elvish language, while the other’s a Man’s language apparently brought from the Sea King’s island when they came here.  Fortunately the one for the property in question’s in the Elvish language, and Mr. Gilfileg appears to speak it well enough, and he can read and write the Common Tongue--seems as not all the Rangers do, although almost all of them at least know this Sindarin.

            “I’m rather glad as it’s a Man’s deed, I think, for it’s shorter than what it’d be if it was for Hobbits.  Translating it didn’t take all the time as I’d been worried as it would take; but I’ll need to ride the bounds and see as the boundary markers show proper.  Apparently there used to be a Men’s house and farm there--seems as it was deeded to the daughter of the King of Cardolan as part of her dowry when she was married to the son of the King of Arthedain, so it remained property to the descendants of that King, and they seem to be still living.  Apparently originally there were four parcels, each with its own deed that was part of these dower lands, and--and the client has received two of them and the other two went to someone else.”

            “Well, did they go to Frodo, Merry, or Pippin?” she asked.

            Lyssa could hear the change in her dad’s voice as he responded, “And what makes you think as it’s one of them?”  She rather thought he sounded suspicious.

            “Who else is knowing descendants of kings in the north kingdoms, Barti?  Although I suppose as it could be Sam Gamgee--but I’d put money on it being Frodo, myself.”

            “I mayn’t speak of it, lovey,” he answered stiffly.

            Delphie’s voice changed.  “I’m sorry, dearling--it was unfair of me--I know you’ve been made to take the oath.”

            “Thank you,” he said rather shortly.

            Lyssa heard her father shed his clothes and put on his nightshirt, then heard him approach her trundle bed.  She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t realize she was awake, felt him leaning over her and a gentle touch to her hair, and heard him return to the bed and it creak as he slipped under the covers on the opposite side from her mother.  After a time she heard Delphie murmur, “It’s so late--I wish you weren’t having to ride so far tomorrow.  You’ll be exhausted when you get back.”

            “It’s part of the job,” he sighed, yawning.  “At least I have most of the contract itself outlined, although I’ll have to arrange with my client to meet regarding the rest of the deeds when we return.”

            “Persi regretted not being able to attend the meeting.”

            “So he told me, although he appeared to enjoy talking to more of the Rangers in the Common room.  How long do you suspect Gonya’s going to be unbearable?”

            “At least two more days.  Could you take Alyssa with you tomorrow, do you think?”

            Lyssa was surprised at that, and felt a tingle of excitement at the idea, although she was reasonably certain her father would refuse.  She wasn’t surprised, then when he said, “And how am I to manage that?  She doesn’t know how to ride, after all.”

            “She could ride before Persi.  But Gonya’s going to treat her awfully if she stays with us, I fear.”

            Bartolo mumbled something.  Then he asked, “How’s the headache?”

            “Much better.  I suppose we can look for ribbons tomorrow.  Alyssa will have to pay for them from her pocket money.”

            “She ought to have done that already to purchase ribbons for her doll instead of cutting up those of her sister’s,” her dad pointed out.

            Alyssa paused.  She’d not thought of that.

            “She is a child yet, dearling.  Did they discuss the war again?”

            “A bit.  And the Rangers repeated that they’ve been keeping watch over the borders of the Breelands and the Shire for centuries, and that’s part of why there’s been little to disturb us.  And--and they say as some of those Big Men of Lotho’s weren’t strictly Men at all, but were part goblin.  And they say our people used to live elsewhere, somewhere east of here.”  He was quiet for a bit, then added, “One of the Rangers has been to Gondor--says as he was captured by enemies and tortured.  Wears a glove to hide the fact as he’s missing two fingers.  And another was telling of his daughters fighting over harps and bows.”  He continued in lower tones, “Seems as we have had it very peaceful compared to many folks.  He says their village has been attacked by enemies several times, and even the womenfolk will learn how to defend themselves.  And did you ever hear of Frodo introducing himself as ‘Iorhael’?”

            “I don’t think so--no, wait.  Seems to me that at that house party when we were young he was telling Dremma and Linden that his name in an Elvish tongue was something like that.  I suppose Bilbo must have told him that.”

            “Elvish.  Seems as there’s more than one Elvish tongue.  My mind’s in a whirl with all this talk of war and Elves and all.  I’m about ready to go home, I think.”  He yawned again.  “Not much longer, I hope.  Love you, dearling.”

            He kissed her, and Delphie reached over to turn out the light.  Alyssa rolled over and thought about what she’d heard.

Boundaries

                Breakfast was a chilly affair, for Begonia was determined to be as nasty as was possible to her sister, intent on punishing her for the insult given her ribbons.  By the time the meal was done even Bartolo was reconsidering his intention to leave his youngest child, knowing she would have to deal with her older sister.  But how he was to take her with them he couldn’t imagine.

                As the family went out to the stable to see father and brother prepare for their ride, they found that Faradir was waiting there already with Master Alvric and his horse Jongleur, Holby already in his carrier and peering eagerly out at them through its top.  Alvric quickly noted the discomfort between Begonia and Alyssa, and was giving Bartolo a questioning look.  And when Lyssa, eager to examine the finely detailed stirrups of Faradir’s saddle, accidentally trod on Begonia’s foot and Begonia fetched her such a clout on the side of the head that the smaller child was knocked sideways into a hitching post the lasses’ father finally had enough.  “Alyssa,” he directed, “Go in now and fetch your cloak and something to keep you occupied.  I’m not leaving you here with your sister in such a mood.”  And as the lass, her face lighting with pleased surprise, hurried back into the inn the lawyer rounded on his second child.  “You have every reason to be angry that your sister took your things without permission and damaged them as she did, but no right in Middle Earth to clout her in this way.  If you don’t show more self-control by the time I return, I will have one of the King’s Men take you to the Brandywine Bridge and have you stay in the Bridge Inn until we can return to you.  Do you understand?”

                Shocked at her father’s threat, Begonia simply nodded.  “Yes, Daddy.  I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered through pale lips.

                “Good.  And I’d best not hear any tales of you giving Pet or your mother any grief today when I get back.”  So saying, still stiff with fury and mortification his family would act this way before the King’s folk, Barti turned back to speak with Bob.

                Two saddles and bridles were borrowed, and soon Spotty and Dottie were readied for the ride.  As Bartolo was checking the cinch and the fit of the bit in Spotty’s mouth Delphie came up alongside him.  “I’m sorry, love, but am glad you’ll take the lass with you.”

                “I won’t allow her sister to abuse her.  It was but an accident, after all.”

                Faradir, who’d been accepting the store of prepared food brought out to them by Nob, commented, “She won’t necessarily be bored, for Master Hedges has two daughters and sons with him, and I believe his Anemone is near your daughter’s age.”

                Ricki was wild with envy at his little sister’s chance to spend the day meeting new Hobbits on the property belonging to their father’s mysterious client, and was casting her looks as dark as those given by Begonia, looks Lyssa was blithely ignoring as she returned with a bag over her shoulder in which she’d stowed her doll and the poetry book.  At last Bartolo and Persi swung into their saddles, Faradir lifted Alyssa to sit in front of her brother, then he and Alvric mounted and they set off toward the market square where the four ways out of the city met and they turned northward toward the gate.

                The way was lined with observers, for it wasn’t every day the folk of Bree watched Hobbits riding alongside Men, and the two ponies, white spotted with black, were quite a contrast to the Ranger’s dun and Alvric’s dark brown gelding.  Dottie insisted on trotting almost as close alongside Spotty as she ordinarily strode as they pulled the trap or coach together, and Persivo found himself having to watch she didn’t get so close he and his father rubbed knees.  Alyssa spotted Freesia and Bettina Sandheaver and was waving with eagerness and pride, so much so Persivo found himself grabbing her hand.  “Put my eye out, Lyssa, and I’ll set you down and leave you right here and now.  Have a care!”

                The lass refused to feel chastised, however, and was soon looking up into her brother’s face to exclaim to him about the new sights they were seeing within Bree.  At last her father gave a sigh of exasperation.  “Oak and ash, child--can’t you be quiet just for a time?  It’s enough to set any head spinning, all this chatter.”

                Outside the north gate they were soon joined by a young Man, probably much of an age with Persivo, each of the Hobbits judged.  Faradir smiled, turning to the Hobbits and explaining, “My son, Tergion.  He’s been staying with the Hedges and helping to excavate their hole.  Master Alvric son of Maerdion, the King’s council; Master Bartolo Bracegirdle of the Shire as council to the Lord Iorhael; his son Persivo and his daughter--and I fear I do not know her name.”

                “Alyssa,” Bartolo said shortly, “and more trouble this day than snails in the garden, I fear.”

                “I’m in disgrace,” Lyssa explained, not a sign of contrition to her.  “Daddy’s taking me with him so’s Mummy doesn’t have to deal with my sister being mad at me all day.”

                Tergion tried stifling a laugh and almost choked, and Persivo found he couldn’t help laughing, too.  Bartolo sighed and rubbed at his eyes, and asked a grinning Faradir, “About how long’s this ride going to take?”

                They eventually crossed a bridge constructed of beams and heavy boards to the west side of the Brandywine, following a track that was barely to be seen as it wound its way southward again.  They found they were being watched for.  A pole gate now closed off the rutted lane that led onto the farm, and a lad opened it so they could ride through and closed it again afterwards.  As they halted their mounts before the smial a sturdy Hobbit came out from the door to the left accompanied by a yapping, slightly shaggy small dog, nodding his greetings as he dried his hand on the towel he had tied about his waist as an apron.  “You’ve made good time, it ’pears,” he said.  “Welcome to you all.  Hush, Lister, and mind your manners.  Elevenses are about ready, if’n you’re hungered.”  He watched as Bartolo dismounted and reached to take Alyssa from her brother.  “This is your lass, is it?  Anemone and Lilia’ll be right pleased, they will--they miss their lass friends from Staddle.”  He leaned down to look into Lyssa’s face once she was set upon the ground.  “I’m Boboli Hedges, at your service, little miss.  That--” pointing at the lad who’d handled the gate and followed them into the yard, “--is Teoro, and his older brother Holdfast’s in the stable seein’ to it as there’s feed for your animals ’longside our Poppet.  Teo, fetch Lister back inside afore he sets one of the ponies rearin’ at the sheer noise of him--there’s the lad.”  At that Lister stopped his barking, and was now standing on his hind legs perhaps closer than was wise to one of Jongleur’s rear hooves, sniffing up eagerly at Holby, who was craning trying to see the other dog and whom Alvric was vainly trying to hush.  As Teo finally managed to scoop up his own dog, Boboli straightened, examining them all.  “Master Faradir--your Tergion’s been quite the help--helped us put in a window frame today, he did.  This is going to be quite the smial when it’s done.  And we found some more goods today as you’ll like to see, I’m thinkin’.  And if’n you’ll tell me as who these all are?”

                In moments they were introduced, while an older lass and Teo came out to set up supports and laid over them trestles to serve as a table and a smaller lass came out carrying a cloth to set over it.

                “These are my daughters,” Bob explained as an older Hobbit lad in his late tweens approached from around the ridge.  “Older one’s Lilia, and the younger one’s Anemone; and here’s my older lad Holdfast.  Lasses, this is Alyssa Bracegirdle, Master Bracegirdle’s youngest lass, I’m told; and this is his son Persivo, who I understand is studyin’ to follow his dad into lawyerin’, while this is Master Alvric.  And Holdfast here--he’ll be takin’ your beasts, if’n that’s all right with all of you.”

                Teo looked up at their guests with interest as Holdfast and Tergion led the ponies and horses away.  “Is it interesting, learnin’ lawyerin’?”

                Persi flushed a bit.  “Well, I think so, and it sounds as if Master Alvric here felt the same way when he was learning about it.”

                Teo turned to the smaller Man with surprise.  “You studied lawyerin’, sir?  But I didn’t think as any Men liked lawyerin’--I’ve never seen a Man as was a lawyer afore, at least.”

                Alvric laughed as he shrugged, lifting Holby out of his carrier and holding him under one arm..  “Well, as no Hobbits have ever lived in Gondor that I’m aware of we Men have had to do it for ourselves.  Although we do more with our ‘lawyering’ than I’ve seen so far with the business of the folk of Bree or the Shire.”

                Barti eyed the Mannish lawyer sideways before turning his attention on the lad.  “From what I can see, being a land of all Men, they’ve found ways to make their laws fairly complicated.  Sounds as if they need their lawyers as much as we do--if not more.”  He turned to their host.  “If we can assist you and your children with the meal, we’d be glad to do so.”

                It was plain that Boboli Hedges was a decent cook, and with the mushrooms and greens for the salad they could tell that the family had already discovered several natural sources of food and took excellent advantage of them.  Lister and Holby, having been each given a bone, sat under the table near the feet of their respective masters, each working on his own meal and eyeing the other with a greater chance they’d get along afterwards.

                When the meal was half over Persivo asked, “And how did you come to decide to settle here, Mr. Hedges?”

                Boboli shrugged again.  “First come this aways long ago, when I was a tween.  Me ’n’ my brother, we’d sometimes take a few days to get away from the farm--go out and explore the lands around us.  One summer after hay harvest we went west toward the river, and found this spot.  I loved it from that day, and come here once every year or two since.  When Holdfast was old enough I’d bring ’im with me, and two years ago Teo as well.  We’ve always looked at the ridge here and thought as how right it would be with a smial dug into it.

                “Then--when the ruffians come, not all went to Bree.  Some come further north, they did, and come into the farms about Staddle.  Didn’t bother the farms of Men, but they attacked those as us Hobbits held.  Us Littles--at least four of our farms were hit.  My dad died, and they’d caught my wife comin’ back from the barn.  We had a calf what was motherless, and she’d gone out to nurse it one last time afore we went to bed.  They--they wasn’t gentle with her.  She survived at the time, but her spirit was broke, and she finally died.  It was more’n I could take, thinkin’ of goin’ back there and rebuildin’ all as they’d burned, for they’d set torches to everything.

                “So, we decided, the childern and me, as we’d come here, away from the memories, build a new life together.  And you can imagine as how shocked as I was when Master Faradir there rid up to here one day to tell us as the land’d been give to another and we’d need his permission.  Although,” he added rather sternly toward the taller Man, “you’d of done well had you told us this Lord Iorhael’s proper name.  We had a right time of it, tryin’ to learn as which one o’ the four it was as we was seekin’.”

                Faradir flushed.  “I’m sorry,” he sighed.  “I have managed, I’ve learned, to leave more in confusion than I’d intended, what with speaking of Lord--Master Frodo by his title and Elven name and by not taking thought to the fact that few outside our own people and the Elves of Rivendell can read or even speak Sindarin and Adunaic.  I humbly beg your pardon.”

                “Then Cousin Frodo Baggins used a different name in Gondor?” asked Lyssa with interest.  “Pet will want to know....”

                Bartolo sighed and covered his eyes.  “Ah, lass--what am I to do?”  He looked at her seriously.  “Mr. Baggins,” he said rather stiffly, “has let it be known as he doesn’t wish for folks to discuss his business with others who don’t already know.  You can’t be discussing this with your sister, you see.”

                “Why not, though?” she demanded.  “And why does he have a different name for there?”

                “It’s not a different name--it’s his name translated to a different language,” Anemone told her.  “He told us when we visited him at Bag End.  Both mean ‘wise one’.”

                “Oh,” Alyssa responded.  “Then you got to come to the Shire?”

                “Yes, Dad and Teo and Lilia and Lister and me.  It’s a beautiful place.”

                “And we got the tour of it, we did, chasin’ reports o’ Mr. Frodo Baggins from the Bridge to Hobbiton to Michel Delving and back again,” Bob added, smiling and shaking his head.  “And we managed to meet Mr. Brandybuck and Mr. Took as well, there at the inn where we was stayin’ in Bywater.  Amiable folk, they are.”

                Barti shrugged, feeling a bit uncomfortable, uncertain any more with whom he might discuss what.  “I’ll need to ride the boundaries as it appears the distances are a bit long for walking,” he said rather formally.  “Have to verify the boundary markers.”

                “We can do that,” Boboli nodded.  “Not what we could move any of ’em.  Can’t figure as how them standin’ stones was placed to begin with--they’re not from local stone, can say that.”

                “The ancients who raised them appear to have carried stones in some cases hundreds of miles from where they were quarried,” Faradir agreed.  “Aragorn says the circle of standing stones beyond the Barrow-downs was made from stones that had to have been brought from the Blue Mountains west of the Shire, while the central stone came from the Misty Mountains, far to the east.”

                “What’s he know of that?  How would he get past the Barrow-downs?”  Boboli was surprised.  Many, many evil stories were told about the Barrow-downs, after all.

                Faradir shrugged.  “He braved them once, among the first times he patrolled in the region.  He won free, but said it was not easy.  Many die or go mad who trespass amongst them, for the wights who dwell there do not love the living.  And he spoke also of seeing the Eldest afterwards, who it’s said dwells there in the Old Forest.  It is said that he alone walks untroubled amongst trees and the barrows, and the wights avoid him as they cannot evoke terror in such as he.”

                “Why do they call him Eldest?” Alyssa asked.

                The Ranger shrugged.  “According to the oldest stories told amongst us, Iarwain has always been there, that he awoke there, first of all within in Middle Earth; and has taken the Old Forest as his own domain.  And perhaps it’s because he lives amongst them that the trees of that place are at least half-aware, and many limb-lithe, or so it is said.”

                “Is he an Elf?” Persivo asked.

                “I don’t believe so--a child of the Powers, perhaps, but not an Elf.  Little interest has he ever shown toward the outer lands; but it is to preserving the memory of the days before the rising of Anor and Ithil it is said he’s been given.”

                After the meal Boboli, Bartolo, Persivo, Alvric, and Faradir, with Holdfast uncertainly riding behind the Ranger, rode out about the boundaries of the plat of land described in the deed, heading first north, paralleling the river.  “The land along the Baranduin itself and a quarter mile each side of it isn’t part of the grant,” Faradir explained as they rode.  “Always that much leeway has been granted the river itself, for with spring flooding it has been known to have changed its bed from time to time.”  The rest nodded their understanding as they rode. 

                At last they approached the red standing stone that was the first boundary marker.  Persi was impressed.  “I’ve never seen such a large standing stone before,” he said.  “Did the Sea Kings put it there?”

                Faradir was shaking his head.  “From what we’ve been able to gather from what the Elves and annals tell, most of the great stones were raised during the First Age or during the dark years of the Second Age, while our ancestors dwelt on the Star Isle.  Some of the stone constructions appear to have been raised in honor of Sauron or Morgoth; but more appear to have been intended to mark where the Sun and Moon will rise and set at particular times, or to mark the movement of the wandering stars or the placement of particular constellations at various seasons of the year. 

                “This stone would probably have been the either a place to stand at, or a stone to be watched from different angles to assure when the seasons change or the Sun reaches her zenith on Midsummer or her lowest point at Yule.”  He glanced around him, then nodded at a series of mounds that could be seen in an arc north of the stone.  “I would suspect that either the stone was watched from different ones of those mounds to see the Sun or Moon to rise over it, or the shadow of the stone reaching those mounds was believed significant.”

                Somewhat warily, Holdfast asked, “Are those tombs, like the barrows in the Barrow-downs?”

                “I don’t know if they’ve been opened,” Faradir admitted.  “But my people would not have been likely to have done so, in honor of those who raised them.”

                All attested to the fact the stone was in place, and they now rode westward toward the grey monolith.   It took them two more hours to return, at which time Lilia, Teo, and Tergion had a meal ready for them.  Bartolo was stiff as he dismounted and allowed Tergion again to take his pony’s reins.  “The King’s farmsteading, was this once?” he asked of none in particular.  “A great place it once was.”

                Faradir, having helped Holdfast down, agreed.  “Yes, part of the dower lands granted to Anelisë of the house of Cardolan when she married Celepharn of Arthedain.  The next lies further west of this, and the other two great plats lie north of the first two.”

                “And the King granted these to Frodo Baggins?”

                “The two closest to the borders of the Shire were granted to Lord Iorhael and the other two to Lord Perhael.  I am uncertain he was aware of the exact placement of the lands he granted here in Arnor; three more plats he granted each closer to Annúminas, and then two, one each, along the banks of the Mitheithel.  He was most insistent those plats be given them.  I was a bit surprised at that insistence.  They are perhaps six miles apart and no longer adjacent as has been true of the other grants, and the deeds are the others besides these four written in Sindarin.  Also, one of the witnesses granting those lands to the King’s disposition was Elrond of Imladris.”

                “Elrond? Thought as that was an Elf’s name.”

                “Indeed--Elrond has been lord of Imladris, or Rivendell as it is more commonly known in these days, for much of the last two ages of Middle Earth.  The son of Eärendil the Mariner and the Lady Elwing, and twin brother to our own ancestor, Elros Tar-Minyatur, who chose mortality and was granted the Star-isle of Númenor on which to found his nation.  Lord Elrond has fostered, trained, and educated his brother’s royal descendants here within what was and is again Arnor for the past three thousand years, since the return of Elendil and his sons to Middle Earth.”

                They were now waiting to use the basin and ewer set out for their use on the end of the makeshift table prepared for their late luncheon.  “Then you’re saying as the King is a nephew of sorts of this Lord Elrond?” Barti asked.  “And is this ancestor Elros or whatever his name is still knocking about?”

                “No--as I stated, Elros chose mortality for himself and his descendants, while his brother Elrond chose to live in accordance with the life of the Eldar; and to him is granted the right one day to sail one day to Aman, the Undying Lands, as has been granted to the Elves of Middle Earth.  But to his children is granted the same choice granted to their father and uncle.  Our Lady Arwen made her choice when she accepted the suit of our Lord Aragorn to become his wife----”

                “Then the King’s married his cousin?” Barti interrupted.  “Stars and dreams!”

                Faradir appeared amused.  “Many, many times removed.  Captain Peregrin immediately began calculating just how many times removed once he understood the relationship, but I must confess I cannot remember the number he settled upon.”

                “And what does ‘Perhael’ translate to, if ‘Iorhael’ means ‘Wise One’?”

                “Half wise,” admitted Faradir.

                Bartolo Bracegirdle straightened stock-still, looking up into the Ranger’s eyes.  Frodo had advised him, but now it was hitting home.  “Then this Lord Perhael--” he began slowly through a very dry mouth, “--this Lord Perhael’s a--a gardener!!”

                “I will advise you of this, Master Bracegirdle--our Lord King himself is also an accomplished gardener.  I’m afraid our Lord Aragorn has no care for the profession of those he honors most.  But the first to suggest the honor were the Great Eagles, you see; and the two of them are honored equally by all the Free Peoples--Eagles, Ents, Dwarves, Elves, and Men, and I hope also by your own people the Periannath.”

                “And how are we supposed to honor them when we’re not even supposed to know what it is they’ve done?” Barti raged.

                Faradir shrugged, dropping his eyes.  “A fair question, I must admit.  I am certain that your--Thain, Mayor, and Master have all been advised of the state of affairs, and what it is that the Ringbearers accomplished....”

                “And there that is again--that Ringbearer tripe.  What does it mean?”

                Persivo, standing behind his father, himself paled.  “So, that’s it,” he murmured.  “Cousin Frodo Baggins--he’s the one as went to Mordor--him and Sam Gamgee!  They’re the ones--the ones as went to Mount Doom!”  He collapsed to sit upon the ground, and drew his knees to his chest.  “That’s what they did--they had It--the Enemy’s Ring!”  He looked up into Faradir’s eyes, his face white.  “No wonder they don’t want to talk about it--don’t want it gossiped about!  Who’d believe it?  Who’d understand?  And--and it’s changed them!”

                “Even so, small master,” agreed Faradir as he went to his knees by the lad and felt the pulse at Persi’s throat.  “Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc have been most concerned, for they feel their beloved cousin has lost much of his capacity to experience joy and pleasure since his experience, and Lord Perhael grieves for this as well.  But Lord Perhael had waiting for him on his return the woman among your people he has loved most of his life, or so I am given to understand; and the others return to the caring of their families.  I understand, however, that for Lord Iorhael there remain few to whom he feels free to confide what happened to him out there, save those who accompanied him out of your land in the vain hope they might keep him safe.”

                “Then--then it wasn’t just for a lark....” Bartolo began.

                “Certainly not, sir.”  The Man’s eyes met those of the Hobbit lawyer.  Barti realized he himself was trembling.  He shook himself and turned his attention to his son.  “You all right, lad?”

                For a few moments it appeared Persivo was examining himself to make certain all parts were present and functioning properly, then he looked back to his father.  His color was returning.  “I believe so, Dada.  But what a thing to have to do!”  He accepted his father’s assistance to stand upright and looked at the Man again.  “What a thing to have to do,” he repeated, to which Faradir nodded.

Sackins and Sackvilles, Baggers and Bagginses

                Petunia and Begonia begged permission to spend the day with the Sandheavers, and Enrico was to spend much of the day with the other lads.  Relieved to find herself free to please herself for the day, Delphinium first arranged to take a rather long and hot bath laced with rose oil, then after eating a filling elevenses she took a nap, then after lunch found her way to the house of Denra Gorse where she spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the woman’s stillroom and talking about whatever crossed the minds of each.

                Begonia was relieved when her mother granted her permission to visit Agatha Sandheaver, for she’d been afraid that after this morning she’d be made to stay close and have no pleasure in the day at all.  To find herself able to spend the day with someone else who shared her major interests in life was a boon she’d not thought herself likely to know for the next few days.

                Ronica had her morning chores to complete, and Petunia found herself enjoying helping her.  There was a feeling of normalcy she’d not known since they left Garden Place to helping with the breakfast dishes, helping sweep the kitchen and the front walk, and kneeling to help weed the small floral border each side of the stoop and walkway before they were free to call the next few hours their own.  She noted that Rikky was assisting Bedlo to fill the woodboxes and carry out yesterday’s peelings and crusts to the compost pile, and even Gonya was helping sweep out the hearths and lay the day’s fires without complaint, contrary to the grousing she commonly indulged in when she performed this duty at home.

                Once Ronica’s chores were finished she explained, “I’m plannin’ to go see my Uncle Ned today.  Want to come?”

                “He’s the one as has the scroll about the Bagginses and the Sackvilles?” Petunia asked.  “Do you think as he’d let me see it?”

                “Probably him would.  Course, I don’t know as how much as ye’d be able to read it.  Uncle Ned can’t read it at all, he can’t, but then he never rightly learned how to read anyways.”

                “It would be interesting to look at it, I’d think.”

                “Well, ye can ask.”

                A time later, having let Ronica’s mum know where they were going, they set off for Uncle Ned’s hole.  “Uncle Ned, him lives around the hill from us, like, in a sort o’ hollow.  Lives alone.  It’s not a big place, mind, but him likes it fine.”

                No, it wasn’t a large smial, as smials go.  The parlor was small and spare; the kitchen neat and well appointed--the largest room in the place, Pet decided; the two bedrooms large enough to hold a bed and wardrobe and small chest and not much more other than a cushioned chair in one and pegs to hang things on in the other; the bathing room and privy each barely large enough to qualify as rooms at all.  But all was clean and well ordered.

                “So,” he said thoughtfully once they’d been introduced, “you’re from the Shire, are you?  And how do you like Bree?”

                “It’s very nice, although I’ll be glad to return home now.  It seems as we’ve been gone for quite a long time.”

                “I suppose as it does seem that way,” he agreed.  “I member when we come here from Archet, my sister ’n’ me.  Seemed powerful strange for a time, it did.  But it’s our home now.  Found herself a good family to marry into, and they treat her well.  Would you like some cardamom buns?  My neighbor’s wife--she makes some for me each week--I’m rather partial to them, you see.  Sweet lass he married--most willin’ to aid a body as she can.  So I grow the cardamom and keep her supplied with flour ’n’ eggs--keep some hens, I do, and they keep me well supplied with eggs.

                “So,” he continued as he placed some buns and a pot of herb butter in front of his guests, along with some shelled, boiled eggs and mugs of apple juice, “your dad’s been sent out to speak with this lawyer fellow from the new King, is he?”

                “Yes, Master Alvric.  He’s very nice, and my brother says as he’s taught them a good deal as they’d not known before.”

                “So I’ve been told.  When the Travelers--you know, the Hobbits what went down south-aways with that Strider--come back through they said as they’d seen the King crowned.”

                “So they say in the Shire as well.  They all say as he’s a wonderful person.”

                Uncle Ned smiled.  “Hard to think as a king’s but a person like any other,” he said, cocking an eyebrow, “although when you think on it you realize as it must be so.”

                “We were talking with Master Erengil the other night, my brother Persi and me.  He’s the King’s Messenger as came here a few days ago.  Guess as he’d been to the Brandywine Bridge to deliver messages there.  He said as it was a bit strange at first, them having a King again after not having one for so very long, either, but now it’s hard to think of them not having one.  He says as the King insists everyone be polite to one another, even to the servants as work in the Citadel--I guess as that’s what they call the King’s house there, where he gets to be the King and all.  He says as he’s very polite and thoughtful, but you don’t want to try to lie to him.  He says as those what try to lie to the King tend to come off very bad.  Doesn’t put them in prison or anything like that--just looks at them until they tell the truth.  Master Erengil liked our Travelers, he did, although he allows as he got to know Peregrin Took the best, as Captain Pippin got to be one of their guards when he was there.  He says as Captain Pippin’s an excellent swordsman now, and a good soldier.  He says as Captain Merry’s a good swordsman as well.  It’s odd to think of Hobbits being good with swords, though.”

                “Then, those swords as they carried--they’re not just for show, then?”

                Petunia shook her head.  “Oh, no--not at all.  Destria’s dad says as they knew just what to do when they raised the Shire and threw Lotho’s Big Men out.”

                “They’d growed so much--wouldn’t of believed it if I’d not seen them both afore and after they come back again.  You know if Mr. Underhill ever writ his book?”

                “Mr. Underhill?” Petunia asked, uncertain as to what she should say.  Should she tell him that the one who called himself Mr. Underhill was really her family’s cousin?  “I’m afraid I don’t know.  I understand that our cousin writes a good bit, but he’s not been able to do a great deal of writing since they got back, for he’s deputy Mayor now and has to work a good deal in Michel Delving.  My dad says as most folks just don’t appreciate just how much work the Mayor really does, since most of what he does when he’s mayoring has to do with documents and all, when he’s not performing marriages or hosting banquets.  But Dad allows as our cousin does a good job as deputy Mayor--even Uncle Rico agrees, and Cousin Benlo.”

                “Was it bad when the Big Men was in charge?” Uncle Ned asked.

                Petunia felt herself shuddering as she nodded.  “They was--were very nasty, and those Hobbits as helped Cousin Lotho--they got to be almost as bad.  Was it bad here, too?”

                Uncle Ned’s expression grew more solemn.  “Yes,” he admitted, “when they tried to take over.  Fell Gorse--he got in to spread the alarm, and we all went to face them.  After he saw his sister Miss Denra to the Prancing Pony he went back out to keep an eye on things, he did--understand as he died out there, toward Combe or some such.  Sad thing for Miss Denra, although she’s able to take care of herself, she is.”

                “Oh, we met her--Mistress Denra Gorse.  She lets rooms to Master Alvric.  She’s ever so nice.”

                He smiled.  “A good woman, she is, and a good one with that stillroom of hers.  Makes some wonderful liquors, and brews tinctures for the healers and all.”

                They went quiet for a time, then Ronica asked, “Uncle Ned, Pet here was wonderin’ if’n ye’d let her see the Scroll o’ the Baggers.  Seems as she’s related to both the Bagginses and the Sackvilles.”

                “Of course you might, Miss Pet,” he smiled.  “Soon as you lasses help me get these cleaned I’ll bring it out, if you’d like.”

                Within a quarter hour the table was clean and the few dishes used washed and back on the small dresser in the kitchen, and he went into a storeroom she’d not noticed behind the kitchen and brought back out a very old chest of wood that appeared almost black with age.  He carefully opened it and brought out a large, shining tube of a silvery metal decorated with a pattern of silver leaves.  “It’s said,” he explained as he carefully removed the end cap for the tube, “as this was a gift from Elves, a long, long time ago.  Don’t know about that, o’ course, but it never seems to need much in the way o’ polishin’, and it’s certainly not the work of Hobbits.  And I’ve never seen nothin’ like it amongst what the Dwarves ever bring to sell at the markets or to the merchants.” 

                He carefully slipped a large wooden spool with a roll of parchment about it out of the tube and laid it on the table.  “Your hands clean?” he asked, although he knew they’d only just finished washing the dishes and the table.  They displayed them, and after he was assured they had no hidden grime he finally began unrolling the parchment from the spool.  “Perhaps this is one o’ the oldest things as you’ve ever seen,” he said quietly.  “My mum, she learned to read it from her mum, and her from her dad.  Mum, she taught my younger sister, but she died years ago and somehow I ended up with it.  The first part’s supposed to tell as how the first of the Baggers was Hobbits what come from over mountains far away to the east.  Mum says as they lived by a big river over there, most of those as come in that group.  Settled down near a river called the Mitheithel or some such name this side of those mountains.  Don’t know as there’s any such river called that now.  I’ve heard Rangers speak of the Greyflood and the Brandywine, although sometimes they speak of the Hoarwell and Loudwater and Lhun as well.  They appear to of traded some with Men and some even with Elves--maybe that’s when our ancestor got the silver tube to put this in.

                “Over time there was more as come over the mountains and joined them, and they had childern ’n’ all, so there was more still.  They had too many now for one village, so some went further west down the river to where they could set up a new village, and they changed their names from Baggers to Sackins.  One of the Baggers married a Hobbitess from the village of the Weavers, and that’s supposed to be when this was first writ.  No one can read this part here, for it’s not in any writin’ as we know at all.  Suppose as it might be Elvish writin’, if’n it’s true as the earliest Baggers traded with Elves.”  He carefully rolled a good deal of the first part up until he could get to another part where the script was more familiar.

                “I can read that,” Petunia said, smiling, “although the spelling’s queer and all.  And it doesn’t sound like we speak now.  ‘Mor hav coom oop the Grene Way, langside Menne of the Dun Landes, wanting lande to farme and calle thir oon.  Meny stoppe here in the Bree Landes, yet others passe alang oeste to the landes given to the brethers Tûk for the settlinge of Hobbittes, there aver the River Baranduin.’  This must have been written after the Baggers and the Sackinses came here.”

                He nodded.  “I guess as there was dread battles further east, and the King had all as couldn’t fight move this way where the armies didn’t come much.  So this is where we settled first.  Many of the Baggers and the Sackinses ended up livin’ near Archet and Combe, although those as moved into the Shire appear to of changed their names.  Many of the Sackinses what went settled in a village I’m told they called Sackville, and I suppose as that was when they changed their names from Sackins to Sackvilles.  A few eventually moved back out here, and that was what they called themselves once they come back to the Breelands.  You’ll find a few Sackvilles here in Bree itself, and they tend to look down on the Sackinses as if they wasn’t related at all.

                “Some of the Baggers and the Sackinses as went into the Shire settled down together, first near the Tooks in the Green Hills country, and they all seem to of decided to change back to the same family name--the Bagginses--or that’s what’s supposed to be writ in the scroll.  But they moved back east after a time, and founded what’s now Hobbiton.  I don’t know as there’s any village what’s called Sackville left now--never heard of it from none of them as have been here to Bree from the Shire since we moved here; but I hear tell the Sackvilles still live there.”

                “Some--not many now,” Petunia admitted.  “And there’s not a lot of Bagginses, either.”

                “My younger sister ’n’ me, we’d listen to our mum tell the old tales and read from the scroll.  Suppose as that’s why I ended up with it, then, for Mum knew as I loved hearin’ the story of how the Baggers come over the mountains.”

                “Could she read the first part?”

                “Well, she said as she could, but I don’t know as she truly understood it or if she was just memberin’ it as she’d been told it when it was read or told to her.”  He kept rolling the loose end and unrolling from the spool until he got near the end, where the writing stopped.  “Here’s our family,” he said.  “There--our mum Platina and Dad Bando, and my brother Ed, and me and ....”  He might not read, but clearly recognized the names he’d known so well.  “So now the scroll of the Baggers is in the hands of the Underhills,” he finished.

                He allowed Pet to roll it all back onto the spool, and she paused.  “There’s a family of Sackinses, and here’s some of the Sackvilles, and here’s a Baggins.  And here--” she stopped, then looked up into his face, her eyes alight, “here’s a Bracegirdle!  You mean we’re related, too?”

                He looked closely.  “That’s what that says?” he asked.  “I can recognize Bagger, of course, but don’t know the rest, although I’ve found my own name a few times.”  He examined the scroll and found a portion he’d obviously looked through several times.  “Here--that’s Ned, ain’t it?”

                “Yes, Ned Bagger, who married Fern Fiddlehead.  They had three children--Tolman, Cotman, and Pansy.”

                He smiled broadly.  “So--must be my great, great, great grandfather Ned, then.”

                “My Cousin Benlo would love to see this, I’m certain, and Roto Sackville, too.  Maybe even our Cousin Frodo.  He’s family head for the Bagginses, you see.  And Dad says he studies Elvish.”

                “You mean you might know someone as could translate that first bit?”

                “Well, I don’t really know him myself--he’s a third cousin of my mum’s, you see.  But I’m certain as I’ll see him at the Free Fair at Michel Delving--we always go.”

                Ned Underhill looked intrigued.  “I’d love to have this translated so as we know exactly what it says.”

                “I can talk to him at the Free Fair and see if he’d agree to translate it, or maybe he’d know as who could translate it for you, someone outside.  He knows Elves.”

                “A Hobbit what knows Elves?”  Ned looked a bit disbelieving.

                “Yes, he knows Elves.  We met an Elf as knows him when we were coming here.  Mr. Glorinlas Gildorion says as Cousin Frodo’s an--an Elf friend.  There’s an Elvish word for it, but I’ve forgot it.”

                “Well, why don’t you ask him when you see him, and mayhaps he’ll translate it for me.  This one can read--I could have her read the letter to me if you’ll send it to her.”

*******

                By the time her father and brother returned that night she was rather excited and felt she had a good deal to tell Persi.  They didn’t return until quite late, and as she, Rikky, and Gonya had been sent to bed an hour before she’d had to pinch herself quite a bit to keep herself awake till she heard them down the hallway in the private parlor.  She quickly rose and pulled a dressing gown about herself, and sat in the chair near the door until her brother came in.

                “Persi,” she hissed.  “I’ve seen it--the scroll of the Baggers!  Ronica’s Uncle Ned does have it, and it’s ever so old, it is.  Has it in a special tube as it’s said the Elves made.  And he wants to see it properly translated, ’cause some of the writing appears to be Elvish and he wants to be able to really have someone read it to him.  And our family name’s in it, too!  Isn’t that interesting?”

                He sat down on his bed, the one nearest the door, and looked at her.  “Ooh, that is interesting, Pet.  But I found out--I found out why----”  Then he paused.  He wanted so much to tell her, but his father’s oath held him, too.  But he knew she had the same information he did, and could figure it out herself if she’d just get that last little nudge such as he’d had.  But could he give her even that nudge?  He wasn’t certain.

                “You found out what?”  And when he shook his head, she sighed.  “Oh, something more about Cousin Frodo Baggins, then?”  At his nod, she shrugged.  “And you can’t tell ’cause of the oath.  I see.  Is it why he’s a lord now?”

                “Yes.”

                “Was it interesting, going to this farm as these folks have?”

                “Oh, yes--very interesting.  Two of the marker stones are ancient standing stones, and one has what appear to be barrows near it so you could either stand on them and see the Sun rise over the stone on special days, or you can tell when those days come when the shadow of it hits them.  They have a sword like the one it’s said the Master has as was given Bucca of the Marish by Arvedui Last-king’s son what he found as he was digging the smial out; and a beautiful pot, and a comb they say as is made of the shell of a great beast they call a tortoise as lives far away.  It’s inlaid with what Mr. Hedges thought was silver, only Master Faradir says as it’s not, but it’s a different metal what’s called mithril instead.  He says as it’s very precious, mithril is.  He thinks as the comb was made by the Elves.  He says the mithril comes from a Dwarf kingdom what’s been empty a long time save for goblins--he calls them yrch or orcs, same as Mr. Glorinlas Gildorion.  He says the Elves and the Dwarves have always traded for mithril with one another, and both love to make things from it.  He says as it’s stronger’n steel, and it won’t tarnish like silver will.  The Dwarves as are going to go to the King’s city to help fix it after the war plan to sheathe the gates they’re going to make with it, even--the ones as are needed to replace the ones broken by the one they call the Witch-king.  I guess as he was a terrible one as was captain of the army from--from Mordor.”

                “Their gates was broken?”

                “Yes--broken into pieces.  He said when they got there the pieces had all been swept away, but was being all kept so as those as would help make new ones could see how they’d been made and all, and so they could maybe save the statues as were on them.  Can you imagine--gates with statues on them?”  When Petunia shook her head, he continued, “He says the same as what Master Alvric and Master Erengil said--that you can see the black mountains from the King’s city, and that all told him as the sky over them always used to have dark clouds of brown and grey ash over them, and you could see a red glow under them at night, from the mountain of fire as they used to have there.  Only the mountain’s gone now--it tore itself up at the end when the Enemy’s Ring was thrown into it.  There’s a cup they found in Mr. Hedge’s hole, one what was painted with a scene as he says is of that mountain was when it was still there.  He says as it must of come from Gondor or maybe from some of the Elves as fought in the Last Alliance.  He says as most of the great Elves as still live in Middle Earth fought in that battle, even though it was three thousand years ago.  He says as the Elves didn’t forget, or forget as the North Kingdom was founded by Elendil himself, as died there to help bring Sauron down the last time.  The new King--he’s Elendil’s descendant, father to son, for three thousand years.  He’s through Elendil’s older son Isildur, and the old kings of Gondor, they’re through the younger son Anárion.  Only the King Elessar, he’s through Anárion, too, because Arvedui Last-king married the daughter of King Ondoher of Gondor, and all his descendants are her descendants, too.”

                “Oh--so that’s how he got to be King to both us and them?”  At his nod, she paused thoughtfully.  “So maybe that cup was so as them as used to live there on the farm could remember that battle as Elendil fought in, there in Mordor.”

                “That’s what Master Faradir thinks.  He said the last battle was fought right at the foot of the mountain, even, and that Elendil and a great Elf king both died there to help defeat Sauron, and after Sauron fell down Elendil’s remaining son Isildur used the blade of his father’s broken sword to cut the Enemy’s great Ring of Power from Sauron’s own hand so he couldn’t use It to blast everyone to pieces once he woke up again.  It’s only because he couldn’t find that Ring as he couldn’t come back to full power before now.  Isildur took It away with him, only he got killed when he lost It in a river.  Only something else found that Ring and took It away from the river to under the mountains, and then he seems to have dropped It, and someone else still found It and brought It back out from under the mountains again.  Only no one could tell as what Ring It was because the signs on It as told only showed when It was hot.  Once old Gandalf the Wizard realized how he could test It he managed to throw It in a parlor fire, and sure enough the fire writing showed on It when It was hot enough, so they knew they had to get It out--get It out of there and go think on what to do with It.”

                Petunia’s cheeks were getting pink with excitement.  “I see,” she said.  “And they couldn’t tell as what Ring it was until then?”

                He nodded and she started to ask another question, then stopped as if something had hit her in the chest.  Even in the dim light from the rushlight and the windows it was plain she’d lost all her color.  “So--so that’s it!” she whispered, finally.  “That’s why they call Cousin Frodo Baggins the Ringbearer, and why Lotho’s Big Men was--was taking rings!  Mad old Bilbo Baggins found It!  He found It when he was on his adventure, there in Gollum’s cave--and that’s not just a story he made up!”

                She took a deep breath and examined her brother’s face.  “And he never knew?  He left that--that thing--here in the Shire when he went away--left It to Cousin Frodo?”  When he made no gesture she took another deep breath and then let it go in a loud whoosh.  “And you can’t even say yes or no, can you?”

                “No, I can’t.”

                “So--so that’s why he sold Bag End to Cousin Lotho, and why he left the Shire--once they knew they had to get It away from us.  He wanted to keep us safe.  Only he didn’t know as what Cousin Lotho was going to do, and that that Sharkey’d send ruffians to look for It.  No wonder--no wonder he was so upset when he got back, Persivo Bracegirdle!  I’d of been upset, too!”

                Persivo looked down thoughtfully, then back at her.  “I’d never thought of that, Pet.”

                “And he took It--he took It all the way to Mordor--to get rid of It.”

                “Master Faradir says as the only place as It could be destroyed was where It was made--there in the fire mountain.”

                “No wonder the King made him a lord!”  She turned away, toward the window, seeing where the reflection of the rushlight shone on it.  “And he didn’t fight with a sword like Captain Merry and Captain Pippin did.  He fought--he fought by--by being a Hobbit, by finding a way in and going all the way to the mountain itself and not being seen.”  She suddenly looked sideways at him.  “And did Sam Gamgee go with him--all the way?”  When he didn’t answer she gave a single, thoughtful nod.  “So he’s a lord, too, then.  He’s the other lord.”  Suddenly she started to giggle.  “Dad must be fit to be tied--knowing a gardener’s a lord of the King’s lands!  Bet he’s ever so upset.”

                Persivo was beginning to grin.  “You ought to of seen him when he realized!”

                They smiled at one another with a degree of satisfaction, then Petunia’s expression grew pensive again.  “And I can’t talk about it, either, can I?  Not without risking Dad’s oath?”

                He nodded.  “Lyssa was furious when she realized as she couldn’t even tell you.”

                “But we all were likely to figure it out, anyway.”  She sighed.  “I’m sorry, for I’d have loved to tell Ronica, but I can’t.  Too bad, really.”  She rose and, removing her dressing gown, went to her bed and sat upon it, looking across the gap where he was now working at the buttons for the placket of his shirt.  “I’m going to ask Cousin Frodo Baggins at the Free Fair if he’d be willing to translate the Scroll of the Baggers for Ronica’s Uncle Ned.”

                “You don’t have to wait that long.  Ask one of the Rangers--many of them know Elvish, you see.”

                “They do?”

                “Yes--some of the deeds, they’re in an Elvish they say is called Sindarin, and the rest is in an old Man’s language called Adunaic.  That’s why Dad’s so tired today--he was up late translating the deeds for these properties near here with one of the Rangers as knew both--Master Gilfileg, the one who wears the black glove.”

                “Well, if he’s still here, I’ll ask him, then.”  She stretched as she swiveled to get under her covers.  “Just think--we’re probably related to Ronica’s family, too.”

On Translations, Ruffians, and Leases

            “What will you be doing today?” asked Delphie at first breakfast as she split a roll and spread some butter and honey on it.

            “I suppose as I’ll be going over this lease agreement with Master Alvric to see if it’s properly written,” Barti said, then found himself stifling a yawn.  “Did the children behave properly?”

            “Well, I heard no bad reports on them.  Enrico was playing with the other lads again, and Begonia and Pet went to the Sandheavers’ hole for the day.  Gonya seems to have made a good friend with their Agatha, while Petunia and their Ronica appear to be thick as thieves.  I’m told all three of our children helped theirs with chores, if you can imagine.  Carnation was most impressed with their manners when she arrived at Mistress Gorse’s place.  How about Alyssa and Persivo?”

            Barti eyed their youngest briefly, then returned his attention back to his wife.  “It appears Alyssa was quite well behaved yesterday, and even assisted the Hedges lasses as they saw to a meal being ready for when we returned from riding the boundaries, and she helped them with their chores, too.  Mr. Hedges has two lasses and two lads, and apparently they are all pretty industrious and responsible about this farm as they’re putting in and helping with the digging out of the smial.

            “It’s quite a place,” he added.  “It appears there used to be a large farm house of Men there, and parts of the walls are still standing, buried beneath the earth as has built up around them.  They’re using those walls still standing to help support the inner walls of the smial.”

            “They found one floor as has a picture made of tiny tiles, or maybe colored pebbles,” Lyssa said.  “It’s a branch with a bird on it.  Anemone showed me.  It’s very pretty.”

            Surprised, Delphie looked back at her husband, who nodded.  “I’d have never thought to see such a thing.  Master Faradir calls it a mosaic, and says as one sees such floors here and there in the ruins of some of the oldest buildings done by the Sea Kings’ folks.  He appeared to think as it was odd to see it in a farm house.  He seems to think as this might have been more a retreat than just a simple farm--somewhere for the lords to go to away from having to be rulers all the time.”

            “And they found a comb as was made by Elves--that’s what Master Faradir says, at least,” Lyssa added.  “I’d like to have a comb like that.  It was light and had lots of colors to it.”

            Delphinium was impressed.  “It sounds as if they’re finding quite a few things the Men who used to live there left, then.”

            “And there’s a pot with a picture on it of the fire mountain as Cousin Frodo Baggins----”

            “Alyssa!” warned her father.

            Lyssa gave a huff of disgust.  “It’s not fair!” she pouted.  “It’s not like he did something bad!  Why doesn’t he want folks to know?”

            “Who?  Frodo?” her mother asked, intrigued.  “What doesn’t he want folks to know?”

            “What he did to get to be a lord,” the child explained.  “Master Alvric says as it was harder and more dangerous even than fighting in the war like Captain Merry and Captain Pippin did.  But why doesn’t he want folks to know?”

            Barti’s face was flaming.  “How would I understand?” he demanded rather hotly.  “All I know is that he’s made me take the oath, and we can’t speak of it.”  He set his napkin on the table by his plate.  “I’m going to the privy,” he said.  “You might call Persivo and see if he’s going with me today.”  So saying, he walked stiffly out of the room.

            Delphie watched after him, then rose and went the other way to knock at the door to the room where the older children were still sleeping, then opened it to call Persi’s name and tell him his father would soon be ready to go see Master Alvric.  As she returned and resumed her seat Lyssa looked up at her.  “I just don’t understand, Mum.”

            The Hobbitess sighed as she poured herself some more tea.  “I very much fear I don’t quite understand either, dearling.  Cousin Frodo’s always been rather quiet about what he’s been doing.  But, then most folks in the Shire don’t care to hear how many invitations he might have copied for folks last week or what books he might have read.”

            “I like books,” Alyssa said.  “I’d like to hear that, I think.”

            Delphie smiled at her youngest.  “Well, you’re rather special in many ways.  But lots of Hobbits never learn to read and write as you and the other children have, and talking about things they haven’t done and can’t do themselves makes them uncomfortable and bored.”

            “Is that why Cousin Frodo won’t talk about going to the fire mountain, ’cause no other Hobbits did it ’cept him and Sam Gamgee?”

            “But why would they go to a fire mountain?” Delphie asked.

            “Someone had to, ’cause there was nowhere else they could take what they had.  Only, I’m not supposed to say what that was.”

            “Did they get it there?”

            “I guess so, only they almost died.  It must of been terrible hard to do.”  Alyssa was quiet for a time, then sighed.  “Do you know as how much pocket money I have left, Mummy?”

            “I’m not certain.  Why?”

            “I think as I ought to buy Gonya some new hair ribbons is all, to make up for the ones as I ruined.  Can we do that today?”

            Delphie smiled.  “I suppose we can.  Go and tell your sister that you’re sorry and that you want to replace the other ones, and have her brush your hair for you--after you wash your face and hands.”

            The lass made a face, then said, “All right, Mummy.”

            Shortly after she’d disappeared into the children’s room Bartolo returned.  Not seeing Alyssa still in the parlor he sighed.  “She off getting ready for the day?”

            “Yes--she wants to make it up to Begonia today, and plans to spend her pocket money to replace the ribbons.”

            Barti straightened some in surprise and pride.  “Well, perhaps she’s beginning to grow up some after all.”

            “Perhaps.”

            “Did she start in on you with questions?”

            “I take it she’s been doing that with you?”

            “Yes.  I had her ride with me part of the way back, and she was asking all kinds of questions--questions I couldn’t begin to answer.  She--she even asked me if any Hobbit could have an adventure, or if you have to be a Baggins?  Then she stopped and said, no, she guessed they didn’t have to be, as Sam Gamgee certainly wasn’t a Baggins, nor were Captain Pippin or Captain Merry.”

            “Why did you have her ride with you?”

            “I was trying to explain about the oath and why we sometimes have to take it.”

            “Has anyone else ever had you take the oath?” his wife asked.

            “No--no one except Baggins.”

            “Why did he say he wanted you to take it now?”

            “He says he’s made Brendilac Brandybuck take it, too, and his bankers of discretion.  Says it’s nothing personal--just hates having his business gossiped about.”

            “Well, she asked me if part of the reason why he doesn’t want to talk about going to some fire mountain is because he and Sam Gamgee are the only Hobbits to ever do something like that.  What else did she ask you about adventures?”

            “What they are and why anyone would want to have one.”

            Delphie smiled.  “And what did you tell her?”

            He shrugged, obviously a bit annoyed.  “What can I tell her? When was the last time you heard of someone besides the Travelers and old Bilbo having such a thing?”

            “Well, before it was Bilbo it was the Tooks.”

            Barti sighed helplessly.  “Some of them, at least.  I told her to have an adventure was to do something odd or different, and usually dangerous as well.  I told her respectable Hobbits don’t do things that are dangerous, odd, or different unless we can’t keep from doing otherwise, usually.  And I warned her that adventures are uncomfortable things that tend to make one miss meals.”

            Delphie laughed.  “That ought to deter her from looking for one of her own!”

            She noted that a corner of his mouth twitched slightly at the thought.  “I would hope so.  I don’t want the Bracegirdles developing a reputation for flightiness such as the Bagginses now have done.”

            “Not that there’s much truly flighty about Cousin Frodo.”

            Again Barti shrugged.  At last he said, rather quietly, “Actually, from what I can tell he didn’t go on his for the enjoyment of the thing.”

            “Not if having to travel to a fire mountain was part of it.”

            Barti looked away, but finally responded, “Doesn’t appear he enjoyed that any.”

            At that Persi came out, his legs rather stiff.  “And the Travelers rode all the way back from Gondor on ponies?” he asked, rubbing at his thigh.  “However did they stand it, coming all that way?”

            “Your cousin Frodo’s been riding to Michel Delving and back every week since they returned,” his mother pointed out.  “When you ride regularly your body grows accustomed to it.”

            “I suppose.  But I think I prefer driving to riding, myself.”

            “Is Begonia accepting her sister’s apology?”

            “She seems to be doing so.  At least she’s not glaring at her as she was the other day.”

 *******

            Soon Barti and Persi were off to the Gorse house with the packet of deeds while the girls and Rikky consulted with their mother.  “Bedlo’s cousin’s going to teach him and me to play golf,” Enrico explained, “if it’s all right with you.”

            “That ought to be fine, lovey,” Delphie returned.  She counted out some coins.  “For any meals you have while you’re playing.  Whose clubs will you be using?”

            “The Sandheaver lads all use the ones from their gaffer,” the lad informed  her.  “They said as we’ll all share.”

            “We lasses will be off to the shops, then,” Delphie began, but Pet interrupted.

            “Mum, would it be all right if I were to stay here?  I don’t want new hair ribbons, after all.  And I was rather hoping to speak to Mr. Gilfileg or Mr. Erengil, if either of them is still in Bree.  You see, Ronica’s uncle has a scroll as he’d like to see properly translated or something, and it appears a Ranger might be able to help do so.  Persi said Mr. Gilfileg was the one what helped translate Da’s deeds, you know.”

            “I don’t know about having you speak with Rangers...” her mother began.

            “We spoke with him the other day, Ronica and me,” Petunia explained.  “He’s really quite a nice person.  And if he’s not here, I suppose as the Greenwillows might help--they live near the market, and he used to be a Ranger.  I guess Mr. Greenwillow helped those what--who fought against the Big Men here when they tried to take over.  Missus Greenwillow knows Ronica’s mum and was asking to make certain she knew where we were, there the day of the luncheon when we went to the market.”

            “Well,” her mother said thoughtfully, her brow furrowed, “if you go to see these Greenwillows I want to know.  You know to look for us in one of the dry goods shops, although you might find us at the tailor shop, the one closest to the way to the East Gate we visited the other day.  Alyssa’s growing so fast I commissioned some new vests for her, and we’re to pick them up today.”

            “And if you’re not there and it’s near elevenses I’ll check the tea shop we all like,” Petunia promised.

            Her mother smiled at her.  “All right, sweetling.  Then once your sisters are ready we’ll be off.”  Immediately Lyssa and Gonya scurried off to make ready, and with a kiss to their mother Enrico was out the door to go join the Sandheaver lads.

            Today, however, it appeared there were no Rangers about the Prancing Pony at all.  Pet was able to ask Nob, who explained they’d all left the day before.  Even Master Faradir hadn’t stayed over last night when he’d returned with Petunia’s father, she learned.  As for the King’s Messenger, he’d left first thing this morning on his great horse.

            It appeared that she would have to visit the Greenwillows after all.  Petunia sighed, and went in to brush her hair nicely and to tie it away from her face--today promised to be quite warm, the warmest yet, she thought as she set off.

            Most of the marketplace was empty, it not being a regular market day; but there were a couple stalls of food vendors there that were doing a lively business.  The shops about the square were all open, and she started toward the dry goods shops to search for her mother when a shadow fell on her.  She looked up to see a strange Man she didn’t know looming over her.  “What have we here?” he said in a tone of voice that reminded her far too much of those of Cousin Lotho’s Big Men.  “A ratling gel all on her own?  Oh, Bert, we could know at least a bit of fun today.”

            “We’d best not get caught  ’fore we get them supplies we need, Ternish.  Best leave’er alone.”  The one called Bert was taller than the first one, and his coloring was more that of the other Men and Hobbits of Bree than his companion.  Even looking at Ternish Petunia was reminded of the ruffians who’d taken over the Shire, his skin almost greyish, his eyes an unlikely, muddy dark brown, with that all too familiar sneer on his face.

            “She’s not from ’ere in Bree,” Ternish pointed out.  “Southfarthin’, if I don’t miss m’guess.”  His sneer was fast developing into a leer.  “Seems t’me as them Hobbits o’ the Shire owes us for lost goods ’n’ wages; an’ me, I plans to make up for it out o’ this one.”  He was leaning down over her now, and Petunia found herself petrified with fear.

            Only it appeared that these two were being watched, and a stick caught the one called Ternish alongside the head while Bert jumped aside in alarm as the point of a blade pricked the side of his neck and a strong arm was flung about his shoulders.  Petunia gave a cry of shock as she was pulled back away from the ruffians into the protective arms of a woman among Men.  She heard the woman holding her ask, “Are they leftovers from Saruman’s machinations, think you, Lindor?”  Recognizing the voice of Anelisë Greenwillow, Pet relaxed back against the woman in relief and reaction.

            “It would seem so,” the Man with the great walking stick in the crook of an elbow said as he knelt down to feel the side of the neck of the one he’d clubbed.  “Good thing you saw them lurking outside the gates, Tergion,” he said to the one with the long knife in his hand--not much more than a lad, Petunia judged.  “Once Berenion gets hold of you you’ll shape quickly into a Ranger, I’m thinking.  Well,” he said as he rose, “this one’s out for the moment.  Vanimelda, will you go fetch one of the gate guards?  I think these two are for the gaol.”

            The woman holding Petunia nodded, saying, “Gladly, my heart’s own.”  She looked down into Pet’s face.  “Would you go with me?”

            “I don’t know as I could walk right now,” Petunia said, feeling a bit better nonetheless.  “I’ll be all right if I bide here, I think.”

            The elderly Man smiled at her.  “A game one you are, young lady,” he commented.

            The young one--Tergion, she remembered, asked, “Another half-orc?”

            Looking down on the stunned Ternish, the Man nodded.  “So it would seem.”  He suddenly turned his keen eye on the other.  “So, Sharkû had you come to this region, did he?”

            His face pale as he felt the point of Tergion’s knife again prick his skin, Bert answered, “Yes--but we done nothin’ wrong, I swear!”

            Lindor’s laugh was mirthless.  “Nothing wrong?  Nothing besides seeking to overwhelm the Breelands and invading the Shire and terrorizing a population long unaccustomed to guarding itself, you mean?  And then accompanying this abomination as he threatens a helpless lass less than half his weight or strength?”

            “Was only followin’ orders, I was!”

            “And you--did Saruman have a hand in breeding you, too?”

            Bert paled the more, then flushed an angry plum color.  “I ain’t got no goblin blood’n my veins,” he insisted.  “I’m from Dunland.”

            “How did the traitor wizard convince you to come here to the northlands?”

            “Said as there was lands for the taking, and--and....”  Again he went pale.

            “And slaves and plunder for the taking, too, did he?  The enjoyment of terrorizing those believed unable to protect themselves?  Ones to warm your nights and then discard once they were spoiled?”

            Again the ruffian flushed, but he held his tongue.  Lindor Greenwillow again laughed that mirthless laugh.  “And what do you have now?  Less than you came here with, I’d wager.  Little more than the clothes on your backs and whatever valuables you were able to secrete on your persons before you fled the Shire when its warriors assailed you, led by knights of Gondor and Rohan.”

            “Didn’t see none o’ the Stonelendings here,” muttered Bert, “nor none o’ them horse blokes.”

            “Perhaps not--but did you not recognize the devices carried by the two Hobbits who directed the actions against your folk?  The people and lords of the South Kingdom and the Mark recognized the great courage of those two and honored it, and then saw their skills finally honed to perfection.  One fought on the field of the Pelennor, and the other before the Black Gate itself.  Such as you two--what would you be seen as by such as those, one of whom faced Angmar himself and the other of whom refused to answer the Eye?”

            Bert went beyond pale--became grey and pasty looking, his upper lip sheened with sweat.  “They didn’t--they couldn’t of!” he whispered through a dry mouth and nearly nerveless tongue.

            “And the other two--the ones who refused to lift arms against you, finding you worthy only of pity--those are the ones who saw to the felling of Barad-dûr itself, who faced all of the Nine and even bested a Morgul blade.  You have no idea how fortunate you are that the will of the Ringbearer himself spared your sorry excuse for a life!”

            “Don’t know nothin’ from no Ringbearers....”

            With great contempt Lindor spat upon the ground.  “No, I don’t suppose you would.  So, you came here for supplies?  With what funds?”

            The gate guards arrived then, and quickly the two were disarmed and their hands bound behind them, and Tergion quickly turned out their pockets and belt purses.  There were a few coins--brasses and a couple of coppers from Bree and the Shire; and there were a few pieces of jewelry as well.  Petunia looked at a pendant hung on a fine golden chain, then turned to look up into Lindor’s eyes.  “But I know that one--it was my dad’s Aunt Lobelia’s!  It was her promise necklace when Uncle Otho Sackville-Baggins asked her to marry him!  We all have seen it when they came to Bracegirdle parties--she was born a Bracegirdle, you see.”

            “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins?”

            “Yes.  Lotho Sackville-Baggins was her son.”

            Lindor’s face grew stern.  “Then it appears this one, at least, was attending on Lotho himself, and then Saruman when he arrived.  It must have been taken from her goods after Mistress Lobelia herself was taken to the Lockholes.”

            “You know all about that?” Petunia asked, examining his face.

            “Your Frodo Baggins made a full report to both our Lord Kinsman Aragorn and to Halladan as Aragorn’s Steward here within Eriador; and the story was shared with me.  We will see this sent to Lord Frodo that he might return it to her.”

            Petunia shook her head.  “She’s dead now.  She wasn’t young, you know; and knowing as her son had gone so wrong her heart was about broken.  At least she died free, and with cousin Hyacinth, who cared for her in spite of herself.  My dad--he was her lawyer.”

            “I see.”  Lindor again examined her thoughtfully.  “Then I will attend on your father tonight and entrust it to him that he might make such disposition of it as would seem best to him.  I’ll request a list of such goods as Lord Frodo has been putting together as missing from the folk of the Shire, and then speak to Butterbur--he might know if any goods are missing from those Hobbits of the Breelands whose homes and farms were entered and burned.  And what is it that has brought you out today alone?”

            “I was--I was going to come to see you and your wife.  I thought as since Master Gilfileg knows Elvish perhaps you did, too.”

            Lindor straightened with surprise.  He gave a quick glance at the two gate guards who were now looking at him with marked interest.  “Best take these two off and see them locked up,” he directed them.  “When Lord Halladan returns to Bree he will be glad to see them and question them.  And be certain to remove their boots and examine them closely before returning them--such often carry extra knives and other things in them, and the heels are often not as innocent as they might appear.”

            Reluctantly the two guards moved off with their prisoners, casting interested glances back at Lindor and those with him.  Once they were well gone Petunia turned back to the former Ranger.  “Actually, I wasn’t looking for you yet--I promised Mummy I’d let her know if there weren’t any Rangers at the Prancing Pony and so I was going to try you next, so I was coming to the dry goods shops to find her.  She’s helping Alyssa buy new ribbons for Begonia, to replace the ones she ruined.”

            “And why do you need someone who can read Elvish?”

            “It’s to translate a family scroll as Ronica’s Uncle Ned has.  The first part appears to be Elvish, you see.  He was showing it to us yesterday....”

            Lindor exchanged looks of wonderment with his wife, although Pet could see the woman was also highly amused.  “A Hobbit of Bree owns a scroll, and one with Elvish in it?” the Man said.  “I must say this sounds intriguing.  Well, shall we seek out your mother and then, perhaps, find a place to sit and talk a bit about this scroll of Uncle Ned’s?”  He turned to the young one who’d used his knife to threaten Bert.  “You--off with you and find your adar, and tell him what was found here today.  If there are any others hiding out, waiting for these two to return with supplies, they need to be found--immediately.”

            Tergion gave a salute, then a brief bow to Petunia, and turned toward the north gate.

            They found Delphie, Begonia, and Alyssa coming out of the second drygoods store, and soon the six of them had retreated to the Greenwillow home where Analisë bustled about efficiently putting together elevenses for their guests while Petunia explained about the Baggers family scroll now in the possession of Ned Underhill.  “From what I can tell, it’s like a family book within the Shire,” Petunia explained.  “Apparently the Baggers and the Sackinses and the Bagginses and the Sackvilles are all related, and possibly the Bracegirdles as well.  It’s supposed to tell about the families coming over mountains and building homes along a river, then after a time they were made to move to Bree when there were wars or something like.”

            “There have been many wars throughout Eriador for almost the entire three thousand years our people have dwelt here,” Lindor sighed.  “Yes, according to our annals once Hobbits lived east of here, mostly along the banks of the Mitheithel and the Bruinen; but that’s been fifteen hundred years ago.  But when we were suffering many attacks to the east from southern Rhuadar and Angmar we had to shift whole populations westward to offer them what protection we could before the enemy’s armies rolled over their villages and farms to leave them dead in their wake.

            “But tell me,” he continued, “what is your interest in this?”

            Petunia looked from her mother back to the former Ranger.  “Well, Mum was born a Baggins, and Cousin Lotho was a Sackville, and we’re Bracegirdles.  If this is type of family book it could be the oldest we’re aware of.  I’m certain as the Thain and Cousin Frodo Baggins and Cousin Roto and Cousin Benlo would all be interested to see maybe relatives as aren’t in our books.  And--and it’s our history, maybe.”

            Lindor smiled.  “I see.  Yes, we all like to know our own history--and with reason.  All right, I’ll visit with Ronica’s Uncle Ned tomorrow.  And certainly it’s amusing that the family history of the Ringbearer could well be held by an Underhill.  If I were to translate these and see them copied, would you and your family like to have a copy to keep for yourselves?  Although I’ll warn you the copies would be made into a book rather than into another scroll--I haven’t the means to reproduce it in scroll form.”

            Delphie answered, “Oh, but we would love to have a copy for ourselves, and I’m certain the others Petunia named would love copies, too.  And my Cousin Frodo would be thrilled no end to have such a thing, as would the Thain, to have more of the history of our people before we came to the Shire itself.  Roto might be surprised at such a thing and be uncertain about it, but for the Bagginses themselves and the Thain as the King’s representative--well!  And both Bilbo and Frodo have studied our own history so much--I understand that was part of the reason Cousin Bilbo corresponded with Elves--trying to learn more about us Hobbits.”

            “And if I know our Lord kinsman--Aragorn himself would welcome such a volume.  The original I would return to Ned Underhill when I was through translating it.”  He nodded.  “So it shall be--a translation for Mr. Underhill, one for the Thain, one for the Ringbearer, one of the family head for the Sackvilles, one for the family head for the Bracegirdles, and one for your own family, plus whatever copies Aragorn and Halladan request for our own archives.”

            Petunia was fairly glowing.  “Oh, thank you so much!  I hope it’s not too difficult.”
            Lindor smiled.  “It is not the kind of knowledge, perhaps, my Lord Arathorn expected for me to gather when he purchased this house and gave it to us to dwell in; but our beloved King Aragorn will be fully pleased.  He’s always been a canny one and interested in so many different things.  To add this to the knowledge of the history of Arnor....”

 *******

            Alvric and Bartolo worked long over the lease agreement that day, assisted by Persivo and Ora Watercress.  “And the produce to be accepted as rents is to be turned over to the Master of Buckland to be added to those goods distributed at need to those who dwell in Buckland and the Marish,” Ora read.  “Odd sort of rent to pay, I must say.”

            Barti shrugged.  “I’m told that many of the rents paid to the Master and the Thain are in kind, usually food but occasionally cloth or a certain quantity of whatever goods are produced by the tenant.  It’s how the folk of the Hall and the Great Smial are provided for, after all.”

            “Which is the entire reason why lands such as these are settled upon those made lords of the realm,” Alvric explained.  “Often in their service to the realm they are left with no time or energy to provide for themselves and their dependents--family, servants, those who served them in the past but who due to age or infirmity may not do so now and who must now be cared for, and so on.  And certainly the service given all by Lord--Master Frodo--was beyond mere accounting; it is only right he should want for nothing in the future--or at least nothing that we who dwell here within Middle Earth might provide to him.”

            The Bracegirdle’s expression became very stiff, and again Alvric found himself glad to have prodded once more at the antagonism Bartolo held for his wife’s kinsman.

            At last all was done to the satisfaction of all involved--or at least as much to Bartolo’s satisfaction as it was possible to do; and Barti set the steel pen he’d been using down on the inkstand, capped the bottle, and sat back, his eyes still fixed on the thing.  “Well, that’s that--or at least for the time being,” he sighed.  “Now--to get the thing signed and witnessed.  But with whom do I register it?”

            “With Lord Halladan, I must suppose,” Alvric said, smiling as he rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes.  “You can register it with him when he comes here on his rounds.”

            “At least,” Barti muttered, “I don’t have to go all the way to his own place.  Where is it he lives, by the way?”

            “Lord Berevrion told me Halladan was born in Fornost, the walled keep that was the foremost fortress of Arnor and Arthedain in the days of the King, but that he has rebuilt one of the great houses on what was once the outskirts of Annúminas, the peacetime capital on the shores of Lake Evendim.  Even now they are rebuilding the ancient city and have begun work on the King’s House and Citadel.”

            “And how long would it take to get there?”

            “I’m told between seven and nine days on horseback--probably quite a bit longer if you tried to go by coach, particularly as I doubt the road is quite up to the quality one sees here in the vicinity of the Breelands.  There were several places between Rohan and Gondor where it would have been impossible for a coach to travel, after all, and I doubt the road is any better between here and there, although that will be changing.”

            “Changing?  Why?” asked Ora.

            “Many of those who are brought before the King for judgment are being condemned to enforced servitude of one form or another, many of them assisting in the rebuilding of the King’s highways.  They are paid wages; but the bulk of their earnings are being withheld until their terms are finished, and are intended to aid them in building new lives afterwards, for many will not be permitted to return to their former lands and positions.”

            “So Men, too, have a form of banishment?” asked Persivo.

            Alvric nodded solemnly.  “Under Denethor there were a higher number of serious offenders who were executed for their crimes, particularly as his time as Steward proceeded.  In time he grew rather--jaded, disillusioned.  He came to believe that most of such would never change and felt that protecting our people from their future offenses was paramount.  Under our Lord King Elessar it is proving different.  He has had individuals executed, but prefers to use enforced servitude and resettlement under the watchful eye of a local governor he feels wise enough to catch them in wrongdoing, feeling such is preferable to seeing most hung.  Only if their actions truly endanger the nation and its people and he is certain they had every reason to know what they did was wrong does he allow executions.  I understand that Lord--Master Frodo found such doings to be objectionable, and he even had words with the King on the subject.”

            Barti was surprised to find himself fascinated and even amused.  “Frodo Baggins dared to try to tell the King how to run his business?” he asked.

            Alvric smiled.  “So I am told.  He was most appalled, apparently, when he learned of the practice of branding.  It is said he grew most upset and called the practice barbaric, although he came to appreciate the King’s experience that more among Men than among Hobbits will commit pernicious acts and continue to grow worse and more destructive in their behavior over time if there is no way most innocent individuals can distinguish them as malefactors.”

            It was a most sobering thought, and Bartolo felt his skin crawl as he considered it.

            Persivo was obviously as upset at the idea as had been Frodo, as he pulled back some in his chair and asked, “Branding?  You mean with a hot iron, the way they do with cattle?”

            “Yes--on the hand and the forehead.”

            “But that would leave a horrible scar!”

            “That is its intent,” explained the Man quietly.  “The fact this is one who has been found guilty of horrible things must be recognized.  Most individuals who are given enforced servitude aren’t branded, though, for most have been more selfish and foolish than truly dangerous--some minor spies, thieves, tricksters, and the like.”

            Persivo exchanged a look with his father.  “Dad,” he began slowly, “do you remember that one of Lotho’s Big Men who was always stealing sheep?  Do you think as he might have been one of them--of those who’d been branded?  It almost looked like a T on his forehead.”

            Alvric nodded.  “A T glyph is used to brand habitual thieves, usually those who have been caught stealing many times.  So, some thief from Gondor came north with those brigands who sought to take over the Shire, did he?”

            “At least one,” Persi said, shrugging.

            “I’ll let the Rangers know when I see them again,” Alvric noted.

            Bartolo nodded.  “Do that.”  They were quiet for a time as he gathered the final lease together into a folder.  When it was all in order he looked back up at the Mannish lawyer.  “Well, how much more do you think as I’d best learn before we return to the Shire?” he asked.  “I’ve several clients who are farmers who’d be glad to have contracts written to provide foodstuffs for your folk.”

            The lawyer from Gondor looked from Barti to Ora.  “Well, as that is Master Watercress’s primary interest as well, shall we work on those over the next two days at least?  Beyond that most of our legal studies have to do with advising those who appear before magistrates or lords for judgment regarding how they have offended against the law or their neighbors.”

            With that their work for the day was done, and Bartolo, Persivo, and Ora took their leave and left together.

            “Imagine--someone who’s so much a thief as he has to be branded for it!” commented Persivo as they left the lane where Denra Gorse’s house stood.  “I can understand as why Cousin Frodo Baggins was shocked by the idea.”

            “And he actually told the King it was a horrible thing to do?” Ora mused.  “Now, I don’t know as I’d have the courage to do that!  This new King of ours must think highly of Mr. Baggins to of allowed it.”

            “Apparently,” Barti agreed grudgingly.

            “Well, all of the Travelers seem to think quite highly of the King,” Persi said.  “When they speak of him, it’s obvious they’re very proud of him.  And certainly Master Alvric appears to respect him very much.”

            “Well, it makes me glad as I’m not living there in the King’s city as where folks might get branded,” Ora returned.

            “Are the Men here in Bree like to be that bad?” Persi asked him.

            “No, not most of them.  Oh, there’s a few bad apples in the bin, of course.  That Harry Goatleaf as used to watch the west gate--he was one, as was that Bill Ferny.  Now, there was a true bad’un if there ever was one.  We weren’t surprised when he left with the ones as attacked Bree.  We heard tell as he went into the Shire with the rest of the ruffians.  He was a thief and a liar and one ready to steal the pennies off a dead Man’s eyes, he was.”

            “They really do that here?” asked Persi, very interested.

            “Yes, some of them.  They say as you have to pay the one as opens the Gates of Death, not that any Hobbits or even most Bigs here actually do it.”  They’d reached the place where his lane turned off the main street.  “Well, I’ll wish you a good night, then.  This writing of leases has been very interesting--certainly not as complicated as we’d do, although I think as in some places the language is a bit trickier than what we’d use here in the Breelands.”

            “Yes, that’s the truth of it,” Barti agreed.  “We’ll probably be leaving, then, by the end of the week.  Might we look forward to hosting you and your wife to a dinner at the Prancing Pony in the private parlor we’ve engaged, say on Mersday evening?”

            And with the promise he’d speak of it with his wife and give their answer tomorrow, Ora headed for his home while the two Bracegirdles continued toward the inn.

            After a few minutes of silence Barti said quietly, “I’d have never believed as a Hobbit would truly become friends with a king.  I’ll tell you this, lad--this has certainly been beyond my experience, all as we’ve learned here.”

            “I know, Dad,” Persi said.  “But if he and Master Gamgee did what they say, went all the way through Mordor to throw the Enemy’s Ring into the fire mountain so as it could be destroyed, then I’d say as they’ve earned all the honors they were given as well as the King’s friendship.  I know as I’m proud now to have Cousin Frodo as kin.”

            Barti examined his son’s visage, and saw that the lad was speaking the honest truth.  There was no mistaking the expression on his face, the light in his eyes.  “I see,” he said as he turned back toward their way.  But he was thinking hard as he approached the Pony’s front door.

            Nob, who was shaking out the straw mat that lay before the door, greeted them.  “Aha--Masters Bracegirdle--you’re back, are you?  Then you wasn’t caught in the fuss in the marketplace, then?  Oh, you didn’t hear?  Well, they say as two of them ruffians was caught today, threatenin’ a lass, they was.  They was took quick enough, with no harm done, ’tis said.  Mr. Lindor and a Ranger lad done it, I understand--the ruffians was off to the gaol afore they understood as what hit’em, or I’d miss my guess.  Mr. Lindor is right good with that walkin’ stick, he is.  Well, come in, and you lot’ll be a-wantin’ your tea right quick, am I right?”

            Delphie and the lasses had already returned by the time Bartolo and his older son arrived, and they were considering what they would do for tea.  That meal hadn’t yet been ordered, however, before Enrico arrived with Bedlo Sandheaver.  Rikky was smiling broadly.  “I love golf!” he declared.

            “I don’t,” muttered his companion.  “Him’s a fair natural for it, him is.  He’d of give me old gaffer a run for his money, him would.  As for me--I think I’ll stick to roopie.  Lots more fun.”

            Bartolo, who’d never taken up the sport, looked at his younger son with interest.  “Did you play a full game?” he asked.

            “Yes--we did nine holes, although many run the course twice, it seems.  I beat Bedlo’s cousin, even--forty-seven to fifty.”

            “You got fifty points?”

            Rikky had to struggle not to laugh, but still sounded a bit dismissive as he explained, “It’s strokes, not points; and the fewer strokes it takes, the better your score.  He took three more than me for the same nine holes.  He was better for the first four holes, but by then I was figuring out how to hold the clubs right, and I started doing better’n him.”

            “I see,” Barti murmured.  “Well, perhaps someday you might show me how to play.”

            Persivo and Petunia shared an amused glance--both of them knew their father well enough to realize he’d probably never actually agree to play the game with their younger brother; and Delphinium caught both the glance and the unspoken comment, secretly agreeing with it.  Rikky, however, was beaming.  “Oh, I think as you’d love the game, Da.”

            “Will you stay for tea with us, Bedlo?” Delphie asked him.

            “Oh, yes, mum, if’n it’s all right,” Bedlo said, smiling.  “Me da said as I could if I was asked.”

            “Then what would you all wish I should ask for?”

            Half an hour later the seven of them were sitting down to a meal, once the lads had returned from washing up and combing their hair after their morning on the golf course.  The proposed invitation to the Watercresses was discussed briefly; and Begonia agreed the new hair ribbons were acceptable, although she still grieved they weren’t the ones Aunt Lavinia had given her.  “I think as she’ll be glad as I have ones to match,” she said.  “And I’ve let Alyssa know as I’ve forgave her.”

            “Forgiven her,” corrected her mother.  “And I’m proud of both of you.  May she return to sleep again with you as of tonight, then?”

            “Yes, Mum,” Gonya allowed.  Then after a few moments of silence she asked, “When are you going to tell him about Mr. Greenwillow?”

            “Who is Mr. Greenwillow?” asked Bartolo.

            Petunia glanced at her mother briefly before responding, “He’s a Man, and used to be a Ranger, a long, long time ago.  He lost his hand in a battle against goblins, I guess, and was given a house here to live in with his wife, Mistress Anelisë, to sort of keep an eye on things as happened here in the Breelands for Lord Arathorn, the King’s father.  After Lord Arathorn died whatever he learned as might be happening that was worrisome he told to the Steward, and later to the King when he was only Lord Aragorn.  Now he gives the information to Lord Halladan what’s the new Steward for the King, and Lord Halladan tells King Aragorn Elessar.”

            “So, he’s a Man?”

            “Yes, a Man of the Dúnedain--that’s the proper name for the Sea Kings’ folk.  He’s always kept an eye out for problems, they say, and helped those as fought to chase away the Big Men when they came here.”

            “I see.”

            Again Pet looked briefly to her mother before continuing, “There was a bit of a problem this morning.  Some of the ruffians, those as were Lotho’s Big Men, come in to see if they could buy supplies at the marketplace.  They--they saw me, and the meaner one--he----”

            Bartolo was looking at her closely now, having caught the distress in her tone.  If his daughter were threatened....

            Pet continued, “Anyway, Dad, the meaner one realized as I was from the Shire, and meant to hurt me.  Only they’d been watched from outside.  There was a lad--a boy, I mean, named Tergion.  I guess as his dad is a Ranger.  He was outside the west gate when the ruffians decided to see if they could slip into the market to buy a few things for supplies, and he followed them, and went straight to the Greenwillows to let them know.  They got to the market right away, and--and Mr. Lindor, he hit the meaner one with his walking stick and knocked him out.  They took them away to the gaol, but not before Mr. Greenwillow and Tergion emptied out their pockets and took away their knives.  They didn’t have much coin, but they did have some jewelry--and one of the necklaces was Aunt Lobelia’s promise necklace.”

            “You’re certain?” Barti asked, surprised to find he sounded almost normal, considering the empty space he felt behind his navel.

            She nodded.  “Mr. Lindor’s going to come tonight to see you, to bring the necklace.  I told him as Aunt Lobelia’d died, after all.  He says as you could probably see best as to it going where it ought to go.  Will you give it to Cousin Hyacinth, then?”

            “Yes,” he said slowly.  “And you weren’t hurt?”

            She shook her head.  “No--they didn’t have time to do anything, you see.  Although I admit as it scared me--it scared me bad.  I was so glad when I saw the mean one fall down, and then Mistress Anelisë was holding me and making certain as I was all right.  But it’s two more from those as was in the Shire who’ve been caught, now.”

            Bartolo Bracegirdle was taking deep breaths to calm himself.  “Thanks to the Rangers.”

            “You mean as it was Tergion as saved you?” Lyssa was asking.  “Oh, I know him--we rode to the Hedge’s farm with him and his dad.  He’s ever so nice.”

            “Yes, I know--and Mr. Lindor says as he’ll be an excellent Ranger when he’s through his training.”  Petunia was now smiling fully.  “Anyway, I didn’t have to go looking for Mr. Lindor, for I’d hoped to speak with him about Mr. Ned Underhill’s scroll.”

            “What’s a scroll?” Barti asked, feeling well out of his depth.

            “It’s a big roll of parchment that records used to be kept on.  This one’s the family scroll for the Baggers, and it’s sort of a family book for them, and tells the history of the Hobbits from when they come over the mountains far to the east into Eriador, and when they were moved by the King’s folks here because of the wars, and then I guess how the Shire was given to us.  And it names the families that are all related--the Baggers, the Bagginses, the Sackinses, and the Sackvilles--and I saw the name Bracegirdle in it, too, the quick look as I had of it.  Mr. Underhill doesn’t read or write, but he’s learned to recognize his own name, and I guess as he’s found other Neds in the family--one was his great, great, great grandfather.

            “Anyway, he wants the scroll translated all to Westron, for some of it’s in Elvish, apparently; and I was going to ask Cousin Frodo Baggins if he could do it, but Persi suggested maybe a Ranger could translate it instead, since one of them helped translate the deeds for you.”

            “Yes, I see.  So you were going to ask a Ranger?”

            Petunia nodded.  “But they were all gone, so I thought to ask Mr. Greenwillow, seeing as he used to be a Ranger himself.  I promised Mum that if I was going to ask him I let her know first, so as she’d know where I was, and that’s why I’d gone to the market, to find her and tell her.”

            Bartolo looked to his wife.  “They told us, Master and Mistress Greenwillow, although apparently this Tergion had left by then,” Delphinium explained.

            “Mr. Lindor sent him to find his dad, who didn’t stay here in Bree last night, so as they can look and see if there’s any more ruffians waiting for these ones to come back with the supplies they was going to buy.”

            “And these two are in the gaol now?”

            “Yes--they’ll be taken north to be tried before Lord Halladan, and then probably--probably executed--or at least the one who tried to hurt our Petunia.  The other might just have to work for the kingdom for a time--I understand that he tried to warn the other not to hurt anyone in Bree.”

            “Men!” Barti spat through clenched teeth.

            “But the one who tried to hurt me, he’s not all a Man,” Pet advised him.  “Mr. Lindor says as he partly a goblin.”

            “Goblin?  Men can marry goblins?”  Barti looked at his daughter, disbelieving what he’d just heard.

            “It’s something Sharkey did to them,” Petunia said, “or that’s what Mr. Lindor said, there in the marketplace.”

            “And most of the Men here are no different than Hobbits, just as you said before we left the Shire,” Delphinium pointed out.  “Certainly none of the folk here at the Pony are, or the King’s kin, or Master Alvric.”

            Barti took one more shudderingly deep breath.  “True enough, beloved,” he sighed.  “Can’t tar them all with the same brush, I suppose.  And it was Men as saved our lass for us.”

            “I guess as the King has reason to choose to set the Shire off limits to Men for a time,” Persivo commented.

            His father nodded, reaching out to take his daughter’s hand in his and squeeze it, glad she’d come through it all unscathed.

Final Intelligence

            Delphinium Bracegirdle stood at the door to the Greenwillow house and took deep breaths to calm herself.  She couldn’t think why she was so nervous, for she’d spent time in this house yesterday, had eaten elevenses and luncheon with Master Lindor and Mistress Analisë.  They’d even saved her daughter!  She liked them and knew them to be kindly and honorable.  So why would she feel afraid now?  Steeling herself, she knocked at the door.  Soon enough she heard a vibration through the house, and realized that she must be hearing footsteps from within.  What a great clattering Men made with their feet! she thought.  The vibrations came nearer, and then she heard the hand grasp the latch and lift it, and the door swung open.

            Mistress Analisë looked first out at her own level, then downward until she met the eyes of the Hobbit matron who stood upon her doorstep.  She appeared surprised.  “Mistress Bracegirdle?  You have come to see me?  Do come within.”  She opened the doorway further and stood aside to allow her guest entrance.  “Your children have not accompanied you today?”

            “There was an invitation to go with the Sandheavers to a place just outside Bree where they apparently enjoy picnics.  They say there is a small stream, and all might perhaps fish and hunt pebbles.  The children were glad enough to go, and I again am granted a day free of their company, and thought I might come to visit you here--that is, of course, if it is no bother?”

            The woman smiled as she set the latch.  “No bother at all.  Lindor is off to the meeting of the Bree Council today where they are considering the offer to train more lawyers of the Shire and the Breelands to the laws and practices of the realm.  And they have the matter of the two ruffians taken yesterday to discuss as well.”

            “Then they didn’t find any others?”

            “No, none.  Faradir tracked the trail back into the forest and found nothing to indicate they traveled with any others.  Come with me into the kitchen, for I’d but put the kettle on, and we should have tea in a few minutes.  And I’ve cooked up a hearty soup, if you’d care to try it.”

            Once she was settled on a stool with a bowl of soup, a mug of a mint tea she’d not tried before, two apples, several slices of bread and butter, and a plate of ginger biscuits for afters at the table where the tall woman had a covered bowl of bread dough set to rising, Delphie found herself feeling more comfortable with her situation.  “You’ll eat nothing yourself?” she asked.

            “Some biscuits and a glass of buttermilk when I’m done with my tea and I’ve shaped my bread,” the woman smiled as she sat in a lower chair.  “But it’s not an hour since I ate my breakfast--I ate late this morning.  Was there some topic you wished to discuss?  You know that Master Frodo has asked his business not be discussed.”

            “Yes, although I think he’s being more than a wooden head about it.  No, what I really came for was--was to try to find out more of this war that happened.  Apparently that’s why the Big Men came into the Shire and sought to invade Bree and the Breelands as well, isn’t that right?”

            “So it is--the move to enslave the Breelands and the Shire was indeed one of the more evil deeds of this war--or at least so it is here in the northern lands.”

            “But what was the war about?”

            Analisë sighed as she sipped at her mug of tea.  “What is war ever about?  One group seeks to take by force what they cannot receive by asking or building themselves, and the other group resists and hopes to break the strength of the enemy sufficiently that it might be persuaded to return its own lands or to be so profoundly destroyed that it is no longer dangerous.  Such is ever the way of it.”

            “But----”  Delphie stopped, unsure what she meant to say.  The woman opposite her waited and allowed her to think it out.  “I suppose,” she said at last, “I’m trying to understand who or what this Sauron was, and what his relationship was with that Sharkey.”

            “You have chosen the hardest question to ask,” Analisë sighed.  “How does one explain the likes of Sauron?”

            “He’s been around for quite a long time, hasn’t he?”

            The woman laughed bitterly.  “Quite a long time, you say?  Since the creation of Arda, I understand.”

            That took the Hobbitess aback, and she replaced her spoonful of soup back in the bowl and straightened.

            “You didn’t know?”  At Delphie’s shake of the head, Analisë sighed.  “Do you know the Elves’ story of the creation of the world?  Have you ever heard it?”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “I see.  This makes it even more complicated.”  It was the woman’s turn to think how to proceed.  At last she began, “It started with the Creator choosing to make children for himself, and so he created the Ainur, or great spirits of power, followed by the Maiar, or lesser spirits who are servants and messengers of Eru and his Ainur.  He gifted the Ainur with the ability to sing the songs of creation, and when all had learned their parts he brought them together to sing the universe into being.”  She stood so she could work her bread as she spoke, flattening it out and shaping it into a roll, then placing it on the greased metal tray on which it would be baked, finally dabbling it with whipped egg yolk before she placed a cloth over it and set it aside to rise once more and resumed her seat.

            Delphie sat and listened enraptured as the tale unfolded, the soup cooling unregarded before her, although at one point without thinking she reached first for an apple and ate it automatically, then took a ginger biscuit.

            “And Sauron and Morgoth are the same?” she asked after a time.

            “No, although their aims apparently are.  Morgoth was intended to be among the greatest of the Ainur and Valar, and Sauron was a Maia corrupted by him--although one of the more powerful of his order.  He was Morgoth’s lieutenant, his second-in-command, for much of Morgoth’s period of supremacy here in Middle Earth.  Soon after Morgoth founded his great fortress of Angband far to the north, he began being challenged by Elves and Men.  The forces of the Noldor who’d returned from Aman to the Mortal Lands blamed him for the strife he’d awakened in the Undying Lands, knew him for the monster he’d become, and sought to recover the Silmarils he’d stolen from Fëanor’s family.  The Sindarin Elves resented his attempts to dominate them and the evil they sensed in him.  Our furthest ancestors, having learned that both Morgoth and Sauron were liars and betrayers and sought only domination by whatever means they could find to use, fled here west of the Misty Mountains and allied themselves with the Elves, as did many amongst the Dwarves as well.  How long precisely Morgoth's chaos reigned we have no idea, but after the arrival of the Noldor in Middle Earth all struggled for well over half a millenium, Morgoth and those who opposed him.  In the end Eärendil the Mariner, one of the Peredhil or half-Elven, sailed westward to beg the Valar themselves to come to the aid of those who would live freely in Middle Earth.  Only Fëanor’s remaining sons, having heard that the one Silmaril wrested by Beren One-hand from Morgoth’s iron crown rested now in the keeping of Eärendil’s wife Elwing, came upon the keep where Elwing and her twin sons, then but very young children, lived and entered in, blindly slaying those who opposed them until they came to the room where Elwing and her sons were in the tower.  Elwing, who was gifted as a shapechanger, seeking to break the madness of those who broke into her quarters, threw herself out the window, taking the Silmaril with her.  As she fell she shifted into the shape of a soaring seabird and flew over the Sundering Sea, carrying the Silmaril until she found her husband’s ship.

            “There she lighted, and gave the gem into the keeping of Eärendil.  He used it to set his course for Aman.  The Valar received him and granted his plea; but neither he nor she could return to Ennor, Middle Earth, to the comfort of their people or that of their sons.  Instead they set his ship to sailing the Seas of Night, and placed the last Silmaril in a circlet that he must wear, and he sails now ever as the Gil-estel, the star of evening and morning, the sign that first presaged the coming of the Valar to fight their evil brother and that since has ever given heart to those who have felt hopelessness.

            “Morgoth was defeated, but at great cost to the earth itself as well as loss of life by those who opposed him.  Many of the Maiar who had followed him repented and were allowed to return to Aman; those who had taken the shapes and identities of greatest horror and destruction and lost themselves in them, however, were imprisoned beneath the roots of mountains.  Sauron himself hid in the waste places, and although he’d sent word he repented his former evil, he would not return to bow himself down and openly acknowledge his crimes and know atonement.  Instead, as time passed he returned fully to his old ways, and he determined that if it were possible he would see Morgoth freed to return into Eä and to Arda where he would be avenged upon those who’d conquered him and thrust him beyond the Gates of Night.

            “So he took a fair seeming, and representing himself as Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, he began traveling in the western lands seeking to learn what he could and find ways to betray all.  To Eregion he came, the great Elf kingdom that lay outside the western gates of the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Khazad-dûm.  There dwelt Celebrimbor of the Noldor, greatest Elven smith remaining within Ennor; and to Celebrimbor and his artisans Annatar taught the making of Rings of Power.  Three were made to be gifted to the greatest of the Elven Lords and Ladies; seven for the Dwarves; and nine for the greatest kings of Men.  Having helped in the crafting of the Seven and Nine and having set his seal of corruption on them, Sauron left Eregion to return to his own fortress-land of Mordor where he threw off all disguises.  He awoke the volcano of Orodruin, or Mount Doom, and within a cavern looking down on its heart he crafted the One Ring, set to dominate the other nineteen Rings of Power and whoever might wear them.  Only the Elves heard as he spoke the spell that sealed the greater part of his own power and evil will into the Ring he himself crafted, and so they removed their rings and hid them.

            “And so war was resumed, with Sauron seeking to dominate all and with those who could opposing him ever.”

            The story of the founding and foundering of Númenor was at least familiar, for Delphinium had heard the tale before from her older Baggins cousin, Bilbo.  “And these were your ancestors who went to this island given to Men by the Valar?” she asked.

            “Yes, my ancestors, led by Elros, one of the twin sons of Elwing and Eärendil.  To these two youths was granted the choice to live as mortal Men or immortal Elves, and Elros chose mortality while his brother Elrond chose to live as an Elf; and so they, too, were sundered from one another.  But when the island foundered due to the lies and blandishments of Sauron convincing the last King of Númenor to seek to wrest immortality by force from the Valar--not that they have the authority to confer such a thing--Elendil and his two sons led the Faithful back to Middle Earth, their ships driven eastward by storms caused by the destruction of the Star Isle.  Elendil was a direct descendant of Elros, and so it is that the Dúnedain to this day are all descendants of those who’d first fought Morgoth and then fought against the growing power and influence of Sauron after him.”

            “Why didn’t Sauron die when the Star Isle sank if he was there at the time?”

            “He wasn’t a mortal, and had left the greater part of himself safely within his great Ring, here in Middle Earth, hidden somewhere within Mordor.  That being true, he could not lose himself completely; his spirit survived and returned at last to the Mortal Lands and found its Ring, at which he could begin to build himself a body once more; but no longer could he form one that was pleasing to the eyes of others.”

            She told now of the Last Alliance, and how Elendil and Gil-galad had both died in the battle felling Sauron, allowing Isildur to take up the haft of his father’s broken sword and use it to cut away the Ring from Sauron’s hand.  “But he would not give It over and see It destroyed while he was there, right at Orodruin.  It is said by some Elrond himself led him to the Sammath Naur where It was forged to see It destroyed, but Isildur would not do so.  Instead It took him, and he claimed It for his own, although he managed to retain sufficient wit not to place It upon his finger there, where Its power and will were strongest.”

            Now she told of how Isildur had gone first to Gondor to set his brother’s son upon the throne there as King of the southern kingdom, after which he set off northward to claim the kingdom of Arnor as his own, although he would be High King over his nephew.  “Only he never made it to where his wife and youngest son waited in Imladris--orcs waylaid his party, and all but two died, himself the last of them when the Ring betrayed him, making Itself larger to slip from his finger while he sought to escape by swimming across the River Anduin.  It abandoned him, betraying him to his death; but It waited too late, until he was in the River, and It was lost for twenty and five centuries in the mud at the bottom of the Anduin until it was found by one of the River folk.”

            “What are the River folk?”

            She sighed.  “They were those of your kind who returned back over the Misty Mountains to the Anduin Valley to again seek to dwell there.  The one who found the Ring had a companion, Sméagol, who murdered his kinsman to take the Ring for his own.  Sméagol we now know was cast out of his grandmother’s hole to wander houseless, until he sought to hide himself from the light of day and the title of murderer by crawling into the darkness of caverns beneath the Misty Mountains, where he found a hidden place to dwell by a darkened lake, surviving on blind fish he caught within his lake and such orcs--or goblins as you may know them--he managed to trap.  And so it continued until Sauron again began to stir and sought to call his Ring to him, and It abandoned him one day, managing to fall out of his belt pouch or off his finger when he wore It to make himself invisible so as to sneak up on a goblin.  And there another of your kind found It----”

            “Are you saying that the story Bilbo told is--is true?”  Delphie felt more than a bit faint at the thought.  “And this--Sméagol was Gollum’s right name?”

            “Yes.”

            “And Bilbo brought that Ring back to the Shire?”

            “Yes, although he knew not which Ring it was.  He thought it merely a trifle he’d found.”

            “And he took It away when he left after his last Party?”

            “No.”

            Delphie sat as if stricken at that.  “He didn’t--didn’t leave It, did he--there in the Shire where It could cause evil?”  But this time Analisë didn’t answer.  At last Delphie understood.  “And now you aren’t supposed to tell me, even though--even though I’ve figured it out now.  That’s why Frodo had to leave--and why--why he had to go to a fire mountain.”  She took a deep breath.  “No wonder he’s changed from how he was.”

            “You see him as different than he was?”

            “Yes.  He’s so solemn now.  He’s lost weight, and it's more than just being slender again as he was as a tween.  According to Rico, my cousin Angelica’s husband, he often looks worried, distracted, and defensive.  He’s always been too responsible by half, and now it’s worse.  He was a happy person, and the best dancer in the Shire; but they say he didn’t even dance at Sam Gamgee’s wedding--that he looked as if he was ill, in spite of him obviously being happy for Sam and Rosie.  He works as the deputy Mayor, and he goes between Hobbiton and Michel Delving, and he does hardly anything else.  He’s not gone to a party or banquet unless he must as deputy Mayor.  He didn’t go anywhere for Yule or to the Planting Ball in Overhill--he’s always gone to the Planting Ball.  He went to Buckland once, but my sister says he was obviously not too well when he got back.  She says he rubs at his shoulder a good deal, as if he’s frequently in pain.”

            Analisë sighed and bowed her head.  “From what we’ve been told of what he went through--he’s fortunate to even be alive,” she admitted, her voice soft and sad.  She looked up to meet Delphie’s eyes.  “To hear the adventure tales tell it, those who are heroes are dashing and daring--they need only draw their swords and take a swing and all fall before their onslaught; and if they are wounded it is never anything serious.  Yet the reality is so much different.  My husband lost his sword hand; Lord Arathorn and so many others their lives.  If the four who returned to your land are heroes--and I assure you they are, each and all of them--then they paid the cost for that heroism; and it is likely that--that your cousin Frodo Baggins will continue to pay for the rest of his life, however long that might prove.”

            After a time of thought Delphie asked, “Since his Ring is gone, Sauron can’t return?”

            “No--there is not enough of him left, with what was in the Ring lost to him, for him to do any such thing.  And the Valar and Maiar of Aman would not allow him to return to them.  What was left at the last was torn apart by strong west winds, and Manwë, chief amongst the Valar, has ever been known as the Lord of the Winds.”

            “Then what about this Sharkey?”

            The woman shrugged, her face more concerned.  “We know less of the Istari’s origins, for all they have been with us most of two thousand years.  Saruman was the first of his kind to be noted to arrive here in Middle Earth.  It is said he came in a small boat to the quays of Mithlond, the Elves’ Grey Havens, there west of the Shire.  He was followed some years later by a second, then two more, then last of all Gandalf, who is known by the Elves as Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim.  It is said that they were sent to oppose Sauron, but sent in the guise of elderly Men, although they have not grown appreciably older since they arrived here so long ago.  The two who came together have disappeared into the east, and none know where they went or why none has heard from them since.  The second to arrive, Radagast, lives east of the Misty Mountains, although from time to time he returns here to Eriador to assist in the healing of blasted lands.  Saruman, who was known to the Elves as Curunír, came seldom here to Eriador, spending most of his time in the southlands or wandering through the lands east of Mordor and Mirkwood.”

            “Then Sharkey was a Wizard, like Gandalf?”

            “Yes.  Several hundred years ago the one who was then Steward of Gondor gave Saruman the tower of Orthanc at Isengard to dwell within.  It was built by Elendil and his sons, and appears to have been used mostly by those among their followers who sought most knowledge of the world and the stars.  Then, I believe before the Kings of Gondor failed, the tower was mostly left empty until the gift of its residency was made to Curunír.  Now having a home of his own, he became more withdrawn from the world of Men and Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits; instead he devoted himself wholly to study and devising; then appears to have somehow developed his own will to power over others.  He began gathering servants to himself, mostly from among the people of Dunland; then somehow he captured some orcs and took them as slaves and--and breeding stock.  He became more arrogant and delusional, but managed to hide it from most.  None realized, apparently, that he was building himself an army behind the walls of Isengard.

            “Just before your cousin left the Shire Saruman captured Gandalf and sought to hold him as a prisoner to keep him from interfering with his plans.  He intended to destroy the land of Rohan where the horselords live, and then he would march with his army from the west while Sauron and his armies and allies from Harad, Rhun, Umbar, and Angmar came from the east, and between them they would destroy the capital of Gondor and, with that gone, enslave all of that kingdom.  Then they would march northward and slay all in their path until they killed the last remnant of the Dúnedain of what was once Arnor.  And with that done, the dark days would come again, and all would lie under the control of Mordor; none living for themselves, but all as slaves to the Shadow.  Whether or not Sauron continued in his belief he could release Morgoth back into this creation we know not; certainly all he has done in the past age appears more intended to build himself back up rather than to assist his former master.”

            “Sharkey--or Saruman--captured Gandalf?”

            “Gandalf thought him still devoted to the purpose for which the Wizards were sent to us; once he learned of the treachery of Saruman he found means of escape and returned to warn all.  He arrived in Buckland a few days after your cousin fled it, and after the Black Riders had been there within the house where Frodo was supposed to now dwell.  He hurried then for Imladris; but since he had now a horse he’d taken from the horselords of Rohan while the Hobbits and Aragorn went afoot, he arrived there first.”

            “But it was said that when they disappeared five ponies belonging to Merry Brandybuck went with them.”

            “They were lost when the stable at the Pony was entered and all the horses and ponies within were driven off, out of Bree altogether.  The Prancing Pony itself was attacked, and the room where the four Hobbits were supposed to sleep was entered and the beds hacked to pieces.  Fortunately Aragorn was with them by then and had them sleep elsewhere, although Nob has proudly told me how well the beds were arranged to look as if each held a sleeping Hobbit.”

            “So, Gandalf knew Saruman had gone bad?”

            “Yes.”

            “And they did nothing to stop him?”

            “Who was to be sent so quickly to stop him?  Gandalf had sought to warn Théoden of Rohan who ruled the land closest to Isengard; but although Théoden’s nephew Èomer believed him, not so the King.  Not until Théoden realized how he himself had been caught in Saruman’s webs did he believe and seek to do aught to protect his land and people.  But that was months later, just ere spring began.”

            “Where is this Isengard?”

            “Far, far to the south, at the southern end of the Misty Mountains, perhaps a ride of twenty to thirty days.”

            “How did he get from there to the Shire?”

            “Captain Peregrin or Sir Meriadoc could tell you fully, although I doubt I know it all.  Apparently there is a race of the Children of Iluvatar that woke in the forests of Middle Earth--the Onodrim is the name in Sindarin, although they are called the Ents in the common tongue.  I’d only heard of them in ancient fireside tales and thought them the children of imagination before those who went south to aid Aragorn returned, for they saw them as they returned past Orthanc and Fangorn Forest, and Aragorn spoke easily and respectfully with them, or so they say.  These are the Shepherds of the ancient forest, watching over and tending to the trees given to their care.

            “In his seeking for power Saruman had been creating great furnaces for the smelting of metals and the forging of weapons of war and tools of destruction.  Forges require wood and charcoal; and having depleted the orchards that once bloomed within the bowl of Isengard he began sending his slaves further afield, and they’d begun wantonly cutting the trees of Fangorn, not even taking all for the fires.  Once Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc got there....”

            Delphie sat listening, totally fascinated.  In time the woman rose and took the bowl of cooled soup and saw it dealt with, and together they saw the dishes washed and put away and the bread in the oven as the story progressed.  They’d retaken their seats at the table with more tea when at last Analisë explained how the Ents had reportedly allowed Saruman and his servant Wormtongue to go free, now that the war was over and Sauron’s power destroyed; and how they’d hurried to come northward that they might enter the Shire to its destruction before the four Travelers might return home and halt their doings.  “Such Halladan has explained to us, at least,” she said at last.

            “But if he lived so far south of us, how did he learn of the Shire?” Delphie asked.  “Why would he send the Big Men to help Lotho?”

            “That we aren’t certain,” the woman admitted.  “Probably he was aware of the Shire through Gandalf, although we aren’t certain how he could have realized that perhaps the Ring might lie hidden there.”

            “You think he knew?” Delphie asked, then stopped again.  “So--so that’s why they took rings and none came back to us--they were looking for that­ one--Sauron’s Ring!”

            “They took rings?”

            “Yes.  They took almost all the jewelry they could find, and most of it’s been found and returned, but no rings.  About all who have rings now are those who lived in Buckland beyond Kingsbridge and those who lived in the Tooklands, and those who buried or hid their jewelry before the Gatherers and Sharers got to them.  But Frodo was gone before Lotho’s folks got there, so there was no way they could have found the one they wanted had they taken every piece of jewelry in the Shire!”  She found she was shaking her head.  “Foolish souls.”

            Analisë Greenwillow nodded.  “Those who are greedy for power or wealth are usually very foolish once you look closely at them,” she agreed.  “I know you were distracted the first time, but I’m ready now to eat my luncheon.  Do you think you’d enjoy another bowl of that soup?”

            Realizing she felt near famished, Delphinium smiled.  “Yes, it was quite good, what I actually tasted of it.  You are an excellent cook, Mistress Greenwillow.”

            “Please--just call me Analisë.”

******* 

            On Sterday morning they left the Prancing Pony, Persivo driving and Enrico sitting beside him on the box, Bartolo inside facing across at Delphinium who sat with Petunia on one side of her and Alyssa on the other.  Begonia sat beside him to his left, a letter from Aggie Sandheaver already in her hand.  He looked down at the brown leather satchel that lay on the seat to his right--a gift to him from Master Alvric; a second in oxblood below it that had been gifted to Persivo.  “He’ll make a fine lawyer once he’s through his apprenticeship,” the Mannish lawyer had predicted, a wide smile on his face as he peered through that crystal lens of his at where Persi had stood taking leave of Carnation Sandheaver and Denra Gorse in the neat garden before Mistress Gorse’s house.  “You’ve every reason to be proud of your son, his intellect, and his capabilities.  He’s a wonderful reflection on the upbringing you and Mistress Delphinium have given him.”

            Within the brown leather case were gathered model contracts and agreements for sales of goods and services as well as marriages (“One never knows,” Master Alvric had commented), apprenticeships, partnerships, leasing of equipment, the purchase and sale of property, rentals and leases for homes and businesses, as well as the completed lease agreement between a lord of the land and a tenant (and a simpler model they’d worked out afterwards to keep in his files in case such a situation might come about again).  So much time had been given to the copying out of other model documents that his file of such things be complete, that there had been no time to make all the requisite copies of the one between the Hedges and Frodo Baggins, but there wasn’t a big rush on that.  Once they were home he and Persivo between them should be able to see that done within the next week, after which Persi would be set to copying out each of the models for his own working files.  There was a rather strange satisfaction to be had, Barti thought, to knowing his son had been qualified to write contracts between folk the Shire and the King’s own folk before he was qualified to do so within the Shire itself!

            “I wonder if an Elf or a Ranger will ride alongside us this time?” Alyssa asked.

            “I must suppose we’ll need to wait and see,” her mother answered.

            It was a Ranger who joined them soon enough, one they’d not met yet.  He approached their carriage, and Persi slowed it sufficiently to allow him to speak.  “Master Bracegirdle?  I was asked to follow after you and see you to the Brandywine Bridge.”  He then fell behind them allowing the carriage to go ahead.  When they stopped for a meal at the place where they’d stopped before he nodded to them.  “I’ll leave my horse here,” he said, “and scout the forest for any who might be lingering about.” 

            They never learned his name or anything about him, but as he appeared to prefer it this way there wasn’t a great deal else they could do.

            It was as they were replacing things back in the coach after their meal that a glance at the box stowed under where he’d been sitting reminded Barti of his interview with Lindor Greenwillow.  Shortly after his return to the Prancing Pony, while Delphie and the children had gone out to fetch three shirts their mother had had made for Persivo, Greenwillow had knocked at the door of the private parlor they’d been given and asked permission to enter, carrying this box, neatly carved of fruitwood, decorated with the face of an enigmatically smiling woman surrounded by extravagant blossoms.

            “How do you do, Master Bracegirdle?” the Man had said with a courteous bow.  “They know me here as Lindor Greenwillow, although among our own people I am known as Lindor son of Elindor.  Were you advised of what occurred today in the marketplace, when two ruffians approached your daughter, recognizing her as a Hobbit of the Shire by her dress?”

            “So, I’m told, sir; and that I have you to thank as she wasn’t hurt by them.  And I do thank you.  My children--they mean the world and more to me.  Do sit down,” he’d added, indicating the chair Delphinium had thought to ask Nob for earlier in the day.

            Once his Mannish guest was comfortably seated with the box settled in his lap and an ale beside him, Bartolo had examined him.  As was true of the rest of the King’s kindred he’d seen so far Lindor Greenwillow was quite tall, slender, well muscled, with dark hair going grey and grey eyes and an intelligent expression--and then he’d realized that the right arm ended just short of the right wrist.  He’d looked away, feeling a bit sick, and had heard the Man’s almost mirthless laugh.  “I saved my Lord Arathorn from an orc’s blade; a second orc paid me back by removing my sword hand.  I regret that just the sight of it causes you distress, as I’ve learned to do well enough without it in the intervening years.  My Lord purchased a house here within Bree for my wife and me to live in, and we listen to the tides of gossip and information, watch for troubles to show themselves, and report to those of our Rangers who come through.  Now and then one of our own will need to rest quietly and unobserved for a time and so will abide with us; or one found in need of succor will be brought to us to take under our protection temporarily.  It is a good life, we’ve come to realize, and we have even been accepted by our neighbors--at last.”

            “And you helped organize the defense when--when the Big Men came here--am I right?”

            “Your folk called them that?”  Lindor had examined him with amusement in his eyes.  “Yes, I suppose that compared to the folk of the Shire they are big enough, although we’ve found none as tall as ourselves.  And the two taken today appear to have been among those who assisted in the taking of your land and the torment of your people--which, of course, is why I am here.”  He shifted to hold out the box toward Bartolo, who stood uncertainly to accept it.  “Barliman knows of no jewelry taken from folk in the Breelands, while the list of that taken from the Shire is, I understand, extensive.  We therefore ask that you and those who might have known Mistress Sackville-Baggins sufficiently well to possibly identify any more pieces that might have been stolen from her examine these, and that the remainder be forwarded to Lord Frodo for his continued efforts to reunite individuals with stolen items.  And this box--it is a gift from my wife to yours, for Analisë admires both Mistress Delphinium’s intelligence and good sense and how she has managed to pass on these attributes on to your daughters as well.  It was carved for her by her brother.  We had no children of our own, and it pleases her to think that this will go to someone who will appreciate the gift of it.”

            There had been little Barti might have said in answer to that offer besides to tender thanks on the part of Delphinium.  He remembered opening the box and being surprised at how many pieces there were inside.

            Lindor had responded, “They weren’t carrying all of this on their persons.  We found some buried in a cache there where they had been camping.  Apparently one or both had been putting aside stolen items to take with them should they leave the Shire--most likely the one who is wholly of Mankind.”

            “I’m still surprised that Men and goblins could--marry.”

            “Not marry--they were possibly forced to mate.  Such is an abomination against the Creator and the Valar, of course.  Yet orcs themselves have been an abomination against the Creator from the beginning, since the days Morgoth first began torturing captured Elves until they lost themselves and came to delight as much in evil as Morgoth himself.”

            That statement had given Barti pause.  He had no idea who or what Morgoth was--perhaps another name for this Sauron?  So many of these outsiders appeared to sport a number of different names for themselves, after all.  “I see,” had been all he had said.  In the end he had changed the subject.  “I do wish to thank you again for what you did to save my daughter.  In many villages there were some of these as would--paw at the lasses and prettier wives.  We were more fortunate, there in Hardbottle, although the thefts of food and goods were common enough.”  He’d thought for a moment, then asked, delicately, “And it’s true that your folk have guarded our borders--secretly?”

            Lindor nodded.  “We have done so at least since the days when Bucca of the Marish led out archers to the needs of Arvedui’s army of defense against the forces of Angmar.  Not only were those of aid in protecting Aranarth, the heir of Arvedui, but the rest of your folk within the Shire aided in bringing Aranarth, his mother Fíriel, and a good number of his folk across the Shire by secret paths to the Western Marches where they were met by Elves from Lindon and Mithlond and protected until the coming of Eärnur’s armada.  It is said also that your folk so riddled the West Road with pits and holes that Angmar’s horsemen could not pursue ours.  That final assault by Angmar nearly defeated us, and it was by the aid of your people we were saved.  Then when the armada arrived and Eärnur’s forces were ready to march against our enemies to help put them to rout, your people restored the road so swiftly that we were able to take Angmar by surprise.  His army was defeated, and when the Witch-king’s horse was slain beneath him--it is said by a Hobbit arrow, and that a second tipped with fire caught in his robes ablaze, he fled shapeless and the war was finished.”

            Lindor stretched slightly.  “And this time all of your four faced the Ring-wraiths and the power of Sauron’s direct will and managed to prevail--whether it was by their own native integrity and strength or with aid from without.  So many among Men are totally lost to reason and thought at the sight and sound of them, for ever their primary weapon has been terror; to see Hobbits stand firm when Men would be expected to fall temporarily witless has increased our respect for you.

            “And it has pleased us to be allowed to think that throughout most of this time Mordor has remained unaware of your land and the great strength at the core of your beings.  Even most of those here in Bree who dwell with Hobbits amongst them are fooled by your small stature and lack of interest in the doings of those other than yourselves into thinking Hobbits harmless and unlikely to protect your own.  It is always amusing to watch their expressions when they realize their misconceptions.”  And something in the pride with which that was said managed to fully convey to the Hobbit lawyer that Lindor meant precisely what he’d said.

            Now he looked back at the box, the line between his brow slightly deepening.  He’d have to bring that to Baggins; once its contents were ready to be identified and returned to whatever Hobbits scattered throughout the Shire had lost them then he could take the box back to Hardbottle and give it to Delphie as Lindor had indicated his wife wished done.  It was a fine piece of workmanship, and he was glad that his Delphinium would be able to own such a thing.

            He was musing on this when he heard Rikky comment, “I’d still like to explore over there.”

            “No,” Persi said with a definite tone to his voice.  “Remember what Mr. Glorinlas said--that’s a dangerous place even the Elves won’t enter, and that the King himself had some difficulty in escaping.  From what I’ve learned of the King’s folk and the Elves while we’ve been outside the Shire, I’d take their warnings seriously.  They don’t seem to speak lightly of such things.”  Barti found himself smiling at the good sense his older son showed, and turned to see equal pride in Delphie’s eyes.

            Once they were ready to go, Persi again driving and this time Petunia beside him, Delphie commented, “Should we wait for the Ranger?”

            Barti eyed the woods about him.  “Perhaps, although I doubt as there’s much to worry about between here and the Bridge.”

            The wait didn’t prove particularly long.  Their guardian appeared out of the woods, undoing his bowstring and shouldering the bow itself.  “Nothing more dangerous than a red squirrel seen,” he commented with a slight smile.  He had quickly checked bit and cinch, mounted, and was ready to fall back behind as he’d done before.

            It was not long past sunset when they made the Brandywine Bridge; just short of it their escort stopped, gave them a deep brow, and with the request, “Bear the respects of the Rangers of Arnor to the Ringbearer,” he waved them on. 

            Lyssa and Rikki were craning their heads out the windows to watch him as thy drove on; then the gate was opening as a Bounder stepped forward.  “If’n ye’d identify yourselves?” he said courteously enough.

            “Bartolo Bracegirdle and family from Hardbottle, returned from Bree on the deputy Mayor’s business,” Barti said after pulling his daughter away from the window.

            “Mr. Bracegirdle, sir?  Then it’s an honor to have you home again.  Garthfast Gamwidge at your service, sir.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Gamwidge.”

            “Shall I send a lad to the Bridge Inn to advise ’em as ye’ve come, Mr. Bracegirdle?”

            “Yes--that would be most satisfactory.  We stayed there on our way out, so they are aware of the accommodations we would prefer.”

            “So it shall be, Mr. Bracegirdle, sir.”  And at a gesture a young Hobbit disappeared toward the Inn as the gate was fully opened to welcome them back to the Shire.  Barti felt some muscle he’d not realized had been tense between his shoulder blades the whole time they’d been gone relax, and in moments they were driving into the inn’s yard and they were being greeted with the familiar accents of the Shire; and none of the buildings were over a sensible two stories in height, not even the Bridge Inn itself.

            They were home.

Hero or Coward?

            “Well, you finally decided to return home, did you?” asked Rico Clayhanger as he accompanied his friend to the stable from the open shed where the coach had been left beside the family’s trap.  “And how did your family find Bree?”

            Bartolo shrugged, a bit surprised to find he didn’t appreciate Rico’s dry address as much as he usually did.  “They appeared to enjoy themselves thoroughly,” he admitted as he saw the two ponies into their stalls.  “Would you like to assist me, or do you intend merely to annoy others with your barbed chatter?”

            The Clayhanger lawyer took no offense, for he was well enough accustomed to Bracegirdle directness and acerbic comments.  “If you need a hand with the ponies, of course--” he began.

            “I don’t particularly need a hand, but would certainly appreciate one,” Barti growled.  “Get some of the stable toweling there, and the brushes, and we’ll get these two settled for a time.  They’ve earned a good feed and rest, the pulling they’ve been doing the last three days.”

            Rico turned his attention to Dottie, leaving Spotty to his master.  “And what do you think of this lawyer of the King’s that was sent up?”

            “Intelligent, very well mannered, and knows his business thoroughly.  Name’s Alvric son of Maerdion--they don’t do family names in Gondor, apparently.  He’s second to the Master of their Guild of Lawyers, and serves as a magistrate as well as advisor for those who must go before their courts and tribunals.”

            “Did he meet our Travelers while they were down in the King’s city?”

            “He saw them all and heard them speak on occasion, but doesn’t appear to have truly met any of them in person.”

            Rico’s brows rose in curiosity.  “And what would Hobbits of the Shire have to say of interest to folk there in the Southlands?”

            “Well, according to him the King himself was holding up the practices of Hobbits of the Shire and the Breelands as shining examples of how legal matters ought to be dealt with--with simplicity and directness.  The fact as we’re far less prone to serious wrongdoing than are Men apparently was spoken of with much regret that Men are not as temperate a race as are we Hobbits.”

            “Really?”  Rico was starting to smile as he rubbed down the spotted mare.  “A Man who appreciates Hobbits, is he?”

            “Yes.  And it’s not just him--all of the King’s kinsmen appear to hold a good deal of respect toward us, which is why they’ve been protecting our borders for the past thousand years.  Bucca of the Marish and those who went out with him to fight for Arvedui Last-king left a very favorable impression on them.  The Dúnedain are given to long memories.”

            “Dúnedain?”

            The Bracegirdle nodded as he set aside his own toweling and began using a brush on the gelding’s coat.  “That’s what they call themselves.  Means ‘Men of the West,’ or so I’m told.  Indicates as they’re from the Sea kings’ people.”

            “And did you find out who your client is?”

            Barti’s voice was stiff as he answered, “I knew that before I left the Shire.”

            “Who is it?”

            “I can’t say.”

            Rico stopped, looking at his companion with new interest.  “You can’t mean you were made to take the oath?”

            Barti only shrugged in reply, his mouth set in a sour line.

            “You were?  Pen and ink, Bartolo--what inspired you to agree to such a thing?”

            “Haven’t any of your clients ever discussed it with you?”

            “A couple, I suppose.  But I think I know of only two or three other lawyers in the Shire who’ve ever been made to take it.”

            “Well now you know one more.”  Barti leaned over to inspect Spotty’s left front hoof.  “Good--no stones or bruising.”

            “These look sleek enough,” Rico commented after a time.

            “Yes, they were well taken care of there at the Prancing Pony.  The Hobbit as works in the stable has a right hand with the beasts.”

            “How come you decided to take the entire family with you?”

            “Why not?  Road’s reasonably safe, and we were escorted both ways.”

            “The King sent an escort for you?”

            “Not going out, no one did--met an Elf as was riding westward toward the Shire, and he turned and went with us--said as some of the ruffians as were thrown out of the Shire’d been hanging about in the forest surrounding the Breelands, and a few’d been caught by the Rangers and sent to the King’s Steward.  Then--then a few days before we left to return home they found two more--two as had been there at Bag End itself.”

            “How do you know that?  I don’t remember you going anywhere near Hobbiton during the Time of Troubles.”

            “I didn’t.  These had stolen some jewelry as has belonged to my Aunt Lobelia.  It was in their pockets when they were caught in the marketplace in Bree--come in to trade some of that jewelry for supplies, they said.”

            Rico’s expression was now troubled.  “So, there are still some Men out there, lingering around the borders of the Shire, who were here then, are there?”

            Barti’d moved to Spotty’s other side, where he was now continuing the brushing of the gelding’s coat.  “Yes, so it appears.  The Rangers are on the watch for them, and if they catch them they get sent before the King’s Steward.  And they tell me as most of them end up either forced into servitude for a time helping to rebuild the roads or the old capital up by Lake Evendim, or they are hung if there’s proof they’re bad enough.”

            His friend shuddered.  “And you were escorted back, too, then?”

            Barti gave a brief nod.  “A Ranger, coming back toward the Shire--rode behind us and kept a good watch.  I suspect as one of the Rangers we met there in Bree arranged for it.”

            “And now you’re qualified to write contracts between folks of the Shire and the new King’s people?”

            “Yes--Persi and me both.”  Having finished with the currying, Bartolo hung the toweling back on its loop, and hung his brush from its peg before fetching the pail to the pump just outside the stable door to see it filled.  He brought it in to fill Spotty’s trough, then refilled it for Dottie while Rico went to fetch hay and grain. 

            Rico sniffed, “Not many Hobbit lads his age are qualified to write contracts outside the Shire before they are inside.  You going to apprentice him to me soon?”

            Barti checked to make certain both stall gates were firmly latched.  “No,” he said slowly, “we’ve decided to allow him to accept Bernigard Took’s offer to teach him.”  He gave the Clayhanger a swift glance.  “Don’t know as what made him offer this chance to the lad, but I’m grateful for it.  Hope you don’t mind.”

            “He certainly couldn’t get better instruction anywhere in the Shire--that’s certain,” Rico commented as they left the stable and saw the doors shut behind them.

            Barti nodded.  He recognized that Rico was yet a bit hurt by the decision, and wasn’t certain how he ought to respond.

            “What did the lasses and Ricki do all this time?”

            “Made friends with some of the Bree Hobbits.  On the way home Gonya must have writ at least four letters to Aggie Sandheaver.  Ricki met some of the local lads and played a good deal of roopie and even a game of golf.  Delphie met the local garden guild ladies as had heard tell of our gardens here, and spent a fair amount of coin on fabric and having some clothing made.  We had a couple meals with Master Alvric and his landlady, and a couple with the Watercresses.  Ora Watercress studied some with us.  He and his family have a very nice smial in Bree Hill.”

            “It’s going to seem deadly dull, coming back home to the Shire,” suggested Rico as they stopped at the basin set on the table outside the back door of Garden Place to wash their hands, faces, and feet.

            “Dull, you say?  Have to get a contract copied out, then run about half the Shire getting all the copies signed and properly witnessed and the payment protocol worked out, then go out and have the party outside the Shire sign it and have it witnessed there, too, and then file it both here and there.  I’ll have to keep in contact with this Lord Steward Halladan to find as when he’ll be back in Bree so as to have him register it.  It’s proving to be far more than I’d looked to doing at first.”

            “Did they say anything about--about the Travelers, out there, I mean?”

            “Who?”

            Rico waved his hand rather impatiently.  “Who?  Anyone!”

            “Well, I told you basically what Master Alvric remembers of their stay in the King’s city.  The folk in Bree tell of the disturbance the four of them caused--seems that the so-proper Frodo Baggins ended up singing and dancing atop a table--only it fell over on him and caused quite a stir.”

            “Baggins got drunk?”  Rico was very surprised, even perhaps a bit impressed.  “What possessed him?”

            Barti shook his head.  “That night the Breelanders had their first bit of problems with outsiders--someone broke into the stable and turned all the horses and ponies out of doors, and one of the rooms was broken into, I understand.  The Travelers had to buy a new pony to carry their supplies before they could leave.  When they came back a goodly number of folk went to the Prancing Pony to catch a glimpse of them but were skeptical of what they said.  They’re coming round now, though, what with more of the King’s messengers coming and going, and Master Alvric and several Rangers and one of the King’s Messengers addressing their guild of lawyers and the Breeland Council and all. 

            “The Rangers all seem to think as we of the Shire must all be as marvelous as the Travelers, and they speak of all of them with respect bordering on awe.”

            “I see.”

            “Indeed.”

            “And you’ll have to go out again--and probably more than once?”

            “Yes.”

            “I hope you’re getting properly paid for all of this.”

            “I am.”  Something in Barti’s tone of voice appeared to convince Rico that the subject was closed, but the Clayhanger was obviously intrigued as they went into the kitchen where Angelica was sitting at the set table, watching Delphinium with interest.  That look on his wife’s face convinced Bartolo that Delphie, too, had been questioned and had begun feeling pressed to reveal information she had no intention of telling.  “Ponies are taken care of, dearling,” he informed her as he paused behind her, laying a hand on her shoulder, and then, in a rare public display of affection, leaning forward to press a kiss into Delphie’s hair.

            She turned to look at him, both surprised and pleased, he noted.  Perhaps he ought to do such things more often?  “Tea will be on the table shortly, Barti dear,” she informed him.  She turned to look at their guests.  “Will you join us?  We need to eat up what was in our food chest so it doesn’t go bad.”

            Shortly afterwards all of them were settled about the table.  “You have all your things properly sorted out and the dirty clothes in the laundry hampers?” asked Delphie, looking at each of her five offspring in turn.

            “Yes, Mum,” Persi said, “or at least Ricki and I do.”

            “We do, too, Mother,” Begonia added with a sidelong look at her sisters, both of whom nodded their agreement.

            “And you have all you took with you and brought back with you put away as well?”

            Alyssa announced, “I do, although I have my new book on the table by my bed.  Is that all right?”

            “Certainly, lovey.  And, morsel,” she added to Begonia, “you have all your new fripperies and linens in the proper drawers and chests?”

            Gonya smiled.  “Oh, yes, Mummy.” 

            “Good enough.”

            “And how did you enjoy your time in Bree?” asked Angelica of Begonia.

            “I enjoyed it very much, and I have a friend to write to now who lives there.  There were two letters waiting for me from Aggie when we got home.”

            “We met several Rangers, and one let me see his long knife,” Ricki told her.  “And someone tried to hurt Pet, but Mr. Greenwillow took care of him, he did--hit him with his stick.  He was one of the ones as was in Hobbiton--one of Lotho’s Big Men, that is, the one what tried to hurt Pet.”

            Both Rico and Angelica looked shocked.  Barti groaned internally, for he’d not intended to tell anyone about that detail.  “It seems as some of the Big Men as were here in the Shire have tried hiding out in the forests about the Breelands or just beyond our borders.  Those as get caught by the Rangers are taken in hand immediately.  The son of one of the Rangers we had to do with saw two odd characters hanging about near the gates to Bree, and came in to fetch a former Ranger as lives there now--they arrived just in time to catch one of the two of them threatening Petunia.  Both were immediately captured and go to the Steward for questioning and punishment.  The one as threatened Pet will probably end up being executed.”

            “Executed?”  Angelica looked a bit green.

            Barti gave a reluctant nod.  “What he threatened was--was bad.  And what we’re told of his particular kind by the Rangers, they’re very nasty characters.”

            It was enough to close that part of the conversation, at least.  Petunia, after a few minutes of awkward silence, said, “He didn’t hurt me, and I was able to talk to Mr. and Missus Greenwillow, which was what I wanted to do anyway.  Mr. Greenwillow used to be a Ranger, but now he and his wife live in Bree, and they’re ever so nice.  He’s going to translate a scroll we found, Ronica and me.  That’s Ronica Sandheaver, Agatha Sandheaver’s cousin.  Ronica’s Uncle Ned has it, the scroll, I mean.  It’s like a family book, and it’s very old.”

            “You were talking to Men?” Angelica asked, shocked.

            “Oh, yes--there are lots of Men in Bree--more than Hobbits, really.  Most of them are just the same as meeting Hobbits here in the Shire, although the Rangers, being the King’s kin, are different.  They’re rather special.  Because they used to always come into the village mostly to be able to rest a bit and get a hot meal they don’t have to fix themselves over a campfire and so they can have a good mug of ale or beer--we’re told that Mr. Butterbur’s beer is especially good right now--the folk of Bree would see how dirty they’d look and thought as they were disreputable.  They’re starting to learn different.  Mr. Gilfileg--he was quite funny about it.  He said that if we were seen talking together folks would begin realizing maybe the Rangers aren’t as awful as folks assumed.”

            And so the conversation went during the meal.  Afterwards the children were sent off to their own pursuits.  “We’ll help your mum and dad clean up this time,” Rico assured them.

            As Delphie cleared away and Angelica filled the wash basin with soap flakes and water from the steaming kettle, Rico brushed the crumbs into the bucket for the poultry and Barti straightened the chairs and benches and fetched the broom.  At last Rico said, “We were hoping to learn more about what the Travelers really did out there.”

            Barti shrugged as he cleaned up about the table.  “Not much to tell.  Folks in Bree itself know little enough except that Frodo Baggins introduced himself as Mr. Underhill, and got up on a table where he sang some nonsense that sounds as if it had been made up by old Bilbo and danced a bit until the table fell over.  There was the trouble that evening I told you about--the Rangers say as it was the first time the ruffians as later attacked there and then came in on Lotho’s invitation really caused problems.  No one’s certain as who broke into the room in the Prancing Pony, but no one was hurt and nothing taken--only the beds had been--torn apart.  Our four went on next day with one of the Rangers, and that was all anyone knew until they came back.

            “Most folks there don’t know Frodo’s right name, it appears.  He told them he was writing a book, though.”

            Rico’s eyebrows rose so much they were in danger of becoming lost in his hair.  “A book?  Since when do Hobbits write books?”

            “Considering how many books as there are full of bad poetry and catty remarks about distant cousins about the Shire, obviously some Hobbits write books.  And if any Hobbit is likely to write a book I’d put my money on Baggins.  Remember--that Aunt Dora of his was the one what wrote that book on proper decorum and behavior.”

            “Miss Dora Baggins’s Book of Manners,” Angelica sighed.  “My mother would read it to me all the time when I was younger.  As far as she was concerned Auntie Dora was the authority on how one must behave.”

            “I remember her reading off the chapter on courting to the two of us once.  Now, mind you, I was already married by that time--do you remember, Angie?”

            Rico shook his head.  “Wives,” he murmured in low tones at Barti, whose temper had mended a bit at this turn in the conversation.  Then, a bit louder he interrupted the exchange of reminiscences going on between the two Hobbitesses.  “So, the folks of Bree remember the fuss of that night and them leaving the next day, and that Frodo said he was going to write a book.  Any idea why he used the name Underhill?”

            Barti shrugged.  “Apparently because those odd black-cloaked fellows were asking about ‘Baggins’ here in the Shire, and he was trying to slip out without getting noticed and end up with them knowing where he was.  Of course, that went by the wayside the moment he fell off the table.”

            “I’d think he’d draw attention to himself just getting up on the table, myself,” Rico noted.

            “Why all this interest in Baggins?” the Bracegirdle asked.

            “I’m trying to figure out what made him change so much.”

            “You get chased by huge black Men on black horses across the Shire and beyond, then get injured a time or two and odds are you’d change, too,” Barti returned impatiently.  “I don’t want to speak or even think of Frodo Baggins for the rest of the evening--is that acceptable to you, Clayhanger?”

            “Sorry, Bracegirdle.  All right, then--once we’re done here shall we take your older son off to the inn to celebrate the two of you being accepted to write contracts with the King’s people?”

            Within a half hour they were gone, and after seeing that all was in hand for supper Delphie led her cousin into the parlor.  “It’s a pleasure to be home with a ceiling that’s our height for a change,” she sighed as she sat in her favorite chair.  “Everything was so tall in Bree.  The rooms were comfortable for Hobbits, but the ceilings were still unnaturally high even there with the round doors and windows.”

            “And you all really spoke with Men?” marveled Angie.

            “It’s hard not to when the innkeeper’s a Man, and the Rangers we had to deal with were Men, and Master Alvric was a Man, and Mistress Denra was a woman from among Men.  A good number of the shopkeepers we dealt with were Men as well.”

            “Did you find out why Frodo left the Shire, Delphie?”

            Delphinium shook her head.  “I mayn’t speak of it, Angie.  Frodo has his reasons for not wanting it talked about, and all tell me they’re good reasons at that.  All I can tell you is that he was convinced what he was doing would protect the Shire from unspeakable evil, and returning home to find out that Sharkey and his folk had come here while they were gone almost tore his heart in two.  He must have felt it was all that effort for nothing.”

            “Do you know how he was injured?”

            “Not all of it.  I only know they say he almost died--that they all almost died.  That Mr. Greenwillow Pet was mentioning--the reason he lives in Bree now is because while he was fighting in a battle he lost his right hand.  Now he carries a long walking stick instead of a sword and he keeps an eye on Bree from inside it instead of patrolling its borders.  He and his wife both said he saved the King’s father that day, just before someone cut his hand off.  His wife says we have to understand that for those who are heroes--really heroes, there’s a price to be paid.  And she says that all four of our Travelers are real heroes.”

            “And are Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took really soldiers now?”

            “Yes, they’re really soldiers now.  Merry’s a knight of Rohan, and Pippin’s a Captain of the King’s Guard.  And Pippin really did kill a troll--only it fell on him once it was dead.”

            Her cousin’s eyes widened with surprise.  “He’s lucky he wasn’t killed, too!  According to Cousin Bilbo trolls are enormous!”

            “Yes--Mr. Greenwillow says the same.  I guess that was when he did almost die.  But he saved a few of those who fought beside him, they tell me.”

            “Oh.”  Angelica sat and thought about that one for a time.  “How about Merry?”

            “He fought against one of the largest armies there ever was, apparently, and stood by the King of Rohan and his niece when all the other Men were carried off by their horses.  Everyone says that to face--to face the one who was attacking them and who was trying to kill this King Théoden was one of the bravest--and most desperate--things they’ve ever seen.”

            “Is that where he got that scar on his forehead?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “How about Sam Gamgee?”

            “He and Frodo--they went a different way.  They left the others because theirs was the worst journey of all--that’s what everyone who knows says.  And we’re all lucky that they did, for if they hadn’t we’d probably all be slaves today, worse than anything that Sharkey ever thought up.  No, I’m not saying anything more--I’ve already said probably more than I ought to have done.  Now, come with me to the sewing room--I bought some fabric to redo the cushions in here with....”

 *******

            A week later and all were preparing for the Free Fair in Michel Delving.  It was an election year, and Will Whitfoot was encouraging all to vote for Frodo as the new Mayor for the Shire.  “I’m ready to retire,” he’d reportedly told Cousin Benlo.  “Frodo’s doing such a fine job, we ought to make it permanent, don’t you agree?”

            Well, there was no question Benlo Bracegirdle did indeed agree with the Mayor, and he’d been making the rounds of Hardbottle and the rest of the Bracegirdle enclaves indicating he, too, was supporting Frodo Baggins for Mayor.

            As his own family readied for their trip to Michel Delving where they’d be staying with a Grubb relative for the duration of the Fair, Bartolo was considering what he’d say to the deputy Mayor.  He’d not been fond of Frodo since the year of Aunt Lilac Hornblower’s house party for her granddaughter Phlox, although then he would have been hard pressed to explain what it was about this distant cousin that so upset him.  Perhaps it was the way the lasses--even Delphinium, who wasn’t much impressed by a handsome face--had made over him, and he’d not seemed to even notice.  Even Barti’s sister Lavinia had gone all dewy-eyed over Baggins; but when she stepped forward to speak to him after a dance he’d not even noticed, just stepped sideways to the refreshment table to get a drink and speak to his cousin Esmeralda, as if Lavinia hadn’t mattered at all.  And then there was--but, no, he wouldn’t think of that!  Although when someone actually got caught at it, it hadn’t been Frodo there.

            How does someone tell someone else that the first someone’s hated for so long that he now admires him? Barti wondered to himself.  I mean, so many are saying that if it wasn’t for him we’d have full goblins running things in the Shire instead of the half-ones that Sharkey sent in.  That has to count for something.  And he has seen to it that no one will do that again--allow us to use our own legal papers against one another.  He put the last document he needed to deal with while in Michel Delving into the leather satchel Master Alvric had given him, and went off to add it and the box of jewelry recovered from Bree to the cases already waiting in the entranceway.

            Persivo and Ricki had the ponies hitched to the coach, and Delphie had the lasses already stowing the first of the cases under the seats.  Barti carried out two more of the cases and his leather satchel and gave them into Petunia’s hands, then went back for the rest, carefully dislodging Feather from where she had sat herself, on the topmost case in the stack.  “Sorry, you,” he addressed the cat, “but you are staying home.”

            At last they were ready, and once more he was climbing up onto the box with Persivo while Ricki joined his mother and sisters inside, he was releasing the brakes, and with a slap of the reins and a word to Spotty and Dottie they were off to Michel Delving, all of them enjoying ginger beer and pork pasties as they drove.

            There were a few extra cases this time, for Persi wouldn’t be accompanying them home--instead he’d be riding back with the Tooks to the Great Smial, where he’d spend at least the next year as old Bernigard Took’s apprentice.  All was arranged, and the articles would be signed during the Free Fair.  As he carried out these cases full of his first-born son’s books and clothing, Barti found himself taking deep breaths.  How would he manage with his beloved Persi gone for so long?  Although he was growing up, and might choose in a few years to move out into a home of his own rather than bringing his bride into Garden Place.  True, Persi had never shown much interest in the lasses as yet, but who knew when that might change?

            They arrived at the Grubb house in Michel Delving right as sunset started, which, it being so close to Midsummer itself, was well after nine.  The coach was settled alongside the low house, and Persivo was quickly leading the ponies to the public stable while Delphinium and the lasses saw to bringing in luggage and seeing themselves settled, and Barti joined Bertramo in a well-deserved ale taken in the garden.

            “And how’s Auntie Alma?” Tram asked.

            “Doing very well, as long as she’s not left alone with Lothario,” Barti answered, wiping his upper lip with his handkerchief.  “That scoundrel appears able to talk her into almost anything.”

            “Hasn’t changed any since he was a lad, then, has he?” Tram sighed.  “What was he trying to do this time?”

            “Rewrite her will in favor of Bester, only the deputy Mayor caught him at it and wouldn’t sign nor register it.”

            Tram shook his head and took a pull on his mug.  “Trust Bester to think only of himself--not that he doesn’t already have more land than he can deal with.  And what’s this about you taking your family on an extended jaunt to Bree?”

            “Word of that reached here?” asked Barti, surprised.

            “Well, of course--you and Delphie are family, after all.  What were you doing there?”

            “Deputy Mayor sent me out to study with the King’s lawyer on how to write an agreement binding before the outer realm.  We are once again part of the Kingdom of Arnor since the King returned, you know.”

            “Then it’s true--there is a King again at last?”

            Barti nodded.  “Yes, so all tell me.  The deputy Mayor and the Captains and Sam Gamgee all tell the same tales of him, and the King’s lawyer and the Rangers we dealt with all tell of his coronation as well as his friendship to the four Travelers.”

            “So--we Hobbits of the Shire are expected to trade with the King’s folks?”

            “He wants it--says as we have the best woolens anywhere, or so I’m told.  Seems to like our porcelains as well.  And those working on the northern capital up at Lake Evendim will be needing supplies--we can offer them as well as the folk in Bree, you know.”

            “Shouldn’t be all that far from the far Northfarthing,” the Grubb said thoughtfully.  “You going to the opening ceremonies?”

            “Suppose so.  Do you know if the deputy Mayor’s going to be in the Mayor’s office tomorrow any?  Have some documents to have him sign.”

            “No idea.  Rather an odd sort, Baggins is any more.  Very quiet--but when he has something to say, folks listen.  Just seems to speak with authority.  I’m wondering, though, if he might just decide not to run for Mayor after all.”

            Barti straightened with surprise.  “What would give you that idea?  Will and Benlo are both pushing folks to vote for him.”

            “Oh, I know--but every time someone talks of it he goes even quieter, and starts rubbing at his shoulder or his neck.  You know anything about him being injured or something?”

            Again feeling rather uncomfortable with a subject so close to his oath, Barti merely shrugged and sought to change the subject.  “Is he still only coming in three to four days a week?”

            Tram nodded.  “That he does.  Not that anyone minds--he works hard when he works--gets the job done, and done well.  Managed to get through all of the documents that had backed up while Will was in the Lockholes--I visited there a few days after he took over and saw the office then--documents almost to the ceiling, there were.  Will and Gordolac are truly impressed, for not only are all signed and properly registered, but he’s had the files rooms expanded and a new system put in place so filed sales documents can be found more easily.  Plus he and those Took aides of his have been through every document that lay in that room looking for irregularities, and have located some filed two-three years back that show how Timono and Lotho got started on this business.  And they all say he’s the one who suggests what to look for and where to look for it first.  He’s proved a canny one.”

            There wasn’t much that Bartolo felt he could add to that.

            A late supper was ready for them, and they gathered in the small dining room for the meal.  Bertramo’s wife had died six years earlier, and none of their children remained in the White Downs region.  A niece of his late wife’s looked in on him daily and helped him with the cooking and cleaning from time to time, and had seen the guest rooms made ready for Barti’s family.  Tram examined Lyssa’s new doll and book of poetry with interest, was pleased to hear of Persi’s luck at having been granted an apprenticeship in the Great Smial, expressed an interest in seeing the translated Baggers scroll Petunia told him about, was properly impressed by Gonya’s correspondence with a lass from Bree, listened flatteringly to Ricki’s description of his game of golf and his plans to play a game this week, possibly, and generally was a most genial host.  After the meal he and the two older lasses did the washing up while Barti and Delphie sorted out the children’s things to the appropriate rooms and saw all readied for the morning, and Lyssa and Ricki were both shunted off to bed, each grumbling rebelliously as they nevertheless followed their parents’ instructions.  But it wasn’t very long before the rest of the household followed them, for the first day of the Free Fair was usually a busy one.

            Early in the morning Barti was up and dressing, hoping to find Frodo in order to speak with him quietly without the Took lawyers to overhear.  The Fair officially was to open at ten o’clock, and considering how busy the day could be Barti didn’t wish to have to possibly hunt all over the fairgrounds to find the deputy Mayor.  Finally, with case and carved box in hand, he headed out toward the village commons and the Whitfoot house.

            “He’s already gone to the Council Hole,” Mina Whitfoot told him, “hoping to finish some last-minute tasks before he leaves for Hobbiton this afternoon.”

            “Hobbiton?” Barti asked, surprised.  “Isn’t he going to stay for the banquet for the family heads this evening?  After all, he’s family head for the Bagginses as well as deputy Mayor.”

            “He’s let it be known as he’ll open the Fair this morning and do what he has to for now; but he’s been fighting headaches much of the last week and has no intention of sitting in on a noisy banquet.  He also reminded Will that considering how small the family of Baggins has become he strongly suspects his family won’t be terrifically disappointed if he doesn’t represent them tonight.  He’ll be back for Midsummer itself, of course.  Would you like a scone?”

            Barti had to admit that Missus Whitfoot made excellent scones, and the cherry jam spread on it was particularly flavorful.  “That’s the last of the jar sent by the King,” Mina sighed as she examined the small pot.  “I’ll have to ask Frodo if he’d like it or if we might keep it here.  My granddaughter Dianthus would be thrilled to have it, I think, a pot as came from the King’s own city.”

            “The King sent a pot of jam here?” the lawyer asked.

            “Oh, yes--although the Travelers put it up themselves while they were there, Frodo says.  Seems as young Pippin Took took it into his head to fill the bathing tub with fruit one day as a sort of joke on Frodo, so Sam Gamgee set them to making jam of it all, and when the King came to call he found himself helping.  For Yule he sent Frodo a crate of fruit from the south of their land and two pots of the jam as they’d made, and this was the last of it.  I must say as it’s been very good.  I suspect as had it been entered into the fair as it would have won first prize.”

            Barti finished his scone and accepted a damp towel to wipe his hands and face, and taking up his burdens again gave his thanks to Mina and set off across the square this time for the Council Hole.  The door to the Mayor’s office was ajar, and he looked in, noting a stand of candles lit the desk where the ink bottle stood still uncapped, the pen lying on a penwipe.  Frodo, however, wasn’t sitting there--it took a moment of searching the room to spot him sitting on a chair turned sideways to one of the tables where Everard Took had been sitting the last time he was here.  Frodo’s face was markedly pale, and he was rubbing at the back of his neck with his right hand while his left was pressed to his upper chest, the crease between his brows quite noticeable.

            Barti entered fully, pausing near the Mayor’s desk.  “You not feeling well, Baggins?” he asked.

            Frodo’s eyes turned toward him, their expression almost blank at first.  “Feeling well?  Oh, just a bit of a headache.  It’s nothing, really.”

            With a snort of disbelief Barti set box and case on the desk, then came to  stand over the deputy Mayor, briefly setting the back of his hand to Frodo’s forehead, much as he’d do if it had been Persivo there.  “No fever,” he commented after a brief moment.

            Frodo’s cheeks flushed.  “As I said, it’s but a headache.  I’d finished with the last of the requests for reparations, and was leaving them on Everard’s desk that he might pass them on to Whippoorwill Smallburrow and Oridon Goodbody for payment--then felt I ought to sit down--just for a moment.  It ought to pass quickly enough.”

            Barti stepped back slightly.  “I see.  Missus Whitfoot had said as you’ve been fighting headaches this week.”

            “I do from time to time.”  He dropped his hands to his lap, then looked up into Barti’s eyes.  “You are up early.”

            “As are you.  The Rangers caught a couple more of them as had been here in the Shire, and found some jewelry on them.  One had Aunt Lobelia’s promise necklace--must have taken it from Bag End itself.  They asked I bring the rest to you so as it can be checked against the lists.  And I have the lease agreement finished, and thought as you’d wish to see and review it before you signed it.  Oh, and I brought the indentures apprenticing my Persivo to old Bernigard Took.”

            “You’ve accepted the offer?  Excellent.”

            “You knew of it?”  Barti felt suspicious.

            “I was told of the opening--I am family, you know, and have been working in the midst of Took lawyers for months now,” Frodo responded, gesturing briefly at the room about him.  He sighed, a twitch of pain visible on his face, and again his hand reached up to his neck to rub at it briefly.  “I could definitely do without the headache,” he commented, then looked up under his brows.  “Would you mind helping an old Hobbit to his feet?” he asked, holding out his hand.

            Bartolo felt himself stiffen--Frodo, after all, was several years younger than himself.  “You are so old now, Baggins?”

            Apparently realizing he’d somehow managed to unwittingly touch a nerve, Frodo looked dismayed.  “I meant nothing by it save that this morning I’m feeling positively ancient--twice my years, I swear.  If it weren’t for the headache....”

            Feeling somewhat mollified, the Bracegirdle clasped Frodo’s hand and helped pull him to his feet.  Frodo nodded his thanks, stretched slightly, and turned toward the Mayor’s desk, moving far too slowly, as if his joints were stiff, Barti thought.  He reached his goal and sat down heavily, then reached for his mug, drew it to him, and drank deeply.  Setting it down he closed his eyes for a few minutes, again raising one hand to his breast.  At last he opened his eyes, relaxing some.

            “So, you’re still not really well?” Barti asked as he pulled over a chair from the table and sat himself across the desk from the deputy Mayor.

            Frodo’s face became somewhat closed, paling a bit again, although his cheeks had gone rather pink.  He dropped his hand, then reached out to flip closed the cap to the ink bottle and lift up pen and wipe to see the former polished before setting it rather precisely on the pen rest.  At last he said, quietly, “No, I’ve not truly been well since Ithilien, if not before.”

            “What’s Ithilien--a holiday down south-aways?”

            Frodo gave a slight shake of his head, wincing as if that set the ache off again.  “No, a region east of the River Anduin.  Most of it’s been forested and largely abandoned for generations, although it used to be one of the primary orchard and wine-producing areas for Gondor.  We spent some time there after--after the war was over.”

            “Why?”

            Frodo gave another slight shake of his head and frown.  At last he said, “There were many wounded in the last battle--wounded or killed.  They wanted to give most a chance to recover before we returned to Minas Tirith for Aragorn’s coronation.”

            After a time of consideration Barti commented, “They tell me all four of you almost died fighting in this war.”

            Frodo shrugged.

            Finally realizing Frodo wasn’t going to give any more answer than that, the lawyer asked, “Why don’t you want folks here to know you were made a lord?”

            The Baggins gave him one of his more icy examinations.  “What is the average Hobbit of the Shire going to understand about lordship and lands, Bartolo?  And it’s not as if I managed to do anything of worth, after all.”

            “They all say as we’d be having goblins for masters if you hadn’t done what you did.”

            Frodo looked away.  “And what did I do?  So I made it to the cursèd mountain?  So what?  Was I the one who accomplished the task in the end?  No!  Oh, no--not Frodo Baggins.  I couldn’t do it in the end, you know--someone else had to do it, someone I’d cursed with death!”  He looked back at Barti, his face grey yet intense with pain and loathing.  “He died and I lived, although a good part of me died there and then.  And yet they praise me--the tainted one--the one who ought to have died instead.  And they keep telling me that it’s better this way, and I couldn’t be expected to do more than I did, and no one else could have done it--except it wasn’t me who got us there, even--it was Sam!  He got us there--had to carry me when I couldn’t go any more.

            “Oh, they know this--they all know this, Aragorn and Gandalf and Imrahil and Éomer and Faramir and Elrond and Galadriel and the rest--they all know how it all almost failed because at the last I gave in to It!  Yet they call me a lord of the realm when they ought to have put me in the darkest, deepest dungeon and left me to rot.”

            He closed his eyes tightly.  “Oh, Aragorn--why did you call me back?  Why call me back only to feel as if death would be a relief, leaving this hole in my soul burned through by It?”

            Again Bartolo Bracegirdle felt himself go stiff with shock.  “You mean it’s all a fraud?”

            Frodo only shook his head.  At last he opened his eyes, pulled his mug to him and emptied it, then pushed it aside.  He examined the box.  “The jewelry you told of?” he asked.

            Not trusting himself to speak around the rage and confusion he felt, Barti merely nodded.

            Frodo pulled the box to him and managed to fumble it open.  Carefully he reached in and pulled out a bracelet, having to untangle it from a gold chain.  He set it down to his left, then reached in and pulled out the chain, from which a small pearl drop hung, carefully unwrapping it from a stickpin.  Item after item he pulled out of the carved box, setting them in a line across the desk.  Then, when he had most of it pulled out, he stopped, again going pale, carefully lifting out a cloak brooch.  “This was my dad’s,” he whispered.  “Bilbo gave it to him, and Uncle Rory gave it to me after they died.  I have the box still, but the brooch went missing years ago--after a visit from Lobelia to Bag End.  It was after she stole Aunt Esme’s locket.  And they stole it from her, apparently.”  He set it in front of him, then reached in again.  This time he brought out a silver shirt stud, then searched through the other items to find its mate.  “And these were Ponto’s--he said they were on his dressing table near the window for his bedroom, and someone reached in through the window and took them.  See the iris flowers etched on them?  Iris asked Bilbo to commission them for her to give him one year for her birthday, and Bilbo had just received them from the Elves of Rivendell and showed them to me at Brandy Hall before he went back to Hobbiton to give them to her.” 

            He looked back up into Barti’s eyes.  “They’d steal things, Lobelia and Lotho and Ted Sandyman--I’m sure Sandyman stole money and my knife and other things from my pockets when I was swimming in the Water.  I caught Lotho once with a silk scarf he’d stolen from Nat Boffin, and a silver striker set Bilbo had given the Gaffer.  The Gaffer never wanted to use it after I returned it--said that knowing Lotho’d taken it made him feel sick to touch it afterwards.” 

            He looked back down at the pile, then sighed and reached into the box.  This time what he brought out caused Barti to gasp, “That was mine!”  It was a silver stickpin with two Bs intertwined.  “My granfer had it made for me when I came of age!  It disappeared at a wedding in the Southfarthing--I’d spilled some ale on my waistcoat, so went to take the waistcoat off to clean the stain.  I didn’t notice the stickpin was missing until that night, and thought it had fallen off when I was cleaning the waistcoat.”  He met Frodo’s eyes as the deputy Mayor held it out to him.  “Lotho was at the wedding, too, and came in while I was working on the waistcoat in the dressing room.”  He felt his expression harden.  “It would seem Timono wasn’t the only thief in the family,” he said bitterly.

            Frodo nodded, looking back at the few things that remained in the box, pulling out the last of it and adding them to the line.  “Aunt Esme herself caught Lobelia wearing her locket.  I understand it wasn’t a pretty scene.  My mum caught her trying to steal her spoons, and the day after the Party Merimac removed a number of items that had managed to fall into her umbrella.  She just couldn’t understand how a ladle from the dining room had managed to find its way into it.  And she was always taking tableware, Lobelia was.  Bilbo made certain that the places around her seat at the Party were set with the cheapest pewter--and Aunt Esme said she watched Lobelia take as many settings as she could reach before she and Otho and Lotho went stalking out of the tent.”  He sighed.  “May I have the copies of the lease?  We can sign the indentures after the opening of the Fair, if you wish.  Berni’s to be here, and we should have enough to witness it properly.”

            “Maybe I ought to have Will sign it instead....”

            Frodo was shaking his head.  “He won’t do it--he says that as I’m standing in for him I must do everything.  But at least he agreed to sit in at the banquet tonight.”

            “You won’t stay for it?”

            “I need to go home--get away for a few days.  Sam was right--I can’t bear more than four days at a time--look at how the headache is plaguing me!  And to sit at a banquet and have the ladies glaring at me when I can’t eat it all, as if I’m insulting their cooking, and have all the noise about me, then have to make excuses not to take part in the dancing.  I’m already wishing I could have gone back to Bag End yesterday.  I’d most likely not last the evening, and there’s no way in Middle Earth I’d wish to collapse or become ill in front of all the family heads.”  Again he rubbed at his forehead and eyes.

            Barti felt the anger rise in him again--anger mixed with several other emotions--pity, uncertainty, frustration, other feelings he couldn’t put a name to.  “So, you’ll be a coward and return to Hobbiton and let others talk about you as they will?”

            “They do that already, Bartolo,” Frodo said, his expression once more closed.  “It’s nothing they haven’t done all my life, and to Bilbo before me.  And if you think wanting to go home to rest in my own bed with a cool, damp towel over my eyes is being cowardly then go ahead and think ill of me.  I’m not required to answer to you for it.”

            “And you never did what they think you did?”

            “They know what I did, better than I do.  I don’t remember a good deal of it, Bartolo.  I only know that at the end It took me and I failed, and to this day I want It back, that I’m empty inside where It used to sit in my awareness and heart.  I know he died when I ought to have done so, and he died precisely the way I said he would when I cursed him.  That he took It with him into the fire wasn’t anything he’d planned, much less It Itself.  Is it right I’m made a lord not because I did what I was supposed to do, but because my curse took someone else and that was why It was destroyed and Middle Earth saved?”  He took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes again, resting his elbows on the desk and his face in his hands.  At last he said, his voice muffled, “Please leave the lease agreement here, and let me be, Bartolo.  Please.  I will see you after the opening ceremonies, in the banquet hall.”

            His own hands shaking, Bartolo slipped the stickpin into his jacket pocket and managed to open the leather case Alvric had given him.  Extracting the thick folder holding the copies of the agreement, he slapped it down on the desk as he rose.  “There it is, then,” he growled before taking case and box, then turning and stalking toward the door where he stopped and turned back.  At last he said, his voice barely controlled, “My lad--my Persivo--he thinks as you’re a hero.  Oh, I told him nothing, but we had an Elf and Dwarves and Rangers and a King’s Messenger we met, all of whom almost worship the ground you walk on.  They told us if it weren’t for you the Shire’d be enslaved worse than Sharkey, if it weren’t blasted off the face of Middle Earth itself.  I won’t tell him what you just told me--that it was someone else instead who saved us.  I’ll let you do that--if you’re brave enough, Baggins!”  So saying he left, his last sight of Frodo being the deputy Mayor looking at him over his hands, tears streaking his now colorless cheeks.

            As he left he was passed by the sturdy form of Samwise Gamgee, Frodo’s gardener friend, as he came down the passage toward the Mayor’s office.  Sam pulled aside with a courteous, “Mr. Bracegirdle, sir,” as Bartolo stalked by him, then turned back toward the Mayor’s office.  He noted that Sam had a water bottle hanging from his shoulder.  Barti went out into the bright sunlight and back across the village to Bertramo’s place, barely noting those he passed.

 *******

            Delphie wasn’t certain what had happened while her husband was off consulting with the deputy Mayor that morning, but he returned in a towering rage, and on coming into the guest room where she was dressing he crossed to the dresser and pulled out something, throwing it down on the top of the chest.  She rose and realized it was a stickpin Barti had used to wear constantly until he lost it at a wedding.  “You found it?  Where was it?”

            “Baggins gave it to me,” he growled, spitting out the name as if it left a sour taste in his mouth.

            “But how would Cousin Frodo come by it?” she asked, but he was shaking his head.

            “Don’t ask--I don’t want to talk about it at all,” he said.  He set the box down more carefully and he sank onto the bed, resting his face in his hands.  And she could get nothing more out of him.

            Frodo was a bit late appearing for the opening ceremonies.  Sam Gamgee and Isumbard Took were by his side, their attitudes protective.  He walked stiffly, his face pale and his eyes shadowed.  His words were short and to the point: “I now declare the Free Fair open and bid you enjoy yourselves.”  He then disappeared back toward the Council Hole, leaving buzzing speculation in his wake.

            When Delphie walked with the rest of the family into the banquet hall to see the articles of indenture signed for Persivo’s apprenticeship to Bernigard Took, it was to find a rather cold reception by the Tooks and two Brandybucks who were already there with Frodo and Will and old Bernigard himself.  Merry Brandybuck’s eyes were examining Barti’s face so closely she was almost surprised not to see lines of blood begin to flow from her husband’s cheeks; and Pippin Took’s expression was one of fury.  Frodo himself was sitting at a table, his face still pale but calm, his expression carefully neutral.  Bernigard was looking between the deputy Mayor and the Bracegirdle lawyer as if trying to divine what the problem was between them, and Will looked wary.  Then the door from the kitchen opened, and Sam Gamgee was crossing the room to Frodo, a steaming mug in his hand.  “Here, Mr. Frodo, sir--a willowbark draught.  Now, you drink it and don’t argue.”

            Frodo looked up at his friend and sighed, “As you wish, Sam.”  He accepted the mug and sipped from it.  It was some moments before he finally drank the last of it down, at which time he set the mug on the table and sat back for a moment before taking a deep breath.  He looked up at Bernigard.  “The articles of indenture for apprenticeship are acceptable to you, sir?”

            “Well written,” Berni acknowledged, “although I hope I don’t regret them in the end.  Bracegirdles are often--rather stiffly constructed.”

            Persi flushed.  “I have no intention of proving stiffly constructed, Mr. Took,” he returned.  “If you wish to terminate the agreement before it’s begun....”

            “No, I don’t, for all speak well of you, including the reports from this Master Alvric sent by the King himself.  Nay, forgive an old Hobbit’s bluntness.  I don’t know what passed between your father and young Frodo here earlier, but it obviously wasn’t particularly pleasant.  However, we shall not allow it to impede your education, if you still wish it.”

            “Everyone says as you’d offer me the best instruction and training, sir, even Uncle Rico,” Persi answered as the Clayhangers came in to join the party.  “If you can have patience with a Bracegirdle, I believe I could do the same with Tooks.”

            Berni’s wrinkled face smiled.  “Well answered.  Yes, I think you’ll do well enough, lad.”

            The other lads who would be apprenticed at the same time, including a Goodbody and two Brandybucks, were entering now with their families.  Frodo and Will watched as Bernigard signed each indenture then passed it to the relevant apprentice, then to the parents, then to the witnesses.  Paladin signed as a witness to all of them, as all would come under his responsibility once they entered the Great Smial as Berni’s apprentices; Merimac Brandybuck signed most of them as the Master’s steward; Rico Clayhanger signed Persi’s proudly, then hung back a bit, wary of Barti’s expression. 

            At last all were done and laid before Frodo, who gave Will one last glance before dipping his own pen into the red ink to countersign each one, and then to mark them all into the registry.  He pushed the stack at Isumbard.  “If you will please see to it that they all are distributed properly,” he inquired of the Took lawyer.  “Master Bracegirdle, if you will come over here?”  He rose a bit unsteadily, waving away Sam’s hand.  “I’ll be all right.”  Accompanied by Merimac Brandybuck and followed by Barti and Delphie he walked to another table where the folder containing the lease agreement sat.  He picked it up and opened it briefly, then closed it and tapped it against his other hand before proffering it to Bartolo.  He said quietly, “I’ve reviewed this and find it all in order from what I can tell.  I have signed each copy with my cousin Merimac witnessing my signature.  He’s agreed to keep the details confidential, and will stand for now as my proxy to see the rest of the witnesses signatures obtained, and to see Mr. Hedge’s signature written as well.  He will also tell you how the rents are to be presented.  That this must be finalized and confirmed in thirteen months’ time is a concern--but we shall plow that field when the proper time comes.”

            Then he said more loudly for all to hear, “Master Alvric sent an excellent report regarding the progress you and your son showed while under his tutelage, and has affirmed that you are confirmed as ones accepted as able to write contracts for the realm, and sent these.”  He lifted an envelope of stiff silver silk.  Barti handed the folder to Delphie so as to diffidently accept the envelope.  Inside were certificates made out to himself and Persivo affirming what he’d just been told by the deputy Mayor, signed by Alvric son of Maerdion, Halladan son of Halbaleg as Steward of Arnor, Faradir son of Rahael, Barliman Butterbur as head of the Bree Council, Paladin Took as Thain of the Shire, Saradoc Brandybuck as Master of Buckland, Will Whitfoot as Mayor of the Shire, and Frodo Baggins as deputy Mayor.  “Congratulations, and it is an honor to witness this achievement in the name of the King and as a representative of the Shire.”

            Delphie could see nothing but straightforward honesty in her cousin’s eyes, and saw him stand up to Barti’s scrutiny.  At last Barti looked away, apparently embarrassed.  “Thank you, deputy Mayor, sir,” he said rather formally, giving an abbreviated bow.

            “Now,” Frodo said, his hand rising again to rest on the gem he wore pendant from the silver chain he had about his neck, “if you will excuse me, I must return to the Whitfoot house to fetch my things.  Good fortune to you, Master Bracegirdle.”  So saying he walked away toward the door out to the entrance hall.

            As they turned to rejoin Persivo and the children Sam Gamgee came toward them.  “If I might have a quiet word, Mr. Bracegirdle, sir?”  Barti gave a wary nod, and turned back toward the table again.  Delphie was just close enough to overhear what the gardener had to say.

            “I don’t know as what went on in the Mayor’s office this mornin’, sir, for my Master won’t say.  I know as he was already in pain, havin’ had a ragin’ headache for some days now as comes and goes.  But I did hear one word from you as I entered the Council Hole as I think as you’d best reconsider.  I don’t know what you think as Mr. Frodo’s done as would make him a coward, but I’ll tell you this--if he’s a coward then that’s the kind of cowardice as we’d best all work for.  What he’s done taught him to look inside hisself and face the worst as hides in the corners of his heart and soul, and few can do that and hold their heads up after.

            “He went through the worst darkness as is to see to it as the Shire’d be safe, if I might say it as perhaps shouldn’t; and I was there by his side through almost all of it.  Be glad, Mr. Bracegirdle, sir, as it wasn’t none others as had to face it, as I can’t think of any other as would have done nowhere as well--and it almost destroyed him.  It was no coward as offered what he did at the Council of Elrond.”

            Sam kept Barti’s eye for a moment longer, then turned with ponderous dignity to return to where Merry and Pippin stood, said a quiet word to the two of them and then left.

Correcting Misunderstandings

            “What was that about?” asked Sam as he entered the Mayor’s office.  “What was that about you not bein’ brave?”  But then he stopped as he took in the fact Frodo’s face was buried in his hands and his shoulders were shaking.  He was beside Frodo immediately, his hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “I’m here, Master.  You’re not alone, Mr. Frodo.”  He knelt by Frodo’s chair to comfort him as he could.  “What did that awful Bracegirdle say, Mr. Frodo?  He’s got no right--no right at all as to consider you a coward!”

            Frodo was shaking his head as he finally lowered his hands.  Seeing the tear-streaked face, Sam was producing one of his clean handkerchiefs for Frodo’s use (Bilbo’s constant references to how he’d not thought to take any with him when he hurried off to follow the Dwarves on his own adventure had long ago made quite an impression on the young gardener, and he always had two or three clean ones about his person).  Once Frodo had wiped his eyes and his face he finally managed to say, “You are not to berate him.  I provoked him, Sam, and he did not understand what I said.”

            “He’s still got no right, Mr. Frodo,” Sam insisted stubbornly, but noting the expression in the older Hobbit’s eyes he sighed.  “I promise, sir, not to tell him as he’s naught but a ninnyhammer, but I can’t promise as I won’t think it of him.”

            Frodo gave him a watery smile.

            Sam examined his face, noting the crease between Frodo’s eyes.  “Headache still?” he asked.  “It’s not gone away from when you was home, then?”

            “Oh, it goes away, then comes back again,” his Master admitted.  “And that’s made it the harder--the harder to remain properly pleasant with Bartolo.”  He sighed and blew his nose.  “It would be so much easier if it didn’t feel as if an oliphaunt with a war tower on its back were dancing within my skull.”

            Sam nodded, remembering the one they’d seen the day of Captain Faramir’s ambush.  “At least you won’t have to deal with him again today,” he said consolingly.

            But Frodo was shaking his head.  “Unfortunately I will--I have his son’s indentures to sign later.  However, he’ll behave properly then, I think you’ll find.”  He sighed again, then winced as another wave of pain hit.  “Oh, Sam--I can’t wait to get home and lie down with a cool, damp cloth over my eyes.  This is most distressing.”

            “I’ll ride back with you, then.”

            “But there’s the banquet for the family heads tonight, and as you’re----”

            Sam, however, was now shaking his own head.  “There’ll be years yet to attend such banquets, and at the moment I doubt as I’d be that welcome.  No one knows me hardly save as the gardener on the Hill, after all.  Give ’em a few years, Mr. Frodo, to accept as I’m a resident of Bag End first and to see me at some o’ the other meetin’s and they’ll welcome me right enough.  But as Uncle Andy’s never bothered to come to none o’ these banquets, they won’t expect it of me as yet.”

            “But I want them to realize you are important, Sam.”

            “They will, Mr. Frodo, just you wait and see.  But I’ll let ’em take their time gettin’ used to the idea, like.”  He looked at the line of jewelry across the desk top.  “More things found from when the Gatherers and Sharers was busy, then?”

            “Much of it appears to have been items Lotho and Lobelia stole from others,” Frodo sighed, looking at it.  “Most of this appears to have been stolen from Bag End itself.  Barti said that Lobelia’s own promise necklace from Otho was in it.  I didn’t think to ask what he did with it--I hope he passed it on to Hyacinth, as it would mean the most to her, I’d think.”  He fingered the cloak brooch.  “This was my own dad’s--I’m reasonably certain Lobelia took it years ago.  It’s good to have it back.”

            “Who brought it to you?”

            “Bartolo--from Bree.  A couple more of the ruffians were caught there, it seems, and they had these with them.”

            Sam gave a low whistle.  He looked over the items with interest.  “Didn’t old Nat Boffin used to wear that?” he asked, pointing to the first stickpin Frodo had removed from the box.  “And that I’m certain belonged to the Widow Rumble.”

            Frodo was nodding.  “From there in Hobbiton and the Southfarthing, then, probably, most of this--and what was left was probably Lobelia’s, Otho’s, and Lotho’s own.”  He straightened some, then turned to search his friend’s face, smiling slightly.  “I’m with Gandalf and Aragorn and Gimli, Samwise Gamgee--the Gaffer definitely misnamed you, my beloved Lord Panthael.”

            Sam flushed deeply, but smiled to see Frodo’s mood lightening.  “Master...” he began to object, if half-heartedly.

            But at that point Isumbard arrived and could tell at a glance that Frodo was in pain, as could Merry and Pippin when they came in shortly after Isumbard.

            “He’s upset as well,” Merry noted to Pippin and Sam, having pulled them aside as Frodo discussed how they might seek to learn the original owners of the items sent back to the Shire via Bartolo Bracegirdle.  “I’m not certain Bard’s caught on yet, but I can certainly see the signs.”  When Sam nodded his agreement, he continued, “Any idea as to what might have upset him so?”

            Sam quickly described what he’d overheard from Bartolo Bracegirdle as he’d entered the Council Hole and approached the Mayor’s office.  “Of course, I had no idea as he was upset until I come in, or I’d of not been anywheres as polite to Mr. Bracegirdle as we passed each other.  And I’ve a good mind to speak with him later, although I know as Mr. Frodo wouldn’t want me to.”

            “He dared accuse Frodo--our Frodo--of cowardice?” demanded Pippin in low tones.  “How dare he?”

            “My Mr. Frodo said as he’d provoked Mr. Bartolo,” cautioned Sam.  “He won’t allow you to tell him off for sauce.”

            “I’ll bet Frodo provoked him,” Merry muttered, looking off toward the door.  Then he looked back at Sam and smiled slyly.  “But even Frodo won’t think to tell off the Lord Perhael for speaking to him, you know.”

            Sam shrugged and glanced briefly in the direction of the town square.  “I’ll sort him out,” Sam said with quiet determination.

            *******

            On Midsummer Day Frodo returned to Michel Delving, accompanied by Sam and Rosie.  The spider bite on the back of his neck had opened that morning, and with the pressure of the infection finally relieved Frodo felt better, but he realized that considering how often this reoccurred he was unlikely to be able to finish out a full term as Mayor. 

            It had opened first in Minas Tirith, then along the way from Minas Tirith to Edoras, then while in Rivendell.  It had opened twice over the winter, in March, then in May.  And today--almost a month early this time.  Each time, before it would start draining, he’d feel ill for days--irritable, snappish, subject to constant nausea, suffering headaches that this time had been almost unbearable, often feeling weak.

            He’d been sick between Rivendell and Weathertop; and again through much of March.  He’d attempted his walking trip to Buckland after Sam and Rosie’s wedding, but had ended up accepting a ride much of the way from a farmer heading for the Marish; Farmer Maggot had found him almost collapsed on the borders of his farm and had sent for the farm’s wagon to carry him to the farmhouse; then Uncle Saradoc had arrived with an extra pony on which he’d ridden the remainder of the way to Brandy Hall.  On the way back Pippin and Merry had insisted he ride Sam’s Berry, the pony given him by Aragorn and Éomer.  He’d grudgingly accepted that there would be no more walking trips such as he’d used to do constantly throughout the Shire.  And the days he wished he weren’t in Michel Delving appeared to be coming more frequently in the past two months.

            He had to admit that there had been a distinct feeling of rightness in serving as deputy Mayor, and a level of satisfaction in each step toward seeing the Shire restored as a land in which folk could trust one another and delight in the natural beauty of the place.  But was it fair to seek to serve the Shire during those weeks when he would prefer to be close enough to his own bed to retreat to it during the day?

            Will wanted to retire to the farm in the Eastfarthing that Bucca and Aster ran now; he and Mina had already discussed selling the house there on the edge of the square in Michel Delving, and twice he’d tried to broach the subject of selling it to Frodo for his use, although Frodo hadn’t given him any encouragement.  He could give over Bag End to Sam and Rosie easily enough and live primarily there in Michel Delving; but he found that when he tried to consider the idea seriously a feeling of near terror would almost overcome him.  The idea of being that far away from Sam for more than a few days at a time made him feel lost; and the thought of living once more on his own made him wish to curl up in a corner and not move until someone came to comfort him. He’d not been alone now for so long, and he was afraid for what might happen if he were to go into one of those nights when the nightmares would come and return, and return some more without the reassurance of one who knew what they were and could remind him that they were but dreams after all there at hand.

            “You all right, Mr. Frodo?” asked a voice, and he looked up to see Sam’s earnest brown eyes examining him closely.  He realized one hand was clutching his reins abnormally tightly and the other was clutching the Queen’s jewel, and his breathing was shallow and rapid, just at the thought of not having Sam close to him should the nightmares assail him.

            “I was--I was just thinking,” Frodo said.  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong, Sam, Rosie.  Nothing wrong at all.”

            “Well, you have at least a sip o’ your tea, Master Frodo,” suggested Rosie.  “You went quite pale, you did.  What was you thinkin’ of?”

            “A situation that--that disturbed me, is all.  I sometimes think my imagination is my worst enemy.”

            “I can see that,” Sam replied, half under his breath.  “Was out plantin’ trees one day near the southern borders, and started thinkin’ on some of them half-orcs sneakin’ over the bounds--kept findin’ myself reachin’ for the hilt of my sword, I did.”

            Somehow that admission heartened Frodo.  “Then it would seem just the thought of some situations can set us both off, doesn’t it, Sam my lad?”  He smiled at his friend and was gladdened to see the smile the gardener gave him in return.

            “Oh, that it can--that it can indeed.”  Sam glanced sideways at Rosie, who smiled at him in a way that caused him to flush and grin foolishly at her.  “And then there’s other thoughts,” he added, “as just fill me with wonder.”

            Berry shook her head and Bill snorted, while Strider pointedly pranced as he walked.  Frodo found himself laughing as he uncapped his water bottle, suddenly more light-hearted himself.

 *******

            “Mum, do you have any idea what he’s upset about?  It’s been like being about a hornet’s nest since the day the Fair was opened,” Persivo asked as he slipped his shirt studs into his cuffs.

            “I have no idea, save it appears to stem back to the talk he had with the deputy Mayor when he took over the lease agreement and the jewelry brought back from Bree.  But I can’t think what Cousin Frodo might have said that could set him off in this way--he’s never been one to be rude, and your father’s admitted Frodo didn’t insult him at all.  Although how Frodo could have come into possession of that stickpin----”

            “The one Dad’s been wearing the past few days?  That was in the box--Ricki told me he and Lyssa were looking at all the things in it one day while we were home, a couple days before we came away to Michel Delving.”

            “In the box?  You mean that Lotho’s had that stickpin all these years?  I swear--every time I think I can’t learn anything that makes me think the worse of your father’s cousin I manage to do so anyway.  He was such a loathsome thing--he and Timono truly deserved one another!”

            “Do you think that that ragged Man who came with Sharkey, that Worm creature, really ate Cousin Lotho?”

            Delphinium turned to look at him, shocked.  “Where did you ever hear such a thing?”

            “One of the Boffins who came to Bag End and saw--saw the end of it said that Sharkey said such a thing was possible to Cousin Frodo Baggins.  He was telling of it yesterday, there behind the ale tent.  I’m glad I wasn’t there,” he added, shivering.

            “Glad you weren’t where?” his father asked as he returned to the guest room where his son and wife had been talking.

            “At Bag End when the Travelers came back.  It sounds as if was awful, watching Sharkey die.”

            “I hope you never have to see anyone die,” Bartolo said, his voice surprisingly soft and rather sad.  “It’s not usually an easy thing.”

            “No, I’d not think it would be.  And before he died he tried to kill Cousin Frodo Baggins--he stabbed him with a knife, only he had mail under his clothing and the knife broke when it hit the mail.  They could see it after Sharkey tried to stab him, through the place where his shirt was cut, shining in the sunlight.”

            “I didn’t know that Frodo had had mail, too,” Delphie said.

            “He said they all had mail--all the travelers, even Samwise Gamgee.  His was goldish while the Captains’ were steel and Cousin Frodo’s was silver and was different and hidden under his clothes.  They all had swords, too, only Cousin Frodo and Mr. Samwise didn’t have helmets or shields like the Captains do.”

            His father demanded, “Did one of the Captains kill Sharkey--or was it that Sam Gamgee?”

            “No--it wasn’t them, nor any Hobbit.  It was that Worm-creature who killed Sharkey--after Sharkey said the Worm-one had killed Lotho and might have eaten him.  Cousin Frodo wouldn’t let any of the Hobbits hurt Sharkey back after his knife broke--said as he’d been a special one who needed the chance to find healing, but he’d have to do it outside the Shire.  So Sharkey told on the Worm-creature and was nasty to him, and the Worm-creature killed him, and one of the archers was so shocked at seeing him do that he just fired at the wretched thing.  The Boffin lad said it was awful, and all the Travelers looked ill when it was done, and Cousin Frodo was very sad.”

            “Why would he look sad?  That Sharkey was a murderer and a thief, and tried to destroy the Shire!  Why would Baggins care about someone like that?”  Bartolo looked livid once more.

            Delphie was shaking her head, however.  “No, Barti--we can’t know what Frodo might have known about Sharkey that we don’t.  He’s studied many things over the years, and traveled with Gandalf and Elves as well as Men and the King himself.  I suspect that if he felt there was a chance Saruman could find healing he’d try to give that chance to him.  But he’d not let Sharkey hurt any more of ours, after he was found out.”

            “And what gives Baggins any right to care about the Shire?  He himself says that he----”  He stopped and composed himself as best he could.  “No, Persivo, I told him I’d let him tell you himself, and I will.  You want to know what Frodo Baggins did or didn’t do, you go ask him, you hear?”

            “What do you mean, Dad?” Persi asked, shocked at his father’s tone.

            “I mean what I said--you go ask your Cousin Frodo just what he did out there.  Let you hear it from his own mouth.”  He took another breath, then said, “Come here and let me see you.  Now, turn about.  Good, you look a credit to your family, I must say.  At least you’re going to the Great Smial and not Brandy Hall--they tend to dress rather--rather solidly there at Brandy Hall--solid and plain.”

            “Well, actually, at that house party we attended together when we were young Frodo had a couple very nice outfits that I’m certain Bilbo had made for him that weren’t plain; although when we were playing games such as ‘I’ll-Hide-and-You-Seek-Me’ or running races and the like he definitely wore Brandy Hall cloth.  He commented that the Master bought it by the bale as there were always so many who needed clothing and it was cheaper that way.”  Delphie looked rather apologetically at her husband, who shrugged in return, his mouth again in a line.  “Many of the lads from Buckland tend to dress plain most of the time, but you’ll find they all have very nice suits for when they must dress up.  Now, Merimac Brandybuck had a few very nice outfits--do you remember that marvelous formal green jacket and waistcoat with the tall matching hat he wore to his wedding, Barti?  He was quite an imposing one that day, as I recall.”

            Again Barti merely shrugged in answer.  He returned his attention to his son’s appearance.  “I only know, lad, as I’ll be missing you while you’re off amongst the Tooks, learning your trade, and that I’m sure you’ll be doing us proud.”

            Persivo couldn’t help but smile at that.  “And I’ll be missing being home, Da,” he said softly.  “Would you mind if Pet and I eat with Uncle Rico and Aunt Angie?  They’re camping near the grove.”

            “Go on ahead, but be there near the hill when the election speeches are given and we’ll go from there to luncheon together.”

            “Sure enough.  Then I’ll get my jacket and Pet and we’ll be off.”  He gave him parents each a quick kiss to the cheek and saw the surprise in his father’s eyes and the gratification in those of his mother, and he was quickly off, calling for his sister as he went.  Then Lyssa was running in and demanding permission to go with her older brother and sister, as Gonya was already off with friends from Hardbottle and Ricki was off with the Greenman lads, who’d arrived the previous evening.  “Oh, all right, as long as Persi and Pet agree, but you’re not to devil them to buy you fripperies this morning, understand.”

            The child only gave the slightest pout as she agreed as hastily as she could and hurried off, crying out that Da and Mum had said she might go, too.

            Bertramo came in once the door could be heard closing behind youthful voices in the distance.  “Ah, now it is I remember why Amaryllis and I decided to have but three,” he said, smiling.  “It’s a wonder doors survive the childhoods of our offspring!  Now, for the two of you--I have some breakfast prepared, rather more than the three of us might wish, but I did choose to do items this morning that will keep, suspecting this might happen.”

            Having decided to put the memory of the discussion about Frodo behind him, Barti said, “That sounds promising, Tram.  Lead on!”

            Petunia was the first to see the arrival of the deputy Mayor and his companions.  “That must be Missus Rosie with Mr. Sam and Cousin Frodo Baggins,” she said.  “Oh, look at those beautiful ponies.  The one Cousin Frodo is riding is so lovely, as is the one Missus Rosie is on.”

            “Ooh, yes,” agreed Lyssa, her eyes caught by the beauty of the mounts.  “The one Mr. Samwise has looks plain by comparison, although he’s at least as nice as Spotty and Dottie.”

            All three ponies were sleek and well muscled.  The one ridden by the gardener has a few scars on him, but its coat was now smooth and its mane as well maintained as those of the other two; and the tack he wore was fully as rich as that of Frodo Baggins himself.  Behind their saddles were fastened beautifully fashioned saddlebags and blanketrolls; apparently they were planning to sleep under the stars as many did when attending the fair for only a day or two, taking advantage of the fine weather that usually graced the Shire during the Free Fair.  Instead of going to the public stable they rode to the series of paddocks that were tended by Pease and some other stable hands from nearby communities and the Tooklands.  There they pulled up short of the gate of the largest one and spoke with Pease; then they dismounted and he helped Missus Rosie remove her tack and hang it on a special rail while the gentlehobbits took care of their own mounts.  Frodo gave his own pony a gentle rubbing, spoke quietly into its ear, then let it go.

            “Come on, you three--Bill, Berry, Strider--we’ll see you turned out with the other ponies.  Here, now!”  Sam gave a soft whistle and the three followed him trustingly to the paddock gate as Pease swung it open, then turned to help themselves to a drink from the trough before heading out into the field to greet the rest of those held there.  A few coins were given to Pease, and Sam and Rosie turned to look out at the fairgrounds.  “It’s still an hour or better afore you must be anywhere in particular, Master,” Sam commented.  “Want to go and get some second breakfast with us?”

            Frodo was shaking his head.  “No, the stomach’s much better now, but what we ate along the way will stay with me for a time, I think.  You go on, and I’ll meet you near the ale tent for elevenses--I should probably look in at the Council Hole one last time before I begin enjoying the Fair.”

            “Just don’t you find yourself gettin’ caught up in business today of all days,” Sam cautioned him.  “We’ll be off, then.  Rosie wishes to see the baked goods after we get somethin’ to eat.  You keep a watch on yourself, then, Master--don’t push yourself.”  And as he set his arm about his wife’s waist and they set out for the Fair proper the three young Bracegirdles approached Frodo.

            “Pardon us, Cousin Frodo,” Persivo began, suddenly feeling a bit unsure of himself.  “Might we--might we have a word?”

            He looked at them, and they could see the crease begin to reform between his eyebrows.  “Persivo Bracegirdle?  Are you certain your father wishes you to speak with me?  I’m not precisely his favorite Hobbit.”

            “Actually, he said as I ought to speak with you, sir, and that you had something he wished you to tell me.”

            Frodo’s expression became tired as he nodded.  “I see,” he sighed.  “Yes, he did say that.”  He lifted the water bottle he carried on a cord slung over his shoulder and drank from it, carefully recorking it again afterwards.  “Come away where it’s a bit more private, then,” he suggested, only to be interrupted by a call from more approaching riders as he led them out of earshot of those close to the paddocks.

            “Hoy, Frodo--hold up a moment!” called Pippin Took.  “Didn’t expect you three to beat us here!”  He and Captain Merry rode up alongside Frodo and the three younger Hobbits, and they dropped rapidly to the ground.  “Where’s Mother Sam?” he asked.

            “That’s no way to speak of a lord of the realm,” admonished Merry, then grew quiet as he realized the three Bracegirdle children were there with Frodo.  “What’s this, Frodo--are you daring to speak with Bartolo’s offspring?  I’d think he’d have them trained by now to disdain speaking with mere Bagginses.”

            Persivo straightened at the insult.  “I’ll remind you,” he said with spirit, “that our mother’s a Baggins, and quite proud of it, really.  And just because Dad has some grudge against her cousin he won’t tell doesn’t mean she’ll allow us to carry it, too.”

            Frodo had shut his eyes and was rubbing at his temple with a sigh.  “Don’t make it worse, Merry mine--we don’t need the anger going on into still another generation.”

            “But I don’t begin to understand why he’s been so antagonistic toward you all these years, Frodo.  And after all but calling you a coward the other day----”

            “He wanted me to tell Persivo something myself, if I was brave enough.  There--you have it.  Is that enough to make you let it go?  He never called me a coward!  Sam didn’t begin to hear it all, and I’ve not discussed it with him.  This is between Barti and me, and should be allowed to remain that way.”

            “Except what you are supposed not to be brave enough to tell his children, which is the same as calling you a coward.  Well, out with it--what is it you’re supposed to have done?”

            “It’s not what I’ve done--it’s what I didn’t do....”

            Pippin gave a very loud sigh.  “Oh, so he’s found out your deep, dark secret, did he--that at the last moment you were taken by a force no mortal nor Elf nor Wizard could hope to withstand, and couldn’t finish it yourself--had to see someone else do it--fall into the fire so that you and Sam and the rest of Middle Earth could remain free and safe, so that Sauron could be defeated?  Is that it, Frodo Baggins?”

            Frodo’s face had gone very white.  “I don’t wish it spoken of, Peregrin Took,” he whispered.

            Pippin ignored him as he looked back to Persivo.  “Is that it--you found out, while you were in Bree, that he’s a lord of all the Free Peoples?”

            “I told Halladan to tell his Rangers not to speak of it to anyone, and----”

            “And wrote the same to Strider’s lawyer--is that right?”  Pippin turned his head to inspect Frodo’s face and gave a small nod.  “Yes, I suspected you did that--always trying not to worry folks, you are.  But I bet that they heard bits and pieces of the story every time they turned about, and that they figured out the larger part of it on their own.  And don’t try ordering me about--right now I’m the King’s Captain more than I am your younger cousin.”  Again he looked pointedly away from the deputy Mayor.

            “Actually, the first one to call him Lord Frodo was an Elf, Mr. Glorinlas Gildorion--we met him on the way to Bree,” Petunia explained.

            “You see, Frodo,” Merry said, suddenly smiling, “it wasn’t the Rangers who gave you away after all.  And if you think you can tell an Elven lord what to say or not to say, I suspect you’ve another thing coming.”

            Frodo threw his hands up and, seeing a stump left by Sharkey’s folks nearby, sat himself down on it.  “And now you’ll tell these, will you?”

            “Seems as if they already know, and you yourself told their father what a failure you are--the way you keep telling yourself what a failure you are.  You’d think that after It being gone now for over a year you’d be past that.”

            “You think that I still don’t hear echoes of It?” Frodo again whispered, refusing to meet the eyes of any of them.

            Pippin looked briefly again at Frodo, then at the three children.  “Your mother’s cousin agreed to carry an artifact of the greatest evil, one no Elf would touch, one Gandalf wouldn’t touch, one the King himself wouldn’t set his hand on, to the heart of Sauron’s own realm to where it was made so It could be destroyed.  He’s not the first one to try this--three thousand years ago it was our King’s ancestor Isildur who had It in his hands who ought to have seen It destroyed, only he couldn’t do it.  And this time it was a Hobbit who tried it, managing to fight Its influence until the very last moment, when just the task of getting there still carrying It had already almost killed him.  And he can’t seem to appreciate that the Creator had found a way to get It away from him before It destroyed him utterly--better the loss of one finger than you and Sam and It, Frodo Baggins.”

            “If only it had been but the loss of one finger----”

            “Even had you done what you’d intended, he still would have died, Frodo.  You know what he told Sam--that when It was gone he’d die, die into the dust.  You know he was right.”

            “Who?” asked Alyssa.

            It was Persivo who answered.  “Gollum--it was Gollum, wasn’t it, the one who your Uncle Bilbo met under the Misty Mountains?  And that’s how the Ring came to you....”

            “You know It was the Ring?” Frodo asked, his face stricken.

            “They still haven’t found any of the Rings what was stolen,” Alyssa repeated.  “Have they?”

            Frodo agreed, “No, they haven’t.”

            “And they call you the Ringbearer,” she continued.

            “Yes.”

            “It had to have a ring to it, whatever you did,” she pointed out.

            Again Frodo put his hand over his eyes, clutching the gem he wore with the other hand.  “Oh, sweet Elbereth,” he sighed.

            Merry was examining the three of them with interest and approval.  “You’d best be certain, Frodo Baggins, the names of all three of these are in the Baggins family book,” he said, his smile broad.  “No mere blockheaded Bracegirdle from Hardbottle, as Bilbo used to describe them, could have figured all that out.  I salute you!”

            “And did you figure it out?” demanded Alyssa.

            “Yes, I did, although it helped I saw Bilbo actually put the blasted thing on his finger and disappear one day, having realized that the Sackville-Bagginses were headed his way and not wishing to have to deal with them.  He had no idea at all what It really was--if he had I suspect It would have managed to have taken him somehow before he left the Shire--It almost did anyway, apparently.  Although what It was precisely we didn’t know until the spring before we left--Gandalf was the first to truly figure it all out and to warn Frodo.”

            They were all quiet for a time.  At last Petunia said, “We won’t tell anyone else--we know that we’re all bound by Da’s oath, you understand.  But he never told us--we wanted to understand and--and kept learning things until we figured it all out.  I don’t think as our other sister and brother understand it all, though, but we three do.  And most of what we learned we actually learned from some Dwarves as we met in the marketplace.”

            “And I don’t think Dad really appreciates what it all means, even as much as he knows,” Persi added.  “I hate to say this of my father, but--but Cousin Bilbo’s description does tend to fit him--at least for some things.”

            Frodo suddenly surprised them all by starting to laugh, laughing louder and more freely as the minutes stretched, with the others joining him in his laughter.  “I think,” he finally managed to gasp out, “that when I spoke of this to your father the other day I could never have imagined this talk happening in a thousand years!  Oh, Persivo Bracegirdle, it will be with pride I will look on your name next time I must go through the family book.  No, no blockheaded Bracegirdle at all are you, you or your sisters.  Well, I insist that you don’t seek to enlighten your father further, and that you leave things as they are.”  Then seeing the expressions in their eyes he added, “Please.”

            “If you insist,” Persivo said uncertainly, “although I wish he truly understood.

            “Oh, children,” Frodo said, his face going rather sad, “I don’t wish any to have to understand--not truly understand.  And had I understood ahead of time what it was I was volunteering for, I don’t know that I could have borne doing so.”

 *******

            By luncheon the entire Fairground and beyond was buzzing--Frodo Baggins, who’d done so very well as deputy Mayor for the last eight months, had stood up not to accept the nomination as Mayor in his own right all had expected, but instead to explain he was returning the office to Will Whitfoot.  Among those shocked by this turn of affairs were Will Whitfoot himself, Benlo Bracegirdle, and most of the rest of the Shire.  Benlo stubbornly voted for Frodo anyway, as did Thain Paladin Took.  Master Saradoc Brandybuck, on the other hand, seeing the shadows under Frodo’s eyes, voted for Will, knowing his younger cousin and former fosterling would have made such a decision only if certain it was needful.  Frodo had stepped back into the crowd, then disappeared.  Begonia Bracegirdle, seeing the mixed expression on her father’s face--she wasn’t certain whether he was angry, hurt, or triumphant at this turn of events--set herself to track down her mother’s cousin  and berate him for failing to meet everyone’s expectations; but she found herself knowing as difficult a time in finding Frodo Baggins as anyone else.  She finally found herself looking inside the Council Hole and heard his voice from the banquet hall where he was apparently sitting on the floor on the other side of the great carved sideboard, speaking to a younger lad who looked much like himself and like Persi had when he was in his teens, and a lass who appeared to be the lad’s sister.

            “We thought we’d lost you, Iorhael,” the lass was whispering.  “We were so glad to hear you were back, so glad to know you were deputy Mayor and making things all right, and so upset you didn’t come to us.”

            “I couldn’t,” he answered.  “It’s been all I can do to make it once to Buckland to see Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara, or at times just to make it here to Michel Delving.  I’m not well, children.  I must be honest with you--I’m not well.”

            “Why do you have to be honest with us?” asked the lad.

            Begonia backed out of the room as quietly as she’d come in, standing near the room where the lasses did their hair until she saw the three of them go out together, Cousin Frodo Baggins and these strange Hobbit children she felt she almost recognized, although she was certain she’d never seen them before today.  She’d seen them earlier among the crowd just after elevenses as Frodo had told a story behind the ale tent to an audience of mixed children and adults, describing the coronation of the new King, Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, and how one of the guards had come before the new King for judgment, having broken the law by leaving his post without orders or permission and killing other guards and servants to prevent them from helping a person kill his son, although why the Man had wanted to kill his son she couldn’t understand, much less why others would try to help him.  She saw the children again that evening, sitting by a Hobbit she was certain was a Gravelly and what was plainly his wife, neither of whom either of them resembled.  When the singing began she found herself transported, listening to the songs sung.  Pippin Took had the most beautiful voice, she recognized; yet it was Frodo’s voice that moved her most.  And when Sam Gamgee sang a song alone that he called the Lay of Gil-galad she was amazed at how warm and powerful his voice was.  It was apparently a song of an Elven warrior who fought in a war in a place called Mordor, a warrior who at the end faced the Enemy himself alongside a great King of Men, and together they managed to bring him down, although the two of them died doing so.

            But then the two very tall figures rose and asked permission to sing, and for a second time in her life she saw Elves--twin Elves, these two with hair as dark as the growing night around them; and they came into the light of the fire, greeting Frodo with great courtesy and honor.  “Ar-Iorhael,” she thought they called him, and she was reminded of the lass earlier in the banquet hall calling Frodo "Iorhael" as well.  She cast a quick glance at the two children again, and saw they were both sitting up and listening intently.  These two knew and recognized that name as soon as they heard it, and indeed were listening for it.

            When they began singing she felt she knew the story they were singing about, even though most of it was in languages she’d never heard before, and she realized it was about--about Cousin Frodo Baggins.  At one moment, however, she found herself looking away from the Elves to look at her parents.  Her father’s face was straining after the music, but understood almost nothing of what he heard; her mother’s, on the other hand, was streaming tears as shamelessly as were the faces of the four Travelers and Rosie Gamgee, the four of whom had gathered protectively about Frodo Baggins.  Gonya had the distinct impression her mother understood what the song was about better than any of the rest.  Everyone listened enraptured by the clarity of the Elven voices; but a few, she realized, were seeing the story happen even as she, from time to time, did.  At the moment the song reached its crescendo she forgot everything else, seeming to see a dark place lit only with a great glow of fire from below, filled with noisome smokes swirling about a single figure, as Iorhael stood over the brink, small and vulnerable, yet great and terrible; and he held out something bright and shining in whose light he grew even greater and more terrifying, one in the strength of whose will might have sought to command the world itself.  And that glittering Object took Iorhael and sought to remake him as he sought to Command It--and another flung himself out of the obscuring dark smokes and leapt on the powerful figure of Iorhael and--and saved him from the horror that had wrapped Itself about him, biting at Iorhael’s hand to take the glittering Object for himself, leaving a small, bleeding figure lying on the ground as the attacker took the Object for his own, falling into the Fire with It clutched in his hand.

            Somehow she heard her older brother murmuring, “The Ring!” as she saw another small figure approach the first one, the bleeding, wounded one, and lifted it up to carry it away.

            Then when it appeared death had taken the two for its own great winged shapes appeared out of the returning glory of day to swoop down and gently lift the two figures out of the center of a ring of fire, bringing them safely out to where shining arms waited to receive them, and powerful presences waited to call them back from the Gates of Death itself, until the day they awoke to the praises of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits, when the King Returned came to seat the two of them upon his own Throne to the praise of all....

            “Eglerio! Iorhael i Perhael, a laíta te!  Praise them with great praise!” the Elves sang as they went each to one knee, bowing low before--before Frodo Baggins.

            At last the two Elves rose and gave a joint bow to all who sat there before turning and disappearing from the hilltop.  Folco Boffin and Fredegar Bolger were among the first to rise and approached the four Travelers, as did one she thought was a Brandybuck; and a number of Took lawyers close in age to Frodo stood together to screen away any others who might wish to approach Frodo, glaring their defiance at all, including the Thain himself.  Sam and Rosie Gamgee were leaning down to gather the scrolls and letters that the Elves had presented to Cousin Frodo Baggins, and Pippin Took had his arms about Frodo protectively, and the seven Hobbits walked about him down the hill and back toward the paddocks.

            “Where are Fosco and Forsythia?” the Hobbitess with the Gravelly was demanding.  “Where have they disappeared to?”

            “I don’t know, Lilac--they were here all during the song those--those Elves sang--I’m sure of it.”

            “We can’t lose them, Emro--we can’t, not now!  If they talk to Baggins....”

            Begonia cast a quick look at her brothers and sisters.  Persi and Pet, she realized, had seen much the same images as she had, and Persivo was shining at the moment almost as much as had been Cousin Frodo himself.  Then she saw her older brother exchange a glance with their mother, and knew that the two of them each saw the other shared the same understanding of what the song had been about.

            She felt a tug at her skirt as she rose, and saw that Ricki was looking up seriously into her eyes.  “That was about them--about Cousin Frodo Baggins and Mr. Samwise, wasn’t it?” he whispered as she bent down to hear what he had to ask.

            “I believe so,” she whispered back.

            “I thought so,” he returned.  “I thought so.  How they got to be lords, I think.”

            She nodded, and they turned to gather with the others about their parents.

            “Now, that was not something I’d anticipated,” her da was saying to her mum.  “But why couldn’t they have sung a song we all could understand?”

            And at that moment she felt great pity stir her for her father.  No, he’d not understood or appreciated what the song had been about, not much at all.

A Conspiracy of One

            “You have time now to go to Annúminas?” asked the young Ranger Eregiel of Master Alvric.  Denra Gorse and Carnation looked from one to the other, waiting for the reply.

            “Yes--I’ve been in communication with Lor--Master Frodo, and he’s allowed me to know it will be two and a half weeks after Midsummer before the next group will be able to come out to study with me.  It appears as if there will be about five in this group from several places about the Shire.”

            “How about those within the Breelands?”

            “I’ve finished with the training of Master Watercress and his friend Meldioc Pennywhistle who joined him after the leaving of the Bracegirdles.  It appears there will be six from Bree, one of them Rodric Sackins, a lawyer who was not very certain he believed in Minas Tirith or Annúminas when your kinsmen and I spoke before the Guild of Lawyers and the Breelands Council.  I was most surprised that he asked, most humbly I must say, to attend the next class.”

            “If we leave in the morning and ride quickly we could be there within a week’s time, and you would have about ten days to see the work being done and to review the records we hold and have recovered in the past year, and to speak more fully with Berevrion and a few of the others who oversee the rule of law amongst us.”

            The smaller Man’s expression grew thoughtful and rather unsettled at the thought of the ride, but at length he straightened some and said, “Then the sooner we get started in the morning the sooner we might arrive and the more I can accomplish before I must return.  And this will give me more knowledge to share directly with those with whom I must deal in the next class.  It would not do to seek to hold classes this time here in Mistress Denra’s home with so many.  How much do you think I might be charged to use the Grange building for the classes?”

            Shortly Alvric, Denra, and Carnation were working to see his things readied for the journey northwards.  “Ye’ll not be a’takin’ the wee dog, will ye?” Carnation asked.

            Alvric smiled.  Carnation had developed a strong affection for Holby, and had begun secretly slipping him treats at odd times during the day.  He had a suspicion that if he were to leave the dog here while he was gone he would return to find Holby almost a round sphere.  “Oh, but I couldn’t dream of leaving him behind, not after he’s ridden with me all the way from Minas Tirith and as he follows me all about the village here in Bree,” he explained gently.  “I’d be lost without him, I fear.”

            One of the Blackroot children was sent off to the Prancing Pony to speak with Bob and the stableman, and arrangements were made to bring Jongleur, Abia, and his grey cob shortly before dawn that they might be readied for the ride to come.  “So you’re going to be gone for a while?” the oldest of the Blackroot children asked Alvric.

            Something in the manner in which the question was asked gave the lawyer pause.  “I will be gone a few days,” he admitted, “but will return.  And the King’s kinsmen will be keeping an eye on Mistress Gorse’s home while I am gone to see to it that she is not importuned during my absence.”

            The boy wasn’t quite able to mask the concerned expression that last gave him before he smiled and wished Alvric a good journey.  He had an idea that one or more of Denra’s suitors had set the children of the Blackroot family to spy on him for them.  There had been two more visits during the last couple weeks, and during visits to the marketplace he’d been glared at by Bender Cotman.  He decided that this evening he would go into the village and seek out any Rangers who might be at the Prancing Pony, or at least speak with Barliman Butterbur about sending one of his fellows out if none of the King’s folks were within Bree at the moment.  He didn’t like the thought of Mistress Denra perhaps being pressured by the likes of Cotman while he was gone.

*******

            Delric Safflower watched the approach of Bender Cotman with a level of suspicion.  He didn’t really like Cotman with his abrupt manner and his belief that he was an authority on about everything, and there was the fact they’d been rivals for the attentions of Denra Gorse to consider.

            “Hullo, Safflower,” Cotman growled.  “It’s lucky I am to find ye here, I think.”

            “And what do you want, Bender?”

            “Seems to me as we have a mutual problem.”

            “And what’s that?”

            “That lawyer from down south-aways.  The one what’s stayin’ at the Gorse place.  Him with his threats of the King’s folks....”

            “Didn’t threaten me,” Delric said, turning his attention back to his ale.

            “Well, him certainly did me,” his companion said as he sat heavily opposite him, his mug on the table between them.  “Seems to me as this one’s a bit too big for his waistcoat.”  He took a thoughtful swallow of his ale.

            Safflower snorted as he took another sip, then wiped his mustache with the back of his hand.  “Too big for what?  He’s half a head shorter’n any Man as I’ve ever seed afore.  And if’n that Denra prefers the likes of him--well, she’s no longer got my attention.”

            “Oh, no?  Then why’d I see ye lookin’ after her in the marketplace t’day, watchin’ ever’ step as her took?”

            Delric looked away, fixing his attention determinedly on the color of his drink, giving an expressive shrug.  “A Man’s got to look’t sommat,” he commented as offhandedly as he could.

            “So ye follows the steps o’ the woman as give ye the brush-off, then?”  The farmer gave a half smile, and took another pull at his mug.  When Safflower didn’t respond, choosing to drink more heavily for a moment, Cotman continued in low tones, “I’ve a mind t’ see the last of this Master Alvric.”

            “And you’ll see it done how?”

            “Him’s gonna be gone for a bit--off t’ the north with some Rangers, it seems.  If’n when him gets back someone was to meet him as him leaves the stables here ’t the Pony and mayhaps see to ’t as him doesn’t make it back to Miss Denra’s house....”  He delicately left the sentence unfinished.

            Safflower gave another grim snort.  “And you thinks as mayhaps I’m the one t’do that?  Na--I’m no footpad.”

            “No?  But ye could send one t’tell me if’n him comes while I’m away from the inn--yer here most evenin’s, after all.”

            “Why not set up an ambush outside the Breelands?  There’s only one main road headin’ north if’n you’re ridin’, after all.”

            “Yes, but him’s travelin’ with Rangers, and none’s as wise’ll seek t’ tangle wit’ them.  Once him’s back here though, ye really think as them Rangers’ll follow ’im across the village?”

            Delric finished his drink, then sat with the empty mug between his hands, considering his companion.  “You hate ’im so much?” he asked.

            “Him threatened me, him did.  I don’t take well to threats.”

            “Not less’n you’re the one as is givin’ ’em,” muttered Safflower.

            Bender Cotman fixed him with a glare.  “What’s that as ye said?” he hissed in a dangerous voice.

            “Forget what I might o’ said, Cotman.  You wouldn’t hurt ’im seriously, would you?”

            Cotman shrugged.  “Just enough to make ’im realize as ’twould mayhaps be best fer ’im to head back t’ the King’s city, like.”

            Delric Safflower considered the hirsute farmer for another moment.  “How come you’re so set on Denra Gorse, Cotman?  She’s definitely not interested in the likes o’ you.”

            “Mayhaps.  But her’s got a fine house in town, and some land’s her ’n’ her brother’s owned what would be an addition to anyone’s holdin’s.  And her’s a fine figger of a woman, after all.  A Man could do worse’n wake up aside her, yer knows.”

            “I’ll consider it,” Safflower finally said.  So saying, he rose.  “I’ll be seein’ you, Cotman.”  He left the common room of the Prancing Pony feeling somewhat more lighthearted for some reason.

            Bender Cotman watched after Delric Safflower and smiled.  He’d even thought of a way to make it appear Safflower himself might have been involved in what might happen to the lawyer.  To get rid of two potential rivals at the same time would give him a good deal of satisfaction.  Having thought on this, he looked around.  The barmaid wasn’t on duty as yet; it was quiet enough in the Prancing Pony that Jape himself was venturing out to take orders instead of waiting for patrons to come to the bar to request their drinks.  He signaled to Jape and smiled to himself as the barman approached his table.  “I’ll be a’wantin’ another ale,” he said to Jape on his arrival at the table.  “And I suppose as ye can take away Safflower’s mug there—was complainin’ ’bout that Mannish lawyer as the King sent here.  Seems as him sees this Alvric fellow as one as might just cut ’im out o’ his intentions to take Miz Gorse t’ wife.”

            “Is that so?” asked Jape, not truly interested.      

            “So’s ’twould seem,” Cotman said with an elaborate shrug.  “Was pretty angry.”

            Jape gave a look toward the main door to the room as if he could still see Safflower there, then shook his head dismissively.  “No,” he said, “not the type.  You

want the dark or the light this time?”

            Disgruntled that the barman wasn’t accepting his word at face value but aware that if he pushed the matter it was likely to draw too much attention to himself, Cotman shrugged.  “Same’s afore.”

            As he watched Jape return to his place near the barrels of ale there behind the bar all he could do was hope that the seed had been planted in the barman’s mind.  He looked about the rest of the room, considering who might be more receptive to the idea.

*******

            Twenty-three days later Alvric, Eregiel, Berevrion, and Lord Halladan returned to Bree leading Alvric’s cob and Abia as well as as the Rangers’ own extra mounts, Eregiel’s hound following at the heels of his horse.  “I hope that none of Mistress Gorse’s suitors has been pressing her unbearably,” Alvric sighed as they entered through the north gate just before sunset.

            “Faradir was left to keep an eye on her,” Berevrion said, smiling.  “I truly doubt she’s known much trouble from them while we were gone.  I’m wondering if Master Bracegirdle has come to have Master Frodo’s leases signed and registered, myself.”

            “The letter we received just before we left Annúminas indicated he would seek to be here tomorrow at the latest,” Alvric said as they approached the stable yard for the Prancing Pony.  “Oh, how good it will be not to be ever ahorse once more.  I cannot imagine how it is that your folk spend so much time riding.”

            Lord Halladan laughed.  “We are almost bred in the saddle, I think.  I do not believe the Rohirrim have much to crow about as horselords compared to us, save that the Mearas were given into their keeping.  Although we often spend as much time afoot as we do astride, a situation most Eorlingas would be alarmed at.  Aragorn earned the name ‘Strider’ given him here, for in his life he has walked far further, perhaps, than the young King of Rohan has ridden.  Yet he has also ridden far further than Éomer as well.  He’s been furthest of all our people since the days of Elendil himself, I deem--he has traveled through Rhun, and Harad into Far Harad; and I suspect he has also visited at least the borderlands of Khand.  The one skill I do not know that he has mastered is the driving of a team, although that is always possible.”

            Together they swung down off their horses, and Bob and the Mannish ostler between them came forward to help them hold the extra animals as they saw to unsaddling their mounts.  “Your Jongleur here has quite a sense of humor,” Halladan commented as the brown nudged his horse forward toward Nob.

            “Yes, I know.  There are some days when he will decide to enjoy himself at my expense, and on them he will wait until I have my foot in the stirrup, then move away and leave me in the dust.  I’m afraid I had to speak to him two or three times as we traveled north.  However, there were days when he simply laughed at me.  Éomer King of Rohan named him well, I think.  Although he does appear to become jealous of Abia when I ride her more than I ride him.”

            “And I have seen him at it,” confirmed Berevrion.  “A most intelligent and self-willed creature, this one.”

            Alvric had lifted Holby from his carrier and set him on the ground; the small dog immediately hurried over to a post and lifted his leg against it, then, sniffing interestedly, slowly made his way back toward the lawyer as the Man loosened the cinch to Jongleur’s saddle and lifted it off the horse to settle over the saddle tree assigned to him.  The ostler was unloading the cob’s load into a handcart so that it could be pushed to Mistress Gorse’s home when all was done, and the Rangers were already retrieving their own extra items that they’d allowed the grey to carry.  The Rangers and Alvric walked their mounts in and saw them into their stalls, at which time the lawyer noted that two familiar spotted ponies were housed within the stable already.  “Then Master Bracegirdle is already here?” he asked Bob.

            “Yessir--got here some time back, he did,” the Hobbit informed him.  “Come in a trap this time, and by hisself.  Must of left the Bridge Inn afore daylight and et as he drove to get here as early as he did.  The young lad, he followed him in, he did.”

            “Teregion?” Eregiel asked, signaling his own hound to heel.  “He’s to start his proper training soon, I think.  A fine Ranger he’ll make, don’t you agree, Berevrion?”

            “I suppose I ought to go in and let Master Bartolo know that I’ve returned,” Alvric noted, although his expression made it plain he’d prefer to head immediately to his own place and perhaps get a bath and some sleep.

            “Then we won’t lose your companionship immediately,” Halladan commented.  “I will gladly pay for a couple pints for you.”

            “More than one and I suspect I’d but fall asleep at the table,” Alvric replied.  “Although I never was much of a one for drinking much in the way of ale or beer.”

            “Then a glass of wine?” the Steward of Arnor suggested.  “There is quite a fine wine that is brewed in Staddle, you know.  Perhaps a bit tart, but quite satisfying nonetheless....”

            “I’ll take over your handcart for you,” offered Bob.

            “Oh, I can take it myself when I leave,” Alvric assured him.  “I’m not completely helpless.  If you’d but keep an eye on it until I come out--I don’t plan to stay long.”

            “Oh, gladly, Master,” Bob smiled.  “No problem in that, there isn’t.”

            With that promise the four Men headed into the inn, the Rangers to arrange for a room for the three of them and Alvric to inquire as to which room Master Bracegirdle had been given.  “Welcome back, Master,” Butterbur greeted him.  “Master Bracegirdle?  He was given the same room as he shared with his wife the last time, although he has it to himself this trip out.  But he’s in the common room at the moment, he is.  Will you be joinin’ the company this evenin’, then?”

            Alvric walked over to one of the shorter tables where Bartolo sat with Ora and Basso Watercress and a couple of their friends and dropped onto the end of the bench beyond the Shire lawyer, Holby taking his own place under him.  “It is a distinct pleasure to see you, Master Bartolo, Master Ora,” he said by way of greeting.

            He noted a look of pleased surprise on the Bracegirdle’s face.  “Master Alvric?  Then you returned more swiftly than you’d looked to.”

            “Yes--when the note came as to when you thought to arrive we ended up leaving a day earlier than we’d planned so as to not leave you too long idle before our return.  And did you have a good drive out from the Shire, sir?”

            Bartolo shrugged.  “A tolerable one, although I’ll admit as it seemed very quiet, not having the younglings chattering.”

            “You had no problems in getting the contracts signed?”

            He noted the sour expression the Shire lawyer made no effort to hide.   “None,” he answered rather tersely.  “The client had all in hand to see it signed properly.  Mr. Merimac Brandybuck should be here at any time--he had duties this morning he must see to before he left the Shire, and I didn’t wish to stay to ride with him.  He’s been appointed proxy to see the last of the signatures collected.”

            “And Mr. Brandybuck is the--the Master?” Alvric asked.

            “No--Master’s brother, Saradoc’s steward, much as Dodinas was old Rory’s steward in his time.”

            “I see--so he is Sir Meriadoc’s uncle, then?”

            “Yes.”

            “And how did you leave--Master Frodo and Master Samwise?”

            Bartolo shrugged again, his mouth set in a line.  It was plain he had no interest in relaying news of the health of the likes of Frodo Baggins.

            “And was he elected Mayor in his own right?” asked Halladan, who’d come to stand behind Alvric.  He handed the Mannish lawyer a glass of wine.

            “Decided at the last moment as he wasn’t going to accept the job,” the Bracegirdle admitted grudgingly, disapproval obvious in every line.  “Didn’t give a reason--not that old Odo was giving him much chance to explain,” he went on, although it was clear that he had to admit this against his will.  “Proudfoot tends to be loud when he has something to say, I’m afraid.  Neither Baggins nor Gamgee saw fit to attend the banquet for the family heads.  Baggins said as all he wanted to do was get back to Hobbiton and his own bed, and the gardener wasn’t about to allow him to ride home alone.  They came back for Midsummers Day itself and the elections.  Baggins must not have told Gamgee ahead of time, for he was as surprised as all else when the announcement was made.  Old Flour Dumpling’s Mayor again for another seven years, looks like, and he’s most disappointed.”  Then, after a moment of quiet he asked, as if the question were being dragged from him, “You know as what’s wrong with his neck?  Kept rubbing at it first time as I saw him, and had a bandage on it when he stood to say as he was giving being Mayor back to Will again.”

            Halladan straightened.  “It still bothers him?  I’ll advise Lord Elrond and my Lord Cousin--they might have some advice to offer him.”

            “So--this isn’t the first time, then?”

            “Certainly not.  It has apparently opened and drained more than once since they were returned to us.  He was quite--unsettled the few days before it drained while we rode from Gondor through Rohan as we returned northward.  He and Aragorn argued over it.”

            “Argued over it?”

            The Steward gave his own shrug.  “For those who don’t fully recover from a wound or illness it is not uncommon to become resentful of never feeling fully well, and of those who seek to make certain they receive whatever treatment has been found will give them the most relief.  Master Frodo forced Aragorn to agree that he wasn’t certain he’d do worse without the draughts that had been ordered for him, and refused to receive them after that--if, of course, they were offered openly.  I believe that toward the end of our journey Lord Elrond was adding healing herbs appropriate for Master Frodo’s condition to the tea he brewed for him.”

            Bartolo said in a low voice, as if to himself, “Then it’s true--he’s not completely well, then.”

            “Considering what the Lord Frodo Baggins endured on his journey, Master Bracegirdle, the probability is that he will know a level of discomfort for the rest of his life.”

            That bald statement appeared to give the Hobbit pause, and both Watercresses were looking between the Ranger and Bartolo.  At last Basso asked, “Then his right name is Frodo Baggins, then?”

            “Yes.”

            “And yours?”

            “Halladan son of Halbaleg, mother’s brother’s son to the Lord King Aragorn Elessar, and Steward of Arnor.”

            The two Bree Hobbits and their friends all rose rather precipitously to their feet, although Bartolo Bracegirdle appeared less impressed by the Man’s title and position, rising more slowly and giving a bow.  “Bartolo Bracegirdle, at your service, sir,” he said formally.

            “Halladan son of Halbaleg at the service of you and your people ever, Master Bracegirdle.  The reports we have received from Master Frodo and Master Alvric here on you and your family have ever been favorable ones.”

            Ora introduced himself and his son and their companions next, and was obviously flattered to have his reputation recognized and praised by the Steward.  The Hobbits resumed their seats, and Alvric asked, “Shall we look at riding out to the Hedges’ farm in the morning, then?”

            “You are certain you wish to go so far so soon after your return to Bree, Master Alvric?” Halladan said, smiling.  “And here I thought you were glad enough to be done with riding for a time.”

            Alvric flushed somewhat.  “Oh, I am, but as I had the feeling that Master Bartolo would wish to see all signed as swiftly as possible....”

            Bartolo himself shifted his position some.  “Apparently Baggins sent a message to Farmer Hedges just after the Free Fair, and he had the answer sent on to me a few days back.  Hedges intends to bring his family here to Bree tomorrow--it’s part of why I rode out when I did, so as to be here when they arrive.  He also let me know as each of you ought to be returning here about then, as well.  So, you’ve been north to the new capital as is being built?”

*******

            Delric Safflower turned at the arrival of the newcomers, and was pleased to see that one of them was that odd Mannish lawyer, who immediately was crossing toward the table where the Shire Hobbit was sitting with Ora and Basso Watercress.  Here was the opportunity Bender Cotman desired, or so it seemed.  Safflower finished his drink and rose to leave.  Ordinarily he’d stay another hour at least, but if he was to advise Cotman....  He knew the farmer was at the Silver Fox for the evening--several met there regularly to indulge in gambling games that weren’t ordinarily tolerated here at the Prancing Pony, particularly as Butterbur felt that indulging in such pastimes appeared to bring out the worst in his guests.  Safflower tended to agree with Butterbur on this one, which was one reason he spent most free evenings he knew here rather than there.  He left a handful of brass coins lying on his table and left the Prancing Pony, absently bidding good evening to old Barliman as he passed him.  He then turned toward the south gate, near which stood the Silver Fox.

            It was a much smaller establishment than the Prancing Pony.  It, too, was three stories in height, although the top floor was far meaner than the one at the Pony, with four rooms tucked uncomfortably below the eaves and the meager dormers where the poorest of guests would be housed--hot and stifling in the summer, freezingly cold and often more than a bit damp in the wintertime.  Most of the ground floor was taken up by the common room, much darker and less friendly than its equal in the larger inn.  A second room behind the common room was given over to those who enjoyed games of chance, and it was there that Safflower found Cotman, much as he’d expected.

            Bender Cotman’s face was flushed with drink and satisfaction--apparently he was ahead this evening.  “Surprised to see ye here tonight, Safflower,” he commented as the second of Denra Gorse’s suitors approached him.

            Delric shrugged, uncomfortable with the interest he was garnering from the room’s other guests, particularly as much of that interest appeared rather predatory in nature.

            “You asked me to let you know as when a certain someone returned to Bree,” he responded, warily eyeing one younger lad who’d been suspected of cutting a few purses from visitors to the village in the marketplace.  “Well, he just arrived and come into the--the other place, he did--speakin’ to that Hobbit what come afore from the Shire, he is.”

            “Good enough,” Cotman breathed, obviously well pleased.  “Wish to come along?”

            “No--think as I’ll be off home.  Me brother’ll be awaitin’ for me, he will.”

*******

            Bender Cotman watched Delric Safflower leave with a smile on his face.  So, Safflower would be going home rather than back to the Prancing Pony.  Had he gone back to the Pony it would have been harder to make it appear that Delric was the one who’d attacked the Mannish lawyer; since he was going home that made it easier, particularly as over the past few evenings Bender had been successful in convincing Delric’s brother to visit a woman who’d caught his own fancy.  This was a newcomer to Bree from south of Tharbad, one who represented herself as a widow but whose true place in society had been--well, somewhat questionable.  It hadn’t taken a good deal of persuading to convince her that encouraging the other Safflower might be entertaining as well as rewarding; that this woman was indeed intent on becoming respectably placed in local society helped, as the Safflower brothers had always been--up to now, at least--seen as solid of somewhat dull citizens of the Breelands.

            Well, when Delric arrived home he was likely to be surprised to find the small cottage he shared with his brother empty.  But, he was likely to be even more surprised tomorrow when he found himself being questioned regarding what part he might have played in what happened to that Man from the King’s city.  And it was with that thought in mind that Bender Cotman gave insincere apologies to the company for having to cut his evening with them short, giving them no chance to recoup their losses to him, and took his leave.

            Part of his plan to take his revenge on the Mannish lawyer he’d put into effect when he’d managed to steal one of Delric’s stockings off the hedge about his place on a washday.  He’d filled it with sand and had stowed it inside a rain barrel behind the tea shop by which anyone walking from the Pony toward Denra Gorse’s house had to pass.  How long Master Alvric might tarry in the Pony couldn’t be known for certain, but Cotman doubted it would be too long--he’d been gone for just over three weeks and undoubtedly would wish to return to his own rooms soon.  And as he’d pointed out to Delric when he’d put his plan into action, the chance that any of the Rangers would think to accompany the lawyer across the village was quite small.  But now came the waiting part.

*******

            At last assured that all was in hand and that by tomorrow afternoon the last individuals needed to see the lease agreement between the Hedges and Frodo Baggins signed and witnessed would be there, Alvric son of Maerdion finished the last of the glass of wine provided him by the Lord Steward Halladan, wished Bartolo Bracegirdle and the Watercresses and the Rangers a good night, gave his respects to Jape and Butterbur, said good night to Nob, and headed out to the stable yard where Bob had the hand cart ready for him.

            “I’m told that Master Merimac Brandybuck from the Shire should be here yet sometime this evening,” he advised the stable Hobbit, “although if his duties held him up sufficiently today he might not arrive until morning.  Master Bracegirdle tells me that Master Brandybuck was unable to accompany him today.”

            “Yessir, thankee sir,” Bob smiled up at him.  “It’s been some years since I seen Master Mac, it is--a fine-spoken gentlehobbit as ever was, I’m a-thinkin’.  I’ll have all in hand for when he arrives, sir.”

            Smiling, Alvric took his handcart filled with his goods and, followed by Holby, headed for his rooms at Denra Gorse’s house.

*******

            The scowling Man now on guard at the west gate was unwilling to admit the mounted Hobbit who sat his pony outside the village.  “And how’s I to know as ye’re the one what ye says ye is?” he asked.

            Merimac Brandybuck sighed.  “Did you not see a Hobbit in a trap enter Bree by way of this gate earlier?” he asked.

            “Well, yes--but him arrived a few hours back, him did.”

            “Probably because he ate as he drove and didn’t stop any more along the way than he needed to,” Mac pointed out.  “And that was Master Bracegirdle, was it not?”

            “Yes,” the gate guard agreed reluctantly.

            “And did he not stop to tell you as he informed me he would that another Hobbit on pony-back would be arriving sometime after himself?” Mac asked.

            “Well, yes.”  It obviously cost the guard a good deal to make that admission.

            “I rather thought he would,” Mac observed, glaring at the Man.  “Master Bracegirdle isn’t given to empty promises.  So, since you were notified that I would be arriving and that I’d most likely arrive sometime after dark and I’ve arrived precisely when you were advised I would arrive, why are you holding me here?  I have business to conduct in Bree for the Master of Buckland and more for my cousin, and they are holding my room at the Prancing Pony.  Or do I have to send for Master Butterbur to sort this all out?”

            At that the Man finally growled something under his breath and reluctantly opened the gate fully, allowing the Hobbit into the village.

            “Thank you,” Mac said to the gatekeeper, putting his irritation from him as he rode toward the Prancing Pony.  He’d not gone far, however, before he saw a Man skulking behind a shop, peering around it toward the inn.  Curious, he paused his pony, then slipped from its back, wrapping its reins around a porch post for a  nearby shop and moved into the shadows to approach the Man from behind.

            He’d not quite reached the hidden Man when he heard the sound of footsteps, the creaking of small wheels, and panting coming toward them.  Then the sound of small feet paused and he heard the growl of a smaller dog.  Mac froze.  He heard the oncoming boots and wheels pause.  “Holby?  What is it, boy?”

            The growling grew louder, and the Man in the shadows tensed.  He had something in his hands, Man noted, something long.

            “Come along, Holby--I’ve been riding for days and could do with a bathe and early to bed, particularly if Master Hedges is coming tomorrow.”

            Mac straightened--could the one coming toward himself and the Man before him be the Mannish lawyer Frodo had sent him to meet?

            Again the dog growled.  The hidden Man was smiling with satisfaction, Mac noted.  Yes, this one was waiting for Master Alvric, apparently.

            “Oh, come on, Holby!”  The voice of the Man coming down the street was annoyed, at which the growling became louder and more menacing--as menacing, Mac thought, as a small dog could sound.  Mac heard the Man on the street start forward, and saw the one he was watching move as soundlessly as he could out from behind the building.  Mac took two steps sideways and saw a rather small bearded Man coming forward with a handcart full of goods when suddenly a low shape shot past him with a bark and launched itself at the feet of the one who’d been in hiding.  That one was apparently ready for the attack, however, and kicked out viciously, catching the dog in the chest and knocking it with a yelp back several yards as he raised what he had in his hands and sought to catch his surprised opponent in the side of his head.  That one, however, had dropped the handle of the cart, ducked down and was turning after his dog, was reaching for the small creature as whatever it was the taller Man held came down not on the side of his head but on the neck and shoulder, knocking him to the ground just short of the dog..

            Mac held back no longer.  He surged forward calling, “Hoy--you!”

            The attacker, surprised to hear himself addressed, turned reflexively and Mac caught him in the midriff; when the big Man bent over in surprise Mac’s second blow caught him on the temple, rendering him unconscious.  Perhaps a bit wiser than young Pippin, he spun sideways and let the Man fall to the cobblestones.

            There were others on the street now, one with a lantern; and they came clustering about.  “What happened?” demanded one Man.

            “The hairy one was lying in wait for the smaller Man and the dog there.  The dog smelled him and ran forward to protect his master, and the larger one kicked it and struck the Master down as I was coming to try to see what was happening, so I called to him, and when he turned I gave him a couple blows and down he fell.”

            “You’re not from Bree,” noted a Hobbit.

            “No--I was sent out from Brandy Hall on business for my cousin,” Mac explained.  “I’m to meet with the Mannish lawyer sent by the King and a few others----”

            “Well, you found him, Master Alvric,” said the first Man who’d addressed him, having turned Alvric over, “him ’n’ his dog.”

            The Hobbit was examining the other.  “It’s that Bender Cotman,” he noted.  “What’s this?”  He picked up the stocking filled with sand.  “Heavy enough, whatever it is.”

            Another Man took it, then gave a low whistle.  “It’s a sock made into a kosh,” he noted.

            The Mannish lawyer was trying to sit up.  “He--he came out of the shadows,” he managed.  “Holby--my Holby--how is he?”
            A second Hobbit was leaning over the dog.  “He’s alive, but in a bad way.  I’m afraid to move him.”   The first Man helped Alvric to sit up.  Alvric gave a gasping sigh, and turned to the first Man.  “The Rangers I rode in with--at the Prancing Pony--please go summon them.  The Lord Steward’s there--as I’m the King’s representative this is a matter beyond local law.”  He rolled to his knees and crawled to the body of his dog.  “Holby?  It’s all right, boy--I’m here--I’m with you.  Stay with me if you can.”  He looked about.  “Is there an animal leech here in Bree?”

            “Got one in Staddle,” noted the second Hobbit, gently running his hands down the dog’s sides.  “Afraid as this ’un’s ribs is cracked--don’t dare move him yet.”

            Holby gave a pained whimper, although he tried to lick at Alvric’s fingers.

            “It’s all right,” Alvric repeated, tousling the dog’s ears gently.  The first Man hurried off toward the Pony.

            “How did you manage to knock this ’un out so handy?” asked one of the bystanders of Mac.

            Mac shrugged, nursing his knuckles.  “There was a Man I met some years back--a Ranger--taught me how to defend myself better when he came on me beset by three ruffians along the road to here.  That was not long before the Master stopped sending Hobbits out of Buckland to do business with folks here in Bree.”

            “You’re from Buckland, then?” asked Alvric.  “Then you know Sir Meriadoc?”

            “My nephew Merry?  You know our Merry?” asked Mac.  “And do you know the others as well?”

            Alvric nodded, wincing at the pain the movement cost him.  “Yes--I saw them all there in Minas Tirith.”

            “They just said you were the King’s lawyer.”

            “Yes--our Lord Aragorn Elessar sent me here for Lord Frodo’s purposes.”

            “Lord Frodo?  You mean Frodo Baggins?”

            “Yes.”  Alvric turned to look at the one who’d attacked him, one hand remaining on Holby’s shoulder.  “Bender Cotman, you say?  And why would he attack me?”

            One of the Men gave a mirthless laugh.  “Him blames ye fer cuttin’ him out wit’ Mistress Denra, him does.  Him’s been mighty unhappy since ye come, him has.”

            “She simply told me he was unutterably rude in his attempts to intimidate her into marrying him and that she wished him gone,” Alvric said, shaking his head.

            “That’s Cotman fer ye,” the same Man replied, shaking his head as the farmer began stirring.

            There was a greater commotion in the streets, and booted feet were hurrying toward the group of Men and Hobbits at the corner of the tea shop.  In moments Lord Halladan and Berevrion were kneeling over the lawyer with Bartolo Bracegirdle standing anxiously behind them, and with a wordless exclamation Eregiel was kneeling over Holby, running practiced hands over the small dog’s form and leaning down to examine its mouth, pushing his own hound’s questing nose away absently at one point.  “No, Artos--let me.  Sit.”  At one point there was a shrill yelp of pain from the smaller dog, but Eregiel smiled.  “Bruising and possibly a cracked rib, but I don’t believe there’s bleeding within the lungs--I’m not seeing any signs of it.  However, he’s in shock and needs to be kept still and warm for the next few hours, and then kept as still as possible for at least a week.  What happened?”

            Mac described what he’d seen happen, and the Rangers exchanged looks.  Berevrion sighed.  “I’ll take him to the gaol.”  He turned to the farmer.  “Stand up, you.”

            “An’ who’re ye to be tellin’ me as what to do?” the farmer growled.

            “A Ranger of Eriador and the King’s Man,” Berevrion said as he unsheathed his sword, “and the one who intends to use this upon you if you don’t do what I say.”

            Bender Cotman rose unsteadily to his feet.  More were gathering now, including Lindor Greenwillow.  “What’s this?” the former Ranger asked.

            “This one assaulted Master Alvric here,” Berevrion explained, “and seriously injured his dog.”

            “I see,” Lindor said, his eyes cool.  “Seeking to ease your way with Mistress Gorse are you, Cotman?  If you can’t see how this has worked against your cause, not that you had any hope of her accepting your suit to begin with, then I suspect you are even more foolish than I’d ever deemed you.  Let me take him, Berevrion--you need not sully your hands with the likes of this dolt.”

            “Shall we escort him together?  I’ll gain a degree of satisfaction just seeing him to his cell,” Berevrion commented.  The older Man shrugged, and in moments they’d disappeared toward the gaol with their prisoner.  Eregiel had slipped off his knitted garment and had carefully wrapped it about Holby and lifted him.

            “Let me take him,” begged Alvric, although when he lifted his left arm he winced with pain.

            “No, you’ll do well to see to yourself.  I have Holby.  Artos, on watch!”  And with the great hound on guard for the two of them, he and Alvric headed again for the home of Denra Gorse, the second Hobbit following them pushing the retrieved handcart.

            Halladan watched after them, then looked toward Mac.  “Well, Mr. Brandybuck, I take it you were headed for the Prancing Pony for the evening.”

            “Yes,” Mac found himself agreeing.

            “Then you and I and Master Bracegirdle here perhaps ought to repair there and see you settled.  Is that your pony there, by that porch?”

            Butterbur and Nob soon had Mac settled in his room, promising to bring him a late supper plus some arnica to put on the bruised knuckles.  Halladan joined him and Bartolo in the private parlor in the Hobbit wing, and was soon applying arnica to Mac’s hands.  “You’re proving a dab hand at this,” Mac commented.  “And you are?”

            Halladan smiled.  “I’m Aragorn’s cousin Halladan.  I’m a first cousin, actually, as my father and his mother were brother and sister.”

            “Then you’re the Lord Steward?” Mac exclaimed, seeking to pull his hand away.  “Then why----”

            “Softly, Master Brandybuck.  Aragorn himself is a markedly skilled healer, mind you, and it was by his orders all his commanders were trained in what first aid we are able to offer.  As many of us are strong in the lineage of the Kings, there are a fair number of us with at least some degree of healing abilities amongst us.  Halbarad, Hardorn, and I all proved more strongly gifted than many others, and so all of us have served to ease Aragorn himself when he’s been wounded or otherwise injured.  You did very well, I’ll have you know.”

            “Of course I did!” Mac returned.  “It was one of your own folk who trained me, after all.  One named Berenion....”

            Halladan laughed.  “The Bear himself taught you your skill, did he?  A canny teacher he’s always been, although this is the first time I’ve heard tell of him offering his teaching to any of your folk.”

            “He found me surrounded by brigands who’d come out of the forest around me and helped me against them.  Afterwards he gave me some lessons on defending myself with my fists that I’ve been glad of over the years since.  And I taught my cousin Frodo and later a few other relatives.”

            “So, you’re the one who taught Master Frodo his skill with his fists, are you?  My Lord Cousin waxed poetic when describing to me how your cousin, armed only with that skill, once brought down a sot from Umbar--he was wishing he’d known of this ability far earlier in their journeys together.”

            “Frodo’s very good at it--he learned quickly and well.  Who was threatened by this fool from--Umbar?”

            “Lord Frodo himself.”

            “Not many would threaten Frodo himself.  First, as a Hobbit he wasn’t precisely small, and most who’ll threaten others prefer not to threaten someone as tall as themselves or taller.  Second, there was the fact he was so closely related to the Master, Thain, and old Bilbo--plus, as long as he’s been Mayor, Frodo’s even been related to old Will Whitfoot by at least marriage--his wife’s another of us who’s descended from the Old Took, after all, as well as being related to my mother.  Although when he was younger there were a few who tried to make his life miserable even when he lived in Brandy Hall.”  Suddenly Mac’s lip twitched.

            “And what amuses you about that thought?”

            Mac looked up to catch the Man’s grey eyes.  “I was just remembering the ways Frodo would avenge himself against those who tormented him in those days.  He could be quite--inventive.”  His smile widened.  “There was the time when we were at a house party--wait, you were there, too, weren’t you, Bracegirdle?  Remember how Timono was at that one, stealing from everyone?  I caught him in our rooms once with something of my brother’s in his hands, and I tanned his rear well, as I remember it.  But then Frodo caught him trying to slip out of the house with a cloak brooch that had belonged to his dad--Dwarf made, looked as if it had been woven of silver----”

            Barti stiffened somewhat.  “Yes, I know the piece,” he said.  “Apparently Lotho or Lobelia stole it from him later, after he went to live in Bag End with Bilbo.  He said as old Bilbo’d been the one to give it to his dad.  It was amongst the items the Rangers found on those ruffians as threatened my daughter when we were here over a month back.”

            “Lindor sent a report on that to me,” Halladan commented, “that one was a half-orc and they’d had jewelry apparently taken from Bag End during this Lotho’s time there on them and more in their campsite.”  He looked again at the Brandybuck.  “Do continue with your story.”

            Mac nodded.  “Frodo had been using his father’s cloak brooch as it was intended, and had left it on his cloak, which hung with the cloaks and shawls for the rest of the guests in the entrance hall, as it’s usually done in the Shire.  He caught Timono with it and made him give it back.  A few days later he volunteered to fetch the laundry hamper from the lasses’ bathing room and realized it was large enough to hold a Hobbit.  So he made a point of letting Isumbard Took know that was true within Timono’s hearing, and sure enough the next day Timono was found hiding in there when the lasses were due back from riding and likely to desire a bath before tea, caught by Aunt Lilac herself--and I have reason to believe it was Frodo who’d suggested Aunt Lilac check to see whether or not a shawl Phlox had been missing earlier might have ended up in there to be certain Timono would end up caught as he was.

            “And he did similarly within the Hall when he was being threatened by our cousin Gomez.  Gomez got caught by a trap set over a door with whitewash and chicken feathers, and for the longest time we were certain he and the lads with him had been trying to set it up to catch one of the stable hobbits with whom he had a feud going and got caught themselves.  No one realized Frodo’d been the one to set it up for weeks, and neither our dad nor my brother felt like punishing Frodo when it finally came out, considering what Gomez had been doing to him.”

            Mac smiled again, the smile more solemn now.  “Frodo’s always been mostly a decent fellow, but the lads in the Hall all came to respect his ability to take care of himself and his ability to exploit their own weaknesses to see to it they got what was due to them when they deserved it.  But let one of them be threatened in any way, and he would be out there to help however he could.  I’m not certain how many he saved from drowning--but Gomez was one of them, and after that there was no one as likely to stand second to Frodo himself as Gomez, the one who used to devil him the worst.”

            Mac looked up to see that the Man was smiling, as was the one who stood now just inside the parlor door with the sock filled with sand taken from Bender Cotman in his hands.

            “This is what Cotman used against Master Alvric,” Berevrion said, handing it to the Steward.  “It doesn’t match the ones he wears, so it looks as if he might have intended to make it appear someone else was involved.”

            “I’d not seen the Man all evening at the Prancing Pony,” Bartolo commented.  “I did see one fellow leave when Master Alvric and the rest of you came in--another of those as I saw hanging about Mistress Gorse’s place on occasion during the time we were receiving lessons there.  Sunflower or something like, if I remember correctly.”

            “Lindor will find out where Cotman was earlier in the evening,” Berevrion said.  “Will you wish to hear the cases against the ruffians and this Cotman tomorrow?”

            “Can it be arranged for us to use the Grange Hall tomorrow afternoon, do you think?  We can finish the work for Master Frodo in the later morning, I would believe.  Master Brandybuck and Master Bracegirdle, will you each be willing to speak to what you observed this evening?”

*******

            Bartolo retreated to his own room feeling rather confused.  He remembered going past the lasses’ bathing room in Aunt Lilac’s house and seeing Frodo climbing into the great laundry hamper there, and how repelled he was by the thought that Frodo would be spying upon those like his sister, Linden Took, and Delphinium.  But to learn that Frodo was only seeing to it that the loathsome Timono, Timono the thief, would end up caught by Auntie Lilac herself....  Timono had stolen a necklace that had belonged to Auntie Lilac, and thrown it into the fishpond.  Frodo had found it and Bartolo’s own shirt studs there after Timono had been spotted throwing suspicious packages out into the Hobbit-dug lake, Frodo being the only lad attending who felt sufficiently comfortable in the water to search for whatever Timono had tried to dispose of there.  He’d later gone back and found a bracelet that had gone missing belonging to Dremma, and a Dwarf-made hair clip that Delphie had received for Yule one year from old Bilbo, as well as a few other items that had apparently been stolen from the adults in the party.  Frodo had devised the means for these items to be returned to the adults with none of them any the wiser for how they’d gone missing--although perhaps Merimac Brandybuck had been more aware of who might have taken them than the younger fry at the house party were aware, considering what Barti had learned of him tonight.

            Barti was uncertain what to think of the detestable Frodo now.  Could one say that he’d somehow trapped Timono into climbing into the great basket when in actuality he’d merely told someone else--someone he was certain would not be likely to take advantage of the situation--that a Hobbit could hide within the hamper while in the hearing of Timono, who’d also been known to spy on the lasses through their windows?  For years Barti had been certain that Timono had only copied Frodo, and had been the recipient of the confidence by Frodo that one could use that covered basket as a spying place. But now....  He didn’t know quite what to think now.

            And there was the matter of the admission Frodo had made to him that he’d not actually been the one to bring down the power of Mordor as the Rangers and Master Alvric had indicated.  Yet, when Persivo had been gathering up his things to see them packed so as to be ready when the wagon from the Great Smial came to collect him the morning after the end of the Free Fair, he’d paused to speak to his father.  “When Cousin Frodo arrived for Midsummer Day, Dad, I saw him and I asked him to tell me what he’d told you.  I don’t think as he told all of it to you.  He tried not to tell me all of it, either, only the Captains arrived and forced the whole story out.  They’re convinced as he sees himself as to blame for something that wasn’t his fault at all.”  That had been all Persi had said, and it was plain he continued to be deeply respectful of his mother’s cousin.

            Bartolo Bracegirdle sat on the edge of the bed he’d last shared with his wife and rubbed his eyes.  What was a Hobbit to think?

Contract Signed

            Denra Gorse was surprised to find out how eagerly she was awaiting the return of her boarder, for the house seemed deadly dull with him gone.  “Mayhaps him’ll be back t’night,” Carnation had suggested as she left, and Denra found herself hoping it would be so.  He was so very different than those who lived here in Bree with his odd way of speaking, his tales of lands so far away, his innate courtesy and intelligence, his devotion to his small dog.  This wasn’t a hound to hunt with, or a herd dog, or a ratter--this was simply a beloved companion for a Man Denra realized was too often much alone as a result of his unusual interests and ability to reason.  It was odd to think that in his own lands he was a judge of sorts--a magistrate, he’d called himself.

            It was so odd to think that elsewhere folks lived not only in villages or on farmsteads but in great cities; and so odd to think that Strider the Ranger was now the King Elessar--“Elfstone,” Master Alvric had explained the unusual name meant.

            “But folks don’t name their children such odd things as that,” she’d objected.

            He’d smiled.  “No--his parents named him Aragorn, a name I’m told means valiant or victorious lord.  I’m afraid I am not particularly fluent with Adunaic, as it’s not spoken widely within Gondor.”

            “Adunaic?”

            “The language most commonly spoken by those who lived on the Isle of Númenor at the time of the island’s foundering and the return of the Dúnedain to Middle Earth.  Most of the Faithful who returned in Elendil’s wake spoke Sindarin as well, and that was the language favored in the southern kingdom founded jointly by Elendil’s sons Isildur and Anárion; here in the northern kingdom of Arnor it appears more chose to speak Adúnaic, which our Lord King speculates is due to the fact they lived in the midst of Elven kingdoms where Sindarin was the more common language.  He suggests that by choosing to speak Adúnaic the northern Dúnedain had a more private language with which to discuss matters of perceived importance, as well as indicating they were an independent people from the Elves.”

            “So why’s he the King Elessar if his parents called him Aragorn?”

            He’d laughed.  “He came to us wearing on his breast the Elessar stone, a great jewel of power wrought by the Elves.  The tradition of this gem as one of renewal and regeneration had been told amongst us for centuries.  It is said to have been wrought in the Elven kingdom of Gondolin, a land that lies now under the waves of the Sundering Sea----”

            “Like the Star Isle itself?” she’d asked.

            He’d nodded solemnly.  “Yes.  It sank at the end of the First Age, however, when the Valar themselves came from Aman to assist in the war against Morgoth--when the Powers involved themselves in that battle it wrought great changes in the structure of Middle Earth.  One tale tells that when he sailed west to beg the Valar to come to our aid Eärendil wore the Elessar stone itself, and that when the Istari came to Middle Earth one of them bore it back with him as it was intended to be used here and not in Aman.  Another tale is that after the initial Elessar stone was borne away a second was made here, and that this is the one now worn by our King.”

            “But how’d a Mannish King end up wearin’ an Elvish jewel of this sort?”

            “It was given to the Lady Galadriel, who wore it for many years; she gave it to her daughter, who gave it to her daughter, who returned it to her grandmother, who presented it to our Lord Aragorn when last he passed through the Lady Galadriel’s land of Lothlorien as a token that her granddaughter did indeed intend to marry him when the power of Mordor was broken.  She returned to him what had been his promise gift of the Ring of Barahir after they married that it might be worn after him by their son when he should be born and judged the heir of his father; but she would not receive back the Elessar stone, saying only that it had been passed to the one intended to wear and use its power.”

            The story had sparked her imagination, and she’d ended up asking ever more questions, now and then offering her own thoughts on what he’d told her.  As a result she’d found her mind stimulated and her thoughts ranging far from her cottage and still room in Bree.

            It was as she remembered that conversation that she heard from outside her windows, thrown open to capture what breezes might be stirred as the evening deepened, the stride of Men and the squeaking of wheels approaching her house, cutting through the creak of the small frogs that lived in her garden and the crickets that inhabited the woodshed.  She heard a quiet question, and the voice that answered it was that of her boarder!  She rose quickly, setting aside the dress panel she’d been embroidering, to hurry to the door to lift the bar.  “You are back?” she asked, smiling as she swung open the door--then stopped, seeing that he was accompanied by Eregiel, who carried small Holby, who’d obviously been seriously hurt, and followed by Eregiel’s hound.  As for Master Alvric himself--his shirt front and the knees of his trews were dusty, and he had a huge smear of dirt across his cheek as well as a bruise blooming on his forehead.  And the grim expression on the Ranger’s face, and the worried one on that of Master Alvric....

            She had them ushered inside immediately and was off finding a low crate in which she’d taken delivery of a number of bottles for tinctures as soon as the request was made.  Master Alvric fitted it out with his own dressing gown for the small dog to lie upon (“It has my scent to it, and undoubtedly will allow him to rest better,” he said as he clumsily folded it and laid it in place) as soon as she set it down near the chimneypiece.  She then fetched a small bowl of water for the dog and the basin and soap and toweling and some arnica for Eregiel’s use as he set to cleaning off Alvric’s face and hands and checking for any less obvious injuries.

            “But what happened?” Denra asked.  “Your horse--did it fall?”

            “No,” Alvric said as Eregiel carefully washed and examined his forehead.  “I was attacked as I was on my way here from the Prancing Pony.”

            “Attacked?  Were there more of those Southerners within Bree, then?”

            “It was Bender Cotman,” Alvric replied.  “Ouch!  Oh, forgive me if I moved, but it is quite tender.”

            “Bender Cotman?”  Denra felt shocked and dismayed.  “But you’ve barely had a thing to do with Cotman, save to send him away as when he wasn’t wanted.”

            “I know--but it was apparently enough to convince him that I was a rival,” he answered her.

            Assured there were no wounds on Master Alvric’s head or hands, Eregiel suggested, “If you’ll remove your shirt, I’ll see to the place where he struck you.”

            Alvric flushed.  “Must I?” he asked, obviously embarrassed.  “With a lady in the room?”

            For some reason that amused her, and Denra responded, “’Twon’t be the first nor probably the last time, Master Alvric.  As I do most o’ the still room work for the village, it’s to me as the menfolk hereabouts, Big and Little, tend to come for sun burn, hornet stings, and small cuts and the like.”

            Flushing the more, reluctantly the Mannish lawyer, with Eregiel’s help, shrugged out of his surcoat and loosened the lacing on his shirt, allowing the Ranger to lift it over his head, his face expressing the pain he felt.  The skin at the base of his neck on the left side was also beginning to turn purple--it was plain he’d been struck hard.

            “I suspect this also is quite painful,” commented Eregiel, gently running his hand over the area.  He felt carefully, and at last sat back with a relieved nod.  “There is some swelling, but not excessively as yet.  Lift your left arm.”  Again he gently felt the area as he had the Gondorian move his arm and shoulder this way and that.  “I suspect there is a crack to the collar bone here,” he said at last, gently touching a specific place, noting the pronounced wince Alvric gave.  “It’s not serious from what I can tell, but you should wear your arm in a sling for the next few weeks at least.  I’ll suggest Halladan examine it tomorrow--he’s had some training from Rivendell to increase his skills at dealing with injuries and illnesses.  Hand me the arnica, please.”

            Denra went off to her own room to fetch a scarf to use at relieving the strain on the collar bone, returning to find Eregiel and his hound both leaning again over the dog.  “But what happened to Holby?” asked Denra.  When Alvric described Holby’s attempt to protect him and the kick he’d received in response she grew cold with fury.  “That oaf!  Does he truly think as I’d be willing to accept someone who would not only attack a hapless Man but would kick at small dog as well?”

            “I don’t believe he intended to leave Master Alvric able to bear witness to his actions,” Eregiel said grimly.  “It would be best if we could assist Holby into a doze.  Have you any...?”

            Within half an hour Holby had been dosed with a small amount of a tincture that appeared to relax him as well as easing the pain.  “I’ll come by in the morning to help relieve him and check on the ribs.  Keeping him quiet until he is fully healed is likely to be anything but simple once he begins feeling better, though.  He’s a game creature.  But keeping him by you would be advisable for the peace of mind of both of you.”  Denra had helped Alvric into a night robe over his trews, then fashioned a proper sling from the scarf, fastening it tightly to immobilize the arm as much as possible for the time being.  Eregiel examined Alvric thoughtfully.  “I suspect that both Mr. Cotman and the two ruffians will be examined by Lord Halladan tomorrow afternoon.  It is not necessary that you attend, but if you would do so and speak to the Man’s previous offenses against Mistress Gorse it would not go amiss.”

            “As one of the King’s magistrates within the White City, it would behoove me to attend,” sighed the lawyer.  “When you come in the morning perhaps then you can give me the details of precisely when, and where as well should the Grange Hall not be free.”

            “Agreed.  Mistress, Master, I give you a good night, and pray Eärendil’s star shine upon and guide you.”  And with a bow the young Ranger left them, quiet and watchful, the great dog Artos alongside him.

            Denra watched him go, then at last withdrew back inside and placed the bar again across the door before turning to her guest.  “Will you need any more aid, think you,” she asked, “in undressing yourself before you go to your bed?  I suspect you will find trying to hold up your nightshirt and unlacing your trousers will not be particularly simple.”

            Again he flushed with embarrassment, an act she found endearing.  “I know it will not be easy--I fell once when yet a boy and broke my shoulder, so have been through this before.  And I doubt it will be any easier now than it was at that time.”  He leaned down as if to pick up the case in which Holby lay, then colored again as he straightened.  “I will be able to deal with the lacings for my trousers, but would ask if you would please carry Holby for me.”

            “But gladly,” she smiled.  “You wish to withdraw to your room now?  Or would you like some tea first?  I have one mixture of chamomile and rose hips you might find soothing.”

            “That sounds delightful,” he agreed as he sat rather heavily in the chair that had once been Fell’s and that had somehow now become his.  “At least it is my left arm, so I shall be less clumsy.”

            So the two of them sat and sipped at their mugs while he described the ride north and what could be seen of the rebuilding of the ancient capital of Arnor and the fortress of Fornost.  “There are ancient libraries in both places,” he sighed.  “Part of that in Annúminas was burned; but so fashioned is it that the fire failed to pass from one section to the next, and I understand that the section that was lost was considered superficial at best.  Lord Halladan’s older brother was the one who, using clues found in the archives in Annúminas, found the hidden doors to the caverns in Fornost, where most of the nation’s most important records were stored, although most of those relevant to the last thousand years since the death of Arvedui have been kept, I am told, in Imladris under the protection of Lord Elrond.”

            “I know how to read, of course, but have had so little chance to read much in the way of histories or tales,” she sighed.  “To think of whole chambers devoted to the keepin’ of records sounds fascinating.  I should love to see them one day.”

            He was smiling.  “Then that of Minas Tirith would undoubtedly fascinate you as well.  I understand that during their visit Lords Frodo and Samwise both spent much time within them.”

            “Tell me of them,” she invited, and listened, finding herself increasingly fascinated not only by his description but by his voice itself.  It was far later than either of them had anticipated before she picked up Holby’s case and carried it to his room for him and set it by his bed while he made a visit to the privy.  He returned and found her kneeling by the case, stroking the body of the small dog.  “You were so brave,” she was saying as he entered.  “So brave, small Holby.  A hero as much as those as braved the Enemy’s lands.”  Then she realized he’d come in, and turned to smile up at him as Holby sleepily licked her hand.  “He is a fine one, with a heart much bigger than his body,” she commented.

            His smile showed some surprise and more delight.  “Oh, yes, my small guard dog he’s ever seen himself.  And indeed as brave as Hobbits.  Thank you, Mistress Denra.”

            “Master Alvric--you need not speak of me as ‘Mistress’ unless you so wish.”

            Again he flushed slightly, with even more pleasure, she noted.  “Then, if it please you, Denra, you need not speak of me as ‘Master,’ either.”

            “Thank you--Alvric.  I will wish you a good night, then.”  She rose and gently laid her hand on his sound shoulder before leaving him to his rest and Holby’s now snoring company.

            Both felt somewhat--warmer--as they pulled their blankets over themselves that night.

******* 

            Shortly after elevenses the Hedges’ wagon rolled into Bree through the north gate, followed by Boboli’s brother and the village head for Staddle.  Shortly before luncheon all interested parties gathered in the now-empty common room at the Prancing Pony to see the lease agreement signed between the Lord Iorhael and Master Boboli Hedges, farmer, for the piece of land that had been part of the dower lands for a former princess of Cardolan, lands settled on Lords Iorhael and Perhael for their maintenance on their having been made lords of several realms for their part in helping to bring down Mordor.  One of those looking on was Barliman Butterbur as head of the Bree Council, although it was plain he didn’t understand one word in four of what was being discussed.  In the end the last of the witnesses signed for Mr. Hedges, and Merimac Brandybuck of Brandy Hall signed as Frodo’s proxy and as witness in his own right to having seen Frodo’s signature affixed to the document.  Barti finally signed off on it as legal representative for Lord Iorhael and Alvric as legal representative to the King, then Berevrion as head of the newly reformed Guild of Lawyers for the realm of Arnor.  At last Halladan accepted it and countersigned it, registering it properly in the tome brought by Berevrion for the records of the North Kingdom.  Once all copies were properly signed and each returned to its proper recipient all sat down to a meal sponsored by Lord Halladan himself.

            “And it’s ours now, is it?” Boboli asked one more time.

            “For as long as you see to it the lease rents are properly paid, yours to do as you wish with, once the thirteen months of trial are completed, of course,” Halladan assured him.  “Although once the well is dug you need to forward the bill proper to it to Master Frodo that he might recompense you for it, as that is an improvement that would benefit any who might live or work on the land and not just you and your family.”

            “Well, in the dousin’ for a well we’ve found what ’pears to o’ been an old well head.  Don’t know as how much a’diggin’ as we’ll have t’ do, you see,” Boboli explained.  “Most like all as it’ll take’ll be some cleanin’ o’ the shaft, don’t ye know.”

            “That may be, but do forward a proper bill for honest wages for the cleaning of the well shaft, for again that is the responsibility for the lord of the land.”

            “Will do that, sir,” Bob said, smiling.  He clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulders.  “Well, Eboli, what ye thinkin’ now o’ me decision to build our own place?”

            “Sounds as if ye’ve managed to land right on yer feet, Bob-lad.  Good on you!”

            Bartolo and Merimac took part in the festive meal, and many of the locals who drifted in for nuncheon while it went on looked over at the mixed party of Hobbits and Men, most of them strangers to Bree, with open curiosity.  None in that party, however, appeared willing to indicate what has sparked the celebration there.

Judgments Made  

            “Here, you!”  Bender Cotman roused from his bored doze to find the gaoler with a meal.  “Best get that down you right quick--seems as your presence is wanted by the King’s Lord Halladan within an hour.  I’m not certain as why the likes of you’s wanted by the likes of him, but there it is.  Now, them other ones--the Southerners as attacked the Hobbit lass--anyone from outside the village who wants to deal with them is welcome to them.  But you....”  His attitude made it clear to Cotman, however, that in spite of being one of Bree’s own, as he had brought shame on the village by attacking the King’s representative perhaps it was best Lord Halladan got him, too.  The folk of Bree weren’t completely certain what news of the new King meant to the Breelands and its environs, but any insult to his folk was definitely an affront to themselves as well.  The farmer quickly realized that the gaoler, in spite of being one of his gambling companions most evenings at the Silver Fox, was not now any sort of ally.

            After the meal a basin of warm water, soap, flannels and towels and a comb were brought to him and he was ordered to prepare himself as fully as he could in the time allowed him.  When at last he was released from his cell it was to find that two Rangers were there to take him and the two Southerner ruffians imprisoned some weeks earlier in the marketplace in hand.  Outside the gaol stood several more, and with the gaoler in attendance they marched the three of them through the village to the Grange Hall.

            Cotman noted that the oldest Blackroot boy was present, his scowling mother at his side and the youth in his best and least comfortable garb, and realized that Rangers must have been questioning several individuals about his movements in the last few weeks.  He was beginning to feel more uncomfortable, but still hoped to brazen it out until he saw three of those who’d been in the Silver Fox last night enter, followed some minutes later by Delric Safflower and then Jape from the Prancing Pony.  Then the youngest of the Rangers, the one with the hound at his side, entered carrying a wooden case and accompanied by that Master Alvric.  The one bright note in this was that Alvric’s left arm was bound to him by means of a scarf, and Cotman was glad he’d managed to at least leave his mark on the Man.

            Each of the prisoners was given a seat in a sturdy chair, and their left legs were bound to the corresponding leg of their chair.  Cotman found this rather disconcerting,  but reflected that at least it rendered the two ruffians less capable of doing anything threatening.  Once that one-handed Lindor Greenwillow entered with that wooden staff of his it appeared that perhaps the situation would be dealt with.

 *******

            Normally the gaol in Bree held either individuals who’d made nuisances of themselves while drunk or had quarreled loudly with spouses or neighbors or both.  These spent the night sleeping off what they’d had, paid their fines to the gaoler (or promised to pay as soon as they might), signed the book, and were sent on their way.  Those taken cutting purses in the marketplace or stealing from other Breefolk were usually brought before the Breelands Council when it met in the Grange Hall on Trewsday mornings, and could expect to spend up to a month further in the gaol and not only be required to make recompense but to pay a hefty fine depending on their history.  Those taken in their fourth offense were shown the Bounds and told not to return to the Breelands under any circumstances.  The few who’d been caught involved in highway robbery or other footpad work were usually ordered beaten with ten stripes and again shown the bounds; or, if the matter was serious enough they might even be hanged. 

            Now and then the Rangers would request the use of a cell for someone they brought in, usually not for long.  When those who brought such prisoners into Bree left again the prisoners usually went with them, often with their hands tied behind their backs and a rope about their necks, hurrying to keep up as they trailed behind the Rangers and their horses; and the gaoler always was entrusted with a fee to pay for the meals served them and the care given such prisoners during their stay.  One gaoler had thought to pocket these fees without doing aught for his charges, and was himself given ten stripes and shown the bounds on the demand of the Rangers, the Breelands Council itself agreeing for once with the tall strangers from the north.

            These two Southerners had remained in the gaol for about a month, and speculation as to what would become of them was rife.  Why the Rangers had left them so long was discussed, and now a good deal of the village itself gathered to see them brought before the one identified as Lord Halladan, the Ranger they’d always called Slow Talk.

            “All rise!  Lord Halladan son of Halbaleg, Lord Steward of Arnor under the authority of our Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor.”

            That one entered, and all rose to their feet as he crossed to the table set for him, sitting only once he was seated.  He wasn’t in worn green riding leathers this time--he wore new ones of a dark grey with an eight-pointed silver star inlaid into the leather on the upper left breast.  He wore a silver circlet today, and his great sword’s sheath lay against the floor behind him as he accepted a sheaf of paper from the Ranger known in the Breelands as the Scribe.  He set these in front of himself and examined them carefully before looking at the two Southerners.  Without taking his eyes from the prisoners he said, “Will you please read the charges, Lord Berevrion?”

            Berevrion was serving as clerk; he took the papers from before Halladan and read, “Here are brought before Halladan son of Halbaleg, Steward of Arnor in the name of the High King Aragorn, the Lord Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, two from beyond our southern borders, Ternish, apparently from Isengard, and Bertelion son of Redik of Dunland, taken in the marketplace in Bree, where prisoner Ternish was threatening Petunia Bracegirdle, a minor Perian of the Shire visiting in Bree with her family, her father being Bartolo Bracegirdle of Hardbottle in the Shire where he serves as a lawyer, her mother being Delphinium Baggins Bracegirdle, a goodwife, both being kinsmen to the Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins, the Lord Iorhael to all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, sojourning here in the Breelands on the business of Lord Frodo and for the good of the Shire.  The prisoner Ternish did recognize the minor Perian Petunia Bracegirdle as a Hobbitess of the Shire and sought to lay hands on her, threatening her with vile physical harm and possible death, saying that in harming her he would be avenged on what he felt he lost in being banished from the Shire when the Periannath of the Shire rose up against the private army of ruffians, thieves, brigands, and half-orcs sent into the Shire by the traitor Istar Saruman, known also as Curunír, originally given to the service of Lotho Sackville-Baggins who sought to make himself supreme ruler of all who dwell in that land and later serving Saruman on his arrival, that service continuing on after the assassination of Lotho Sackville-Baggins by the Rohir Gríma Wormtongue on the orders of Saruman, whom these called by the name Sharkey.

            “This incident was witnessed by Teregion son of Faradir and by Lindor Greenwillow.  Lindor used his staff upon the prisoner Ternish to fell him that he do no harm to the Hobbit lass, and with Teregion’s aid took both of them prisoner.  They were searched, and jewelry, some found on their persons and others found left hidden at their camp, was recovered.  Most of the jewelry was of silver but a few items were of gold and one had mithril fittings, several with lesser gems and stones, most of Hobbit and Dwarf make.  Along with the jewelry found upon their persons were the weapons that lie in evidence.”  Berevrion indicated a table to one side on which lay one long knife, a dagger, a boot knife, one knife in a sheath to hide within a sleeve, a kosh made of lead beads wrapped in leather, a fine wire cable with wooden handles on each end, and a wooden club. 

            Halladan’s eyes were drawn to the wire and grew hard.  “Which carried the strangling wire?” he asked.

            Berevrion consulted a separate sheet, then reported, “The prisoner Ternish, hidden within his belt.”

            “Does it appear to have been used?”

            “Yes, my lord.  There were found hairs and what appears to be dried blood where one of the handles was bored for the wire to be secured, and another hair was caught more toward the center of the wire, caught into the cable.  The nature of the hairs indicates the victim or victims were likely Periannath, or perhaps a Man with curly hair similar to that of the Hobbits.  There is no way in which we can be certain how recently the strangling wire was used.  Shall I continue with the remainder of the charges, my Lord?”

            “Yes, go ahead.”

            Barti listened with a growing horror, the thought of that wire on his mind.  This Ternish was the one who had threatened Pet, and he’d carried such a thing hidden inside his belt?  Had he used it within the Shire?  He’d seen the report sent by Frodo Baggins to the Guild of lawyers, family heads, and village heads of how many Hobbits besides Lotho Sackville-Baggins were still missing.  Had that wire been used on one or more of them? 

            Berevrion continued, “After one item was identified to have been the promise necklace received by the Perian Lobelia Sackville-Baggins from her deceased husband, apparently taken from among her possessions in the Hobbit residence Bag End in the Shire village of Hobbiton and the other items failed to be reported missing from any within the Breelands, correspondence was sent to Lord Frodo, who served as deputy Mayor of the Shire, advising him more jewelry stolen from his people had been located.  The jewelry was sent to him by way of the Shire lawyer, Master Bartolo Bracegirdle.  A response from Lord Frodo was received five days past.  The bulk of the objects found had been in the keeping of Mistress Lobelia and her son Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and had apparently been stolen from Bag End after Mistress Lobelia was incarcerated in the Lockholes in Michel Delving with the complicity of the fallen Istar Saruman, and most likely after the assassination of Lotho Sackville-Baggins.  Unfortunately, most of these items had been in their turn stolen from other Hobbits of the Shire by Mistress Lobelia and Master Lotho.  Many of these items have been identified and returned to the original owners or their primary heirs.  Word is being awaited from other possible victims from among those who live in the Southfarthing and elsewhere that were visited by the Sackville-Bagginses.

            “It is his report further that Mistress Lobelia repented of her earlier evil as well as that wrought by her son, and has sought to make all right, offering the bulk of her property and that left by Lotho Sackville-Baggins for purposes of reparations to those who lost much as a result of Lotho’s complicity with Saruman’s Men and schemes.  The items in question remain in the hands of Mayor Will Whitfoot, having returned to his customary office since the election held at the Midsummer Free Fair in Michel Delving pending final identification.

            “The prisoner Bertelion held most of the jewelry carried with them in his possession, and bore the fewer weapons, carrying a dagger, boot knife, and kosh.  He also spoke out against the prisoner Ternish’s stated desire to take possession of the Hobbit lass and cause harm to her.”

            “I see.”  For a time there was silence, and Halladan considered the two of them thoughtfully.  He turned to the one who was more obviously a Man.  “You are Bertelion son of Redik?”

            “Yes, my lord.”  Bert’s voice was tired, and it sounded as if he were resigned to his fate, whatever that might prove to be.

            “You are from Dunland?”

            “I am.”

            “How did you come into the employ of Isengard?”

            He shrugged.  “We had little enough on the farm me folks had what I growed up on.  Land was wore out, ’n’ wouldn’t support us.  There was a Man what come among us from Isengard what said as there was work for them what would have it.  I went.”

            “How old were you?”

            “Fourteen summers.”

            Barti felt cold at that.  He knew that Men became adults earlier than Hobbits, but that was too young even for Men to be out on their own, he was certain.  Nor was the rest of the story much better.  Some of the older ones who left Dunland with Bertelion disappeared almost as soon as they arrived, being led into the caverns that riddled the stone beneath Isengard, particularly there at the back of it where the ring adjoined the mountains.  Some were trained for the guard, while a few that were more skilled at speaking and persuasion were sent out from time to time to recruit more to Saruman’s service or to foment discontent in this place or that.  A certain number were used as messengers and couriers, going between Isengard and a certain place not far north of Cair Andros on the River Anduin where they would meet with agents of the Enemy.

            Bert was usually sent as a bodyguard with those sent eastward or back north into Dunland.  He’d not been found particularly good in the use of weapons of war, but he was excellent with his fists and with intimidation--when he set his mind to it, at least.  Now and then he’d found he didn’t like the one he was sent to guard, and then there had been trouble for him.

            “Finally got sent north-aways,” he said.  “Spent most a year in Tharbad, workin’ at whatever jobs they’d give me and spyin’ fer Sharkey.  Saw that prince fellow from Gondor go through, searchin’ fer Imladris.  Sent word south next time’s one o’ our lads come through headin’ back to Isengard.  Sharkey decided the time’d come to send us further north ’n’ make an impression there, or so he said.  Sent a number of us, includin’ a fair number of his type.”  He indicated Ternish.  “These’d come out from the caverns from time to time--good ones to have by you in a fight, but hot tempered--too quick t’ take offense.  Make good bully-boys, they do.”

            “Did Saruman also call for girls and women to come to him?” Halladan asked.

            “From time to time.  A few worked in the tower; most was taken back further into the vale, but we never saw as where they went.  Now ’n’ then a woman would--would be given to us, and we could do as we pleased with her.  Most o’ those, however, was women from Rohan or, once, Gondor, and a couple times from Tharbad.  Sharkey said as these was useless for--for whatever it was as he was doin’ wit’ most o’ them as we’d not see again.”

            Halladan and Berevrion and a few of the other Rangers present exchanged looks.  Berevrion asked, “His Uruk-hai breeding program, do you think?”

            Halladan was slowly nodding his head, his expression tired.  “So it sounds.  When the Ents drowned the Circle of Isengard, how many innocent women and children might have died there?  I will have to send word to our Lord Cousin, and perhaps he can obtain the help of the Dwarves to check what might now be seen.”

            Suddenly the import of that exchange hit Bartolo, just after a quick glance sideways at Merimac Brandybuck’s face showed it grey with alarm. Barti shot to his feet.  “You saying as this--this Sharkey was--was breeding Men like we do pigs???”

            Halladan fixed his eyes on Ternish while giving a slight nod.  “Oh, yes.  Seeking to breed a variety of orc that could tolerate Sun and Moonlight, and that was larger and more muscular and more prone to blindly follow orders than most orcs.

            Barti realized how sickened he must look when Mac set a hand on his shoulder with a quiet word.  “This is part of what has bothered Frodo so, I think,” the Master’s brother murmured.

            Apparently Halladan heard that as he cast his eye at Merimac.  “Oh, yes, it is very likely that Master Frodo was made aware of such things.  He stated more than once that as the Ring gained in power It showed him scenes of torture, murder, and depravity to his own torment, seeking to convince him that if he would only take and claim It he could stop it all.”

            “You mean that he--a Hobbit of the Shire--could claim that thing, claim It and use It?” asked the lawyer, intrigued in spite of himself.

            “Anyone who held It might make shift to claim It,” Halladan sighed, sitting back in his chair and massaging at his forehead with thumb and index finger.  “And it is likely the Ring would allow him to think he controlled It for a time, until It could betray him.  When the Ring was worn It could use that to advertise Its own whereabouts to the servants of the Enemy, particularly the Ringwraiths, if they were within a few leagues of It.  And the more powerful the one who held It, the more easily the Ring could catch at that innate power and authority both to use that power to Its own ends and to seek to twist the bearer to destroy his integrity.  But Its primary aim was ever to be reunited with Its maker, with Sauron, once more.”

            “Nor,” Berevrion added, “did Its influence touch only those who physically held It.  It could sense ambition, and It would ever reach out toward those with ambition, seeking to catch at their imaginations, inflaming them with the idea that they could not only reach those ambitions but could surpass them.  So it was that It in the end caught Boromir son of Denethor, whose greatest desire was to be the hero who saw to it his land and city were freed forever from the threat of Mordor and Sauron’s desire for vengeance.  He sought to assault Frodo on Amon Hen and take It from him by force, leading Frodo to break with the rest of the Fellowship to spare Boromir and the others Its further immediate influence.  But Saruman himself was also caught by It, though he was so very far from It.  One who came from the source from which he came, with the potential of taking Sauron’s own place--the Ring would have been a direct threat to him, Gandalf, and Radagast, I’d think.”

            “And what Aragorn has admitted of the images It raised in his own thoughts and dreams,” began Halladan, his gaze fixed again on Ternish.  “He stated that several times he feared one night he would awaken to find himself strangling or smothering Frodo to take It for himself.  It would have been delighted to destroy his integrity.”

            “Then, if It was so strong, why’d anyone trust a mere Hobbit with It?” Bartolo demanded.

            Halladan and Berevrion turned to look at him.  “He offered to take It where It could be destroyed,” Halladan said simply.  “And he’d held It for seventeen years and managed to keep It from destroying his integrity over that period of time.  What It did to him in those years, though, who’s to say?  However, today with the likes of that--” he indicated Ternish, “--before us and the thoughts of how he came to be, I cannot but think on how knowledge of this and the Ring’s baleful influence have worked to damage the beloved Lord Frodo Baggins.”

            Ternish was glowering.  “You sayin’ as I’m not natural?” he spat out.

            “Who was your father?”

            “How’d I know that?”

            “Even your companion knows who fathered him,” Halladan pointed out.  “What of your mother?”

            “I killed her.”

            “Why?”

            “She tried to say no to me when I was breakin’ things.”

            Bert, sitting in the next chair, sought to shrink away from Ternish.  Berevrion was frowning and Halladan’s gaze was stern.  Barti sank back into his seat.

            The rest of the trial of these two went more swiftly.  Bert admitted he had taken most of the jewelry from a chest in Lotho’s room, but that once he’d sneaked into Lobelia’s bedroom and had taken the promise necklace and two other pieces at that time.  On learning of these pieces having disappeared Lotho, who’d still at the time been allowed to think of himself as being in charge, had sought to determine the identity of the thief and had threatened horrible vengeance should anyone enter his mother’s room again.  Lobelia had locked her door after that; and the one individual who’d later been caught trying to break into it was beaten by the others within an inch of his life.

            What appalled Barti next was the freely made admission by Ternish that he’d gladly taken part in the arrests and beatings of Hobbits who’d been accused of speaking out against Lotho and later Sharkey.  He even admitted to killing two Hobbits, although he had no knowledge of their identities or curiosity toward the feelings of their families.  Bert scraped his chair even further away from his former partner at that admission.

            There was no question that Bertelion son of Redik was anything but a decent sort himself.  What he admitted of his actions within the Shire was bad enough.  He’d been promised he’d be made a governor of part of the Shire, although he admitted the time for this desired end kept being put off, again and again.  He’d taken part in the “gathering and sharing” as well as assaults on farms, businesses, and homes of those who’d spoken out against Lotho or his closest supporters.  Here Mac was allowed to ask questions, confirming that Bert had taken part in the firing of fields in the southern reaches of Buckland and the eastern Tooklands, and that he’d been one of those who’d terrorized and eventually beaten the sister of Marcos Smallburrow after she’d publicly upbraided their imperious mother and denounced his actions.  Bert had been originally stationed near Waymeet, but had been shifted to Bag End itself when Lotho had become convinced the Hobbits of the Shire sought to assassinate him, at which time he’d demanded the biggest, most intimidating of the Big Men be brought to protect him--a move that in the end made it easier to isolate him and make him a victim once Sharkey arrived.

            It took little consideration for Halladan to determine the fate of each.  He examined Ternish’s eyes one last time.  “Tomorrow you will be taken south beyond the boundaries of the Breelands, and you will be hanged as cleanly as possible.  Your admission that you began slaying with your own mother as well as your lack of concern for those you slew within the Shire makes it plain you are a danger to any and all who might come into contact with you.

            “As for you,” he said, shifting his attention to Bert, “you will be taken to Gondor to the marble quarries that feed the needs of Minas Tirith, Osgiliath, and the other northern cities and towns.  You will serve there for ten years in whatever capacity the masters of the quarries consider best.  You will be granted a wage for this service to be paid to you at your release from enforced servitude; you will then be escorted to the borders of Dunland and released.  Should you be found after that in the lands administered by Gondor or Arnor outside the borders of Dunland, you will be retaken and hanged summarily.  Word of this judgment will be shared with authorities in Rohan, and it is likely that should you be found in their territories they will seek to do likewise.  Do you understand?”

            Pale, Bert nodded.  “Yes, my Lord.”

            “So let it be noted, and let the report of this trial be forwarded to our Lord King Aragorn in Minas Tirith in Gondor, and records be placed in the archives of Annúminas and Fornost as well as the local records here in the Breelands,” Halladan noted.  “Take these two away.”

 *******

            A recess was called, and refreshments were offered to those who were witnessing the trials, sufficient to the needs of those Hobbits present.  Bartolo found himself standing by Berevrion and Merimac.  “What was said of Frodo Baggins,” he began, “of how the Ring was--was working to change him--how likely is that?”

            “There is no question that the Ring sought to change him, and he admitted It often showed him images of great evil, at least a few of which he described afterward.  There in Ithilien where he awoke he remembered a vision It showed him of Men taken by orcs who’d managed to escape and hide in a small cleft.  The orcs could not retake them, but walled them in with great stones and left them to die.  The Rangers of Ithilien recognized the cleft as Lord Frodo described it, and were able to find those two Men yet alive.  They have now been restored to their families.

            “The Ring and the quest have left his health impaired--there is no question of that.  Certainly he cannot eat as do the others, and both my Lord Cousin and Lord Elrond of Rivendell watched over him carefully.”

            Barti could see the grief and acceptance in the Steward’s eyes as Halladan joined them.  The Northern Steward added softly, “It took a good deal to eke from him during our return northward that he believed the Ring Itself had most likely been to blame also for his failure to marry.  Afterwards he slept badly, and for two days following we had to travel more slowly if we were to spare him further distress.  My Lord Cousin feared that his beloved friend’s health might well deteriorate, and I grieve that it appears to have begun doing so indeed.  It is a grievous loss to both the Shire and to the realm that he has felt unequal to serving as properly elected Mayor, for he is one of the most responsible of mortals I have ever had the great honor to meet, and his service would only have done well by your land and ours.  I ask each of you to bear back to him my sorrow that he felt unequal to continuing as he had begun in the duties of the Mayor, and that his health is not what it should be.  And bear him also my respects for his decision, and my love for him as one who has been granted the chance to know him during our time together.”

            Reluctantly Barti agreed to do what was asked of him, while Mac solemnly promised the same.

            Mac had other concerns.  He began, carefully, “You say this Ring would seek to take people.  What does that mean?”

            Halladan sighed.  “It sought to cause people to claim It, for once they took It with the intent to hold It and the power It contained for their own purposes It could take them completely, destroying what remained of their own personality and will in the process.  There in Orodruin It was at Its strongest, for there It had been wrought, in that place that Sauron had made completely his own.  There It took your kinsman....”

            “It took him?  Frodo?  It took him, and he claimed It?”

            “Yes, It took him.  Only the fact another who desired It more was at hand, who attacked him and took It from him by force saved him.  And he has never forgiven himself that he could not withstand that final assault by It, and sees himself not as conquered but as weak and flawed, that he could not at the end throw himself and It into the fires of the volcano and both be destroyed to the end of Sauron.  The Ring knew that this was what he purposed, of course, and would not allow that.  So It took him at the end, seeking to keep him from finishing himself and It at the same time.”

            “But the one who took It from him?”

            “He did not seek to wield it, merely to possess It as he’d done before.  Once he took It from Frodo, along with his finger, that one danced at the edge of the abyss--and slipped and fell, It in his hand.  So It was destroyed, and Samwise Gamgee was able to lift up his fallen Master and take him to the one place from which the two of them might be rescued.  However, it was a near thing.  Both were at the very Gates of Death when Aragorn finally found their spirits to call them back.”

            “Why are you telling this to us now?” demanded Barti.  “No one would discuss it with me, saying Frodo didn’t wish anyone to know!”

            “That is true, but had you not found out almost all of it anyway, Master Bracegirdle?  Had you not already named Master Frodo a coward to his face?”

            Barti looked at Merimac Brandybuck, who was examining him closely.  “I saw Frodo as you left him that morning, Bracegirdle.  I had no idea until today what it was he’d done while they were gone, but I knew that Merry and Pippin and Sam Gamgee knew well enough what it was that had happened to him, and that they all disagreed with Frodo that he had failed at whatever it was he’d tried to do.  And I’ve never, ever, in the fifty-one and a half years I’ve known him, ever found Frodo to act a coward--anything but.  I heard Sam when he took you aside after the signing of your son’s apprenticeship indentures, where he quietly upbraided you for calling Frodo a coward.  And I admit I told Lord Halladan last night you had called him that.”

            Berevrion added, “No one but Frodo Baggins could ever have done what was done, to manage to stand against Sauron’s Ring until he’d brought It to the very brink of the Cracks of Doom, the only place where It might be destroyed at last, allowing Sauron to be defeated completely.”

            Bartolo looked around them and noted that there were no others close enough to have overheard this, the rest having given the two Men and two Shire Hobbits privacy for their quiet discussion.  He took a deep breath, then looked up at the Steward’s face.  “And I can’t speak of this to anyone else, not even my children or wife?”

            “True.  Neither you nor Master Brandybuck here.”

            Mac’s face was serious.  “It’s not fair that Sara and Esme aren’t allowed to know what befell the one they think of as their older son,” he pointed out.

            “It’s not been fair that Master Bracegirdle here has had to work out each and every fact he’s learned about where Master Frodo went and why as he has had to do, either.  The fact remains that your cousin has requested that the facts be kept private that your people not be oppressed by the evil he and the others faced, and out of the deep respect and love we hold for him we have done so.  Only because we have learned this one, out of apparently misunderstanding what was actually done, called Lord Frodo a coward was I moved to say more.  I cannot allow such a statement to stand uncorrected.

            “Was he frightened?  Oh, most certainly.  Only a fool would not be frightened.  But courage is not about remaining without fear--it is about going on in spite of the fear and doing what must be done.  Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise went on when they had a thousand reasons to stop and give over the quest, when they could easily have laid themselves down and died rather than to have to continue on to face the next threat and fear, and the ones after that.  They went on, Lord Frodo ever with the threat the Ring would claim him, perhaps the most terrifying threat of all.  They knew capture and torture, want and thirst, heat such as you have never experienced, even were you to throw yourself upon one of your Yule bonfires.  And he does not wish the horrors of that reality to be made known to your people, even as he forbade those who fought against those two and their fellows to slay those who laid down their weapons that you not learn to be vengeful.  He would not have the folk of the Shire learn the evil of the world we’ve faced all our lives.  He does not wish you to become fearful of the world and ever suspicious of the intentions of others.  He wishes for your people to grow into the outer world and bring to it your own lightheartedness, not to take its insecurities into your lives.”

            It was more food for thought, and as he finally returned to his seat for the trial of Bender Cotman, Bartolo Bracegirdle was beginning to fear he was suffering from a mental form of indigestion.

 *******

            During the recess Denra Gorse arrived accompanied by Carnation, and the two of them took their places amongst the onlookers.  As Lord Halladan returned to his seat all again rose respectfully, and again Berevrion rose to read the charges.  The weapons taken from the Southerners had been removed, and now the sand-filled sock lay upon the table.  The fact that Merimac Brandybuck, brother and steward to the Master of Buckland, had witnessed the attack on Master Alvric, the Mannish lawyer from the new King’s city, and his small dog impressed them, as did the fact that the Hobbit had managed to knock the Big Farmer senseless.  Most didn’t appear as concerned about the attack on the Man as they were about the attack on the dog.  In the past few months Holby, walking at the heels of his Master, had become a common enough sight throughout the village, and the animal had become rather a favorite of many within Bree.

            A farmer from near Archet, come into the Grange Hall to find out what the to-do was about, stood up rather diffidently, holding his battered straw hat to himself between his gnarled hands.  “And why’d such a one’s Cotman wish t’hurt this Man ’n’ his wee beasty?”

            “Shall we explore that question, then?” Lord Halladan asked.  “First, let us hear from Master Butterbur of the Prancing Pony.”

            Barliman Butterbur, flushing heavily, explained about the question made to him about who within the village might be willing to let rooms to the stranger from the King’s city, and how he’d come to suggest Mistress Gorse, citing the fact she’d come to him as head of the Council for the Breelands complaining that she was beset with suitors who wished to add to their own the holdings she’d inherited full rights to on the death of her brother, and how she’d told him that Bender Cotman had been the worst of the lot.  “I thought as perhaps the presence of a Man within the house might aid her in sendin’ the unwanted ones on their way--not that Master Alvric’s the least frightenin’--after all, he’s not a particularly large Man, nor has he much in the way of muscles, mind you.  No, a rather quiet and peaceful soul.  But, you understand, sometimes just the presence of a Man within the house can be enough to let those as would....”

            Smiling, Lord Halladan cut him off.  “I see, and think we all understand.  Thank you, Mr. Butterbur.  Mistress Gorse--if you would please stand?”

            Had she had her peace of mind disturbed by these unwanted suitors?  “Disturbed?  Oh, I’m afraid yes, sir.  There’s some as can’t appear to understand as no matter how successful they might be within the Breelands that I myself don’t find them the sort as I’m attracted to.  And they seem to think as if there’s a woman alone as has some property to her name, she ought to be grateful to think as they’re willin’ to help guard it, somehow.  My family worked hard to build the wee house as I live in within Bree itself, and we’ve owned the small farm plot toward Archet for six generations now.  Me Da, he worked it, he did, as did Fell until he died.  I’ve had little interest in workin’ it myself since then, but it’s been but slightly over a year since I lost my brother.  This next year, I’ve plans for it, and ones already in hand who’ll help see to it as what we plant on’t is proper cared for.

            “Now, Master Alvric, he’s been quite a nice change to the household, he has.  First time’s we’ve met a Mannish lawyer, and from so far away!  He’s right polite and respectful, and don’t assume as a woman alone’s afraid to be alone, don’t you know.  When the suitors’ve come, he’s ever come to me t’ask if I’d wish to see them or if I’d rather them sent on their way, and he’s ever done only what I said.  Now, Bender Cotman, he come to the door ’n’ started insistin’ as of course I’d welcome his offer to take me under his protection, and wasn’t goin’ to listen to different.  So Master Alvric come out and told him the law--as a woman has a right to hold property’n her own name if’n she wishes and doesn’t have to marry to keep it.  In fact, a woman doesn’t have to marry less the idea--and the Man as she’d marry--both please her.  But Mr. Cotman here--he didn’t cotton to the idea as he’s no right to try to convince me by borin’ me to death with the idea as he’s the only one as knows what’s right for me.  Master Alvric had to threaten to call for the King’s Men to come escort him away afore he finally give up and left.  Although, had he any idea as the Rangers is the King’s Men, I suspect as he’d of stayed till grass grew on him.”

            There was some laughter at this.  Missus Blackroot from the next house allowed as that was what had indeed happened--she’d been a’sittin’ on the stoop shellin’ peas and listenin’, after all.  Carnation concurred as well, and all could see that in the eyes of the new Steward of Arnor that was another stroke against Bender Cotman.

            Next came testimony from several who regularly saw Cotman at the Silver Fox or the Prancing Pony, and the fact he’d been furious at having been sent on his way from the Gorse door by the Mannish lawyer was affirmed.  One of the last to speak was Jape, who told of Cotman approaching Delric Safflower, who was known to be another of those who’d been turned away from the Gorse door by Master Alvric, and speaking in low tones about encouraging Master Alvric to leave the Breelands.  A Hobbit who’d been sitting at the next table had heard more, admitting his attention  had been caught by Cotman’s stated intention to see to the end of the interference of the Mannish Lawyer.  He’d not heard quite everything said at the next table, but had certainly heard enough to approach Jape about it.  Jape had advised him to keep his own counsel for now, and said he’d keep an eye out for when Master Alvric should return.  The Hobbit had not been in the Pony the previous night, him and his missus having been out to his brother’s farm along the Staddle Road.  Jape remembered that conversation now it was brought back to him, but hadn’t thought much on it the previous evening as Cotman wasn’t present in the Pony’s common room, after all.  He’d noted the arrival of Master Alvric in company with the Rangers, had noted Mr. Safflower leaving shortly afterwards, and had kept an eye out in case Cotman might come in and perhaps cause problems, but only in the most casual of manners.

            “Didn’t think as the likes of Cotman would actually think to do naught with Rangers present, I didn’t.”

            “Was Mr. Safflower part of this plan, do you think?”

            “Don’t know to say, sirs.  Only know as Cotman spoke to him the oncet and then tried to make out as Safflower was angered at Master Alvric, and that Safflower left almost as soon’s Master Alvric and your folks arrived last night.  Odd, that, for he don’t usually leave so quick.”

            When Delric was asked to stand, that he was somewhat uncomfortable was obvious enough.  “Do you remember when Mr. Cotman approached you in the Prancing Pony before Master Alvric left to go north with the Rangers?”

            After a slight hesitation, the Man nodded.  “Yes, I member it well enough.”

            “Why did he approach you?”

            “Was still chuffin’ about him bein’ sent packin’ from Miss Denra’s door, he was.  Said as Master Alvric was too big for his waistcoat, and needed remindin’ not to interfere.  Spoke o’ meetin’ wit’ him once he got back to Bree--convincin’ him not to return to the Gorse house.”

            “Did you seek to discourage him?”

            “It was but words, sir.”

            “You didn’t think he’d actually do something to Master Alvric?”

            Safflower shrugged.  “I suggested as if’n he thought as he should waylay Master Alvric, mayhaps it ought t’ be done outside Bree somewheres, but he said as that was no good, for he’d be with Rangers, what wouldn’t allow it.  Asked me if’n I’d keep an eye out here in the Pony, ’n’ let him know when he got back.  Said as he’d--he’d speak to’m--mayhaps convince him to leave Bree and to leave well enough alone.  I said as I’d think on’t.”

            “Where did you go last night when you left the Prancing Pony?”

            Safflower flushed.  At last he said, “T’ the Silver Fox--let Cotman know as the Mannish lawyer was back.  And that’s all I did--went home then, expectin’ to play a game o’ draughts with my brother, only he weren’t t’home.”

            “You didn’t conspire with him to seek to waylay Master Alvric as he did?”

            “How was I t’realize as he’d try such a thing?”

            “Yet you just stated that you’d suggested that if he were to do just that, he ought to try it outside the Breelands.”  Halladan’s tone was reasonable, but his eyes examined Safflower closely.  “How can you now claim you had no idea that was what he intended to do?”

            Delric Safflower ran a finger about the inside of his collar, and his brow was plainly damp with sweat.  “Look, sir--I didn’t have no hand in this.  Now, I’m not sayin’ as I’ve been any too pleased to have Master Alvric here and livin’ in the house o’ the one woman what’s caught my eye.  But I wouldn’t wish t’see him ner any other hurt, sir.  Cotman asked me to let him know when them come back, and I did, and that’s the end of it.”

            “You wished that Master Alvric were gone from the Breelands?”

            “Yessir, that I did.  Now, he wasn’t rude t’me when I come to call; and he didn’t threaten me; but if Denra Gorse fancies the likes o’ him rather than a proper Man o’ Bree--well!”  He glared at the fancily dressed Ranger, as he thought of him, and folded his arms across his chest.

            There were a few more questions, but what had happened was reasonably clear in the eyes of those who’d come to observe this trial, and Delric Safflower, if not convicted in the hearts of his fellow Breelanders as was true of Bender Cotman, wasn’t coming off any too well.  It was as he finally was ready to sit down that his eyes fell on the object that sat on the table off to the side where the Southerners’ weapons had sat before.  It was in looking on that object that his face went from flushed to pale.  He stopped and looked up into the eyes of Lord Halladan with accusation.  “My sock--how’d you come by my sock?  Is this meant to make it look as I’d done sommat as I never did?  ’Cause I’m here t’ tell ye as I never did nothin’ ner intended t’ do nothin’ to Master Alvric!  Where’re ye to tell me as you found that?  In his goods er sommat?”

            “You recognize it as yours?”

            “Yes--me cousin Annika from Combe knit’em for me for Yule, she did.  They was hung on the hedge t’dry, and one disappeared.  Thought as the wind took it, but couldn’t find it nowhere.”

            “How long ago did this sock go missing?”

            “Dunno--mayhaps five-six weeks agone.”

            “Is there anyone who will bear witness to this?”

            “Me brother could--he washed ’em, he did.”

            His brother was sent for, and there was a break while all waited for him to come.  Eregiel helped Master Alvric to take Holby outside for a short time, then brought him back in and returned him to the low crate.  Halladan came forward to feel the wounded area, noted the swelling and the tenderness, murmured an odd song under his breath as he laid hands over the collarbone.  At last he straightened.  “I have slight healing abilities compared to the Peredhil of Imladris or my Lord Cousin,” he said quietly, “but I think you should know some easing from this--not a great deal, perhaps, but some.  There does appear to be a crack, or perhaps a bruise to the bone itself.  Either way, having your shoulder immobilized for the next two to three weeks should aid the healing greatly.  I would suggest, however, that you carry with you a pair of rolled socks with a lace to bind the roll and squeeze upon that with your left hand several times regularly over the space of a day to keep the muscles strengthened.”

            Alvric nodded and resumed his seat as the lad sent out returned with Master Safflower’s brother in tow.

            “Do I recognize that?  O’ course I do--it’s Delric’s sock.  Why’s it here, and what’s in it?”

            “Do you know of it  having gone missing?”

            “Yes, few weeks back, I think.  I washed it with the other laundry and hung in on the hedge to dry.  When I went back to fetch the clothes, one sock was gone.  Delric was that put out--our Cousin Annika knit’em for him, and would be right furious were he careless enough to lose one.  She’s still got hopes as mayhaps he’ll look at her one day and see as she’s cared for him for years.”

            Delric was flushing furiously at this, and a good deal of the suspicion the villagers were feeling toward him lessened at that.

            The Blackroot boy was called next.  Getting him to talk at all was difficult, but finally he allowed as Mr. Cotman had paid him a silver penny to watch Mistress Gorse’s house and to let him know when it appeared that Master Alvric might be gone for a time.  He also allowed as his next younger sister had been given several coppers by Mr. Safflower to speak nice about him in Mistress Gorse’s hearing.  There were a few laughs at that.  Delric Safflower looked as if he wished the floor would swallow him up.

            Eregiel was asked to speak to the physical condition of both Master Alvric and his dog, and Merimac Brandybuck described precisely what he’d seen and done.

            Finally Alvric was asked to describe his meetings with both Mr. Cotman and Mr. Safflower, which he did without disparaging either Man. 

            “And when you were attacked last night, how many Men lay in wait for you?”

            “I saw only one.  Holby growled and I stopped; when I insisted we go on in spite of what was bothering him he ran past me, and suddenly there was a Man emerging from behind the shop I was passing, and he kicked out at Holby, sending him flying back behind me.  He lifted his arm, but I fear I didn’t see much beyond that, for I was worried for Holby and turning toward him when I was struck here.”  He indicated where his neck met his left shoulder.  “I’ve a bad bruise there and on my forehead here where I struck the ground, and the heel particularly of my right hand and this knee.  I lay, half stunned, on the ground, my face turned slightly, and heard a voice--that of Master Brandybuck, I believe, challenging the one who attacked me, and then I was surrounded by feet of both Men and Hobbits and I was trying again to make certain that Holby was all right.”

            At last Lord Halladan indicated he’d heard enough, and sat back thoughtfully in his chair, looking from where Cotman sat, bound by one leg to his own seat, to where Delric Safflower still sat amongst the onlookers.  It appeared that in spite of the fact the watchers’ benches were filled, yet those who sat by Denra Gorse’s erstwhile suitor had still done their best to not sit touching him, crowding away from him.  This had the effect of leaving him looking somewhat isolated even there in the midst of the spectators as he was.

            He finally gave Berevrion a significant look.  “Then I suppose I must pass judgment.”  He looked at Safflower first.  “You had reason to suspect this one intended to attack Master Alvric, to the point you suggested if he sought to waylay him he ought to do so north of the Breelands.  But at the same time you didn’t truly wish to be involved, and had no idea that Bender Cotman intended to make it appear you were involved in the physical attack.  Yet you yourself advised him his quarry had returned to the city.”  He went quiet while giving Safflower a prolonged examination before straightening with decision.  “I hereby turn you over to the Bree Council for their consideration and final judgment, with the suggestion you be fined heavily for your foolish complicity in an unknown scheme.  I do not see your actions as deliberately evil, but most definitely selfish.  Nor do I find any reason to believe that you will ever seek to repeat them.” 

            He turned to look at Barliman Butterbur.  Jape had been quietly granted leave to return to the inn that it not go unmanned as the day grew later; it was obvious Butterbur was anxious to follow him and remained only due to his position as head of the Breelands Council.  “Master Butterbur, shall I note here that he is to appear before you when the Council meets on Trewsday?”

            The innkeeper, looking relieved to find he wouldn’t be required to convene the Council immediately, nodded.  “Yessir, my Lord, sir.  We’ll see to it.”

            The face of Delric Safflower was vastly relieved when all turned to look at him.  Halladan met his eyes one last time.  “You will not appear before me in such a situation again, will you, Master Safflower?” he asked.

            “No, sir--course not, sir!”

            “That is good.”  So saying, the Steward of Arnor turned his attention to Bender Cotman.  “As for you, sir--how much do you believe your farm is worth?”

            “What for ye want to know that?” demanded the farmer.

            “Simply answer me, sir.”

            “Dunno.”

            Halladan sighed and looked to Butterbur and other members of the Breelands Council who were in attendance.  One of the Hobbits, after speaking quietly with another farmer on the Council, stood up uncertainly.  “If it please your honor,” he said, “if’n one was to offer a fair price for it with the land, house, ’n’ outbuildin’s, barns ’n’ such, we’d expect t’pay mayhaps two gold pieces for it.  ’Twere it further from Bree isself, ’twould be worth less, mind.  Add in a hundred silver pennies for the current crop as he’s got growin’ and another fifty for the beasts as he has, ’n’ one has a good idea as to what might be fair.

            Halladan looked at the rest of the spectators.  “Do the rest of you agree?”

            One of the Men spoke out.  “Sounds more than fair to me.”  Others indicated their agreement.

            “So be it, then.  Then this day I offer you, Master Cotman, two gold pieces and two hundred silver pennies for your farm and the animals and such goods as you can’t take with you.  You will be taken out now and given ten stripes with a whip for your actions against Master Alvric, who is here as the King’s lawyer.  You will then return to your farm, pack up all that you wish to take with you into a wagon, and be ready to leave in five days.

            “You will not do physical harm to the well or any building or the crop on your land or the animals you leave or what possessions you leave behind.  You may take one large farm wagon and up to four horses or oxen to pull it, your dogs and house cat, and up to three head of cattle and five chickens with you as well as ten days’ worth of food and whatever seed you can purchase.  In five days you will be escorted south out of the Breelands.  You may go as far as you wish, but must drive at least five days away from Bree.  You may then take possession of whatever empty land you might find that appears to be apt to farming.

            “Your escort will remain with you for the five days you drive southwards, and before they leave you the head of the escort will give into your hands the two gold pieces and two hundred silver pennies aforementioned.  You may not return northwards back into the Breelands, but will be required to do your trading further southwards, toward Tharbad.

            “If you ever return to the Breelands or within a day’s ride of the borders of the Shire you will be retaken and brought before me in Annúminas, at which time I will order you given enforced servitude for five years and banished even further southwards.  Do you understand?”

            His face white with shock, Cotman sputtered, “But ye can’t be a’takin’ me land like that!”

            “Had your scheme succeeded, would not Master Alvric be a broken Man at best, and probably dead, him and his dog, and would not Master Safflower now face a worse sentence, perhaps the rope, for murder?  Nay, you get off perhaps far too lightly, Master Cotman.  But certainly the people of Bree will do well to have your self-centered soul removed far from here.  That is the sentence I give you, and should you ever be found again attempting to harm another for your own gain you will yourself be hanged.” 

            Having said that, he turned again to Butterbur and those members of the Bree Council present.  “Is this seen as fair to you?” he asked.

            Butterbur quickly scanned the faces of his fellows before all turned their attention back to the King’s Northern Steward.  “Sounds too good for him, you ask me,” the innkeeper said.  “We’ll abide by this judgment, sir.”

            “So be it, then,” Halladan said, rising to his feet.  “So let it be noted....”

Interlude

            Angelica Baggins Proudfoot opened the door and stood openmouthed with pleased surprise.  “Delphie?  You’ve come?”

            “If you don’t mind,” her older sister said, smiling.  “It’s just that it’s been a time since I saw you last, is all.”

            “Then Bartolo is off on business?” suggested Geli shrewdly as she ushered Delphinium Bracegirdle into the smial.

            “Yes--he’s out in Bree, seeing some papers signed,” Delphie answered.

            “And the children?”

            “Persi’s busy with his apprenticeship at the Great Smial, and the rest were invited to spend a few days with Barti’s sister Lavinia and her brood--don’t ask me why, but she does seem to like to have them come stay with her, even if we do just live across the village; and having some time to myself I thought I’d come see my sister and her family.”

            A small lass sat in the center of the parlor, cradling an obviously well-loved doll to herself, murmuring to it in low tones.  “An’ the King married the bootiful Elf-princess,” she was saying as Delphie came close enough to hear, “an’ they lived in the Cit’del at the top a’ the city, and the Hobbit thought as she was the most bootiful lady as he’d ever seed.  An’ he was glad as his friend the King was happy and had found his own hope.  An’ the Hobbit went home, and hoped when he got there he’d find his, too.” 

            There was something in the way this was said that touched Delphinium Bracegirdle.  “Hello, Cyclamen,” she said softly.  “That’s a lovely story you’re telling your dolly.”

            The lass looked up, examining her carefully.  “Hello,” she said.  “You look like Mummy, almost.”

            “She’s your Auntie Delphie, sweetling,” Geli said, smiling.  “She was able to come visit from Hardbottle.  She looks like me ’cause we’re sisters.  She’s not been able to visit since you were a tiny bairn.”

            “Hello, Auntie Delphie,” Cyclamen said.  She stood up and came to stand at her aunt’s feet looking up. 

            Delphie knelt down to examine her small niece eye-to-eye.  “And where did you hear that story?” she asked.

            “Cousin Frodo--he told it in the village.  He knows the King.”

            “So I understand.  Do you like his stories?”

            “Oh, yes, I do.  Do you like them?”

            “I doubt I’ve heard as many as you have, for I’m older than he is, and I’d left Overhill to marry your Uncle Bartolo not that long after Uncle Bilbo adopted him, after all.  But the few I’ve heard I’ve liked.”

            The child smiled.  “I’m glad you like them.  I wanna go there, maybe, where the King lives.”

            “So, the King found his hope, did he?”

            Cyclamen nodded.  “His hope was the Lady Arwen.”

            “And did the Hobbit find his hope, too?”

            The child’s face grew troubled.  “Maybe some.  But I dunno if it’s ’nuff.  His hand’s hurt--did you know?”

            “Whose?  Frodo’s?”  At the lass’s solemn nod, Delphie smiled sadly.  “Yes, I heard that he lost his finger.”

            “How do you lose a finger?”

            “I think it was when he was trying to get rid--get rid of the bad thing he took away from the Shire.  He was hurt at the end, and it hurt his hand so his finger was cut away.”

            “Oh.”  Cyclamen appeared to be thinking on that.  At last she said, “I wouldn’t wanna lose my finger.”

            “No, I wouldn’t want to do so, either....”

 *******

            Much later in the afternoon Delphinium went up the lane to Bag End carrying a bag of sweet buns she’d purchased when she, Geli, and Cyclamen walked into the village.  Just inside the picket gate she found Sam Gamgee carefully shaping the inside of the hedge.  He heard the gate open and turned to face her, straightening in a way she’d not seen him stand before.  Oh, always he’d been a remarkably responsible soul; but what she saw now showed one on guard.  His face started to relax as he said, “Oh, Missus Angelica--no.”  His expression now watchful, he said, “May I help you?”

            “I’m Geli’s sister, Delphinium Bracegirdle.  It’s been quite some time since I called on my cousin Frodo.  I hope I’m not intruding.”

            He examined her, and she rather thought that he was tempted to say that the Master wasn’t in.  Instead, after a slightly longer moment of pondering, his innate honesty won out.  “Mr. Frodo’s up, atop the Hill.  I doubt as he’d mind if you was to go up to him.  Shall I show you the way, Missus Bracegirdle?”

            “No--if you’d but tell me the best way up, that would be all, thank you--sir,” she added, feeling that he deserved the recognition of that sir.

            He flushed slightly, but where in earlier years he would have ducked his head in embarrassment, he now stood his ground, giving but the slightest of inclinations to his head as he accepted the courtesy shown.  His tone, however, was less formal as he explained, “You need but follow the walk here to the back of the Hill, and you’ll see as there’s blue steppin’ stones goin’ up to the right.  I’ll be bringin’ up some tea shortly for him, if’n you’d like some.  And my Rosie’s baked some ginger biscuits with raisins--they’re quite good.”

            She smiled.  “Thank you indeed, Mr. Gamgee--I’d be honored.  I brought these--perhaps you’d like to add a few to the tray for Frodo, and share the remainder with your wife?  Cyclamen sampled one while we were in the bakeshop and has assured me they are very tasty.”

            His face now softened.  “She’s a dear little lass, and my Master’s comin’ to dote on her, I must say.  Always has had a soft place in his heart for bairns, he has.”

            “I never understood why he never married.  Oh, I know all about Pearl Took and all, but certainly she’s not the only one who would have had him in a heartbeat.  My sister-in-love would have had been thrilled to have claimed him, had he but smiled at her.  But I’d always hoped that perhaps Narcissa----”

            But he was shaking his head.  “No, Missus Delphinium, he couldn’t.  We didn’t understand afore, but we know why now.”  She saw the sad acceptance in his eyes, and realized that somehow he believed the Ring had been to blame for Frodo not looking at the lasses any more.

            “I understand,” she said softly, and suddenly he was again searching her eyes.

            “They told you, there in Bree?” he asked.

            “No--they didn’t tell me, but--well, one does pick up on things.”

            Sam sighed and nodded.  “Just try not to let on to him as you know much--he doesn’t want folks to know as what happened out there.  Doesn’t want the Shire to have to understand the worst of it.  He’d rather be the one as knows the pain and grief, not our folk.  Bad enough what that Sharkey and his Big Men and Gatherers and Sharers did here--understandin’ just how horrible the Enemy was and made his folks act is far, far worse.  You can’t understand how bad it could be unless you saw it, and we saw it--and him worse even than the rest of us.”

            “I promise,” she said.  “They are all so concerned about him, you know, and they all honor all four of you.”

            Again he nodded as he tucked his clippers under his arm and accepted the bag of sweet buns.  “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”  So saying, he gave a courteous inclination of his head and turned to go into the smial.  She watched after him, noting how his steps were deliberate, even authoritative, before she turned to follow his directions down through the gardens toward the back of the smial.

            The last time she’d been here in the gardens themselves had been many years ago, for Frodo’s second birthday at Bag End.  The first birthday had been small and rather private, attended by Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck and their son, the Whitwell Tooks, Odovacar Bolger and his family, and the Gamgees.  The second joint birthday party between Bilbo and Frodo had included all of the Bagginses with whom she was familiar save for Frodo’s Uncle Dudo, although his daughter Daisy had come to Hobbiton accompanying Gander Proudfoot and his wife, who’d also been invited.  Her father Fando had not truly approved of his Cousin Bilbo since he’d had the poor taste to entertain an adventure; however, as Bilbo was the family head for the Bagginses he felt there was no reason to insult him by refusing to come.

            The garden then had been beautiful, as it was now; but she could see as she looked around that there were distinct differences.  Many of the trees that had been well-established when she’d visited then had obviously been replaced with young trees probably no more than a few years old.  The lilacs were not as full as they had been, and most of the rose bushes had been replaced.  She saw places where gouges in the Hill had obviously been filled in, and stacks of wood from the sheds lay near where some of the vegetable plots has always been.  Apparently Sam hadn’t had as much time to work on the kitchen gardens to the extent he’d labored to reestablish the flower beds.

            She rounded the north end of the Hill and saw the steps as described by Sam.  She looked up but could see nothing beyond the berry hedge that ringed the summit of the Hill; giving a sigh she turned that way and began the climb.  The way wasn’t particularly steep or difficult, and in minutes she’d passed the bushes that offered a semblance of privacy to those who went atop the Hill, and saw what appeared to be the back of a great chair where the rooftree to Bag End had stood, a smaller sapling rising nearby it.  As she rounded the chair she realized that the great stump of the old oak that had once crowned the Hill had been carved into the semblance of a high seat, and that Frodo sat there on it, a tray with stacks of papers and bottles of ink, quills, steel pens, and drawing sticks lying on the ground at his feet.  His elbows rested on the arms of the great seat and his hands were clasped in his lap as he looked out over the Shire from his high place.

            “Well, Cousin Frodo--how regal you look!”

            He turned in surprise, having apparently not heard her approach.  “Delphinium?” he asked as he rose to his feet.  A surprised smile broke across his face.  “Oh, come and be seated!”

            He rose and leaned down to move the tray when she saw his balance waver.  She stepped forward to help him right himself, and gave him a press back onto the seat.  “No, let you sit there again.  I wouldn’t have you leave your place, Frodo.”

            He sat down rather heavily.  “But it’s not right....”

            “It’s all right for you to grow dizzy from leaning over too rapidly?  Nay, Frodo--sit and be comfortable.”

            His face had gone very pale, save for the tips of his cheeks.  “I’m sorry, Delphie,” he murmured.

            “And for what are you apologizing, Frodo Baggins?  For not being as well as you were before you left the Shire?”

            The pink in the center of his cheeks grew more distinct.  “And what makes you think I’m not well?” he demanded.

            “You think I wouldn’t recognize the signs of great headaches, Frodo?  I saw you the day of the Free Fair as you opened the festivities and as you saw to the signing of Persivo’s indentures.  I’ve heard the rumors that you’ve not danced since you returned to the Shire, and saw you when the Elves sang for us--sang of what you and Sam did.”  She sank down to sit to one side of his stump-chair.

            His cheeks now grew pale with alarm.  “I would not have anyone know I’m not well,” he said.  “And what do you know of what Sam and I did?”

            “No one told us what you did, Cousin--you may be assured of that.  What we might have figured out--that is another matter, of course.  We know that you and Sam were separated from the others, that all of you were endangered, and that all of you nearly died.  We know that the Rangers honor all of you most deeply, and that all are concerned for your health and well-being in particular, as appears to be true of the Elves as well.  And we know what we can see when we see you--that you are more quiet and withdrawn; and I’m certain that you wouldn’t have refused to stand for election as Mayor unless you had good reason, the most likely being that you are concerned for your ability to continue to serve as Mayor.  You were sick in the spring, after all.”

            He sighed and looked away from her.  “Oh, Delphie--I don’t wish to be seen as an invalid or sickly.”

            “And we’re not going to discuss it with anyone, although you can be certain that we aren’t the only ones able to do sums of one and one.”

            He turned back to look at her, examining her face minutely.  “I see,” he sighed.

            “Most appear to think it’s just the private Baggins in you coming out,” she added.  “That’s what old Odo believes, at least, according to Geli.”

            “Thank the Powers for small mercies,” he said softly.  After several minutes of quiet consideration he asked, “And why did you come today, Delphie?”

            “Barti’s out of the Shire having the documents signed that I must assume are for your benefit, the younger children are all with Lavinia, Persi’s now resident in the Great Smial about his apprenticeship, and I thought to come here to Hobbiton to see my sister--a blessing I get to enjoy so rarely, what with Barti’s prejudices against what he sees as unseemly behavior.”

            He nodded thoughtfully.

            “And, since I was in the neighborhood I found I wished to visit you myself.  It’s been too long, Frodo, since you and I had the chance to talk.  Do you have the least idea as to why Barti resents you so?”

            “No,” he said, shaking his head.  “He’s not been anything other than coldly polite to me when we must meet since I was a teen and you two were tweens.  I never really understood--you’re enough older than me that there was no way in which he could ever see me as a rival, or so I’d think.  I used to think it was because he was Lobelia’s own nephew, although then I realized that couldn’t be it--he and his mother and sister have always detested her, after all.  Then I thought perhaps it was for Lavinia’s sake--I was so innocent when I was a lad--I didn’t even realize that there was a time she was drawn to me until after I thought I was in love with Pearl.  Only then did I realize--when she pointed it out to me, rather smugly I’ll admit, that so many lasses were watching after me.  I thought for a time that perhaps he thought that I was in league with Timono, there when he was stealing from all of us; but I’m certain he has to realize that wasn’t true, particularly after I went for the second time into the fishing lake to retrieve more things Timono had thrown in there.”

            Again he gave a shake of his head.  “I remember that one of the things I found there was the pair of shirt studs Bartolo’s grandda gave him.  When we saw them again in that box of things the Rangers found, the things Lobelia and Lotho had gathered--I was so angry for him.  It’s hard to say which was worse, Lotho or Timono.”

            “Yes, I know.”  After a moment she added, “I’m sorry if Barti upset you that morning.”

            He shrugged and looked away again.  “It was nothing.”

            “Nothing?  Oh, my dear cousin--I love my husband dearly, but I’m not blind to his faults.  He’s impatient and, all too often, thick as a plank when it comes to understanding others.  And he hasn’t the slightest idea how to understand you, Frodo.  I suspect that you said something self-deprecating and he took it literally, didn’t he?  Yes, I thought so.  And don’t try to convince me it was all your fault, him misunderstanding you.  He simply can’t understand subtlety at all, or that most folks criticize themselves for things that aren’t really their fault as you’ve been known to do.  You take your responsibilities far too seriously, you know.  No one is responsible for everything, and I’ve heard Isumbard Took discussing with Barti and Rico how you seem to believe that somehow you might have done something to stop Lotho from allowing all those Big Men and bully boys into the Shire to do what they did.  And what could you have done, without you not doing what you did do, which I’m given to understand helped save us all, Men and Elves and Dwarves as well as Hobbits, from far worse than Sharkey’s plans?”

            Again his cheeks grew bright pink, although he kept his silence.  She examined his face once more until he looked away.  She then turned to look out at the view from the top of the Hill.  “It’s beautiful from up here,” she said.

            “I know.”  After a time of mutual silence he said, “I remember wondering if I’d ever see this view again, there when I left Bag End to go to Buckland.  Once I’d made up my mind I had to protect the Shire by leaving it, I found I didn’t really want to go after all.  This was my home--has been my home since I wasn’t quite twenty-two yet.  The Shire is the home of my heart, and this has ever been one of my favorite places to look out at it from.  Yet there’s so much world out there, and so many people I’d never thought to meet whom I’ve come to love--Aragorn, Faramir, the Lady Arwen, Elves and Men and Dwarves and Ents--even Eagles.  And so many I’ll not see again--not in this life, at least--Boromir and that one of Faramir’s Men who brought the basin so Sam and I could wash when we joined them--I understand he died in the assault on Osgiliath.  Gloin is still alive, but not two of the Dwarves that accompanied him and Gimli to Rivendell, for they died with Dain Ironfoot in the assault on Erebor and Dale.  At least three of the Elves I met in Lothlorien are gone now, and the Man I sat by for so many hours in the Houses of Healing--the one who was so badly burned in the assaults on the city when the Enemy flung balls of stuff that exploded into flames and set whole streets aflame in the first and second levels.”

            Delphie sat quietly, just listening as Frodo described some of the people he’d met on his journey, shopkeepers and artisans, soldiers and children who’d crept up the levels of the city to spy on the Hobbits in their guest house, healers and guards, lords and tradesmen.  He spoke of the frustration of not being allowed to pay for his meals at inns, and how they’d all become fascinated by the woman assigned to keep their house, and watching a ball of glowing stuff being blown into bowls and jars and vases in the glassblower’s shop.  He described his visits with the artist he’d met who kept a shop in the Fifth Circle and the minstrel who’d befriended him while he was recovering in Ithilien.  “He wrote the song the Elves sang at Midsummer,” he explained.  He described the majesty of the King’s city, the spare beauty of the dead White Tree and the joy when Aragorn found the new tree on the mountainside to replace it.

            “And then there was the night when neither Aragorn nor I could sleep, and we met there beneath the young White Tree, and he described how it was he’d found the Tree, with Gandalf leading him out of the city by night to the King’s Hallow.  He offered to take me there--said that he felt as if I, too, had a special right to enter that place, but I wouldn’t go.  So we sat under the Tree and he quietly sang songs he’d learned in the House of Elrond as a boy, and I was transported and rested, eased as I’d not been in days.”

            “You truly love this new King of ours, then?”

            “Yes.”

            “How did you meet him?”

            He was answering her when Sam arrived with the tray for tea, and he sat on the other side of Frodo and joined in the descriptions of how they’d come to know Strider the Ranger and eventually came to realize that he would one day be crowned King of Gondor and Arnor.

            “And who’d of thought as there’d be the day as the King’d come back, and we’d not only see it but be a part of it, don’t you know?” Sam asked.  “Our Lord Strider--he’s a special one, he is.”

            And they ate boiled eggs and ginger biscuits and the sweet buns she’d brought, and drank fragrant tea, and spoke of high doings in the White City and teas consisting of sips of water and trail foods taken in hidden hollows within Eriador.

            When at last Delphinium reluctantly rose to take her leave she saw that Frodo appeared comfortable and even happy.  “Thank you, Frodo--you’ve made it real for me.  Lord Berevrion has told us some, as did Master Alvric--what the King’s city is like, that is.  But now I feel as if I’d recognize it if I were to visit it one day.”

            “I hope that you might do that, although I’m not certain how you’d pry Bartolo out of the Shire to go that far.”

            She laughed, then bent to kiss Frodo’s cheek.  Once again his cheeks flushed, and with pleasure this time.  “I’ve so enjoyed this afternoon, Frodo Baggins,” she told him.  “And thank you for whatever it was you did--thank both of you, for I’m certain that both of you were needed to see it done.  And I, at least, am so very glad you did survive to come home once more--the Shire would have never have recovered as well as it did, Frodo, without what you’ve done as Deputy Mayor to see things set right again.”

            She took his hand and pressed it warmly.  He searched her eyes, then smiled that so-sweet smile of his.  “Thank you, Delphie.  And your children, the ones I’ve met, at least, are such special ones.”

            “Not blockheaded Bracegirdles, I understand,” she smiled, amused to see his cheeks flush again.  Laughing, she took her leave, glad she’d taken the chance to spend an afternoon with him.  She spent the night with Geli and Sancho, and next day headed back to Hardbottle, noting Frodo sitting in the common, surrounded by children, as she passed through the village of Hobbiton.

Time of Discovery

            “Well, another group of students done with, then?” asked Denra.

            Alvric nodded from where he stood at the doorway, watching after them through his crystal lens as the last group headed off toward the center of the village.  “My third class, although I must say that they didn’t seem to be anywhere as interesting as the first two.”

            She nodded.  “I fear it’s often thus.  Will you be doing another class?”

            “In a month’s time.  I’ll be heading north to Annúminas first, and will be stopping by Master Boboli’s farm for the night on the return trip.”  He stepped back from the doorway and closed the door against the growing chill of the autumn days.  He turned to smile at her as he stowed his lens in its pocket.  “I must say that the seasons here are more definite than they are within Minas Tirith.  I hope we don’t find the trip northward uncomfortable, although I’m told by Faradir that they’ve been building waystations along the road north.  I understand they’ve been having some of those in enforced servitude build them.”

            “I find the thought of those who’ve done wrong being forced to labor in the building of roads and public works to be a strange idea,” she commented as she led the way into the parlor.  She’d been at the marketplace the day a group of such conscripts came through Bree a month earlier, headed north.

            “We’ve used such means for some centuries,” Alvric said as he settled into his chair with a decided sigh of comfort.  “Mostly they were sent south and west to labor on the roads or west to work in the marble quarries from which comes the stone used in the building and maintenance of our cities and villages, or eastward to assist in the clearing of rubble in Osgiliath.  Now many such parties will most likely be sent east of the Anduin to labor within Ithilien, working alongside gangs of more honest workmen.  I must suppose that the King will probably send those for whom he has the greatest hope that direction, and many will most likely be allowed to settle there, probably able to purchase lands at a good price, and now with the skills to build their houses and villages properly.  And some he’s sent here into the north kingdom to labor, again with the probability that when their sentences are complete they will be able to take land and build homesteads and farms and villages of their own.

            “It is my own hope that most will not return to evil ways once more, but unfortunately most who embark on lives of crime and evil all too often return to those ways when the chance presents itself.  Of course, most who are sent for judgment have not done all that much of true evil--most are merely foolish, seeking a bit of extra gold without having to work for it themselves, or seeking to take advantage of others.  Then there are those who were in difficulty, and sought only to care for themselves and their families by taking what they were able to find that they believed would relieve them, although they knew that they were stealing.  Such are usually not evil folk, but their stealing cannot be condoned.  It is hoped that by having honest work to do they will learn skills and earn sufficient while they work that when their time of enforced servitude is over they will not need to return to dishonest means once more.”

            Denra had never thought of such things before.  “And some are simply sent away, as was Bender Cotman?”

            “A few receive only rulings of banishment.  There is one former Guard of the Citadel who left his post without permission, and ended up slaying a few Men of the city as he sought to protect our Lord Faramir from the madness of his father.  The law of the city states he was worthy of either death or eternal banishment from the capital.  Our Lord Elessar found a way to reward him for his loyalty to our Lord Steward and yet meet the letter of the law.  So it is that he may not enter Minas Tirith again, and yet is honored by many, including our King himself.  As for Bender Cotman---”  He shook his head thoughtfully.  “He had no good intent whatsoever; but this was the only time, was it not, that he had sought so selfish an end?  And certainly he did little ill to me or Holby when you think on it.”  He looked at where Holby lay in the light of the late afternoon sun entering the window, the cat curled up beside him.  The little dog had recovered swiftly from his injuries, although there were some times he would limp for the first few moments after he’d risen.  Holby now raised his head to look up at his master and thumped his tail, giving a doggy smile before laying his head again on his paws.

            “When will you need to go to Annúminas, then?”

            “I will most likely need to leave in two days’ time.”

            After a moment, Denra said with decision, “Do you think as the Rangers you accompany would mind if I was to go along as well?  I’ve never been away from the Breelands before, and would love to see the new King’s city as it’s being built.”

            He looked at her, surprised.  “You’d think to ride so far--and as the cooler weather sets in in earnest?”

            “There’s little as I need to do at this time--most of the simples and still work as is needed I’m finished with for the season; and what isn’t important needn’t be done now, after all.  And--and I’d like to be away for a time.  I can’t say particular as to why, but the thought of bein’ here alone while you’re gone for several weeks is worrisome.  Not, I suppose, as the other suitors’d attempt to--importune me as did Bender.  I never fully understood as what he thought as he’d get from me, as I’m not one to allow another to say me nay, as I think you’ve learned.  And I know as he’d of wanted me to simply do his bidding without question.”

            “I can’t see it, either,” he admitted smiling, and she smiled back--and--and that which had been changing between them clicked just that much further that he realized something--he didn’t wish to leave her behind this time.  He found himself blinking rapidly at the realization, and then he looked back into her eyes and realized she was not so much wanting to see the new King’s city as she was unwilling to be parted from him for so long.

            “How did it come to this without me realizing?” he murmured to himself as he searched her eyes.  And he noted a certain shyness in her return gaze, that small amount of uncertainty, that indicated that she’d been aware of her own growing fascination with him for a time, and that she hoped that he’d not turn away from her.

            “What’s that as you said?” she asked.

            “You really want to go with me?  Are you ready for a week or better in the saddle, perhaps?”

            She smiled as she grew aware that he was truly seeing her at the moment.  “If’n you don’t mind, I’d love to go with you.  As for ridin’--well, I’ll admit as I’ve not ridden much for some years, but I used to ride out to Archet fairly often when I was a girl--Fell’n’ me had an aunt out that way, and our dad would take us with him to see her.”

            “This isn’t quite the same thing--but if you’d really like to go and are game to ride through rains if they come, I don’t think that the Rangers will mind too much.”  He thought to himself, It would give us the chance to see one another at our worst, and perhaps best as well, I suppose.  And if she’s willing to go so far just to be with me....

*******

            It was three days later that they left Bree, Denra riding on Abia and Alvric on Jongleur with Holby in his carrier, accompanied by Eregiel, Faradir, and young Teregion, Artos following Eregiel’s horse easily.  Faradir was being very strictly correct toward both the Gondorian and the woman from Bree, Eregiel was openly amused and seemed willing to be especially helpful, and Teregion was obviously curious about the situation, although he was courteously keeping his questions to himself.  The cob carried extra blankets and supplies, including an ointment Denra indicated would be helpful in dealing with soreness and stiffness associated with riding.

            Apparently in spite of the time since his last journey Alvric was toughening to the riding, for they went much further the first day than they’d made on his last journey.  Indeed there was a two-room cottage built of logs and sod with outhouse behind it where they spent the night, the Men sleeping in the back room while Denra slept on a thick blanket roll near the fire, Holby having elected to sleep curled up beside her.

            They heard one soft woof from the small dog, and later fully awoke to delicious odors from the front room.  As they peeked into it, Denra smiled up at them from where she sat cooking a breakfast of sliced bacon and eggs over the cooking surface.  “I was awakened a short time ago by a tap on the door--it was an Elf, who’d brought a message and the gift of eggs.  I hope as this meets your approval.”  She delivered the message to Eregiel, who read it and smiled.

            “Halladan is looking forward to our arrival, although he lets us to know he will be at Fornost first, and asks we meet him there.  There has been found another, more hidden section to the archive, and he wishes to explore it with us.”

            Faradir thawed greatly at the meal.  “Now this,” he said past a mouthful of egg, “is a marvelous treat.  It is almost like the journey northward where the Hobbits did much of the cooking.  What Lord Perhael could do with a few eggs and some mushrooms....”  He beamed beatifically, and Eregiel and Alvric found themselves smiling at one another knowingly.  When Denra produced her salve and Faradir made judicious use of it his attitude was further soothed; by the time they reached Fornost he was inviting her to his home to meet with his wife and daughters.

*******

            “This is the ancient fortress of the King of Arnor?” she asked as they paused, still about a half-mile from the narrow causeway that wound up to the gates of the keep, high in a cleft of the mountains.

            “Aye,” Eregiel said, his eyes solemn with pride.  “After Annúminas began to be threatened by Angmar this became the primary capital of the northern kingdom--and then it, too, finally was lost.  But the Witch-king was less interested in learning how it was his prey managed to escape him than in trying to determine where they’d fled to.  He did not probe deeply into the secrets of the place and so never found the entrances into the archives or anything other than the most useless of the treasuries.  His people tore down what they felt were the strongest of the walls, and as they left in pursuit of the main army they destroyed the causeway.  But the secret ways remained unbreached and were used to reenter the fortress and begin setting it to rights.  And by the time they realized that there was almost nothing of true worth amongst the items they’d found in the treasury they could no longer reenter the fortress themselves, having damaged the one path they knew into it.”

            He led the way forward once more, speaking over his shoulder to them as they followed.  “The damage done here was anything but lasting, although it was bad enough, I suppose.  Fire was set in the King’s Hall and in the courts, but such were fed primarily with the furnishings of the place.  Few dwelt here after the drowning of Arvedui in the Bay of Forochel along with his second son Beleg, but never again did the folk of Angmar come here.  And in the last three centuries we have slowly seen it rebuilt and refurnished, and again the heirs of our chieftains have been born here, and we have kept outposts here.  It has been here that the Chieftain’s Second or Steward has primarily dwelt in the past three hundred years, and at times of greatest danger the families of our Chieftains have been sent here for shelter, as was true of old.

            “My grandsire was Steward under Arador, but he died in the same battle as did his Lord.  My father was too young to take on such a duty, and his mother did not wish for him to bear such responsibilities, so Arathorn chose his wife’s brother Halbaleg as his own Steward, and the rest of the war-leaders concurred.  He dwelt in the Angle, however, there north and west of Rivendell, and it was there that Arathorn primarily dwelt, and where his wife chose to retire when she left Rivendell after our Lord Cousin came to his majority and was restored to us.

            “There are Dwarves who now dwell in the mountains to our north and west, and they have done much since Aragorn returned to us to finish the restoration of the keep and its causeway.  My grandmother’s people were from closer to the northeastern borders, and it was there she took my father, to the village and keep her father held.  My father Miringlor succeeded his grandfather as lord of that region, and there we have bred and trained war and hunting hounds.  Halladan came here to oversee the final restoration of the fortress, while his brother Halbarad as Steward after their father kept to his family’s lands in the Angle.  Their sister Areniel is Chatelaine here, and a formidable one she is!  Ah, but you shall meet her soon enough.”

            He led them to the causeway and up it, pointing out the fields that supported the great keep and the herds of cattle.  “Many of these were bred on our farms further north and east,” he explained.  “Always we have bred cattle and swine, and our people have ever been a primary source for fine leathers.  The tanneries are on the eastern side of the village here, there near the river and where the wind bears the odors out, away from the homes of our folk.”

            Alvric was obviously familiar with the Lady Areniel, who proved to be in her early middle years.  At first Denra Gorse could not discern what it was about her that had led Eregiel to call her formidable, for she had a glad beauty to her and ready laughter.  She met the guests to the Keep with great courtesy, calling for a younger woman and several Men to take the luggage and see to the horses.  But when an older boy almost fell into the courtyard, hurrying out to greet Eregiel and Artos, apparently, she froze him with a gaze that had him all but sputtering in apology for failing to behave in a seemly manner.  Denra found she had to stifle a giggle.

            Only when the boy’s stammering fell to silence did Eregiel dare to smile at him.  “It is good to see you also, Lúathor.  And how do you find your duties now that you have been made a page of the Keep?”

            The youth gave Lady Areniel a sideways glance as if begging leave to answer, and at a slight nod he responded, “It is very different from working in the kennels, Eregiel.”  He plainly wished to say more, but didn’t dare.

            “You may lead your kinsman to his quarters,” Lady Areniel told him crisply, “but do not linger overlong.”

            “Yes, my lady,” he sighed.

            “He does come along well,” she commented, once he and Eregiel, followed by the great hound, had crossed the court to a side door, “but he will forget himself.  After his adar’s death he went to live in Miringlor’s keep, where he attached himself to the dogs.  But his father would have wished to see him grow up with at least some manners and proper training, and so it was decided a year ago he should come here to learn decorum and skills of use should Aragorn manage to succeed in renewing the Kingship.  Come--I will show you to the chambers prepared for you.  It was a few days since Glorinlas Gildorion was here to advise us that you would be here probably on this day.  I am amazed, Mistress--Gorse?”  At Denra’s nod, she continued, “I am amazed that you would ride out at this season, as the weather can change so from one day to the next.  And you, Master Alvric--will you teach more classes of Hobbit lawyers, do you think?”

            She led them toward the same door through which Lúathor and Eregiel had disappeared as he made shift to answer.  “At least one more class--perhaps two.  Although Mayor Whitfoot from the Shire has failed to advise me of any more who have expressed interest in learning from me at this time.”

            “Will you return to Gondor, do you think, in the coming spring or summer?”

            “I’m not yet certain,” Alvric said, and Denra caught a sideways glance at herself that caused her heart to leap.  “I had never thought that I might find reason to perhaps remain in the northern lands indefinitely, but----” He shrugged.

            Areniel, who’d fallen back to walk alongside the two of them and before Faradir and Teregion, gave a small smile.  “I see,” she commented.  “You hold property, I understand, Mistress Gorse, there in the Breelands?”

            By the time they reached the room given to Denra’s use she was feeling quite drained.  “This I hope will be suitable, Mistress Denra,” said Lady Areniel.  “Teregion, if you will remain with her to see that she is suitably settled?  You and your father will be staying in the room you usually inhabit during your visits.”  Having seen to it this guest was now properly situated, she turned to the realm’s lawyer.  “Master Alvric--will the same room in which you stayed the last time be suitable?”  At his nod of assent she smiled.  “Then I will see you to your room.  It is this way....” 

            With a quick glance of apology, Alvric was led away to his fate, or so Denra found herself considering it.   She glanced at the youth who stood patiently by her.  “Is she always like this?” she asked, nodding after the lawyer and his dog as they trailed after their hostess.

            “Lady Areniel?  I’m afraid so.  She is very impressed by Master Alvric, particularly as he was chosen by Aragorn himself to come here to help educate the lawyers of the Shire and Breelands.  She very much wishes to be certain anyone who appears to be interested in him is quite worthy of him, I think.”

            “She’s not----”

            “Areniel--drawn to Master Alvric?  No, I don’t think so.  I mean, she’s not had her heart stirred as yet by any here within the lands we’ve ever held; but I’ve not seen the quickening in her eyes that would show she might have seen him in that light.  Nay, I suspect it is that she merely has become rather jealous for him as would any sister or close kinswoman, as she was with my father, I’m told, when he first thought to marry my mother.”

            Somewhat reassured, Denra actually entered the room and looked it over.  “The stonework looks quite new here,” she commented.

            “Oh, but it is.  This wing has been finished only for three months.  They have labored over it for close to a year, rebuilding and refitting much of the hindward sections of the building, the Men and Dwarves who together have been restoring the Keep.  And now there are pipes for water to this wing--pipes and pumps and drains--the Dwarves refused to work on it unless those were addressed from the beginning.  They told us that to do otherwise would be an insult to the craft of building.  And there’s a small boiler in each bathing room so that heated water does not have to be carried from the kitchens.  There are three wells for the entire keep, and now a great cesspit dug down in the lower valley that there be no midden smell and drawing of flies.”

            He drew her over to the window to the room, indicating the fortifications that could be seen.  “Much of the back part of the keep was destroyed by the Enemy when the Witch-king’s forces took the fortress a thousand years back.  They could not come up by way of the causeway at first, so built a great ramp of their own, though it took months to accomplish.  When one has slaves by the thousands and countless orcs at ones disposal, one can do things like that, I suppose.  You can see where it was that they built the ramp, there on the eastern side of the front of the fortress, and then destroyed it afterwards that the defenders could not return by way of it.  But some were able to scale the heights behind the fortress, and rained great boulders on the keep.  It is said that they brought frost giants from the Misty Mountains, but Aragorn and the sons of Elrond say that isn’t true--that the giants are too slow of wit to use to any such purpose.”

            “There are giants in this world?” Denra asked, surprised.

            “Yes, so Master Bilbo has told me--he and the Dwarves had to dodge the boulders they threw one at another.  I would have thought it but a story, but when I asked our Lord Kinsman about it he said that, yes, there are giants, but that they live only in the highest of the passes and ordinarily are awake only in the fall and spring--that they do not appear to waken to play at their rough games with one another when it is very warm or very cold that he is aware.  And the sons of Elrond have said the same.  Lord Elladan has told me that there are not as many giants now as once there were.  But although they will on occasion take delight at rolling great stones down narrow defiles at unwary travelers, both he and his brother say that rarely do they appear to pay much attention to the Elves’ patrols.  Nor had the Enemy luck at using them for his own purposes, for they have little in the way of language, and are not as violent as trolls or orcs, nor able to keep their minds on one thing for long at a time.  But then neither trolls nor orcs are particularly clever--only sufficiently clever and full of envy and hatred for others and hunger for flesh that they may be led or driven to do the will of a sufficiently ruthless master.”

            “Have you ever seen an orc?” she asked him.

            “Oh, yes--that was why I was taken to Rivendell.  A band of orcs attacked some of us who were fetching wood from the forest south of our village, and I was struck by an orc arrow, one whose point had been smeared with vile things.  The wound festered, and they must take me to Rivendell to be healed by Lord Elrond.  While I lay recovering Master Bilbo sat by me many times and would tell me stories.  He was the first to tell me of Lord Frodo--although he was not Lord Frodo as yet.  As a young Hobbit apparently Lord Frodo was in many ways far too clever, and was often busy scrumping from the farmers of the Marish.  But then he was caught stealing mushrooms from one farmer, and from that day on he did not scrump again--not that Master Bilbo knew about, at least.  And when other Hobbit boys would tease him he would play tricks upon them and make it appear that they had themselves sought to play the trick, only they were not clever enough to follow through with it.”

            “Lads,” she corrected, automatically.  “Young Hobbits are lads and lasses, not boys and girls.  And this Bilbo knew Lord Frodo as a child?”

            “Well, yes, for he is a Hobbit of the Shire himself, and Lord Frodo’s older cousin.  He is Bilbo Baggins.”

            She looked at him closely.  “What is a Hobbit of the Shire doing in the Elves’ place?” she asked.

            “He has dwelt there since he left the Shire when he turned a hundred and eleven, and Lord Frodo came of age.”

            “But why there?”

            “When I asked him that he gave an answer that was confusing--I did not think that he truly understood why himself--not then, at least.  Now all appear certain it was because of the effect the Enemy’s Ring had upon him.  After all, he found It and carried It upon his person for better than half his life, until he left the Shire and gave It into his young cousin’s hands.

            “He was an old Hobbit, yet did not appear as old as many older Hobbits I have seen in Bree who have not yet turned a hundred.  Lord Halladan, however, has said that once the Ring was destroyed he began to truly show his age.  They tell me that It had a virtue to prolong life unnaturally.  They say that he is fortunate he took no greater evil from It.” 

            He looked out at what could be seen of the keep from the window.   “He was a fine one to listen to, Master Bilbo.  He made it easier for me to remain in bed and allow my wound to heal.  And my adar has said that Lord Frodo is much the same, also born to be a teller of tales.”

            Now he turned to smile at her.  “I’ve thought of another thing that might be worrying at Areniel--Lady Mirieth, the wife to Halladan, is to arrive on the morrow, accompanied by her son.  Mirieth was mistress here while Halladan was Lord of Fornost, but now has her own house within Annúminas.  Areniel will wish both to show proper honor, but also to prove her keeping of the Keep is somehow equal to or better than that of her brother’s wife.  Pray forgive her if she appears perhaps distracted or her temper perhaps a bit short, for I suspect a part of her mind is on tomorrow’s advent.”

*******

            Lord Halladan, who had ridden out to one of the nearby villages hidden within the folds of the low mountains that surrounded Fornost, arrived an hour before sunset, greeting Alvric and Denra both warmly.  “Your journey was not too arduous?  I am glad you had but the one day of rain, and that but fleeting showers.  And this is your first journey outside the Breelands, Mistress Gorse?” 

            The evening meal was pleasantly taken in a smaller chamber away from the great halls.  After the Standing Silence Lord Halladan sat with a sigh of relief.  “I know that I will make the journey between here and Gondor probably many times before I might entrust such errands to Berevrion and Hildigor, remaining comfortably in my own house within Annúminas, but I find myself tiring of being ever in the saddle.”

            “You must travel so far?” Denra asked between sips at her soup.

            “I administer our lands from Imladris west to Lindon and from the border of Angmar to Tharbad.  There was a fearful flood that washed away much of Tharbad a few years ago, but most of its inhabitants survived, and have been rebuilding their town since.  South of Tharbad has been land of questionable ownership for many centuries, but Aragorn has indicated he will claim it under the protection of Arnor, which I am certain will please none within Dunland.  Within what was Rhudaur many lordless Men once gathered, and most were allied with Sauron.  However, the greater part of the population of that land perished during the final battles with the Witch-king of Angmar, much as our own people suffered likewise.  We have endured, but only by retreating northward and eastward.  Now we can and will come out of hiding, and will once again see Eriador populated and thriving, and Arnor fully restored as a kingdom.”

            After the meal was finished Lord Halladan led the guests of the keep to a hallway on the westward side of the building, off which rooms, the rearmost ones apparently carved out of the living stone of the mountain itself, opened.  “These were the armories and some of the storerooms for the keep,” he explained.  “The stairway to the lesser treasuries is down that way, and the one to the prison rooms dug into the foundations of the mountain over there.  It appears that this particular hallway goes no further, except----”  He led them to what appeared to be the end of the hallway itself, where a narrow window looked into the valley below from a wall built out from the buttressing mountainside.  An apparent outcrop of the stone of the mountain had been carved into the representation of a great pillar about which ivy twined, each leaf so perfectly crafted Denra almost expected to see them quiver from the breeze entering through the adjacent window.

            “The Dwarves who helped in the restoration were intrigued by this outcrop and the carving here; it didn’t take long for them to establish that a set of Dwarf doors had been built here, and that they were keyed with an Elvish opening spell.”  He placed his fingers on either side of a larger ivy leaf and murmured, “Edro ben ghalad.”  A gentle pull, and two leaves of a curved door opened silently, revealing a set of circular stairs beyond them.  A stack of torches lay in a niche to their left as they stepped through; the Man took one up, and using a tinderbox soon had it burning.  He nodded to them, and they followed him down into the depths of the mountain, until at last he led them out into a great room with high ceilings carved indeed from the mountain itself, the pillars upholding the roof carved in the likenesses of massive trees.  Between the pillars stood shelves also carved of stone, filled with ancient tomes and crates of scrolls and scroll carriers.

            “There are light and ventilation shafts here,” Halladan explained, “with carefully wrought screens to keep out insects and vermin.  The newly discovered section is over here.”  He led them further along the near wall until they came to two sets of shelves at angles to one another.  He grasped the lip of one of the shelves and pulled, and again it swung out easily.  Again he led them inside.  “The doors to the greater treasuries were hidden within the lesser treasuries; that the Dwarves assisted in constructing such hidden places and apparently the great Elves placed the spells of opening on them was only to be expected, I suppose.  Berevrion, when he can take time to begin cataloguing these new scrolls and records, will be overwhelmed, I think.”

            Here they were deep under the mountain, and Lord Halladan set the torch in an ancient bracket upon the wall, picked up a long splinter from a stone jar and lit it from the torch, then used it to light the wicks of a series of lamps.  Once each of them held a lamp, they set out to examine the shelves that ran about the walls and the few that stood here and there within the room.

            Apparently scrolls considered highly important had been kept in this room, most of them protected within metal scroll carriers.  “I’ve opened two,” the Dúnedan said softly, “both of which appear to have come originally from Númenor itself.  Here, apparently, were kept the oldest of the records of Elendil’s own folk.”

            Denra could see the awe in the eyes of the lawyer this news brought, and saw him reach out a single finger and with it stroke one of the metal tubes reverently.  The name of Elendil had no real associations for Denra herself, but she could certainly appreciate that these scrolls were truly ancient, and the carefully wrought metal carriers in which they were kept were often works of art.  One had a carefully wrought blossom at the end and leaves embossed on its sides.  Another was decorated with entwined vines with leaves and small flowers with an oak leaf on the end.  A third appeared to have a soaring bird upon it, and the head of an eagle on the end.  “They are beautiful!” she said in a soft voice.

            “How many are of Númenorean workmanship and how many are from Lindon or Mithlond or Rivendell I cannot say,” Halladan said, and she could hear the pride in his voice.  “But these are undoubtedly among the most important records we possess.  Many of them were probably brought here from Annúminas before the city was abandoned, although there are some records that remain there as well.”

            “Much as the records of Osgiliath were moved to the archives dug into the caverns beneath Minas Tirith,” Alvric commented.

            “Even so,” the Steward of Arnor agreed.

            By the time they ascended to the upper levels of the keep once more Denra was, for the first time in her life, beginning to appreciate just how long the history of this land actually had been, and she was finding herself feeling rather overwhelmed.  The lawyer and the three older Dúnedain had opened one scroll and carefully stretched it over a table, reading from it as best they could.  It had turned out to be a record of the marriages of the kings of the realm of Arthedain and later Arnor as reconstituted under Malvegil, complete with dates.  Together Halladan, Eregiel, and Alvric read through the list, commenting on the various lands from which their queens had come.  There were many from within Arnor itself; but a surprising number had come from the south kingdom, from Dor-en-Ernil, from Dol Amroth, even from a place known as Umbar; and more than Alvric had ever realized from the daughters of younger children of the southern Kings. 

            “I had no idea,” he murmured as he began counting up the list, “how many of our lesser princesses had come northward.  I’d not come across many of these names.  That the granddaughter of Atanatar Alcarin was a queen of Arnor is not known in Gondor.  And here is a note that Berienthiel, the sister of Eldecar, married a lord from Calenhardon, and that her daughter Anidril married Araphor of Arthedain.  I’d seen no record that Eldecar even had a sister!  Perhaps only the fact that she dwelt in Calenhardon saved her from the hatred of Castamir and his followers--had they dwelt in Lebennin, Lamedon, Lossarnach, or even Anórien it is likely the entire family would have been hunted out and all slain with violence, so great was the hatred Castamir held for the children of Valacar.  The death of Eldecar’s older son at the hands of Castamir was among the greatest tragedies in the history of Gondor.”

            Halladan nodded.  “Nor was it only lesser princesses that chose to marry into our lineage.  Arassuil, the one chieftain of our folk prior to Aragorn himself to spend time in Gondor during his younger days, married Gilmoreth, the granddaughter of Ecthelion the First, Ruling Steward of Gondor.” 

            Alvric appeared to be totally surprised by that.  “Oh, sweet Valar!  I doubt that our Lord Steward Denethor was aware that his rival Thorongil was in fact a distant cousin!  He would have been appalled, and, I suspect, most affronted had he known.”

            Halladan had laughed as he carefully rerolled the scroll they’d been studying and saw it returned to its carrier, one with a single star on each end and seven stars in a circle worked into the metal of the tube that held it.

            Not long after they emerged from the archives, Denra excused herself and retreated to her room, feeling at one and the same time a sense of unreality to realize she indeed would sleep within the keep that had once housed the ancient kings and in which she’d been told their new King himself had been born, and yet a feeling of home-comfort she would never have thought to know in such a place.  The bedstead was rather plain, save for the star carved into the center of its headboard and the two trees, one on each side of it; and she found it reminded her of the bedstead her parents had slept in when she was a girl, the one now Alvric slept in in Fell’s old room.  The chests might be more highly carved than she was accustomed to, but they were of familiar woods and smelled of the same oils with which she polished the furniture within her own house.  A bowl upon a table held a mixture of dried blossoms and cones from evergreen trees such as she herself set out in each room of her own home, and the pitcher and bowl set appeared to have been brought from the marketplace of Bree itself--she was unsurprised to see the sign of one of the potters from Staddle upon it.

            A royal keep it might be, but it was kept by practical enough folk, she thought as she slipped on her nightdress and brushed her hair a final time before slipping between the sheets.  They’d been rinsed in lavender water, she realized; and as she fell asleep she was smiling at the comfort of the familiar odor.

*******

            It took her no time at all to realize she quite liked Lady Mirieth; and if Lady Areniel was attempting to offer her brother’s wife a degree of competition in the manner in which she administered the Keep of Fornost, Lady Mirieth was quite blithely--and probably intentionally--refusing to recognize that there was indeed a contest going in the mind of her kinswoman.  Instead she inspected the work that had been finished since the last time she’d been there and lavished praise on Areniel for the use of both local products and imports from elsewhere.  “Aragorn always did feel that the pottery from Bree was far better for use in washstands than that done by Berestor’s family,” she commented as she approved the basin and ewer set in Denra’s room.  “They make some wonderful platters and bowls and mugs; but their ewers lack a certain delicacy, I think.  And Aragorn has always felt the porcelains of the Hobbits are best of all for tableware.  Excellently done!”

            What could Lady Areniel do in the face of such praise but blush and smile?  At one point Denra and Alvric both purposely lagged behind the two ladies, and once they were safely beyond hearing both of them broke down into helpless laughter until they were clinging to one another to keep themselves standing--and then somehow they were kissing....

            When they were quite sated by that kiss they pulled apart, their eyes shining as they examined one another, Denra finding herself supremely happy and Alvric looking somehow surprised and smug at the same time.  Once again Denra found herself doing her best to suppress the desire to laugh, this time in sheer delight.

            “I see,” said a voice, equally amused.  “And shall I have the pleasure and honor of joining the two of you, then?”

            Lord Halladan had paused in the doorway by which they’d entered this room following their hostess and Lady Mirieth, Faradir and Eregiel both behind him, looking over his shoulders.  Denra felt her cheeks grow heated with surprise, but Alvric, looking more delighted than ever, was pulling her to his side, his arm about her.  “I would be most honored should you do so,” he said, “although I must admit we hadn’t quite got to the question as yet.”

            Smiling as he led his companions fully into the room, Lord Halladan gave each another swift evaluation.  “I doubt that there is any question of her answer,” he said.  “And a likely pair the two of you make.  You shall certainly give the worthies of Bree much to discuss, I’d think.  And where would the two of you dwell--here in the northlands or there in Gondor, or would you travel between the two realms?  Ah, but perhaps I am pushing things yet a bit--Mirieth advises me often I have such a tendency.”

            There was a skittering of nails--apparently their hostesses had reached the hallway where Alvric slept and had opened his door, releasing Holby to find his master.  Then the small dog was there, jumping up with his forepaws on Alvric’s knee.  While the three Men filed into the room Denra did her best to recover her composure.  “I apologize for what might seem unseemly behavior,” she began, but she was cut off by a negligent wave of Halladan’s hand.

            “Nothing to worry about,” he assured her.  “If you might have seen Mirieth and me in our day seeking places of sufficient privacy to share a kiss--it appeared that we couldn’t find a place so hidden that we wouldn’t be stumbled upon by Areniel or Hardorn--or Aragorn himself.  I swear those three took fiendish delight in ‘accidentally’ finding us at such times.  And Aragorn knew well enough that as his own beloved dwelt in Imladris or spent time in her daernaneth’s realm of Lothlórien that I was in little danger of returning the compliment--although I did one time manage to open a drape within one withdrawing room within Imladris to reveal them to her father and brethren.  Most satisfying!

            “But to return to the two of you--oh, but I must suppose that as the question hadn’t yet been asked you’ve not settled on where or when?”

            Alvric shared a concerned look with Denra.  “Well, it can’t be here and now--Carnation would have my guts for garters were we to not involve her and her family!”

            Denra began, “But she doesn’t wear stockings----” then settled into another helpless bout of laughter.

*******

            The next day they set off toward Annúminas, and they were soon enough approaching the site of the ancient city, seeing the buildings once again rising over the partially cleared ruins.  There were a number of new houses and compounds near the core of the city in the midst of which a great complex was rising on the knoll about which the ancient capital had risen.  “That is the site of the Citadel that we are raising once more,” he said with quiet pride.  “The original city was laid out in the shape of a five-pointed star in memory of foundered Númenor, with great parklands lying between its arms.  I suppose we shall see it renewed in that manner as well, although there is much to be removed from a couple of what again will be green places.  Although perhaps we shall allow the fortress of Arador to stand as a retreat for the King and Queen when they feel the need to flee from public display.  It stands near the lake itself, and is not easily approached.  It was being built at the time he died; and although Arathorn saw to it the keep was finished, he never dwelt there.  I think Aragorn has entered it a time or two; but although he gave orders that caretakers be found for it, it’s remained empty.  It has the promise of wonderful grounds to it, though, and will probably prove to be the place where they will most happily host guests, once it is properly fitted out.”

            Along the southwestern streets could be found the quarters for those who worked on the city, and the first shops were being erected on the southeastern side.  “The city appears already to be falling into its original pattern,” they were told.  “Workmen and most craftsmen to the southwest; merchants to the southeast, tanners at the southeastern tip of the city; the great market here at the joint between southern two arms where they meet and the Road enters from the south; and residential sections in the three northern arms.  It shall be a great place once more, and a worthy capital for the kingdom renewed Aragorn has foreseen.”

            Hildigor, who’d ridden ahead, greeted them at the door with such a serious demeanor it might have been months since they last saw one another rather than a matter of a few hours.  As he bowed them in with great courtesy Halladan whispered into Denra’s ear, “He has his mother’s great sense of mischief, you see.  Courteous to a fault, but also delighting in indulging his great sense of humor.  And Mirieth loves it in him.  You noted how well she played upon Areniel there at Fornost, did you not?  Ah, but I was certain you had spotted that!  Very clever one, my beloved helpmeet!”

            Here they spent three days, and while Alvric met with various officials of the north-kingdom Mirieth led Denra throughout the burgeoning city.  Weaving halls had already been built, and were filled with life and movement.  “We buy much of our wool from the Shire and the Breelands,” she explained over the clatter of shuttles and hettles.  “I doubt the Thain truly appreciates where so much of the thread spun within the Tooklands fetches up.  It was Gerontius Took who first approached us about trading wool to us for leathers back in Arador’s day.  I’m certain Gandalf had a good deal to do with helping set up that arrangement, of course.  But a certain amount of woolen thread goes to a buyer in the Northfarthing who sees it carried over the borders there to a small village kept by the wives of some of our Rangers who serve most about the borders of the Shire and the Breelands, taking back with him stores of leathers.  Many of the women of the village are dyers, and we’ve had a few excellent weavers amongst them.  What thread and yarns they didn’t work themselves they sent further north and east to our other villages.  Although I think it will be well to do more of our purchasing openly now.  Halladan has spoken warmly of a conference held in Minas Tirith in which such trade was discussed, with Peregrin Took as Heir to the Thain speaking for the Shire and Meriadoc Brandybuck speaking for Buckland.”

*******

            By the time the visit was over, Denra was feeling surfeited with information and images.  How little the folk of Bree realized how much the Rangers’ people had secretly supported them as well as protected them over the centuries.  How was it that Thain Gerontius Took and now Thain Paladin and Master Saradoc’s sons had such clearer understanding of the need for trade with the Dúnedain than her own folk had ever realized?

            There was no question that the folk she met here were respectful toward her as a Breelander, and spoke with greatest honor of those who lived within the Shire.  Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc were spoken of with greatest respect, while Lords Frodo and Samwise were mentioned with almost awe.  She met a Ranger she’d not seen for several years, one of those who’d ridden south to Lord Aragorn’s needs and who’d been injured in the battle before the Black Gates, returning with much of one arm gone.  “I would have died then had Lords Frodo and Samwise not come at that moment into the Sammath Naur,” he said with quiet dignity.  “When the Ring went into the Fire the troll who’d cut my shield hand from my arm and who’d been ready to reach down and lift me up to bite out my throat suddenly turned, dropping his weapon and fleeing away.  Unfortunately it fell on my lower arm, and in the end Aragorn had to cut it from me that it not grow further gangrenous and lead to my death; but I healed well and fully, and was able to stand as one of the guards before the enclosure raised to the privacy of the two Periannath lords during their own recovery.”

            He’d given a soft laugh.  “Lord Frodo was most upset to have any guard put upon him, and particularly when he realized I’d lost a hand and yet served him.  That I owed him my life and my wife and children owed him the continued comfort of husband and father took much to impress upon him, I fear.  And although I doubt any there would have dreamed to cause them harm, yet there were those, mostly younger folk among the soldiers of Gondor but at least one of our own, who would have desired to stand over them as they slept and perhaps taken locks of hair as talismans, giving them no true peace or privacy.  There was one I had to pull out by his ankle as he sought to crawl under the canvas....”

            The importance of the fight against the forces of darkness had impressed themselves upon her at the last, and much she now had heard of those who’d been taken who’d proved to have penetrated the Shire during the Time of Troubles.  During their last night there one of those who’d been most recently captured was brought before Halladan for interrogation and judgment.

            This had been a true Man, one from the nearly empty lands of Rhudaur where his people had sought to build a life for himself.  “Not fer me--grubbin’ the ground and ’erdin’ beasts,” he’d spat.  “When Sharkey’s folks come, lookin’ fer Men t’ front fer ’em, I was happy ’nough ter go, I was.  Come north ter Bree, stayed a time in Archet ter spy’t out, then follered Sharkey’s own folks inter the Shire.  Ended up in what they calls Michel Delvin’, keepin’ the Lockholes fer ’em.  Now, some o’ them ugly ones ’d think it great sport ter terrerize the ratlin’s, but I didn’t hold wi’ that.  Once they come ter me I’d see’em inside the Lockholes and fit doors ter the cells, but less’n they was likely ter know somethin’ ’bout them as went out ther Shire or was thievin’ from the Gatherers ’n’ Sharers or stores as we’d set up fer the loot I’d not let ’em rough ’em up too much.  Kept the torches burnin’ and saw to’t as water and mayhaps some food was got ter the pris’ners, like.”

            “Did you see to it they were all treated well?”

            “Well?  They was pris’ners, see?  Yer doesn’t treat pris’ners well!  But yer doesn’t jus’ beat on’em jus’ ’cause, neither.”

            Had he given any prisoners special preference?

            Yes, the former mayor--his wife had begged him, after all.  Couldn’t give him much more food than the others, but he’d seen to it he had fresh water daily, although he’d not tried to protect him much from those who’d come to question him about the possible doings of the four missing Hobbits the Chief had wanted so, or the movements of the rebels who preyed on gathered goods.  “Course he’d of known nuttin’ o’ them,” he’d noted reasonably.  “Him was in prison weeks’n’ weeks afore them was busy.”

            Had he taken part in the deaths of any of the Hobbits of the Shire and the Breelands?

            “One in ther Breelands, I did--a Man, though.  Farmer, I think, as were watchin’ us and warnin’ those in Bree isself.  We killed him--me mate ’n’ me.  And helped hang a Took as they’d caught, once.  Was amongst the rebels, he was.”

            The final judgment of death failed to surprise any but the prisoner himself.  Denra felt sick as Alvric accompanied her back to her room where she sat crying.  “You think as it was Fell as he helped kill?” she kept asking.

            In the end he and Lady Mirieth stayed by her through much of the night.  They’d left the following day at about midmorning.  Before their horses were brought Halladan, who’d been absent so far all morning, arrived, his face solemn.  He held in his hands a small leather bag.  “I was wondering if you might recognize any of these items, Mistress Gorse, and if you’d be willing to carry what you don’t recognize to Barliman Butterbur as headman of the Breelands?”

            One thing she wore now about her neck as they rode southwards--the leather thong and ancient arrowhead Fell had worn ever since the day when he was twelve and she was nine when he’d found it along the bank of one of the streams that fed westward toward the Brandywine.  Apparently it had been taken from him as he lay dying or dead, struck down by the ruffian whose trial she’d witnessed.  She didn’t ask how they’d retrieved it, and Halladan had failed to volunteer the information.  She wasn’t satisfied by the finding of the one who’d killed her brother, she found--she didn’t want justice for Fell’s death; she wanted him back instead, she realized.  For some reason she couldn’t fathom the fact that at least one of the killers had been identified and tried and faced (or maybe had already known) punishment gave her no reassurance.  She was glad only that he’d never hurt another as her brother, the folk of the Shire, and she had been hurt by him.  Otherwise, knowing this only served to leave her feeling depressed as she’d not been since news had come that Fell himself had been found dead.

            By the fourth day her heaviness of spirit was pushed aside by considerations of weather, however.  At midmorning the buildup of clouds over the past three days finally let out a deluge, and by the time they reached the shelter of the next waystation all were soaking wet.  Questions of modesty were put aside as all stripped off their outermost layers of clothing and saw them hung near the hearth where they dried and warmed.  Nor was the clothing within her pack in much better shape, she realized, as the top flap had apparently blown loose in the wind that had preceded the rain and the garments within had soaked up the cold rain.  Alvric provided her a shirt of his to wear over her shift, and Teregion had provided her with some trousers to wear, although they had to be rolled up considerably if she were not to trip upon them.

            A warming drink was brewed by Faradir, and added to by Eregiel from a flask he carried; by the time Teregion had a meal prepared all felt considerably better, and she found comfort sitting by Alvric with his arm about her, gently tracing the outline of Fell’s arrowhead with one finger through the cloth of the shirt she wore while Holby lay solidly in her lap.

            On the seventh day they rode down toward the river, seeking shelter from the continuing storm within the farm of Boboli Hedges.

A Decidedly Mannish Hobbit Hole

            As they wound down the track from the road they could hear the yapping of a small dog; and soon they were met by children and a ratter, Teo, Lilia, and Anemone having come out to meet them, the children all closely wrapped in heavy cloaks, their hoods up over their heads, Lilia carrying the family’s one umbrella, one purchased long ago from folk who’d traded out of the Shire.

            “Our dad’s out in the fields with our older brother,” Lilia explained as she led them to the smial.  “A tree fell two nights since and took out part of the fence the two o’ them built fer Maddie, our milk cow.  She’s got out, she has, and they’s tryin’ t’find her an’ bring her back safe.  She’s a sweet one, she is, but not always that smart.”

            They led their horses to the barn that had been raised over the summer, saw them unladen, swiftly dried and brushed and covered with warmed pony blankets Teoro brought for them, and given a good feed and clean water before following Teo back through the storm to the doorway.  “I’ll go see if I can help Mr. Hedges,” Teregion suggested, and at a nod of approval from his father he pulled his hood once more over his head and headed off the way indicated by Teo.

            “We bought the door from a carpenter Dad knows Archet-way,” Teo said proudly as he opened it and ushered them inside, closing it only when both Lister and Holby were well within.  “Dad decided as he was goin’ t’do it all up right, with good brass fittin’s and all.  It’s a bit bigger’n what we’d thought t’have, so ye shouldn’t have t’duck down so much t’get through it, I’d think.  We got a good price fer much of the extra beets as Dad planted  in the fields, so’s we could afford it.  Dad took the portion o’ the crops intended fer rents t’the Brandywine Bridge three weeks back, an’ the Master’s own brother was there t’accept it for Master Frodo, so’s that’s taken care of proper.”

            “You met Master Frodo, didn’t you?” asked Alvric as he helped Denra off with her cloak and hung it on one of the pegs in the entrance way as indicated by Lilia.

            “Yes,” Teo said as he removed his own cloak, and they could see the surcoat he wore under it.  “This was his, it was.  Left it in Bree--said as he didn’t wish t’appear more differnt’n him already was, once he got home.  I won’t be able to wear’t much longer, though--am startin’ t’grow again.  Too bad--it’s right beautiful, it is.”

            Faradir looked at it thoughtfully.  “King Thranduil brought it to him as a gift from Eryn Lasgalen.  As it’s Elf-made, it will most likely last far longer than you do, my lad.”

            Teo looked at him with interest.  “Is it really?” he asked.  “I’ve seen Elves now--saw a few crossin’ our fields toward the river.  Don’t know as how they’d get ’cross it, but they was headed west toward the Shire.”

            The Ranger smiled.  “They have their ways, the Elves do.  We’re fortunate that those who dwell yet within Eriador are faithful to the Valar and are willing to share what blessings they can.  They love the unspoiled places in this world, and appear particularly to appreciate what the folk of the Shire have made of their land.”

            “When we went through the Shire we saw as lots o’ their trees had been cut down, and there was smials as had been dug out and some houses ’n’ inns as had been burnt, though most o’ the places had been rebuilt or fixed up.  ’Twas bad ’nough for us, seein’ our house and barn burnt down an’ our mum hurt as she was.  But they saw it time’n’ time again, or so ’twould seem.  D’ye understand as why them’d do that, Mr. Faradir, sir?”

            Faradir sighed and shook his head.  “We know not--not for certain.  Only we know that Saruman had been caught by the conceits of both Ring and the Dark Lord, and apparently thought to vanquish Sauron and set himself in his place.  He could not find the Ring, and his Uruk-hai caught not Lords Iorhael and Perhael with It but Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc instead, who roused the Ents of Fangorn Forest to march out against Saruman’s treachery.  So it was that Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc were there to see Saruman’s might brought low and himself captured within his own tower, unable to further betray others; and they bore witness to his humiliation by Mithrandir when his staff was broken and he was cast out of the order of which he’d been head.  His anger was great; but with his power diminished what vengeance could he take against Mithrandir who had been set over him, or the Elves who disdained him, or the Man who aided the king of Rohan to vanquish his mighty army and who was now High King over Arnor and Gondor and the rest of the Men of the West?  So he chose to punish what he thought of as the least of those who had seen his fall from power.

            “Yet he again undervalued those who appear small and weak and defenseless, never realizing that you hold within you strength the likes of which he cannot appreciate.  He sent his baser servants here to the north, in hopes of gaining a foothold somewhere; and it would have sealed his conceits of himself as the most clever of souls to think he had defied Mithrandir by ruining the land of his friends.  Long and long, according to what Master Bilbo told my son, has Mithrandir known folks of the Shire and watched over them and their land; it was at Mithrandir’s behest we strengthened our watch over their borders when Master Bilbo left the Shire and again before Lord Iorhael brought the Ring out of it.”

            They’d moved from the entry into the family parlor as Faradir spoke, and now they took places about the room.  There were a few benches that were suitable for Men, Boboli and Holdfast having made such things once they’d made their agreement to allow the King’s folks to rest there on occasion.  “We’ve done half the plasterin’ as we plan t’do,” Teo commented.  “Still got a good deal t’finish.”

            A floor of wood planks had been laid, and over it lay a fine rag rug in warm browns and shades of gold.  A separate hearthrug sat before the fireplace, and on it lay the two small dogs side by side, Lister leaning over to clean Holby’s eyes for him.

            “Our Nuncle Eboli brought the sofa from Bree,” Anemone explained importantly.  “’Twas his wife’s brother’s, but he died three year back, him did.  It’s right comfy, it is.  Dad ’n’ Teo made the new table, an’ the new chairs come from Archet.  An’ Lilia made the new curtains from fabric our aunt sent over.  An’t they pretty?”

            “Mister Merimac Brandybuck give us the china ornament,” Teo added.  “Said as Master Frodo sent it  ’n’ asked him to give it to us.  Said as Master Frodo got it at the Free Fair in Michel Delving and wanted us to have it, for the new hole ’n’ all.

            On the mantel shelf over the carefully constructed fireplace stood a figure of a shepherdess and a sheep.  Denra leaned over it to examine it.  “It’s very pretty,” she said.  Indeed the coloring of the item was quite delicate and most deftly done.  “Was it made in the Shire?”

            “I think so--has the Took mark on it, it does, so ’twas made probably somewhere near Tuckborough, I s’pose.”

            She realized that this was a Hobbit shepherdess--no improbable blue slippers such as she was used to seeing painted on such figures--the toes were bare save for indication of Hobbit hair over the tops of the feet.  She found herself smiling at it.

            The second, more formal parlor didn’t have the laid flooring seen in the family parlor; here the floor was formed of carefully placed tiles of many colors showing a bird on a bough in the center surrounded by a great circle of leaves, vines, and flowers.  “We’ve seen so few of such mosaic floors in the ruins of ancient halls,” Faradir was saying as they were joined by Teregion, Boboli, and Holdfast.  “This is one of the most complete we’ve seen.  From what we can gather, this was probably the site of the manor solar, and we’re increasingly certain this wasn’t just a working farm but probably also a royal retreat as well.  It would explain better how it came to be part of the Queen’s dower lands.”

            “A queen owned this bit o’ land, did she?” asked Holdfast.

            “It was a royal holding, and given as part of the lands endowed on the royal princess when she left her father’s home to marry the Prince of Arthedain, intended to be part of her dowry to bring into the marriage.”

            The young Hobbit’s face cleared--now that he understood just what dower lands were, he had a better appreciation of how the new King had come to hold title to the property.  “So, him didn’t want the lands no more?”

            “Our Lord Chieftain Aragorn--now our Lord King--holds title to most of the lands his ancestors administered; and the majority of those lands within Arnor have lain idle for close to a thousand years, sometimes more.  They are scattered throughout Eriador, you see, and there’s been no means of seeing them properly settled and generating food or industry until now.  It will take probably a good century to see most of Arnor resettled and ordered once more, in fact. 

            “Originally these lands served to provide the King of Arnor with food and so on.  As King and guardian, the King has traditionally little time to do farming for his own family and retainers; nor has he had the chance to mine the mountains for metals to use in trade, weaponry, and tools, or to procure or manufacture other needed materials himself.  So the lord’s rents have ever served to help provide the King with what he needs for his own family, with hopefully enough left over for him to store against need for himself or the people at large. 

            “When someone is made a lord of the realm it is customary to give that individual lands that could potentially generate goods or food for the good of all and to help support the new lord as well, who is, typically speaking, serving the realm at large and so also has little chance to provide all for himself and his retainers.  Therefore when Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee were made the Lords Iorhael and Perhael Aragorn granted to them certain lands he’d held and some that had fallen vacant as the lords who’d administered them in the past had died with no heirs.  Thus they are provided for in keeping with their stations, and the tenants of those lands know their protection and guidance and support in return.”

            “They are supposed to protect us?” Boboli asked, curious.

            “In theory, at least--or they are to provide for your protection.  Of course, as neither of them is a warrior, neither is likely to come stand guard on your property himself.  However, considering the great debt we owe to them, we of the Dúnedain are proud to do so for their sakes.  There are three more plats of land in this area that belong to the two of them, and others further north; then there are lands within Gondor that also belong to them.  I believe all of those lands are tenanted, and the rents or the Lord’s share of the goods produced on them are collected and held or distributed in accordance with their directives.  If there comes a year when your harvests are blighted, it will be partly the lord’s duty to see to it you are succored during the lean months and to help you obtain seed for the year to come.  It is for this reason a lord may hold lands that are widely separated, for a harvest may be lean in one region while it might be abundant in another.”

            The farmer and his older son looked to one another.  “I see,” Boboli said thoughtfully.  “It’s like ownin’ farm shares within the Shire, then, or a silent partnership.  The one with the share or holdin’ the partnership helps keep the business goin’, and gets part o’ his own food or money for his own needs in return.”

            Alvric nodded.  “Indeed, Master Hedges.”

            “Seems more sensible-like now as we understand more,” Bob added.

            The rest of the smial was inspected as far as it had gone to date.  “’Tis a big ’nough place as will support quite a few,” Boboli said proudly.  “If’n they doesn’t want to leave, all the childern can bring their husbands or wives here, and we can house ’em all.  This hill will be able to support a big smial--mayhaps not as big as the Great Smial in the Tooklands or Brandy Hall, but big ’nough.”

            Denra found the smial fascinating.  The lowest ceiling appeared to be in the kitchen.  “We dug this afore we understood as we might be called upon to house Men here,” Bob explained, looking about the room critically.  “Mayhaps we’ll do some additional work here--am’t completely happy with the window, don’t ye see.  Could be larger and mayhaps better placed if’n I was to move it, say, so much this way.”  He demonstrated.

            “’Cause the rooms is higher’n normal for a regular smial, we’ve had t’think of ways to make certain as they get warm enough when it’s cold,” Holdfast explained as he showed them one of the bedrooms.  “Larger hearths help, but I thought o’ this idea, t’use tubes in the chimbly that’ll warm the air, and it seems t’work.  This room is for the lasses.  Teo ’n’ me have a room together, too; an’ then there’s a few more as we’re still a-workin’ on.  Dad ’n’ Nuncle Eboli dug the well together, an’ we have the pump installed.  It’s nice not t’have to bring all the water in by bucket now.  And we’re plannin’ on havin’ a cistern near the top o’ the hill for water for the baths--rain water’s best for bathin’ ’n’ the washin’ o’ hair, our mum always said.”

            Walls and ceilings were well buttressed, and often the Hobbits had made use of existing walls, which mostly stood at least breast high or better on Faradir, most carefully removing sufficient stones to allow for the Hobbit-preferred round windows.  “We have a good cesspit dug well off that end of the ridge,” Bob explained, “so as there’s good drainage for it.  We have the water from the kitchen ’n’ the privy ’n’ the bathin’ room all goin’ to it so’s it’ll always be well flushed.  We’ll plant the kitchen garden over it--should do well there, I’m thinkin’.   We’ve room for at least six more rooms down this aways, and more’n that down that one, and four more toward that way.  We could support at least two more bathin’ rooms and another privy with the cesspit we have now; and we could do another down that end of the ridge, if’n ’twas needed.  Like I said--if’n the childern wish t’bring their own wives ’n’ husbands here, we could support ’em.  And Holdfast’s been workin’ on making a good-sized pond about the spring--we could mebbe raise some fish in’t, if’n we can make it big enough, and not need to go to the river t’fish less’n we’d wish to.”

            “There’s no question this is becoming quite a comfortable smial,” Denra commented.  “I’ve visited the Sandybanks’ hole a couple times, and I think as Carnation would be right envious were she to see what yours is like.”

            The entire Hedges family beamed with pleasure.

            But it was the last room to which they were shown that ended up interesting them the most.  “The walls here was taller and mighty thick,” Bob commented as he opened the door.  “I’m a-thinkin’ as most likely there was an upper level here at one time.  Don’t know for certain as to what it was used for--mayhaps for watchin’ out over the land?  But there’s stairs....”

            The room was round, walled with thick stone, with a stair rising to the left of the door to follow the curve of the wall upward.  “A watchtower of some sort, do you think, Ada?” suggested Teregion.

            “It would appear so,” agreed Faradir.  “Would you mind if Teregion goes up the stairs?” he asked of their hosts.

            “We found the entrance to this fair choked wit’ stone ’n’ rubble,” Bob explained once the youth was carefully ascending the stairway.  “Took some work to clear it, mind; but once we was well within there was no further problem.  I don’t think as we’re all the way down to what was the proper floor for it--seems a bit sunk compared to the rest o’ the place, you see.  And there’s a roof or somethin’ as has kept the room from fillin’ complete with dirt’n water,” he added, pointing toward the distant upper levels.

            “There’s a walkway here, formed of the wider portion of the wall.  It was very thick, Ada,” Teregion called down.  “There appear to have been arrow slits facing outward, and an arched doorway opening on what must have been battlements.  The upper walls were nowhere as thick as the lower ones, and it appears that most of the fall of stones was toward the front of the building, there,” he said, pointing forward.  “I wonder what could have caused them to fall inward like that--the way the wall’s constructed, they ought to have collapsed outwards.”

            But Faradir had been drawn to the heap of stone that the Hedges had dragged to one side as they’d worked to clear the doorway.  Most of it was granite such as had been used throughout the place to form the stone walls; but one larger stone under the rest was not only of a different color, but an odd shape.

            “This isn’t from the original construction,” he commented.

            “We’ve not yet been able to dig it out,” Bob told him.  “It’s better’n half buried, it is, and t’tell the truth, none of us likes it at all.  No one wants t’touch it more’n we have to.”

            The Man paused, looking at the Hobbit with concern, then pulled his own hands back without touching it himself.  Alvric, his own curiosity raised, came forward to examine it, too.  He reached out to feel its surface, but pulled back abruptly, a look of startlement and disgusted recognition on his face. 

            “It was flung in with a catapult,” he declared.  “We had a number of such stones flung at and over the walls by the Enemy during the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.  And the Elves who’ve come following Lord Legolas have said that many of them were cursed by the Enemy in hopes of causing even more damage than one might look to expect from such things.”

            Teregion had carefully worked his way to the place where the wall buckled and peered out.  “Something tore through the outer wall here,” he confirmed.  “And it appears that outside stone and dirt were purposely brought up to the gap, similar to the remains of the Enemy’s ramp at Fornost.  Apparently the Enemy entered the keep this way.  A tree has taken root there, though, which served to hide the fact this opening was here at all.” 

            He worked his way carefully over the pile of rubble that partly blocked the walkway at that point.  “There’s not only a lot of loose stone here, but great slots at regular intervals I’ve had to be careful of,”  he called down.  “They’re a bit odd, really--all cut  in the same direction....”

            “Beams for floor joists, perhaps?” his father suggested.

            They could see the young Man’s face lighten.  “Ah--yes--that makes perfect sense!  But there ought to have been one more floor over this one, then, and there are no stairs leading up to it.”  He peered up.  “There appears to be some kind of gap there,” he said, pointing.  “Perhaps they had a trap door to a tower room.  But I’d say that most of what’s over me was the old floor, and that it’s not fallen as did the one for this level.”

            As they returned to the main part of the smial for a late dinner, Faradir said, “Apparently the first construction raised here was the watch tower, perhaps not long after Elendil led those on his ships ashore and they settled the region.  In time a small fortress or keep would have been built beside it; but as this area became less threatened the fortress would have been replaced with a lodge or farmhouse.  After all, this land would have been as good for farming then as you have seen it to be now, and as our population grew we would need good farms.  If the rain lets up tomorrow we’ll try climbing the higher parts of the hill and see what we can tell of the original construction.”

            After the meal the lasses brought out those artifacts that had been found--the ancient long knife; the Elven bowl recalling the victory at Orodruin; a glass vase of a lovely shade of blue that had miraculously been preserved intact; several stone water jars, one of them badly chipped; parts of a golden neck chain; a number of coins found as they’d dug out what appeared to have been an ancient hearth; a stone dog; blue, green, and purple beads of stone and glass; an ancient cooking pot; a wooden spoon that had been found buried in the dirt.  There were many pottery shards, and horn handles for what must have been a matching set of kitchen knives, and several spindles of various materials, sizes, and weights.  “They must have raised sheep here,” commented Teregion.

            Holdfast had found a great iron kettle, much rusted away, however.  “Found it outside,” he said, pointing out toward the front of the smial, down toward the taller part of the hill they now knew hid the remains of the watch tower.  “Were some flat pieces o’ metal as well--looks like they might o’ come from knives or somethin’ like.  Most o’ them’s nasty, an’ I’ve found as I don’t like touchin’ them nor nothin’ like.  Won’t let the lasses down that a-ways.  Don’t think as it’s wholesome, if’n yer take my meanin’.”

            “You might well have found the camping place of those who besieged the farmhouse,” agreed Faradir.  “Another site that would interest our scholars, I’d think.”

            Denra examined the Elven bowl carefully as Alvric told her the story of the Last Alliance, and the loss of the Enemy’s Ring that had led to the victory against Sauron at that time.  Then Teregion continued the story, telling of the assault on Isildur’s party as they headed north alongside the Anduin, heading for the northern passes over Imladris where his wife and youngest son awaited the return of father and older sons.  “From what Gandalf has learned,” he added, “the Ring remained at the bottom of the river until It was found there by the creature Gollum and his kinsman.  Gollum slew his kinsman to take It for himself, and took It under the Misty Mountains, where It appears to have abandoned him, hoping perhaps to be found by an orc; only instead It was found by Bilbo Baggins, who had been escaping from the orcs who’d waylaid his party and stumbled upon It in the dark, then brought It away from there in his pocket.

            “He gave It over to his young kinsman Frodo Baggins, and the rest, I think, you have now heard.”

            She nodded, finally returning the bowl to Lilia, who carefully put it away again in the storage room where they were keeping those items they’d found.

            The room where she spent the night didn’t have a proper bedstead; but the mattress filled with a woolen fleece over fragrant grasses was more than comfortable enough; and she realized the room was sufficiently airy that she didn’t miss having a window.

            Early the next morning all rose to the song of Lilia as she stirred up battercakes in the kitchen for first breakfast.  The rain had cleared away, and the sky was a washed blue.  After they’d eaten and the menfolk saw to the beasts while Denra helped Lilia and Anemone clear away after the meal, they walked to the higher part of the hill where the suspected watch tower was hidden.

            Examining the area where Holdfast had found the great kettle, Faradir and Teregion agreed this was indeed most likely the site of the camp for those who’d assaulted the farm.  The ramp the enemy had constructed was still mostly intact, and they had little difficulty climbing it to where the tower had been breached by the stone that had been found inside.  Tall trees had grown in the dirt that had lodged about the top of the ramp, hiding both the wall and the opening in it.  They were able to walk around the hill, which wound higher as they picked their way about it, until they looked down on the back of the ridge.

            “It was a fortress once--you can see that,” Faradir commented.  “The passages you’ve cleared going backwards--they’re going down what had been the hallways of the place.  See the courtyard there?  I think you could open into it from near your kitchen, and it would be a sheltered place to do your laundry.  And there was a second, greater courtyard there.”

            Boboli had forgotten his discomfort at being so high up as he looked down at the outlines of what had been quite a complex building in its day.  “An’ there was walls--walls all about the place.  I’ll wager as those was byres, that-away--perfect place for cattle ’n’ sheep, I’m thinkin’.”

            Teregion nodded.  “And there was probably a stable about there--I swear that must have been a paddock area.”

            Teoro, however, was set on scaling the rear portion of the wall that rose out of the hill, clearly a wall from here, where there was a lower place not far above them.  He pulled himself up onto the breech, then gave a cry of triumph as he swung inwards and disappeared, then reappeared and called for Teregion to join him.

            At last the youths returned to the gap from their exploration.  “Ada!” Teregion called down.  “I was right--there was a third floor and a tower room.  The roof appears to have been slate, and it’s largely intact, except for this area.  The floor, however, isn’t wood, but large slabs of stone as well, laid over what appear to be still hale beams of oak--they are prodigious!  And there’s the remains of what appears to be a great loom here, and loom weights!  And there are stone and the remains of wooden chests about the room--it appears to have been used as a storeroom and a weaving room.  The gap appears to have been part of a window looking westward toward the river and the sunset, and I think that there may have been a skylight over it to add to the light.”

            Teregion led the descent, guiding Teoro as he found finger and toeholds as they returned to those who’d watched from the hill.  “Him was real brave, Dad!” Teo reported admiringly as they picked their way down the slope.  “Him stuck his head down through the hole to look--I’d never do such a thing!”

            Having eaten a large first breakfast and explored through the time for second breakfast, they returned to the smial for elevenses.  Lilia was excited.  “I want to go up there, Dad,” she insisted.  “I want to see the loom and look around!”

            “Not until we makes certain as it’s safe, lass,” her father insisted.  “Those beams--they’ll need lookin’ at to make certain as they’re sound afore I’m allowin’ me daughters up there--don’t even like the thought o’ yer brother pokin’ about up there.”

            “There was some tipping to some of the stones,” admitted Teregion.  “I fear your father’s right.  Although I’m thinking we’d do well to have some of our engineers to come examine it all to see just how sound it is.  And if we could perhaps get some of the Elves to check the stone within the room--they might know how to lift the curse off of it.  I’d suggest you not handle it at all.”

            Faradir nodded agreement with his son.  “He’s right about that--Elves and Wizards to deal with the curses of the Enemy whenever possible, we’ve found, when our Chieftain’s not about.  Aragorn has a certain amount of authority against evil within himself, we’ve found--not perhaps as strong as that one sees in the great Elves, but enough to make safe many places we’ve faced over the years.  And hopefully our engineers, perhaps assisted by a Dwarf or two from the Iron Hills or Blue Mountains, will be able to tell us what to do with the tower to stabilize it that it might be explored safely.”

            Teoro and Lilia gave their word--reluctantly--that they’d not climb into the tower again.  Reassured, they finished their elevenses, and the Mannish guests prepared to finish their journey back to Bree.

            As they swung into their saddles Teregion paused a time by Teo.  “I want to go in there again, too.  I promise that we will go in together!”

            This seemed to hearten the Hobbit lad.  “Then I’ll hold you to that, Tergi,” he said, smiling.  “O’ course, Lilia’s not goin’ ta be any too happy if’n she can’t go into it with us.”

            The young Man smiled at the Hobbit lass.  “Well, I believe we could arrange that, don’t you think?”  So saying he gave a courteous bow to the Hedges and mounted his horse, then nodded his thanks as Holdfast came forward to open the gate for them to leave.

******* 

            “Well, and how was your journey?” Carnation asked as Denra settled into her chair with a cup of tea and some fresh-baked scones and a large pot of brambleberry jam by her.

            “Most interesting indeed, Carnation.  Most interesting indeed.  And I’ll be needing your help--and I think as Alvric and I will both wish your advice.”

            “Advice?  You’d wish the advice of a Hobbit?”

            “Yes--as to what we should serve at our wedding feast.”

            It was with a good deal of satisfaction that Denra Gorse watched her friend grow very, very excited.

A Bad Cold

            Sam caught the cold first, having stayed overlong out in the rain trying to make certain he had the last of the bulbs planted and enough straw about the rosebushes to see them through any early freeze that might happen.  He was reasonably sick for four days, and glad that Rosie didn’t appear to have been more than mildly ill, and that cleared away swiftly enough.

            Neither of them allowed Frodo to come near the master bedroom while Sam was abed; and for four days it appeared he’d be spared the illness himself--but on the fifth he started to get up when Sam came to call him to second breakfast, then sat back down heavily on the bed, obviously light-headed.  His face abnormally pale even for him, Frodo rolled up in his sheets and blankets.  “I think,” he said rather weakly, “perhaps I ought not to get up today.  Sam, could you send a message by Quick Post to Michel Delving and let Will know I’ll not be able to come for that meeting he’d wished me to attend?”  He’d barely gotten that out before he began coughing almost uncontrollably.

            Within an hour he was terribly congested, and Sam had the fire in his room well stoked with the kettle over it, mint and leaves from the south called eucalyptus being steeped in it to release the vapors throughout the room.  Rosie brought Frodo a clean stack of handkerchiefs and a tisane of rose hips, and as much chicken broth as she could get him to drink.

            He was still coughing heavily on the third day, and now he was bringing up wads of phlegm from his chest.  “I don’t like this, Master,” Sam sighed as he picked up a basket of used handkerchiefs to take out for Rosie to launder and examined the basin he’d brought earlier for Frodo to use.  “If’n it were to go on much longer, I fear as it’ll go into the lung sickness.  I suspect as I ought to send for Drolan Chubbs.”

            “But I don’t want to call Drolan, Sam.  He’ll want to check my chest--and what will he think when he sees the scars there?  Or the ones on my back?  I’ve known him----”  He stopped to cough.

            “So, you’ve known him since him and you was lads?” Sam objected once the coughing was finally over.  “So what?  You think as he can’t understand as folks as get caught up in wars get wounded?  Here, Master--take this and cough that stuff up into it,” he added as he held out the basin.  “And I don’t see what the difference is atween him seein’ the scars on your back and Mr. Budgie seein’ ’em--you admit as he helped clean that spider bite while you was there at Mr. Fredegar’s.”

            “I couldn’t help that, Sam!  It’s not like I could clean it properly myself.”  Frodo’s voice was rough from coughing.

            In the end Frodo agreed for Sam to approach Drolan as to what might best to do to deal with the congestion in his lungs.  But once Sam got to the Chubbs place he found that Drolan himself was sick.  “Caught it from little Dahlia Boffin, we think,” Mrs. Chubbs told him.  “She was coughing and sneezing fit to bust, her mother told me.  Next day, he’s down with it, too.  Upper lungs are pretty congested and he’s coughin’ up great wads of stuff.”

            “How are you dealin’ with it?” Sam asked.

            Once she’d told him, he nodded.  He had most of the herbs she told him of in his own garden; and she sold him a couple of tinctures to add to Frodo’s tea.  “If it won’t break up you might have to do a mustard plaster, although that’s sometimes hard on one.  But keep it in mind if it doesn’t get better.”

            He thanked her and headed off for Bag End again.

            As he headed up the hill Marigold hailed him from Number Three.  “I come over to check on our dad,” she told him.  “Widow Rumble sent for me this mornin’--seems the Gaffer has caught a cold.  You know him--is insistin’ as there’s nothin’ wrong, o’ course.  But he’s deafer than ever with it blockin’ his ears.  Don’t seem too terrible bad, though.”

            At that moment Geli Proudfoot came out of the end smial along the Row, heavily wrapped in a warm shawl.  “Your dad’s got it, too?  Both Pando and little Cyclamen have it, and Sancho’s only been up a day or two.  Hacking up stuff still, he is.  Hope I don’t get it!  So far it’s not too terrible bad with the bairns, at least--not so bad as it was for Sancho.”

            The tinctures and herbs served to keep Frodo’s congestion from getting worse, but although he felt much better in a few days, the cough continued on for another week and a half, and he kept bringing up more phlegm.  Not only that, he simply couldn’t seem to regain his endurance properly, and his appetite had fallen to nearly nothing, or at least it seemed so to Sam.  Yet he asked that Sam and Rosie send what food they could to those they heard of who also had the nasty cold that was making the rounds of the region of the Hill; and when word came that Angelica Proudfoot had finally caught it, too, Sam and Rosie began making up more chicken broth to send down to Number Five.

 *******

            Bartolo came in from his visit with Gammer Alma to find Delphinium sitting in the parlor with an open letter.  He recognized the handwriting and frowned.  “What’s that Sancho writing you about?” he asked.

            “Geli’s pretty sick,” Delphie answered him.  “It appears that she’s caught that nasty, nasty cold that’s been going round, and is the last one in the hole to get it.  Cyclamen and Pando are well over it, at least, although Sancho says he’s still coughing up stuff, although he says as it’s much better than it was.  The Gaffer was sick for most of a week, apparently, although he appears to be well now; but Frodo appears to be having difficulty throwing it off.  Seems as the children are up there every day now, helping Mistress Rosie see to him.  Sam was called away northwards to Gamwidge and Tighfield to help family in the Northfarthing and to consult on replanting some groves there that weren’t done last year, so Mistress Rosie’s doing her best to care for Frodo and apparently half of Hobbiton and Bywater as well.”

            Barti looked on her with concern.  He knew what she really wanted to do was to go to Hobbiton herself, and he knew that this was what was demanded by the ties of family.  But he didn’t really like the idea, in spite of it all.  However, if she truly wanted to go....

            “Well, are you going, then?” he asked rather abruptly.

            She looked up at him.  “You have to be in Pincup for three days, and then are supposed to be to Needlehole and then Threadneedle.  Persi’s in the Great Smial, and you know Lavinia is planning to take the younger children again.  I’d be here all by myself.”

            He nodded.

            “I think I will,” she finally said.  “It’s not as if I’ve been able to do much for my sister.  I couldn’t be there when Cyclamen was born--I feel as if I really ought to go this time, Barti.”

            “Good enough,” he said.  “I’ll ride Spotty, and leave Dottie to pull the trap.”  However, he couldn’t hide the fact he wasn’t particularly happy that she was going to Hobbiton.

            Not to mention, thought Delphie, that he was the reason I wasn’t there when Cyclamen was born and when Sancho’s brother and his wife died, leaving them the hole and Pando.

 *******

            “Twice in less than a few months?  Oh, Delphie, you’re going to spoil me!” Geli said as Sancho, grinning, led his sister-in-love back into the main bedroom.  Geli was sitting up in bed with a stack of clean handkerchiefs by her, a mug between her hands.

            “Oh, that smells wonderful!” Delphie said with an appreciative sniff.  “Chicken soup?”

            Her sister nodded.  “Mistress Rose makes the absolute best chicken broth and soups, and keeps us well supplied.  I think as she’s probably made enough in the past few weeks to keep the whole region o’ the Hill floatin’ in them, in fact.  O’ course, Cousin Frodo’s always seen to it as whoever’s ill is provided for.  When Pulgo and Lyssa were so ill, there just before they died, he saw to it that we didn’t have to cook.  I just wish as I could send more things up to him, too.”

            “I’ve been sendin’ up ginger biscuits,” Sancho said, as he stood, his arms crossed, leaning on the doorway.  “Cousin Frodo--he always liked ginger biscuits.”

            “Is he still sick?

            “Not quite sick, but not quite well, neither, what Pando tells me.  Can’t seem to shake the cough, and is weak and not wantin’ to eat enough to keep a bird alive.  What about Mr. Bracegirdle--where’s he?”

            “Off to see his clients all around the Shire, and Lavinia’s insisted on taking hers and our younger ones for a week.  I have no intention of being bored in Pincup for three days, so announced as I was coming here.  Barti realized it would do no good to argue, so didn’t try.”

            Geli asked, “How’s Persi doing in his apprenticeship?”

            “He’s doing very well, although he says as Master Bernigard insists he not use as when he means that, and he’s finding that a struggle.”

            Angelica giggled as she glanced at her husband.  “If Dad were to hear how I’ve sunk to talkin’ he’d have a right fit, I’m thinkin’.  Probably a good thing as he didn’t live to see me now.”  She grew pensive.  “I’m only sorrowed as he didn’t get to know Cyclamen.  He’d have loved her, I’m certain.  She’s such a dear thing, she is, and it’s certain as old Odo dotes on her.”

            “Where is she?”

            “Up at Bag End with her brother and the Chubbs lads.  They’re all fascinated by Frodo’s stories--it’s one thing as he hasn’t lost the touch of--tellin’ stories.  Did you know as they actually saw an oliphaunt--him and Sam Gamgee?  And he says as Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck saw more of them during the great battle as they were caught in.  Said as the Enemy’s folks brought them all the way from Far Harad.  It sounds almost too much to believe, you know.  Frodo’s done a drawin’ of the one as he saw for the children, and they’ve been studyin’ it.  The Chubbs lads have sort of taken over a book as Mr. Sam says the King sent Cousin Frodo as is full of pictures of strange beasts that live in the far south, or so the book says.  There’s pictures of oliphaunts in it, and they look just like Frodo’s picture.  The one he drew had a sort of saddle on it, an’ attached to the saddle is a sort of tower so several Men could ride on it way above everyone else--I understand Merry says it made it easier for them to shoot arrows down on everyone else, but harder for folks on the ground to shoot up at them.”

            Delphie found herself shivering.  “It sounds awful.”

            Sancho added, “I think as Mr. Sam would like to have an oliphaunt for his own.  I asked him if’n he’d really seen one, and he said as he had.  Got rather excited about it--said as ’twas one of the things as he really liked about their travels, even if a good deal of it was pretty awful.  Said as they saw it in a place called Thilien or somethin’ like, a great wooded place east of a great river.  Said as they come back to the same area later, and he looked for the oliphaunt, but no one ever seemed to of seen it.  Seems to think as it was a great pity.”

            Once she’d cooked a roast and she was certain that her sister and her family wouldn’t want for anything if she were to be away for a time, Delphie considered going up to Bag End to visit her cousin.  “Well,” Geli commented consideringly, “we do need the bairns to come home and eat--with Frodo ill he ought to get some time to himself to at least rest without having to tell stories or answer questions as go on forever.  You could go up and send them, and stay to visit for a time if you wish.  And perhaps he’ll eat some of the roast--do take some to him.”

            “I’ll do that, then,” Delphi agreed, and kissing her sister’s forehead she headed up the Hill, a covered plate of roast and a second of more ginger biscuits in hand.

 *******

            “I’ll get it!” sang out Cyclamen at the sound of the doorbell, and she bounced off the padded settle where she’d been sitting by Frodo, looking at a book, to run to the door to see who had come to call on her cousin.  She had some difficulty as always with the latch, but managed to get it open, and looked up to see her aunt standing over her.  “Oh, hullo, Auntie Delphie.  You came to call, did you?”

            “Yes--I heard as your mummy was ill, so came to help as I could, and brought something up to our Cousin Frodo, as is polite.”

            “We brought up some more ginger biscuits,” the faunt explained.  “They’re all gone now, for he had us share.”

            “That was most polite of your cousin and you as well.  Your mummy and daddy wish for you and Pando to come home now, though--your mummy said I was to tell you.’

            “Then who’ll sit by Cousin Frodo?  Missus Rosie’s gone to her parents’ farm t’fetch some more milk ’n’ eggs as they put by for her.”

            “Do you think she’d mind if I was to sit by him?”

            “Can you fix tea for him if he wants it?”

            Suppressing a smile at the solemnity of the question, Delphie assured her, “I do believe I can--I fix it for your Uncle Barti when he needs it, you see.”

            Reassured that her older cousin wouldn’t go wanting before Missus Rosie returned, Cyclamen gave a serious nod.  “All right, then.  Pando!  Mummy wants us t’come home now.  Auntie Delphie’s t’stay with Cousin Frodo for her turn!”

            As Delphinium entered and closed the door behind her, Pando rose from where he sat over another book in the corner with three other lads.  “If Mum Geli’s calling for me,” he said to his companions, “then yours will be calling for you, too.”

            The others nodded as they stood up also.  One closed the book and stretched to set it atop the shelf on the far side of the mantel before the children all gathered about Frodo.  “You’ll be all right, Mr. Frodo?” asked one of the Chubbs lads.

            “I will, and thank your mother for the pottage.”  Frodo smiled.  As Delphie, who’d hung her cloak upon the pegs in the entry, came in with her plates, she could see that Frodo’s eyes had dark circles beneath them as if he’d slept little recently.  “Did you find more fascinating beasts to learn about in the King’s book?” he asked.

            “Ooh, yes--pards.  They seem to be a kind of cat, and will sit upon tree limbs until their prey walks under them, then will drop on it.  Sounds eerie, it does.”

            “Yes--very eerie--and rather practical for a cat of some kind.  Well, go on with the four of you, then--I don’t wish for any of you to be in trouble for being late.”

            No matter how dark the circles under his eyes, his smile was as sweet as ever, Delphie thought as she watched the children take their leave; and as he watched after them there was that hint of longing there.  Once the door had closed behind them he looked at her.  “If only,” he said quietly, “I still had both their energy and innocence.”

            She nodded as she brought a chair near the long, heavily padded settle on which he lay, an oversized shawl wrapped about him.  “So, you don’t appear to be getting any better,” she said as she sat by him.

            “Oh, I think I am, but it appears a longer process than I’ve known before.  If I stay up very long I appear to become rather lightheaded and very tired, so I find I need to sit or lie down most of the time, which becomes tiresome.  I’m only glad that Angelica and the Chubbses have allowed the children to visit me so long and often, for it helps me bear with being housebound this----”  He didn’t finish the sentence.  He examined her face.  “You look to be very well.”

            “I had a day of sniffles early on, and that appears to be all the bad I personally took from the cold as it came through Hardbottle.  Ricki appears to have suffered the worst of the four at home, for he was down for two and a half days; and Barti doesn’t appear to have felt he had time for ‘that kind of nonsense’ and hasn’t had so much as a sneeze.”

            Frodo laughed outright.  “Oh, yes--I can imagine even a cold accepting having been dismissed by Bartolo Bracegirdle,” he said as he shifted his position to lie on his back. 

            Once he was comfortably situated again, she took his hand.  He looked a bit uncomfortable at this, and she realized this was the one missing its finger, but she refused to let it go as if it disgusted her.  “I brought you some roast beef and some more ginger biscuits.  Knowing children as I do I am suspecting most of the ones they brought up earlier went into their own stomachs.”

            He shrugged.  “Perhaps, but then they’re growing and need the food.”

            She examined the hand she held.  “But you need it, too, Frodo Baggins.  You can’t go on losing weight the way you’re doing, you know.”

            She was surprised to see his face cloud with anger as he pulled his hand free of hers.  “And what am I supposed to do about it, Delphinium Baggins Bracegirdle?” he demanded.  “Do you think I’m unaware of how much weight I’ve lost?  Do you think I like being skin and bones and little more?  Do you think that Aragorn and Elrond and Budgie Smallfoot and every other healer with whom I’ve come into contact in the past year and a half hasn’t tried to hammer home I must eat what I can to allow me to appear once more a proper Hobbit?” 

            He turned his head away from her.  At last, he said, his face still looking at the wall behind the settle, “After Lalia died and we were criticizing her and Ferumbras for allowing her to become so enormous, the Thain became very upset.  He said we just didn’t understand--she’d been trying to lose much of her bulk; but once she’d gotten so fat, no matter how much she cut down what she was eating, her body continued to pile the weight on, particularly once she could no longer easily move by herself.  And Pearl confirmed to me that Lalia hadn’t been eating anywhere as much as the rest of the folk in the Great Smial for the last while before her death, but continued to gain in girth anyway.

            “Now I know why he became so upset.  No matter what was done, once she’d come to a particular point, they could do nothing to change the body from taking all food and converting it to fat.  With me--with me, it’s the opposite.”

            “You mean, you can’t gain weight?” she asked.

            He shrugged, and then finally turned back to look at her.  “Oh, I’ll regain some weight, but then lose it again.  Aragorn has told me that--that the last part of our journey was so difficult that it affected my stomach, so that it’s likely I’ll always have difficulties digesting my food from now on.  Certainly he’s proven right so far.  I regained a fair amount of weight while we were in Minas Tirith, although not as much as I’d lost on the way to Rivendell; then lost a good deal of that during our journey home, in spite of us taking it in fairly easy stages.  And each time that boil comes back----”

            “You have a boil?”

            “Well, I do now--one that keeps coming back on the back of my neck.  I was b--wounded there, and they suspect that there might be something deep in the wound that infections keep building around.  However, so far no one’s been willing to probe it to seek to find out what might be in there, as they tell me the neck is a particularly delicate area.  So, when the wound drains Sam cleans it for me and keeps it properly bandaged until it heals up again.”

            “Does that have to do with the headaches you’ve had?” she asked.  “Like the ones you had at Midsummer?”

            “It seems to make them worse,” he admitted.

            “And it affects your stomach also?”

            He nodded. “Yes, it appears to.  It’s not bothering me now, though--it drained early in October, and probably won’t do so again for another few weeks, or so I hope.”

            “What do the healers here say?”

            “Budgie Smallfoot won’t believe----”  He paused briefly before continuing, “He doesn’t believe it would be safe to probe it, either.  He agrees with Aragorn and Elrond and the healers from Minas Tirith.”

            “I thought the Chubbses were your healers--Auntie Laurel and Drolan.”

            Frodo shrugged and looked away.  “There’s not a lot that Drolan could do for me, Delphie.”

            “Who is this Budgie Smallfoot?”

            “Fredegar Bolger’s friend and personal healer.”

            “You’re still friends with Freddy?”

            “We’ve always been close, since shortly after I came to live here in Hobbiton with Bilbo.”

            “Why didn’t he go with you, too?”

            “He was afraid to leave the Shire.  He was to stay and convince folks I was in the Crickhollow house for as long as possible so no one would realize we were on our way to Bree and Rivendell.  He had no intention of finding himself in danger, too.”

            “But he led the rebels!”

            Frodo nodded, looking back to her.  “I know.  We were so surprised to learn he’d done that.  But he found he had a good deal more courage than he’d thought,  once he saw what the Big Men were doing to the Shire.”

            “He was telling me at the Free Fair what a coward he was--how he’d been frightened by the first of the Big Men to come--the ones all dressed in black.”

            She was amazed when Frodo began shivering almost uncontrollably.  “Those weren’t Men,” he whispered.  “No, they weren’t Men--not any more, they weren’t.  Any sane individual would have been terrified by them!”  He clutched at his shoulder.  “Even the Elves faced them with a level of fear.”

            “You saw them?” she asked, fascinated.

            His eyes appeared haunted as he murmured, “Oh, yes, I saw them.”  Again he turned his face away.

            The ensuing silence grew increasingly uncomfortable.  At last she asked, “Would you like some tea, Frodo?”

            He forced himself to look back at her.  “There ought to be some of Sam’s tea left in the cool room--it’s in a blue earthenware pitcher.  Even cold it appears to help.”

            She rose.  “Then you bide here for a moment, and I’ll bring you some.”  She paused before leaving the room to stir up the fire and add another couple logs.

            She found the pitcher, carefully covered with gauze.  She poured some into a mug she found warming by the kitchen fire along with a pot of chicken broth, fetched another mug to pour some broth into, and taking them with a couple of smaller plates and needfuls she returned to the parlor.  “Here’s both some tea and some warmed broth, Frodo.  And do you think you could handle a bit of roast beef?  I’d prepared it for Geli and the family, and she and Sancho insisted I bring some up to you.”

            He sat up rather carefully.  She moved a small table before him and saw to it he had a small serving of everything.  After fetching napkin, fork, and spoon and seeing all set up properly, she sat back with a small plate for herself as well and began to tell him about life in Garden Place in Hardbottle.  As he listened she saw his expression lighten and some color return to his face.  As she told him of the conkers competitions between Ricki and the Greenman children who lived next door he was smiling.  “Did you ever play at conkers, Frodo?” she asked.

            He gave a small shrug as he finished swallowing some of the roast.  “I did when we lived in Whitfurrow, and when we would visit at Brandy Hall or with the Tooks,” he admitted.  “But once I was living there after my parents’ deaths I fear I was discouraged.  Aunt Menegilda saw conkers as a frivolous pastime at best, and certainly wasn’t going to cheer me on in competitions.  I think I played more of it here after Bilbo adopted me than I did in Buckland.  Now, Pervinca was a very competitive conkers player.”

            “Pervinca Took?  Peregrin’s next older sister?”

            He nodded.  “She and Merry taught Pippin all they knew of the game and of strategy.  But he could rarely beat her.  Did your daughters ever play at it?”

            “Gonya wouldn’t think of doing so--she’d feel it wasn’t ladylike enough, I fear.  Pet did play at it at times, and will sometimes play with Enrico even now.  Alyssa isn’t interested, however.”

            “Did Bartolo ever play at it?  No, I can’t see him unbending enough.”

            “Actually, he was a very good player when he was a lad, and two summers ago gave both Persi and Ricki some stiff competition and pointers.  It rather gave both lads quite a different perspective on their father, to realize he had himself been young once.”

            Frodo laughed delightedly, and she felt her heart lift at the sound of it.  “To know that Bartolo Bracegirdle once was a conkers champion is wonderful!” he said.

            “You do love children, don’t you, Frodo?”

            He gave another shrug and grew solemn once more.  “Pearl and I’d planned to have at least five.”  He looked about him.  “Now at last Bag End will be filled with the family it was built for.  Sam and Rosie will have quite a few, you see.”

            “And how do you know that?”

            He gave her a mysterious smile.  “Oh, I know.  They’ll have at least a dozen.”

            “And you’ll be as their beloved uncle?”

            He nodded, but the smile was now but a memory.  “Yes, they’ll think of me ever as their Uncle Frodo.  He stands in place of the brothers I lost, along with Merry, Pippin, and Aragorn.”

            She raised her eyebrows.  “You feel as a brother to our new King?”

            He nodded, and she saw the warmth the thought of that gave him as unconsciously his smile returned.  “Oh, yes--Aragorn is as a brother to me.  Quite a tall brother, though.  He’d always wished for brothers and perhaps a sister or two as much as I ever did.”

            “It was too bad your mum lost the other children.”

            He nodded as he looked at her in a speculative manner.  “Yours, too,” he said thoughtfully.  “Look at how many little lads your mother lost.” 

            She sighed.  “When Albro died, I thought Mum would follow him.  Certainly I was grieved.  As for Dad----”  She shook her head at the memory of that loss.

            He reached across the table and took her left hand.  “I’m so sorry, Delphie.  None of ours lived anywhere near that long.”

            “Save you.”

            He shrugged and looked away again.  “Save me,” he agreed.  “And is Barti looking after the children now?”

            She gave a slight shake of her head.  “No, he’s off about the Shire doing lawyerly things, you know.  Lavinia has them--she loves to have ours with her, even though we live just across the village from one another.  I rather think she wishes she’d been able to have four or five more than she does.”  She ate a bite of roast as she thoughtfully examined him.  “Albro was born a year and a half before you,” she said thoughtfully.  “Had he lived, I’m certain you and he would have ended up playmates.”

            “I barely remember his funeral--it must have been his funeral, what with the flowers and the somber folks.  Just before----”  He gave a wry expression as he left the statement unfinished.

            “Just before Lobelia started spewing that poison about your mum and dad and Bilbo?”

            “Yes, and then we moved to Buckland.”

            “How did you know about the others?”

            “I am the family head for the Bagginses, you know, and keep the Book of Baggins.”

            “Ah, yes.  That was so wise of Bilbo, to cut out Otho and Lotho that way.  With Lobelia as his wife, Otho would have been just as bad a family head for the Bagginses as he proved for the Sackvilles; and for Lotho to have succeeded him!”  She shivered.  “Perish the thought!”

            He poked his fork aimlessly at a bite of roast.  “Although there were times I wished Bilbo hadn’t decided to adopt me, even if I did agree at the time.”

            “Especially when you were out wandering the wild, hoping to find your way to Mordor?” she asked.

            He gave her a glancing look, then turned his attention back to the plate.  “Yes,” he finally said in a tone that put an end to that line of discussion.  He set down the fork and picked up the mug of broth and drank from it.

            At last, after she’d seen him eat about a quarter of the slice of roast she’d set before him, she asked, “Do you know the Queen anywhere well?”

            He nodded as he finished chewing on the bite he’d just taken, and set down his fork.  At last he answered, “I don’t know her anywhere as well as Aragorn, of course; but she’s easily amongst the most beautiful of women of any race within Arda.  I can see how it was that Aragorn became enchanted by her the first time he even saw her, the day he came of age.”

            “Take another sip of your tea, Frodo dear.  So how did they meet?”

            He dutifully drank from his mug, then described what the two of them had told him of that meeting during a dinner about a week after their wedding.  “It’s strange--I saw Aragorn by her that first evening after I awoke in Rivendell, dressed in Elvish armor and standing by her in the Hall of Fire, and I never realized why he looked so happy, or why he sat the morning before we left with his head bowed in grief.  And when the Lady Galadriel gave him the Elessar stone brooch it never occurred to me that this was her granddaughter’s promise gift to him.  I knew Arwen wore a ring on a chain about her neck--I saw it when we met to speak in Rivendell.  It wasn’t until she returned it to him after their wedding to continue to serve as the sign of the heirs of Elendil that I realized it was the Ring of Barahir she’d been wearing then.  And this after Bilbo had me read of Beren and Finrod Felagund with Sam, in a story where that ring was described in detail.”

            “And he loved her the first time he saw her?”

            He nodded.

            She noted the expression in his eyes, and realized, “And you felt the same way when you saw her, then?  Oh, Frodo!”

            His face grew paler, although the tips of his cheeks flamed.  “I had no idea her heart was already given,” he murmured.  “Although I knew that there was nothing to be done about it--I mean, a Hobbit and Elrond’s daughter?  But I understood better how it was that Gimli’s heart was lost to the Lady Galadriel the first time he looked deep into her eyes and saw not disparagement but respect.  He knew there was no hope further than that--she was already well married to Lord Celeborn, after all.  But he’ll never seek among his own people for a love, I fear.”  He straightened and his chin lifted.  “I doubt I’m quite that besotted with our Queen as he is with the Lady, however.  I have found myself--looking again--now that I can.”

            “There was a time when you couldn’t?  When you had--It?”

            He searched her eyes.  “Did I hold It, or did It hold me?” he asked.  Again he went silent.  “I didn’t wish anyone else who didn’t have to know to learn anything about It,” he finally continued.

            “No one told us--but as I told you before, we couldn’t help learning I suppose more than you wanted us to while we were in Bree.  None of us is precisely foolish, you realize.  The--the Ring went into the fire and Sauron’s power was ended; and you were the one who went to Mordor and returned so changed.”  She paused, then asked, “Why did you tell Bartolo--whatever it is you told him about it?”

            He shrugged as he picked up knife and fork and determinedly cut the remaining roast into bites.  After carefully chewing and swallowing another piece of meat, he said quietly, “He was almost thinking I was some great and shining hero there, and I had to let him know it was nowhere as glorious as that.”  Again he set down his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin.  “We read,” he continued, “of shining battles--but they don’t speak of the horrors of war.  They don’t tell us that war so often brings out the worst in us--the most brutal and horrible tendencies that hide in the dark crevices of our souls.”

            “And they also bring out the best in those who must fight as well, don’t they?” she asked.  “I can’t imagine, from what we’ve seen of the King’s kinsmen and what we’ve learned of him, of many of his own folk allowing themselves to continue slaying once the battle’s won, just because their blood is up.”

            His expression softened, as if that observation was one that hadn’t occurred to him.  “You think so?”

            “Look at you, Frodo.  You came back and spoke of rescuing Lotho--one of the Quick Post messengers who was pressed into the Shiriffs and who listened to you in your talks with the others after you’d just returned to the Shire told me that he’d heard you say that, and that Merry was shocked at the thought of it.  No matter what--It--did to you while you still carried It, you came back better than you were before you’d left.  I can’t imagine you before you left thinking of rescuing Lotho from a mess he’d caught himself in.”

            His eyes dropped to his plate, and he gave a shrug.

            “And you wouldn’t let them shoot at that Sharkey, even after he’d tried to stab you,” she pointed out.  “You told him again he could heal, I understand.”

            “I’d hoped he could return--return to what he’d been--before he became a Wizard, I mean.  But for that he needed time.”

            “As you needed time to recover from what your journey did to you,”

            Again he raised his eyes to meet hers, although he didn’t speak.

            Finally she suggested, “Drink the rest of your tea and broth, at least, Frodo.”

            Suddenly he smiled, and it was as if a bright star filled the room with a silver light.  “Yes, Mum,” he said.  As he picked up the mug of broth he added, “You did sound just like her right then, you realize.”

            Delphie began to laugh with delight, and after a moment he laughed, too.  He’d recover, she realized as she set a couple of ginger biscuits before him.

Resentment Stoked

            The letter from Bree was sealed with the familiar green leaf impression indicating it had come from Master Alvric, and was addressed to both Delphinium and himself.  Bartolo held it, a slight scowl on his face, wondering if he should open it before Delphie returned from the butcher’s stall where she’d gone to have still another talk with Edvardo.  Edvardo was a Bracegirdle, but not precisely one of Barti’s favorite relatives.  He was more than a bit lazy, and not above setting his thumb on the scale if he thought he might get away with it.  Both Benlo and his father had been required to speak sternly to him more than once as family heads, and Barti suspected that he ought to let Benlo know that once again Edvardo was selling exceptionally fatty meat, and refusing to trim away the suet.  Of course, he enjoyed a good slice of rib roast from time to time; but when most of what one got was fat with little if any lean it could be distressing.

            He brought his attention back to the letter, but finally set it down on the lower desk by his that was Delphie’s for her to open, and turned his attention back to the rest of the post.  There was an invitation from the Mayor to a banquet to be held in Michel Delving a couple of weeks before Yule in honor of those who’d labored to rebuild the Shire after the damage wrought by Lotho’s Big Men.  The entire family was invited, and the dinner would follow two nights after the meeting of the family heads to be held this quarter in Michel Delving.  He wondered if Frodo Baggins would attend this meeting of the family heads--he’d not made it to the last two or three such meetings, or so Barti had been told by Rico.  Rumor had it that Frodo had become increasingly reclusive since declining the nomination to run for Mayor last summer, and that he’d not even been to visit either the Tooks nor the Brandybucks since May, although there had been visits by both to Bag End for his birthday in September.  Barti suspected that during her stay with Geli and Sancho that Delphie had been up the Hill to see Frodo, but he’d stubbornly resisted asking her about that so far.  Not, of course, that she’d volunteered much information about the visit other than that she found little Cyclamen to be delightful and that Pando showed talent in working clay, and that both Geli and Sancho had been delighted to have her visit.  Briefly he wondered what she’d tell him if he were to ask for more details, then shrugged in disgust to realize he was actually curious as to what was really going on in the life of Frodo Baggins.

            He frowned as he reread the invitation.  Frodo might choose not to attend the banquet and meeting for the family heads--his was now a minor family, with fewer than ten males of the name in the entire Shire to the lawyer’s knowledge; but this banquet he must attend, as he’d definitely been one of those instrumental in restoring the Shire to its former placid state.  Indeed, if Bartolo Bracegirdle knew Will Whitfoot at all, this banquet had been primarily intended to draw Frodo Baggins, no matter how unwilling, back into the awareness of the Shire and to try to impress upon all just how important Frodo’s own contribution had been to the restoration of peace all now again knew.

            I have no desire to go to a banquet intended to honor Frodo Baggins, he thought.  And he knew that no matter what he wanted, he’d have to go anyway--Delphie would insist on it, particularly if the children were invited as well.  He sighed, and with a sense of grudging duty he lifted the top of the inkbottle and brought out some of his formal stationary, checked the nib of his pen, and began to write:

Garden Place, Hardbottle

Southfarthing

22 November, 1420

Dear Mayor Whitfoot,

We will be pleased to attend....

            As he worked at his letter he heard Delphie arrive home, and heard the calls of Alyssa and Enrico as they hurried to greet their mother.  Soon she was entering the room, having set the children to seeing the kitchen readied for her to start tea soon.

            “And was there any post, Barti dear?” she asked.

            He grunted and waved a hand vaguely at the lower desk.  With a pleased, wordless exclamation she sat down and took up the letter from Bree and the letter knife; in a trice she had the missive opened and was reading it.

            “Oh, my!” she murmured, and he paused in his writing to look at her in question.  Her eyes were sparkling, and a smile was spreading across her face.  Suddenly she looked at him, an expression of triumph in her smile.  “Oh, Barti, it’s so wonderful!  We’re invited to a wedding!”

            “A wedding--in Bree?”

            “Yes--in Bree!”

            “Whose?”

            “Master Alvric--it appears he’s to wed Mistress Gorse.”

            “Soon?”  Barti had visions of being able to avoid the banquet by pleading a prior engagement outside the Shire--surely Will would appreciate such an excuse.

            “Apparently in February,” she said.  “Oh, dearling--certainly we must go!  Imagine--Master Alvric marrying a woman from Bree!  How marvelous!  Now he shall have family ties to bring him back to our area frequently!”  She glanced at the letter he was working on.  “We will be pleased to attend the banquet....  What banquet?”

            “There’s to be a banquet honoring those who labored in the restoration of the Shire in Michel Delving.”

            “When?”

            “Next month.”

            “I suppose I can have Lavinia keep the children....”

            “The invitation is for the whole family.”

            “The whole family?  That’s a surprise.”

            “I know.”

            “Is it to be held in connection to the meeting of the family heads?”

            “Two days after.”

            “I suppose he intends to see Frodo whether or not my reclusive cousin wishes to be seen,” Delphie observed astutely.

            Barti shrugged.

            “Barti--just what is it about Frodo that disturbs you so?  And don’t tell me again it’s because he swims.  Almost every Brandybuck in the Shire swims, and I don’t see you reacting to the Master or any within his family the way you do to Frodo!”

            The lawyer’s face grew stiff, and he shrugged again; but he kept his mouth decidedly closed.  He wiped the tip of his pen and set it in the tray, and closed the inkpot with a sharp click.  There was no way he would allow himself to be drawn into an argument about Frodo Baggins.  Instead he looked at the invitation his wife still held in her hands.  “Who’s to marry the two of them?” he asked.

            “Marry whom?  Oh, you mean Master Alvric and Mistress Gorse?  The Lord Steward Halladan, apparently.  You haven’t answered me.”

            “No, I haven’t, and I shan’t.”

            “Really, Bartolo Bracegirdle!”

            But just then they could hear Begonia berating Ricki in the kitchen.  “Now look what you’ve done, Enrico!  Wait until I tell Mother!”

            Realizing that a fight was about to break out, Delphie rose to deal with the situation.  Barti couldn’t have been more grateful for his children’s interruption at that moment.  He hated quarreling with his wife.

 *******

            “Really, I’m that grateful to young Frodo for refusing to sign that revised will Lothario wrote out for me,” Gammer Alma commented as they sat at tea with her three days later.  “Can you imagine how it would have looked had I left those farm shares to Bester, particularly after he’s been caught moving boundary markers?  It’s just too bad!”

            Bartolo gritted his teeth and did his best to appear agreeable, but as they walked home across the village Delphie said quietly into his ear, “You looked as if you could have bitten through Gammer’s picket fence if she’d said Frodo’s name one more time, Barti.”  When he turned to glare at her she just smirked and looked down to take Lyssa’s hand.

            He was afraid she was perfectly right.

 *******

            “What would you think if I stood you to a couple halfs tonight?” Rico asked the next evening after they’d completed reviewing a particularly tricky will for Hortensia Hornblower.  The dowager for the Hornblower family, Hortensia at the moment controlled almost as much property as had Lobelia Sackville-Baggins before she’d died.  As the Hornblower family had been expanding rapidly, giving her sixteen grandchildren and half again as many great-grandchildren, apportioning out portions of her holdings was proving a painstaking process, particularly as she was very insistent she not appear to be favoring any one of them.  In this case the two lawyers were working together, one calling off names and bequests and the other totting up the values to make certain all was as fair as could be managed. 

            Within a quarter hour they’d kissed their wives and bade good night to the children, and were pulling their cloaks about them as they headed for the common room at the Dwarf’s Stoup.

            “Getting right cold now,” commented Rico with a glance at the grey cloud cover.

            “Winter’s definitely coming on,” agreed Barti.  “There was ice in the water bucket for the stable this morning.

            “I hope it doesn’t snow between now and the banquet for those who helped in the restoration of the Shire,” Rico continued.  “I’d hate to see it called off--Angelica’s eager to attend.  She can’t seem to wait to tell Frodo how grateful----Wait, Barti!  What’s troubling you?”

            For at the hated name Bartolo had increased his pace, pulling the hood to his cloak up over his head.

 *******

            The business for the family meeting held at cousin Hyacinth’s comfortable smial was over, and Barti stood with several other husbands, impatiently waiting for the wives to finish their gossip so they could get home to see to it that the fires were properly stoked.  The weather was growing colder, and there had been a good half-inch of snow that morning.  There had been hopes that the drizzle this afternoon would see the last of the morning’s fall washed away, but as cold as it was now the chances were it would turn again to snow soon; and the roads were likely to be icy tomorrow.  As Barti and Rico were supposed to be at the first Hornblower plantation by elevenses that could mean a difficult drive.

            Two of the Bracegirdles and Lavinia’s husband Balbo Hornblower were discussing the barley harvest in the Westfarthing.  “The inns and the private brewers are all agreed that we’ve just known one of the best years in the history of the Shire,” Cousin Tito was saying.  “And if Frodo Baggins hadn’t insisted that a quarter of the barley they found in the Brockenbores be saved for seed we could have been far short of what we needed for the year.  For one who’s never been interested in farming, he’s proven quite astute.”

            “Suspect as it’s more due to that Gamgee friend of his and advice from Griffo Boffin as has seen to it he knew what to do,” suggested Eldred Bracegirdle, who lived in Sackville.

            “Pfft!” objected Balbo.  “What would Gamgee know of barley?  He’s a gardener--knows his flowers and kitchen garden plants, and no question as he’s a good one with orchards.  But the region about the Hill’s not land for grain--it’s a right place for root vegetables, but not for barley nor wheat, nor even oats.  Same with Boffin--he grows primarily potatoes and beets, garlic and onions, aside from his orchard.  Nah, if Frodo knows aught about grain, he learned it back when he lived in Buckland, or on visits to Whitwell before Paladin left the farm there.  The Thain used to have fields of both barley and wheat, after all, back before he come to the Great Smial to take over from Ferumbras.”

            Barti moved away from the conversation, closer to the womenfolk.  Hyacinth was talking quietly, and the other Hobbitesses were all listening intently.  “That last few months she was right poorly,” she was saying.  “Took to her bed at the last, poor dear.”

            “Thinking of Lobelia as a ‘poor dear’ seems right hard,” quipped Tito’s wife Orchid.

            “Oh, she could be a difficult one, I admit,” Hyacinth allowed, “but really she’d changed a good deal, and even apologized to me more than once after she’d been short in her answers.  And if she didn’t take heart from those two letters as she’d had from Cousin Frodo....”

            Barti shuddered as he retreated toward the privy.  Would he never get away from having to hear Frodo Baggins’s name constantly?

 *******

            They arrived at Bertramo’s late the night before the banquet after a difficult drive over ice-encrusted roads that had taken all day.

            “You must be freezing,” Tram was saying as he hurried them inside.  “What time did you leave Hardbottle?”

            “Early this morning,” Ricki told him, “before it was light.  We had to go very slow most of the time so Spotty and Dottie wouldn’t fall and hurt themselves.”

            In moments he had them in the house and was plying them with mulled cider and toasted bread and cheese with slices of ham, with baked apples stuffed with currants.  “Benlo’s staying in the inn,” he commented.  “I think he was looking forward to seeing you this evening, Bartolo, but as you’ve arrived so late I’m certain he’ll have gone to bed by now.  I wonder if the Travelers will come, what with the roads being as they are.  Oh, and Persi was by earlier--old Bernigard has come, too.  I understand he wishes to meet with the others on the committee regarding language to be used in contracts from now on sometime tomorrow.”

            Barti nodded.  Now that he’d been through the training offered him by Master Alvric he had a far better appreciation for just how the wording of a contract could allow its original intent to be twisted, and he’d felt he’d contributed more to the group since his trip to Bree.  Certainly he now understood just what Frodo had----

            He stopped as he realized that this time he was the one invoking in his mind Frodo Baggins!  Maybe it was time to go to bed!

 *******

            Those lawyers of the Shire who were members of the committee appointed to determine standard language to be used in contracts met following luncheon in the banquet hall for the Council Hole only to find that a substantial number of those who were coming to the banquet that night had invited themselves to observe.  With old Berni chairing the meeting and Bartolo serving as secretary, they went over those phrases that had been identified as ones that Lotho and the loathsome Timono had taken advantage of in taking property from Hobbits throughout the Shire.

            “It’s the phrases regarding roofs must be sound that bother me especially,” said one lawyer from the far Westfarthing, “for it was those that Pimple used to take over properties of three of my clients.  He purposely left out the portions that indicated the roofs must be newly thatched on two cottages that had thatched roofs, leaving only the phrases indicating a roof tree of at least seven years must be established commonly used to indicate the top of a smial is sound, and used that to take two of them, but included both the portions regarding new thatching and roof trees in a contract regarding a farmhouse with a slate roof.”

            “While in the case of the Shire Horse Inn west of Gamwidge, which had a wooden shake roof, he put in wording that made it imperative that a new slate roof be installed,” added a lawyer from the Northfarthing.

            “In the case of my client,” Eligar Bolger put in, “he insisted that a smial roof be freshly thatched.”

            There were many who were obviously eager to include their own examples, to which Bernigard Took raised his hand.  “That the ploy of requiring new shutters to be manufactured by those such as Pelter Swifthand’s carpentry shop in Greenholm and paint mixed by the Longsmials living on the northern borders of the Northfarthing when he knew that Pelter was dying and that the Longsmials have been out of the business for ten years have occurred in too many contracts, as well as the many variations on insisting roofs be made sound by using materials or techniques or proofs counter to the construction or excavation of the home or establishment.  Frodo himself identified far, far too many examples while he was deputy Mayor, while Will and the Took lawyers who’ve assisted in reviewing those documents and others written or presented under the direction of Lotho, Timono Bracegirdle, Marco Smallburrow, Balco Hornblower, and the like have shown even more examples.”

            “All of the properties lost in our region had requirements that new wells be dug even though all of them had viable long-existing wells or other clean water sources,” commented one of those serving the Underhills of the Westfarthing.

            “Face it,” pointed out Isumbard Took, “in almost every case we’ve uncovered such requirements were used, save in those where repayment of a loan must be complete on a particular day or within a particular time period of an event to which only Lotho and his co-conspirators were truly privy.”

            “Making the requirement that Ponto and Iris Baggins repay the loan he made to them within three days of the date by which Lotho took possession of Bag End plus a heavy loan fee, or they lost their title to him and must pay an exorbitant rent until exactly a year from the date of the making of the loan when again all fees and a substantial amount of interest must be repaid to him certainly made their lives miserable,” commented Griffo Boffin, who was present as village head for Hobbiton.  “For those who had no idea Lotho had come to Frodo with the price asked of them in cash, who would have imagined such an event?”

            There were mutterings of agreement throughout the room.  “The loan he made my Hornblower clients referenced him taking possession of Bag End,” commented a Longbottom.  “We were certain the phrase was included to indicate he was actually making a gift to these of his relatives.”  Again there were mutters by others who’d seen the same ploy used.

            “In our case it was the day when Marco Smallburrow became master of Watermeadow Lodge,” an Eastfarthing lawyer added.  “As no one had realized that Lotho had written a contract that would steal the Lodge and see it fall under Marco’s control, who was to appreciate the reason for the odd wording?  My clients and I all thought it was just an obscure joke written into the loan agreement.”

            Tollerand Took muttered, “Save us from such ‘jokes’ in the future!”

            “Amen!” agreed Algenon Grubb.

            “That Frodo Baggins shouldn’t ought to of sold Bag End to Pimple to begin with!” added the village head for Tighfield, who’d lost his inn to Lotho when the Baggins smial had become the abode of the Sackville-Bagginses.

            “What was he to do when Lotho came to him with the cash in hand?” demanded Griffo.  “Cousin Peony had no idea Lotho was intending to cheat everyone when she told Lobelia that Frodo had offered the hole to Ponto and Iris for that price.”

            Most of those within the room were now looking at one another uncomfortably.  “That was how Pimple come to purchase Bag End, was it?” asked a member of the Chubbs family.  “We’d wondered.”

            Old Berni cleared his throat loudly.  “To get back to the question of how the wording on roofs needs to be changed....”

            Not much was actually settled during this meeting, Barti realized when at last all were asked to vacate the chamber so those who worked on the night’s banquet could ready it.  With so many observers there were too many interruptions.  But to learn precisely how Lotho had come into possession of Bag End had been--interesting.  So it had been Peony Baggins Burrows who’d let it slip to Lobelia that Frodo had offered the smial to Angelica Baggins Clayhanger’s parents.  As Ponto’s sister she would have learned of the offer quickly enough.  She’d died during the late spring the Travelers had been missing, and those who lived in the region of the Hill had all agreed she’d died of sheer misery brought on by Lotho’s evil rule; it sounded to Bartolo Bracegirdle as if the real cause had been sheer shame.

            Tram looked up from the game of draughts he was playing with Ricki as the lawyer entered the house.  “Did you get much accomplished today?” he asked.

            Barti shrugged as he hung his cloak on a peg in the entranceway.  “Mostly we were treated to a list of ways in which Lotho and Timono stole property,” he said as he finally entered the parlor proper.  “They were far, far too careful in noting what kind of property it was and which specific language the ones signing their contracts were likely to skip over.”  He sat himself in his favorite armchair in the room and watched the game progress.

            For a time Bertramo focused also on the game, carefully playing to extend the game as long as possible without just allowing Enrico to win, the lad’s father noted.  At last, when it would take but two more moves to end the game, the older Hobbit gave Barti a glance and commented, “I understand that Gammer Alma’s now thoroughly disgusted with Bester.”

            “Moving the property marker as he did to try to increase his holdings at his brother’s expense was not the wisest thing Grubb ever did,” acknowledged the lawyer.  “If Alma hadn’t paid to survey the boundary for the two of them just three years ago it might have been successful, I suppose; but certainly his brother was bound to notice once the marker’d been moved into his plum orchard.”

            “Bester had best beware,” Tram noted, “or he’ll end up in that gaol Frodo had built.”

            “I used to think as it was a waste of the Shire’s money,” yawned Barti as he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back.

            Tram paused with his hand outstretched to make his next move.  “Oh, the Shire didn’t pay for the new Lockholes, Barti--Frodo paid for them himself.”

            The Bracegirdle sat bolt upright.  “What do you mean he paid for them himself?”

            “When Ordo and Oridon Goodbody are handling all the funds, you know that it’s Baggins money that’s being used,” Bertramo said with his own shrug before picking up his one remaining piece and moving it deftly about the board, removing the four red counters Ricki had been maneuvered into placing just so.  “There, my lad--I believe I won that one, too.”

            Enrico Bracegirdle was goggling at the board.  “How’d you do that, Uncle Tram?”

            “Oh, I learned how to play this game long, long ago,” the older Hobbit smiled, “and I’ve learned a bit of strategy along the way.  You put the pieces back into the drawer under the board, and this old Hobbit will get ready for the banquet.”  He stood and stretched, and Barti distinctly heard two pops from his older kinsman’s shoulders and back.  “You’d best come, too, Barti--you wouldn’t wish to appear at the banquet dressed in that waistcoat, would you?  You’ve a great splotch of ink on it.”

            Dismayed, Barti examined his front and saw that Tram was exactly right.  “I wonder how I managed that?” he said, shaking his head.

            “Probably just holding a quill, waiting for interruptions to die down so you could actually write something of substance,” suggested Tram.

            Barti had to agree.

            When he returned to the parlor with Delphie some twenty minutes later, it was to find that Rico and Angelica had arrived alongside Largo Longbottom and his wife, and all were sitting over mugs of ale or cider.  “No,” Largo was saying, apparently in answer to a question put by one of the others, “Frodo didn’t come to the meeting the other night, and neither did Sam Gamgee.  According to what Sancho told his father, who came with old Odo, Frodo was hard hit by that cold that went through during the autumn.”

            “What did Merry Brandybuck or Pippin Took have to say during the meeting?” asked Angelica.

            “Neither attended--Paladin admitted he’s barely seen his son for months, and Isumbard just shook his head and refused to say much of anything.  Saradoc was more forthcoming--said Frodo’s been quiet since he was ill.  Pippin and Merry are supposed to have gone to Bag End to see to it Frodo comes to tonight’s banquet.  He’s apparently not been seen out and about much since he gave over running for Mayor.”

            “I wonder just how sick he was,” muttered Rico.

            “I’ll say this,” Delphie said rather stiffly, “there was no question he was indeed recovering from being quite ill when I saw him about a month ago.  He was quite pale and had lost a good deal of weight, and admitted to feeling light-headed if he sat up suddenly.  He’s quite a bit more solemn than I ever remember him being when he was younger, and admits he suffers at times from headaches that almost tear him apart.  From what I saw, he’s come back from his travels with less than perfect health.  My sister and her husband and the children have all been concerned for his health for some time.”

            Angelica was at the same time examining her husband.  “My parents have said the same thing as Sancho Proudfoot, Rico--that the last few times they’ve seen Frodo he’s been exceptionally quiet and tired looking, and that he’s lost weight, and that he was hard hit by the cold that went through the whole Shire during the fall.  No one’s seen him dance since he returned, and he told my mum that he just doesn’t have the stamina any more to do so.  Doesn’t sound to me as if he’s just malingering for some reason no one appears willing to explain.”

            Rico gave his wife a sidelong look and shrugged, taking up his mug and drinking deeply from it.

            Largo sipped at his own mug thoughtfully, finally setting it down.  “Frodo did very well by the Shire while he was deputy Mayor.  I wish he’d followed through and accepted the full office in his own right.”

            “I’m told he’d fall asleep in the Mayor’s desk chair,” Rico said rather carefully.  “Doesn’t sound to me as if he were up to the job.”

            “Seems to me he as good as said so himself, as far as his stamina went,” Delphinium agreed.  “But it didn’t stop him from doing a good job of it anyway, did it?”

            Barti felt himself going contrary inside.  “And how much did he do and how much was completed by those Took lawyers he got to come in and help him?”

            “Who was it that asked the Tooks to come in?” asked Largo.

            “Will says Baggins asked for them especially,” Tram said.  “It’s not as if we were particularly far from the Great Smial, after all.  But Frodo admitted up front he was no lawyer to appreciate what evidence there might be in whatever documents there were from Lotho Sackville-Baggins as to how Lotho had done what he’d done.  Although the Took lawyers all have said, more than once, that he ended up learning very quickly and was soon showing them what to look for.  That was why old Bernigard had hoped to take him on as an apprentice to become a full lawyer for the Shire.”

            “Who told you that?” asked Barti, sitting up and looking at his wife’s kinsman with surprise.

            “Both Tollerand and Isumbard have said so, here at the inn.”

            Rico and Barti exchanged questioning glances.  Rico assayed, “Frodo Baggins--a lawyer for the Shire?  But he’s never had any interest in the law!”

            “No, not until Will insisted he serve as deputy Mayor he didn’t.  But once he had to begin going through sales agreements and contracts of various sorts he rather had to learn, didn’t he?  Sort of an introduction by fire, if you will.  But he wouldn’t accept the apprenticeship--said he didn’t know that he was up to it, or that his gardener friend would allow it.  I must say Sam Gamgee did seem particularly careful of him during the times his work with the trees brought him this way while Frodo was here working; and the time, Barti, when you brought the deed to Bag End back to him Bard sent someone on a fast pony off to Bywater to fetch Gamgee and a wagon for him--Frodo was that overwhelmed.”  Tram took another sip from his own mug before continuing, “He was always very competent--but there’s rather a bit of fragility to young Frodo since he came back to the Shire, I’m thinking.  Not that he’s all that young now, of course.  He’s what--fifty-two or so?  No, he’s finally aged, he has.  That journey of theirs seems to have aged him the most of the four of them.  Still one of the most responsible Hobbits in all the Shire, though--if anything, that’s gotten stronger.”

            “Then why didn’t he accept Will’s nomination to become full Mayor?” demanded Rico.

            “I thought we settled that--his health’s not the best any more.  Whatever it was he did out there--it scoured him thoroughly.”

            Largo took another sip at his mug, then said thoughtfully as he wiped his lip, “So, old Berni had thought to take Frodo as an apprentice, had he?  But I thought he had his full complement of apprentices.  He must have taken someone else if Frodo didn’t accept the offer.”

            Inside Barti felt himself grow a bit numb.  It was after the trip to Michel Delving with Lothario that Persivo had come back home with the news that Bernigard Took had an opening for an apprentice and would consider Persi to fill it.  Was Persivo a second choice to Frodo Baggins, then?  Did he have the fact Frodo didn’t want to go to the trouble of apprenticing and having to stay for a time at the Great Smial to thank for his own son’s place?  Why that raised his anger so he couldn’t say, but by the time the party was ready to walk across to the Council Hole he was steaming with resentment.

            The Bolger coach was pulling up outside the hole when they arrived, and they had to wait while a step was set in place and Peregrin Took disembarked, followed by the rest of the Travelers and Fredegar Bolger.  It had been a time since Bartolo had seen the heir to Budge Hall, and he was amazed at the changes.  No one could honestly call him “Fatty” any more, for he’d lost most of his weight, although he was nowhere as slender as was Frodo.  He seemed taller now, where before all one noted was his rotundity.  In fact, the resemblance between him and Frodo Baggins was far more noticeable than it had ever been, for he was almost as tall as Frodo and stood with much the same wariness.

            He couldn’t see Frodo at first, between the coach and what appeared to be Sam Gamgee fussing over him, seeing to it his hair was properly combed and his cloak straightened....

            Then the coach was being moved, and the light seemed to fall more directly on the Travelers; and it seemed to be gathering most around Frodo’s figure.  Bartolo felt a tightening in his stomach that took him by surprise.  How he could see Frodo as if he were lit by starlight on a night when the sky was clouded the lawyer could not say.  Frodo was not wearing the cloak he’d been wearing since he returned from his journey, the one that matched those worn by Merry, Pippin, and Gamgee; nay, what he wore tonight was far more formal, heavier and richer in appearance than the cloaks worn by the others, a fact clear even in the darkness of the evening.

            But it was as they followed the party newly come from Bag End into the banquet room that any of those who entered with Barti could clearly see what hung about Frodo Baggins.  The Bracegirdle could hear the sharp intake of breath from both his wife and his wife’s cousin Angelica.

            “Oh, my!” murmured Petunia, Begonia’s repetition of the exclamation almost an immediate echo.

            Barti felt a sharp tug at his own cloak.  “Who’s the prince?” Alyssa whispered up at him.  As for Enrico--his eyes were large and round as he watched the progress of his distant Baggins cousin as he followed Gordolac Whitfoot toward the head table.  Here there was less similarity between Frodo and Fredegar Bolger--Freddy still moved with the slightly ponderous tread that had been his when he was one of the most enormous of Hobbits of the Shire; Frodo walked lightly, if more slowly--as gracefully as only the one once judged the greatest dancer within the Shire could move.  And there was a level of regality to Frodo--a distance and innate dignity that Barti had always imagined as part and parcel of kingliness during those few and long distant times in his life when he’d allowed his thoughts to dwell on the stories old Bilbo and later Frodo had been wont to tell.

            And the garment that hung over the shoulders of Frodo Baggins only added to the impression of royal status.  “That’s no mere cloak,” Angelica Baggins Clayhanger said softly but reverently.  “That’s a proper mantle if there ever was such a thing.”

            Barti had to silently agree, even as a wave of envy and even resentment swept over him.  The garment had to have been woven of the richest of multi-colored silk, with the image of a tree in flower upon the back and--he noted as Frodo turned once he reached the seat prepared for him alongside Will Whitfoot--bands of stars down the front.  As for the star-brooch that fastened the thing--Barti suspected it was worth more than his hole in Hardbottle.

            It’s not right! he thought.  How can Baggins deserve such things, no matter what he did?  He recognized that this must have been a gift to Frodo from that King of his, for he could not imagine Frodo Baggins ever purchasing such a thing for himself.

            It’s my Persivo who deserves such things, who deserves such recognition!  He looked about, and saw Persi standing at an otherwise empty table adjacent to one about which stood a number of Tooks, including old Bernigard.  One of those serving as ushers indicated to Barti and Bertramo that they should follow him, and he led them to the table at which Persivo  stood.  A few moments later old Odo Proudfoot and his son and grandson joined them.

            “Geli didn’t come?” asked Delphinium of her sister’s husband.

            “She’s helping with the feast,” Sancho explained quietly.  “We left the children home--Cyclamen’s really too young, and Pando said as it all sounded dead boring.  May’s stayin’ with the Gaffer tonight, and offered to watch them.  The cold weather’s gotten into the Gaffer’s joints, it has--he’s been achin’ the last few days.  But he’s pleased as punch as his lad’s one of the guests of honor tonight.”  He looked up at the form of Frodo where he stood, his head inclined sideways to listen to something Sam was saying to him and shook his head in admiration.  “So--Sam got him to wear the King’s mantle, did he?”

            “The mantle belonged to the King?” asked Alyssa.

            Sancho was smiling as he explained, “Oh, no--the King gifted it to Frodo, there in the King’s city.  I helped bring in the chest from the Dwarf’s cart last spring when Master Gimli come from down south-aways with things the Travelers hadn’t been able to bring with them on pony-back and with the goods to help restore Bag End.”  His expression grew darker.  “Those folks of Lotho’s and that Sharkey--what they did to Bag End can’t be told.  They did all as they could to destroy the place without actually cavin’ it in.  But Master Gimli--he opened the chest as was Frodo’s and pulled that out and hung it in Frodo’s dressin’ room hisself, and told me as the King had it made for him.  Said as only the highest lords o’ the realm are allowed to wear such things.”

            Again envy stabbed deeply at Barti as he looked sideways at his oldest child, the one of his children he’d always felt deserved every wonderful thing the world offered.  Why Frodo and not my Persi?

            “Now, if that don’t look right unnatural,” muttered Odo, who was shaking his head as he examined Frodo.  Frodo was carefully unfastening that star brooch, and then Sam, who’d helped remove his wife’s cloak, folded it, and laid it carefully over the back of her chair, was now doing the same for Frodo before removing his own cloak and settling it, too, over the back of his own chair.  “Outlandish!” he added.

            Not that the suit Frodo wore underneath was in any way outlandish--nay, it was Shire through and through, from the wool and linen from which it was made to the stitching that put it together and decorated it.  Barti was willing to wager, in fact, that it was Sam’s sister Daisy and her husband Moro Burrows who’d made it.  The colors weren’t particularly commonly worn in the Shire, being silver and grey; but there was no question the outfit suited Frodo now, adding to the illusion that he was surrounded by starlight.  As Sam stood again by his chair he leaned over and murmured something else to Frodo, and for a moment Frodo’s gravity broke, and he laughed briefly, the two of them sharing what was obviously a private joke before once again he went solemn and distant, if not quite as much so before Sam’s quiet quip.  Only that star stickpin he now always wore spoke of other lands.

            Merry and Pippin stood at their places, having removed those cloaks of grey-green they wore and hung them over the back of their own chairs.  They, too, were dressed for once in Shire cloth, although the tree and circle of stars embroidered on Pippin’s shirt had never been considered symbols of the Shire.

            “Interesting outfit our Peregrin’s wearing,” old Berni was saying to those by him.  “What’s the embroidery supposed to be?”

            Isumbard, who’d joined the table with his wife Pearl, peered at the head table before informing him, “It appears to be the White Tree of Gondor, and the Seven Stars of the Dúnedain--or that’s how Frodo explained them to us when we’d get letters from the King or his northern Steward with those symbols on them.  After all, Pippin is sworn to the King now.  In fact, the King’s supposed to be one of those who saw both Pippin and Merry trained in how to use those swords of theirs.”

            “Seven stars of what?” Odo asked Bertramo.

            “Of the Dúnedain--that’s the Elvish name for the descendants of Elendil, the King that led his folk back to Middle Earth over the Sea at the breaking of the world.  Not long after the inn was reopened Frodo was encouraged by the Tooks who’d brought him over for a bite and a mug to tell them of how it was we had a King again, so he started with telling us that the Dúnedain, the old King’s folks, had formed two kingdoms, south and north; and those that lingered here in the north had been for the most part driven into hiding, but most continued to secretly protect the borders of the Shire and the Breelands and other settled places.  He said that the White Tree with Seven Stars in an arc over it are part of the symbols of the Southern Kingdom, while the circle of Seven Stars is the symbol of Arnor, the Northern Kingdom to which we in the Shire have belonged.  He said that Pippin is sworn to our King Elessar, who is King to both, and since he’s from the Shire, which is in the Northern Kingdom wears both symbols.  Someone in Brandy Hall must have embroidered his jacket like that.”

            The last stragglers were filing into the banquet hall, and all was going quiet.  At a sign from Will Whitfoot all sat down.

            “Odd,” Bertramo said quietly, “how at home Sam Gamgee looks up there, as if this were all old hat with him.”

            Barti had to agree this was true as he watched Sam take his seat and lean over to speak quietly to his wife, who looked surprisingly elegant in the dress she was wearing.  A gardener and a farmer’s daughter--sitting up at the head table as if they were gentry!  The envy in the lawyer’s breast grew a bit more.

            Although the Thain had been a farmer, too, and still did his share of the work during harvest time in the fields surrounding the Great Smial; while Saradoc Brandybuck was said to personally aid in the foaling with the pony herds kept by Brandy Hall.  And all the menfolk of Brandy Hall were said to take part in the harvests there, just as many even of the lawyers of the Tooklands helped in the spring sheering.  As for Frodo Baggins--he’d always helped with the orchard behind Bag End, and was said to have done his share of work at Cotton’s farm in Bywater each year--one of the reasons Cotton had agreed to take him in when he needed a place to stay near the center of the Shire after his return, or so Barti supposed.

            Saradoc was leaning behind Mistress Rosie’s chair to speak to Frodo, and Frodo was leaning behind Master Samwise to listen--a quick smile was shared between them, then Frodo was sitting up again, his expression thoughtful as Williden Whitfoot began his welcoming speech...a speech that threatened to become interminable.

            There was a quiet shuffle by them, and Iris Baggins came to sit beside her daughter and son-in-love.  “Mum?” Angelica said quietly.  “Dad didn’t come?”

            “He’s not up to it, dearling.  Drolan Chubbs and his wife are staying the night at our place--your dad and he are playing at Kings, and Shasta’s keeping an eye on the two of them.  Ah, but you do look well!”  Iris looked about.  “It’s a wonderful company,” she whispered.  “And to know our Frodo is being honored....”  She looked at the head table, then said quietly, “My stars, he’s lost weight again.  I’d not seen him for two weeks, I think.  But that outfit does so become him.”

            Once more Barti found his attention claimed by Frodo,  “After all,” Will was saying, “where would I be if Frodo hadn’t consented to take over the post of deputy Mayor while I recovered?  I still most likely would be sitting in the Mayor’s office, seeking to make sense of all the chaos as had built up there while I was in Lotho’s Lockholes--that’s where I’d likely be tonight!  But Frodo did accept the office, and wisely recognized as he needed help and asked for it--and got it!  And for that we must thank the Thain and Took, our great friend Paladin, as well as the Took lawyers who agreed to come to Michel Delving daily to help plow through all of those  documents.  Everard, Tollerand, Hildibrand....”

            Barti glanced from Frodo’s troubled face to that of Paladin Took, smiling uncertainly, then with more confidence as his own folk were named out, nodding with pride and familiarity at the table where they all sat, their wives and children about them.  Barti looked back at Frodo, who suddenly was looking toward Sam, listening to another quiet comment from the gardener.  Again there was that smile--that gentle, illuminating smile, and Sam reached over to pat his hand briefly before turning to incline his own ear to a question from his wife.

            “And then there are the ongoing investigations into how we came to such a pass that we found ourselves enslaved in our own lands, the lands the King himself gave us....”

            Won’t he ever give over? Barti thought irritably.  Really, Will Whitfoot can talk more about less than any other Hobbit I’ve ever met!

            But it appeared that Will was intent on boring all into a full state of stupefaction.  “Then we must thank those who are helping not only in the investigations of all the atrocities offered by the Big Men under Lotho’s authority, but who are also investigating claims for reparations.  Brendilac Brandybuck, stand up there, won’t you?  You and the others who are on that committee deserve our most profound thanks, mind you, for it’s not always a rewarding task, trying to determine what can be replaced and what can’t.  And how can we put a value on a lost dog, killed because it had the courage to bark at these interlopers, or a set of dishes destroyed wantonly because although they held no value for the thieves amongst the ‘Gatherers and Sharers’ they yet meant the world to those who saw them broken, and our new masters wanted us to feel terror and despair, to lose our pride in ourselves as Shirefolk?”

            This was causing many to feel restive, recalling too strongly the feelings of helplessness and rage that had to be brutally suppressed if they were to not follow in the wake of the shattered dishes.  Odo shifted abruptly in his seat.  “What’s he going to do?” he hissed rather loudly at Largo Longbottom, “Thank even the children as folded the napkins for the place settings for the banquet tonight?”

            It was enough to break the tension, and Barti felt himself both again irritated but also grateful for the interruption.  Barti again cast a glance at Frodo Baggins, and noted to his surprise that Frodo was suppressing a spontaneous grin, shaking his head at the irrepressible old Hobbit.  That the former deputy Mayor was also grateful for the break in Will’s prolonged words of praise startled the Bracegirdle lawyer, and then seemed merely to add fuel to his irritation.

            Will gave a sigh and looked reproachfully at Odo, who ignored him.  “Mostly, of course,” Will continued, “this banquet is to thank Frodo Baggins....”

            Barti ignored Delphinium’s glare as he added his own groan to those of many others who hoped desperately that Will would take the hint, sit down, and allow the actual meal to begin.  At least Baggins appeared to be as uncomfortable with the situation as everyone else--the Bracegirdle had that satisfaction.

            Determinedly, Will droned on.  “We are all sorry he chose to forego proper election as Mayor, and hope he does well as he returns to private life.”

            A great snort was heard from Odo Proudfoot over that one.  Bartolo had had enough, stating baldly, “He’s come off all right, after all--back in his own hole and didn’t lose a single farthing in regaining possession of it.”

            Will paused, and Isumbard Took gave his Bracegirdle counterpart a scathing look.  “I seem to remember you taking money directly from Frodo for the deed to Bag End, and of far higher value than you’d looked to take, and in the King’s coinage at that.”

            Feeling his face begin to burn with embarrassment and anger, Barti blurted out, “But he got it back....”

            “As the return of the sum taken for the reconveyance of Bag End’s deed was a personal bequest from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins to Frodo, and as most of the furnishings sold to Lotho with the smial had to be replaced as well as the hole and property needing extensive, often expensive repairs, I wouldn’t exactly say Frodo lost nothing in the transaction.  Nor did he make out extraordinarily well from his service as deputy Mayor, as he insisted on returning his salary to the Shire’s treasury, and paid for some improvements out of his own funds that the Shire not be burdened at a time when much was needed to see many returned to their homes and regular sources of income.  Also, he was the last Hobbit in the Shire to return to his own place.”

            That news certainly gave Barti pause, and he risked another look at the former deputy Mayor.  Frodo’s face had gone white and the spots of color on his cheeks quite pink as he found himself the object of general scrutiny.  Frodo had refused to accept the compensation given to the one who served in the Mayor’s office?  Not, of course, considering what the Bracegirdle knew of the Baggins’s financial situation, he had need of such a salary.  “And just what ‘improvements’ did Frodo pay for?” he heard someone at a different table ask those by him.

            Odo was sitting up very straight as he glared at their Baggins kinsman.  “You too good for the Shire’s coinage?” he demanded.  Frodo looked back with a desperate dignity, his lips bloodless but his chin lifted defiantly. 

            Sancho Proudfoot, highly embarrassed by the old Hobbit’s rudeness, elbowed his grandfather quite hard in the midriff. 

            Will was glaring again at the family head for the Proudfoots.  “Could you have done better, Odo?”

            Barti watched Frodo’s face as the Mayor went on to list many of the things Frodo had accomplished while he was serving in Will’s place, and saw that although he was embarrassed to have them listed Frodo Baggins was refusing to back down under Odo’s disbelieving stare.  Certainly as a lawyer for the Shire he, Bartolo Bracegirdle, appreciated more than most folks did just how much more than officiating at weddings and banquets the Mayor did for their small land; but there was no question Frodo had gone well above and beyond the call of duty.

            “Do you realize,” Will was asking, “how many hundreds of pounds of malt, wheat, barley, and other grains Frodo helped see distributed, or how he met with innkeepers, brewers, millers, farmers, and so on just so we could get the Ivy Bush and the Green Dragon opened for you to get your evening half pint again?”

            Certainly the inns of Hardbottle and Michel Delving had needed help getting restarted again, as Barti knew well enough.  And Frodo had been wise enough to plan for the grain found in the Brockenbores to be equally distributed throughout the Shire, not hoarding it for the central Shire or Michel Delving; no one could claim he’d practiced favoritism.

            Will was continuing, “Do you realize how many hours he spent poring over lists of objects found on one hand and items stolen on the other, matching them up and seeing clothing, furniture, jewelry, candlesticks, and so on returned to their rightful owners?”  Barti couldn’t help looking to his wife and seeing her promise necklace hanging once more about her neck, and down at the stickpin he once again wore.  Yet even the King’s Ranger kinsmen knew that Frodo had been doing all he could to make things right within the Shire--Frodo, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took, and that Samwise Gamgee.

            Barti found himself examining the face of the gardener who sat at the head table beside Frodo.  Sam, he knew, had begun to work to get the Quick Post going again even before Frodo asked him to see to it; and he was the one who’d done the actual leg work necessary to seeing homes and inns rebuilt and gardens and groves replanted.  He was the one who would ride into town, and folks would flock to his side and pitch in and help--help rake away dead branches and ashes and dig holes for new trees; help pull down those awful Shiriff houses and sort out the bricks to be used to shore up many an old place and make them snugger--when they weren’t used to put up new homes in place of those burned, torn down, or dug up by Lotho’s folks.

            Bartolo Bracegirdle knew a secret that few within the Shire had any knowledge of--that in the outer realm both Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins had been made lords of the realm by order of the King; and that both were equally honored by Men, Elves, and Dwarves.

            And then he glanced at Persi and Pet, who sat side by side--and saw that their eyes were glowing with pride at the praise they heard being heaped on Frodo’s head.  They, too, knew more than the wretched Baggins wanted anyone to know of what he’d done out there, and suddenly Barti was glad! glad! glad! that they did.  Serve Frodo right, it would, for folks to be in on the secret!

            He suddenly was listening to Will again.  “Frodo Baggins didn’t have to come back to us again, you know--he could easily have stayed in Gondor with the King, whose friendship he knows.  But he and the others returned, and because they did the Shire is well on its way back to being healthy and strong as well as free of ruffians again.  I think it’s time to thank these, and those like Fredegar Bolger who during the Time of Troubles did their best to stand up to Lotho and his Big Men to help the rest of us as they could.”  Barti watched as Hobbits around the banquet hall began to rise to their feet, some applauding.  More and more rose, and more and more were clapping, and finally all stood proudly, and now stamps and cheers and whistles of appreciation were added to the applause.  Barti rose, although he pointedly refrained from clapping.  Then he caught the eye of Benlo Bracegirdle, the family head for their shared clan, and saw the disapproval there, just before Benlo turned deliberately to examine the rest of Barti’s family, seeming mollified as he saw how enthusiastically Delphinium and the children were in their applause for those being honored tonight.

            The meal was served at last, and as usually seemed to happen when the Travelers attended a public meal, the four of them rose and turned toward the West, standing quietly for a moment before they turned back to take their places at the table.  As usual there were a few quiet comments on this strange custom, although none thought to publicly question the practice.

            No one could complain for either the quantity or the quality of the food.  Barti, however, couldn’t seem to ignore Frodo Baggins no matter what he tried to do, and he saw that the former deputy Mayor ate relatively little, although he was obviously being coaxed by Sam Gamgee to do what he could.  One of those serving the meal paused to ask something of Frodo, and at his shrugged answer nodded, her brow furrowed with concern.  She delivered her last platters of lamb and then joined the table at which Fredegar Bolger sat with his sister, Folco Boffin, Griffo and Daisy, and a few other Boffins and Bolgers from Hobbiton and Bywater as well as the individual who’d driven the Bolger coach tonight.  Geli Proudfoot came to sit by her husband Sancho, and Barti, after a warning glance from his wife, set out to be stiffly polite to the two of them.

            When the music started Geli was one of the first on her feet, rising to begin clearing away so that the younger Hobbits present could stack the tables against the walls for dancing.  At a word from Will Whitfoot, his nephew Gordolac fetched a few chairs for some of the older and frailer folk, and soon Sam was steering Frodo into one of these; shortly after that Geli appeared at his side with a small table to set at his elbow, and a plate with some rolled, cold meats and cheeses and some vegetables.

            “Special treatment for our deputy Mayor?” Barti overheard one of the Hornblowers ask of Sancho Proudfoot.

            “He’s not been able to eat much at a time since he caught that horrid cold as was goin’ ’round in November, so Sam suggested this.  Easier for him to eat if it’s not all at once.”

            Mina Whitfoot stopped by Frodo, and he rose respectfully to speak with her, shaking his head regretfully to some suggestion she’d made.  She placed her hands on his shoulders and spoke rather solemnly, then hugged him briefly before going to fetch out a mug of tea to set beside him, earning her a grateful smile; and he watched the dancing with what Barti couldn’t help but recognize as further regret. 

            Why am I watching Baggins so much tonight? he suddenly asked himself.  You’d think as I cared how he feels, or how well or how ill he is!  Disgusted with himself, he murmured into Delphie’s ear, “I’m going out to get some fresh air.”

            “Then leave your resentments out there, Bartolo Bracegirdle,” she returned in a low voice.  “If Ricki were acting as you are you’d be ashamed to own him as your son.”

            Further angered, Barti stalked out of the banquet room toward the doors, although as Benlo came out of the hallway from the privy he paused.  The Bracegirdle family head gave the lawyer a scathing glance.  “Think as you were rude enough tonight, Bartolo?” he asked.  “You been inside Bag End and seen what was done to it?  Well, I have, and I can tell you as it was almost gutted.  Must of cost Frodo a pretty penny to see it put right again.  Maybe much of the furniture to replace what the Big Men destroyed might of come from Brandy Hall or even the Great Smial, but most of the sconces and chandeliers had to be made special, and that’s not cheap, you know.  Nor is workin’ patches into panelin’, joists, and beams, or havin’ to pull out all the floor tiles and lay in slate in their stead, or havin’ to have most of the plaster redone and everything repainted.  Better’n half the shutters and windows had to be replaced, and all new carpets were put down and curtains hung throughout the hole.  I’m told as even the mantels and fireplace facin’s all had to be redone.

            “I don’t know for certain just what inspired your Aunt Lobelia to deed Bag End back to Frodo, but I’m proud of her for havin’ done it afore she died.  And you know as well as I do that she’d never shown a whit of respect for Frodo Baggins until she come out of the Lockholes.  Certainly I’ve never felt particularly close to Baggins myself, but I’ve always respected him, and even more so since he come back from foreign parts.  One thing as I’ve seen--he cares--truly cares for folks--always has done and always will, I’m thinkin’.  He’s honest and has integrity, and what’s more, he respects you and never has a bad word to say about you.  Yet you--one would think as he’d done nothin’ but speak ill of you ever, way you look at him and speak of him, even after he sent you out to Bree--the first Shire lawyer to be qualified by the King’s lawyer to write contracts for the realm.

            “Now you’re family, and you’ve always been the one I’ve had see to my business and all; but if you want to keep that position you’d best mend your ways and apologize to Baggins afore you leave here tonight.”  And with a meaningful look, Benlo disappeared back into the banquet hall, leaving Barti seething as he watched after before he finally blundered out through the main door into the chilled evening.

            Bartolo found he wasn’t alone out here, either, as a pipe flared off to one side and he realized Bertramo had come out before him.  Somehow grateful, the lawyer found his way to his wife’s kinsman’s side.  Tram gave him only a nod, working at keeping his pipe going in spite of the crisp air.  “Well,” Barti finally sighed, “it probably would have been better if we hadn’t come after all.”

            Tram moved his pipe to the side of his mouth.  “Benlo certainly wasn’t looking very happy with you.”

            “Threatened to get someone else to handle his business,” the lawyer admitted grudgingly.

            The older Hobbit shrugged.  “That’s his right, of course.  He’s come to admire Frodo, you know.  Was one of the most active ones besides Will trying to see Frodo elected Mayor in his own right last summer.”  After a moment of reflection he added, “And there’s no question that Frodo made an excellent deputy Mayor--best one to have there as the Shire was recovering.  I’d wager as he’d have done as well as proper Mayor--perhaps even better.”

            “I suspect you’re right there,” Barti agreed.  “But I’d be a lot happier if we didn’t always have to hear as how fine a fellow is Frodo Baggins from morning to night.  Stars know he didn’t look any too comfortable in there tonight with all the talk about all that he did.”

            Tram gave a nod as he puffed at his pipe.  “No question about that,” he agreed after a moment.  “Too retiring by half, our Frodo.  I distinctly got the impression he didn’t wish to be here, either.”

            After another moment’s comfortable silence the Grubb asked, “Do you have any idea as to why he sets your teeth on edge, Bartolo?  It can’t be just because you’d hoped to inherit Bag End from your aunt--you’ve cringed at the sound of his name for as long as I’ve known you, after all, and I just can’t see you living anywhere but Hardbottle.”

            “I didn’t want Bag End for myself,” Barti finally admitted, realizing his teeth were clenched.  “Don’t want to live anywhere but where I do, there in Garden Place.”

            “But you wanted it anyway?  Why?  For what purpose?  Not the sort of property one rents out, after all.”

            Barti shrugged sourly.  Tram was patient, merely puffing at his pipe, until at last the lawyer said slowly, “I wanted it for my Persi.”

            Bertramo Grubb pulled his pipe from his lips in surprise.  “For Persivo?  What in Middle Earth would lead you to suppose Persi would wish to live in Hobbiton?  He’s Southfarthing born and bred, after all!”

            “He’s bred out more Baggins than many a Baggins,” Barti suddenly said in a rush.  “He’s a far sharper mind than I’ll ever have, my Persi has.  Can see through a tangle of words and intent before I can quite parse out what was meant.  Master Alvric, the King’s lawyer--he’d lay an argument out for us to consider, and right away Persi was seeing where it could be difficult to support or where it could be niggled at.  It took the two of them--Persivo and Master Alvric together--to make me see just what it was Baggins was getting at about the language of our contracts having been used against us.

            “Can’t you see, Tram,” he continued, “how right it would have been to have Persivo there, there in Hobbiton, watching over our folks?  My Enrico--he’s Bracegirdle through and through, and he’ll never leave Hardbottle himself.  But Persi--he’s meant for bigger and better things.  He would have shone there in Bag End, he would.”

            Bertramo started to puff at his pipe once more, only to realize it had gone out.  He sighed as he knocked out the spent ash and remaining leaf, then painstakingly refilled it and took out his striker set, finally getting it alight once more, puffing thoughtfully for some minutes and examining Barti before saying, “So, you weren’t merely being greedy--just seeing it as the proper setting for Persivo.”  At Barti’s slow nod he sighed and looked away, up at the stars that were now showing where the clouds were rolling back.  “I see.  Yes, I could easily see Persivo being happy there as Master of the Hill.  But I can’t see him being happy at Frodo’s expense, not, I think, that Frodo would have begrudged it.”

            Bartolo had to acknowledge Tram was undoubtedly right.

            After a time Tram asked, “Did you know Frodo’s signed over the deeds to the holes there along the Row to his tenants?  All but Sancho Proudfoot and his Angelica, that is--they’re not of age as yet, after all.  Understand from what Will’s said as that one’s being held in trust, with Sam Gamgee as the trustee equally with Saradoc Brandybuck, until they’ve both come of age.  Then it will be theirs.  Same with a good deal of other rental properties he’s had, I believe.  Will and Brendilac Brandybuck had to talk him out of a few of the reconveyances he’d planned, though--there’s a smallholding over Pincup way he inherited from Bilbo that would go to ruin if the tenant realized he was no longer responsible to a landlord for keeping up the place, you know.  Perhaps too idealistic at times, Frodo Baggins is.  Understand his reasoning was he didn’t wish for an absentee landlord in the future to be able to arbitrarily change his mind about what the land’s being used for and merely sweep those who live there off their places for his own purposes.”  He suddenly glanced sideways at the younger Hobbit, a slight grin on his face.  “And you never told me what it is you’ve held against Frodo all these years.”

            For some reason Barti didn’t feel offended by the change in subject.  “No, I didn’t, and I don’t intend to do so.  Part of it’s been shown not to be what I thought it at the time, actually; as for the rest----”  He shrugged and let the thought lie unfinished.

            Tram smiled as he finished his pipe and once more knocked out its contents before stowing it in his pocket.  “Fair enough, Barti.  Don’t mean to pry.  Well, ready to go back in there and face the fact once more that this is Frodo’s evening, as reluctant as he himself is to be here?”

            And with a shared laugh at the expense of a reluctant Baggins, the two turned to reenter the Council Hole.

The Ringbearer’s Wedding Gift

            As Sam came into his Master’s study with a mug of tea and a plate of toast and a pot of May’s currant jam.  Frodo was copying the last chapter returned by his cousin Fredegar Bolger into the Red Book, the rough draft resting against a special stand Sam had made for him that he not have to bend over both copy and book.  Sitting to one side of the desk, on the envelope in which the chapter material had been returned, lay the other missive received that day, a good quality parchment folded in three that had been sealed with an unfamiliar hard green wax into which the shape of a leaf had been pressed.  Frodo had obviously recognized the seal and had opened the missive without comment, first a faint smile to be seen on his face followed by a look of regret.  He’d then refolded the communication and set it aside and turned to the larger packet from Mr. Fredegar.  Apparently, however, considering the current placement of the letter, Frodo had reread it once more before again setting it aside.

            Sam made a point of carefully straightening the empty envelope and letter slightly before pushing both further toward the back of the desk so as to set his tray in their former place.  “Not from one of your relatives, then, Master?” he inquired innocently.

            There was a momentary pause before the older Hobbit gave a slight shake of his head.  “No, not a relative.”

            “Looks like many of them letters as we receive from Minas Tirith what are folded like that,” Sam continued, watching Frodo’s face obliquely.

            Again the slight pause.  “Yes,” Frodo agreed.  “Yes, this is from one from Minas Tirith, although he is not in the city at this time.  He’s--he’s one I’ve consulted on business regarding those lands Aragorn saddled us with.  A few months back one of the properties acquired a new tenant.  We’ve been corresponding on how the new tenancy agreements must be written.”

            Sam gave a considered nod as he turned his attention back to the note.  “A new tenant, eh?  From what the agent told me there in Minas Tirith, the families on those lands settled on me’ve been there forever--or closest thing to it.”

            Frodo gave a slight shrug, and glancing that way Sam noted the faint crease between his friend’s brows.  “Most of the tenants on mine have been that way also.”

            “This new tenant givin’ your agent problems, then?”

            Frodo looked up, obviously surprised at the idea.  “Problems?  Oh, no--no difficulties from the tenant--quite a nice sort, apparently.  No, this is an invitation to a wedding.”

            Sam straightened.  “A weddin’?  What’s he expectin’, as you’ll just ride casual-like down to Minas Tirith to a weddin’?”

            Frodo laughed, and it was good to hear him do so.  “No, Sam--nothing of that sort.  Indeed, the wedding’s being held in Bree.”  His face saddened somewhat.  “No, not that far, perhaps, although I can’t see how I’ll be able to attend a wedding in Bree in February when I can barely find it in me to face a trip to either Tuckborough or Michel Delving at the moment.”

            “What’s one from Minas Tirith doin’ in Bree?”

            Again a slight shrug.  “He was sent here to Eriador on Aragorn’s business.  He’s dealing also with Lord Halladan and Lord Faradir on the business of the two kingdoms, I understand.  Indeed it was during a visit to Fornost and the site where Annúminas is being rebuilt that his lady and he decided that they would marry.  It’s only that as things have been settled with the new tenant that we’ve exchanged letters on occasion.  Although I’ll admit most of the ones sent me I received in Michel Delving.  I’d not heard from him directly since last summer, you see.”

            Sam understood suddenly.  “That lawyer as the Lord Strider sent here to train the Shire lawyers as are bein’ readied to write contracts and agreements with the King’s folks, then?  I see.”

            Frodo’s expression had grown more distant.  “Yes,” he agreed, then turned his attention back to his copying.  “I hope to have most of this copied over by dinner time,” he commented pointedly.

            Recognizing the dismissal, Sam straightened, wondering just what it was that Frodo didn’t wish to discuss with him.  The Ringbearer was becoming more remote with time, he realized, and he ached for that. However, he tried once more to assure his beloved Master he was there should he choose to share any concerns.  “I can understand if’n you’re not plannin’ on attendin’ this weddin’--for all we’ve been to Gondor and back, a trip to Bree’s not one as I’d wish to do in February, I’m thinkin’.  But you’ll be wishin’ to send a gift, surely?”

            Frodo nodded, his attention back on the folded parchment.  “Yes.  Perhaps one of those table shawls that Marigold makes, if she has one done that she’d wish to sell me.  She had one I remember that had wreaths of flowers worked into it....”

            A few weeks later that table shawl was on its way to Bree, accompanied by the Ringbearer’s regrets he would not be able to attend the wedding himself.

 *******

            “Master Alvric?  A moment, please.  A package came for you--one from the Shire, I believe.”

            “A package, Master Barliman?”  Alvric turned toward the innkeeper as he left the common room of the Prancing Pony, a small barrel of ale under his arm.  He was to host a dinner for his current crop of students tomorrow night, and had come to fetch the drink himself.

            Butterbur disappeared into the room where he kept his accounts and came out again with a packet wrapped in canvas, carefully sewn shut.  A few moments later the lawyer was out the door, headed toward the house where he dwelt.

            Carnation saw him approaching and came to open the door, and it was with relief that he surrendered the small keg to her and then laid the canvas-wrapped parcel on the table before shrugging off his cloak and seeing it hung on the pegs in the entranceway.  The Hobbitess paused to examine the parcel.  “What’s this?” she asked.

            “I don’t know,” Alvric admitted.  “Mr. Butterbur appears to think it came from the Shire.  Where is Denra?”

            “In the stillroom with Mistress Blackroot--they’ve been cleaning the still apparatus.”

            He nodded and took the package and headed through the house.

            Carnation’s second son Bedlo sat on a low stood in the corner, drying bottles and setting them into one of the low crates in which Denra stored such things while the two women used a brush to clean the coils.  Denra looked up as Alvric entered.  “What is it that you bring?” she asked, looking at the canvas-covered packet.

            “I’m not certain, but it appears to be from the Shire.  It’s addressed to both of us.  Shall we open it together?”

            “From the Lord Frodo?” she asked.

            He examined the address thoughtfully.  “I suspect that it is from him,” he said, “although in writing on the fabric the writing is somewhat distorted.”

            He surrendered the package to Denra, who on examining it reached into her apron pocket and pulled out her thread scissors.  In moments she had the lacing of the packet cut, and she was pulling apart the seam to expose what was within.  A second packet was wrapped in unbleached muslin and tied with a silver ribbon, and an envelope was tucked inside the bow, one of a golden hue shot with green threads.  He smiled as he recognized the writing.  “Yes, from Lord Frodo indeed.”  She slipped it out of the ribbons and held it out to him, then untied the bow as he slid his finger under the wax into which the Hobbit’s star seal had been impressed and pulled out the enclosed letter.

            His expression became melancholy.  “He won’t be able to attend the wedding,” he sighed.  “This was sent as a wedding gift.  Apparently it was created by Lord Samwise’s sister Marigold, and he hopes it gives us great pleasure.”

            “I still canna understand as just how a Hobbit o’ the Shire come to be a lord,” commented Mistress Blackroot, “nor all this talk of Mordor.  Is there truly such a place?”

            Alvric nodded.  “There indeed was such a place, and under the Nameless One’s control--until Lords Frodo and Samwise went there to his destruction.”  He straightened with the memory of it.  “We saw its walls each day from the walls of our city, and when he sent forth his forces he had the great mountain spew forth clouds of ash to dismay us and to shelter his orcs and trolls from the Sun.  On many days we looked eastward with dread for what that ash might foretell. 

            “And the day that they came to the Sammath Naur, while the Army of the West fought at the Black Gate itself to draw the eye of the Enemy away from Mount Doom----”  His head was held proudly high, his attention on the memory of that day.  He swallowed.  “The gloom had come again after having been much dispersed on the day the siege of the city was broken, and all who had returned to the city could see the darkness so strong to the northeast where the gates to the Black Land lay.  Suddenly----”  He swallowed again.  “Suddenly all paused, and all turned eastward, aware that a great moment had come.  We could feel evil winding about in a great coil as if it would squeeze the city of Minas Tirith and the rest of Middle Earth as well; a moment of terrible balance had come.  It felt as if any single movement we made could tip the balance toward the evil, and all would fall--and then there was a great wind rushing from the west toward the east, and the clouds suddenly were torn asunder, and all felt a moment of great joy, realizing that the coil had fallen in on itself rather than compassing us about.  And we saw a great pillar of blackness rise over the Ephel Dúath, and lightning struck again and again about that pillar--and then the west wind struck it--dispersed it--and it was--it was no more!”  His face was shining.  “We were free--we knew we were free, and safe at last!”  His attention returned to Mistress Blackroot’s face.  “It was a great day, when the Ring went back into the Fire and was unmade, and Sauron’s evil with it!”         

            Denra had the ribbon removed from the muslin, but had waited until he’d finished speaking before removing the fabric from around the contents.  “You hear them speakin’ of it,” she said quietly as she pulled back the fabric, “of the darkness of the day and the moment all felt queer, as if they daren’t move at all; then the moment of freedom!  All the Rangers as was there say the same.”

            She paused as she turned the packet over so that there was but a single fold of fabric yet over the contents, and turned her attention to the face of her neighbor.  “Member the day, almost two year back, when the whole sky was brown and we was all feelin’ as if we’d had caterpillar spines stuck to our skins all over?”

            The other woman nodded reluctantly.  “Well, I’d tried to put that day out o’ me mind, like.  ’Twasn’t a natural feelin’, that.  And it had been goin’ on fer weeks, ye know.”

            Denra was nodding.  “Apparently it was that day, when the wind definitely changed and stayed changed and the brown at last left the sky--it was that day as they made it to the Mountain and we was saved.  And we was so far away, and had no idea as to what it meant!  Can you imagine--it’s like as it was our neighbors what done it, you know--got there and saw Sauron destroyed.  But the Rangers as was there--they saw it close up, and they all say same as my Alvric.”  She looked back at her intended.  “Did he say as why it is as he can’t come?”

            “He says he was ill in the fall and hasn’t truly recovered.”

            Denra sighed as she turned back to the packet and pulled away the last fold of cloth.

            “Ooh--it’s lacework!” murmured Mistress Blackroot as she came closer to look.

            Denra’s face was shining.  “Alvric,” she directed with a brief glance at him, “call Carnation!  She’ll love this!”

            By the time the lawyer and the Hobbitess had returned Denra and her neighbor had it stretched out between them.  “It’s a table shawl, all of seven feet wide and ten long!” Mistress Blackroot said, a look of wonder on her face.  “Why, if’n ’twas made by a Hobbit lass, it must of taken her a right long time!”

            “Linen thread, and made with a fine steel hook,” agreed Denra reverently.  “Look at how fine it is, Alvric, Carnation!”

            About the oval of its interior was a great wreath of flowers with even more worked into the center.  “Picture lace!” Alvric sighed.  “My mother would have never have been able to afford something so fine!  Marigolds and babies breath, clematis and roses--she is a most gifted artist with the lace hook, is Mistress Marigold.  Well, it is said that her brother is one of the most gifted of gardeners within all of Middle Earth.”

            “We’ll treasure it always,” Denra said softly as she began to move toward her friend to see it again folded.  “We’ll treasure it for it come from Lor--no, Master Frodo--you know as Lord Halladan said as it’s how he wishes to be known, Alvric; and ’cause ’twas made by Lord Sam’s sister as much as ’cause of its beauty and all the work as went into it.  I never, never thought as I’d ever have such a thing for myself.”

            “It’s a right treasure,” agreed Carnation, her voice soft.  “A right treasure indeed.  Why, you could entertain the King hisself off that cloth and he’d feel full honored, I’m thinkin’.”

            Alvric, smiling, had to agree.

Moving Toward a Wedding

            Lindor Greenwillow finished the last of his translation and examined the sheaf of papers he had lying in front of him.  Bagginses and Baggers, Sackinses and Sackvilles and Bracegirdles--they were swimming around in his head.  But beyond the lists of names and dates were indications as to the long histories of the Hobbits themselves, and they were fascinating.

            “You’re finished?” asked Analisë as she looked up from a copy she was making of a book of poetry she’d received from one of the Elves from Rivendell.

            Her husband nodded.  “I hope I have it all translated properly.  Some of the Sindarin is quite archaic.  It appears that Elrond Halfelven himself saw some of the first Hobbits to come into Eriador from the valley of the Anduin.  Many appear to have come over the passes there east of Rivendell.”

            “They did?  Then they also came into Eriador from east of the Misty Mountains?”  At his nod Analisë thoughtfully capped her own bottle of ink and then carefully sprinkled drying sand over her work.  “It appears that save for the Dwarves, the races of Arda all awoke somewhere in the east.  Does it say why they came over the mountains?”

            “There’s talk of long droughts and wildfires, and some of orc assaults on their communities.  It appears that the land was long in great trouble, and perhaps the Enemy himself was adding to their problems.”

            “Certainly,” Analisë said, tapping her now wiped pen thoughtfully on the table top, “if orcs were involved Sauron must have been encouraging them to their work.  I wonder what he sent the orcs to do?”

            Lindor shrugged as he frowned down at the scroll.  “Stealing their foodstores, or killing wantonly, most likely.  Although there are some indications some of the Hobbits might have been carried off alive.”

            His wife looked shocked at the idea.  “Alive?  For what reason?”

            The Man shrugged.  “Who knows for certain the purpose?” he said quietly.  “However, we know he has ever abused his slaves and sought more.  And there are always his breeding programs for orcs to think on.”

            Anelisë’s face twisted in distress at the idea of such a thing.  “Hobbits taken to serve as a basis for orcs?  Although it appears that Saruman at least was using Men in his own experiments, and we know both Sauron and his master both abused Elves for that purpose....”

            Both of them shuddered.  At last she set her bottle aside and turned to consider more closely the stack of paper before her husband.  “Since you have it finished, how long do you think it will take you to do the proper number of copies?  This has taken you several months, after all.”

            “Not that I’ve worked on it all that long at a time save for the last two weeks,” he sighed.  “I’m not certain how long it might take me.  Perhaps I could call upon Hildigor or Teregion to assist me--they both write a fair hand, after all.”

            She nodded her agreement.  “I believe Halladan would be willing to allow his son to assist in the work,” she said.  “And I know that it will be with pleasure that the children of Master Bracegirdle will receive their own copy.”

            “I hope that Master Frodo will find his copy interesting,” Lindor said, and smiled into her eyes.  “Is there any of the poppy-seed cake left, beloved?”  As she started out of the room he added, “I’d like to finish at least one copy soon to give to Master Alvric for his own library--he appears to find the Hobbits of the region endlessly fascinating.”

            She paused in the doorway.  “Perhaps as a wedding gift for him and Mistress Gorse?”

            They shared a pleased smile.  Yes, the perfect gift--if it could be finished in time.

 *******

            “Mummy--which dress should I plan on taking to Bree to wear for the wedding?”

            Bartolo Bracegirdle paused in the contract he was copying for a Hornblower client to look over his shoulder, feeling somewhat dismayed by the discussion going on in the passageway outside his study door. 

            “The yellow one, Lyssa,”

            “Mother, how long will we be in Bree for the wedding?  Will I be able to spend a day with Ronica, do you think?”

            “And I wish to go to the dance they’re going to have at the Guild Hall on the Highday--Aggie’s told me of it!”  Begonia must be back in her bedroom, her father decided.

            “A dance?”  Enrico must have come out into the passageway at his sister’s announcement.  “I won’t have to go, will I, Mum?”

            Barti had hoped that the rest of the family had forgotten about the wedding in Bree, for as time passed he found he had less and less interest in making the journey in February.  It was likely to be a chilly, damp drive, he knew; and the idea of purposely traveling such a long way concerned him.  However, it appeared that he could not decide they should not go without risking much argument.

            “It’s a fool thing,” he muttered to himself as he turned back to his copying, “marrying in February!”

            After a time Delphie came in to sit at her own desk, immediately reaching to draw her inkstand toward her, then slipping a sheet of stationery out of the tray of her letters box.  “Do you think we ought to invite the Watercresses to dine with us again at the Pony?” she asked him.  “And should we perhaps write ahead to reserve the same rooms?”  Noting her expression, Barti realized his wife had a good idea as to his personal reservations about going, and was intending to let him know there was no way in Middle Earth she intended to miss Master Alvric’s wedding.

            He shrugged.  “I suppose.”

            She gave a satisfied sigh.  “Good then--I will write now.”

            “And have you prepared a wedding gift for them?”

            She nodded.  “Yes.  You know that punchbowl set at Vito’s shop?  The one decorated with violets?  One of the Silvertoe children broke another one of the cups, and Vito was so angry he declared he should sell it for a single silver just to have it gone before anyone breaks any more of it.  I mean, Jessup managed to break the tray and one cup, and now a second cup’s gone.  It was such a bargain, I could not pass it up!  I mean--a single silver for that fine bowl with eighteen cups and the ladle?  It will make a perfect wedding gift for Master Alvric and Mistress Denra!”

            He had to admit it was indeed a good price.  However....  “Don’t you think as it’s a bit--extravagant--for folks as aren’t even relatives?”

            Delphie gave him one of her best amazed expressions.  “After all the time he spent teaching you and Persi?  And he was sent by the King himself, you’ll remember.  What would you have had me do--send one of those awful vases Deri Grubb turns out?”

            Barti felt himself color--that was indeed the gift he’d suggested sending to Sancho and Geli at their marriage, although Delphie, furious at him, had sent instead a set of dishes that she’d inherited from their Baggins grandparents.  “It’s not as if we were sending something paid for by your earnings!” she’d said when he’d protested.  “And you know you don’t really like them, while Geli’s always loved them.”

            “How are you sending them out to Bree--or are we to take them in the coach?”

            “No--Vito’s cousin is going out next week to pick up a consignment of cloth come from south-aways, so he’s to take the set with him.  Vito has the perfect packing case to send them in--they ought to be well protected.  After all, it wouldn’t do to show up with them on the day of the wedding.”

            “I’m not certain--Men don’t appear to have exactly the same practices as do Hobbits.  However, as long as they arrive in time for the wedding, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

            She rose enough to kiss him on the cheek, and immediately his mood brightened.

            “Do you think as Master Bernigard will allow Persi to go with us?” she asked as she slipped the first of her missives into an envelope and turned it to address it.

            “I don’t see why not,” he returned, having just set blotting paper expertly over his finished document.  “You sent the letter saying as when the wedding was to be, didn’t you?”

            “Yes, I did.  And the last report we had from the Great Smial indicates Persi is doing exceptionally well.”

            Barti smiled with satisfaction.  “Well, he certainly ought to, being our son as he is.”

            “Do we leave on Trewsday?” she asked.

            He glanced out the window.  “Perhaps it might be better to leave on Monday, in case of changes in the weather.  We could always spend an extra day in Kingsbridge if we need to....”

 *******

            Persi arrived home on Sunday, having been given a ride by a farmer who’d been to the Great Smial to purchase seedcorn and was now on his way back further south.  By Sunday evening the carriage was mostly filled, and the Greenmans had agreed to look after Feathers and the smial while they were gone.  Before they went to bed Delphie and Pet saw to it the kitchen fire was built up, setting in it a number of bricks, with a pile of flannel bags set on the nearby work table.  Monday morning, it was:

            “Mummy, why can’t I take my blue dress I had from Gammer Alma?”

            “Alyssa, you have outgrown that!  Be reasonable, child!”

            “But it’s my favorite!”

            “I can’t find my other hawks-eye shirtstud, Mum.”

            “Did you look to see if Feathers batted it under the dresser, Ricki?”

            “Begonia Bracegirdle--if you think you are wearing that dress while we are traveling, you have another thing coming!  Delphinium, will you look at the lass!”

            “Oh, sweet stars and water, Gonya--that will never do!  Have you not seen the frost on the windows this morning--you’ll freeze!  And, no, you’re not taking it, and if you start pouting about it you shall not go to the dance on the High Day, do you hear?  I said traveling clothes--you get back into your room and get one of your warm flannel dresses on, and your blue cloak.”

            “You mean I might wear my new blue cloak, Mummy?  I never thought you would, for it’s so fine!”

            “Morsel--this is why we bought that cloak for you!  Now go!  Petunia--oh, heavens!”

            “You don’t think it’s not appropriate, do you, Mother?”

            In a soft voice.  “Appropriate?  Oh, sweetling!  It’s just that you look just like my own mum when I was a child.  Your Gammer Melianslace was always judged quite the beauty, you know.  I’d only never realized how you have just the shape of her face before--it’s the way you have your hair arranged, I think.”

            “You like it this way, Mummy?  I thought to try it because of the picture you have of her on your dresser.”

            A slow, thoughtful nod, accompanied by memories of summer picnics in the garden and holding soft kittens in the sewing room--Melianslace Grubb Baggins had been quite the seamstress in her day, and had adored cats.

            “I have the flannel bags ready for the bricks, for when we’re ready.”

            A door opened, and a breath of crisp air moved through the room.  “Mum--the ponies are ready, whenever we are----  Oh, I say!  Petunia, you look stunning!  You should always wear your hair like that!”

            It was wonderful to see the color fill Petunia’s cheeks and the pleased expression in her eyes--it was Begonia who usually was complimented on her dress and beauty rather that Pet.

            Bartolo came in with the leather case filled with documents he meant to go over with Master Alvric once they reached Bree, and paused.  He examined his second daughter and something melted a bit inside him.  “Very nice, dearling,” he said in a rather thick voice.  “If the ponies are harnessed then we’d best be getting ready.  If you’ll please get the bricks in the flannels....”

            Still smiling that pleased, surprised smile, Petunia bobbed her head at her parents almost shyly and disappeared back into the kitchen again.

            “Oh, Delphinium--she looks so much like your mother.  When did she manage to grow up?  Why haven’t I noted before?”

            Ricki carried one food chest of cooler foods while Persivo carried the second one that was lined with heated brick tiles and held warmer foods prepared last night and finished this morning, with room for the pasties they were to pick up at the inn as they passed it.  Once all were within with heated bricks at their feet and in their laps and between their hips and the doors, Persivo scrambled up onto the box, a knit hat warming his ears and his thickest, softest scarf about his neck and the highly respectable cloak given him by his new Master about his form.  He took up the reins in his mittened hands, released the brake, and they were off.  One quick stop as the barman brought out the order made the day before, and they left Hardbottle behind them, headed for Frogmorton and the Great Road, the three lasses and their mother raising their voices in the wedding song.

A Wedding Made

            Denra was leaning over a large packing case when Alvric and Holby returned from the Prancing Pony with a keg of ale.  The Man had seen Carnation going to the shed behind the house carrying what appeared to be a sheet of wood with her, and now she reentered the house behind him, closing the door firmly against the chill.  “There,” the Hobbitess said with satisfaction, “that’s out of the way, although, Master Alvric, I suspect as ye’ll have to carry out the case, for it’s too large for me to deal well with it.”

            “Where is it from?” he asked over his shoulder as he headed for the place in the stillroom where they’d agreed it would be best to store the drink for the wedding.

            “From the Shire!” Denra called after him.  “A Hobbit from Hardbottle brought it.”

            In moments he was back in the front parlor and kneeling down the other side of the case.  Denra had been lifting out layers of thick, pliant reeds that had been used to fill the case and protect whatever it held.  At last she uncovered a small packet wrapped in heavy paper and pulled it out.  She unwrapped it carefully, then paused, her eyes delighted.  “Oh, Alvric--Carnation--look!”

            It was a cup of the finest porcelain Alvric thought he’d ever seen, so fine that when she held it to the window he could see the light shine through it--and then he noticed something. 

            “May I hold it?” he asked, his attention fully caught.  He accepted it and held it to the window.  “Look--there’s a shadow image caught in it--a flower--more violets, I think!”  He was enchanted, for he’d never seen anything like this before.

            “Oh--picture pottery!” breathed Carnation.  She took the next cup unwrapped and looked through it, then turned it over to trace the careful shaping of the bottom.  “Me mum had four such cups, and I inherited one of 'em.  The Hobbits of the Shire make such wonderful pottery!”

            Alvric had to agree as he handed her the cup he held for the Hobbitess to set on the table, and he began helping to remove more packing, eventually unwrapping a total of eighteen of the cups and a beautifully crafted ladle before pulling out the great bowl at the bottom.  It was a thicker porcelain than the cups, but still, when holding the bottom toward the window it could be seen that there was a wreath of flowers impressed into the base of it.

            “How clever--and beautiful,” he said.  “This must have been terribly expensive.  From Hardbottle, you say?  Do you think it was sent by Master Bartolo’s family?”

            Denra was nodding as she carefully took the great bowl and set it with the ladle in the midst of the circle Carnation had made of the cups.  “There’s a letter as come with it,” she noted.  “It’s on the low table there.  Just think!  A Shire punch bowl set!  Is there a tray as well?”

            Alvric emptied out the last of the reeds, but had to admit the bowl, ladle, and cups were all he could find.  She smiled.

            “That’s well and good enough,” she said.  “It’s a fine gift indeed.  I’d of never dreamed to have so fine a set.  As for a tray--we can have our choice of fine trays to use with it, I’d think.”  She stood admiring it rather dreamily.  “It shall go so well with Master Frodo’s table shawl, don’t you agree, dearling?”

            Alvric did agree as he nudged Holby and the cat out of the reeds, where they’d bedded down together to watch, and carefully returned the packing to the case, gathering the reed stems from the rug where he and Denra had laid them.  At last satisfied he’d got the lot of them, he and Carnation between them carried the case out the door and set it to one side, agreeing it could be put in the shed later, and returned into the house where the warmth of the fire greeted them.  At last the lawyer took up the letter Denra had mentioned and began reading it.

February 2, 1421 S.R.

Dear Master Alvric and Mistress Denra,

            We hope you’ll like this.  Ordinarily we’d not send something quite this elaborate as a wedding gift, but I was able to get it at quite a bargain, and I so hope it pleases the both of you.  It’s been in a shop here in Hardbottle for ever so long, and I’ve known that one day I should find just the right folks to send it to--and now I have!  I don’t know if they do pane pottery in Gondor.  They don’t do a lot of it here in the Shire, either; but the Grubbs pottery near Threadneedle makes some of the best in the Southfarthing.  My distant cousin Leticia probably painted the flowers upon it, for she decorates most of their pottery.

            We shall be there I hope in good time for the wedding.  Shall the two of you attend the dance at the Guild Hall on the Highday?  It appears Agatha has written of it to Begonia, and it’s all she seems able to think on at the moment.

            Well, Vito’s cousin is to carry this with him when he comes to Bree on business, so I need to finish this letter that it might reach you.  May the stars shine on the happiness of the both of you.

Yours,

Delphinium Baggins Bracegirdle for all of us

Garden Place, Hardbottle, the Southfarthing, the Shire

            “I’ll wager as Mr. Bracegirdle is thinkin’ as his missus is a bit extravagant,” Carnation sniffed once the letter had been read to her.  “But I’ll agree as it’s about the prettiest of its kind as I’ve ever seen.  May ye always use it in gladness!  Should ye like your luncheon now?”

 *******

            Two days before the wedding Nob came from the Prancing Pony with a handcart loaded with a wine barrel and a flat case.  “These just arrived,” he explained to Alvric when he answered the door.  “The wine’s from the Shire, from the Master’s cellar, I’m told, sent by Merimac Brandybuck in thanks for the trainin’ as you’ve give the Buckland lawyers; and the case was brought with a wagon headed north toward the new King’s city as is bein’ built.  And there’s another larger case as come with it, but it was too big for me to bring.”

            The case was from Prince Faramir and his bride Princess Éowyn.  To realize that an actual prince was sending them a present seemed to overwhelm Denra; when it was opened, carefully wrapped in folds of pale rose velvet they found a great silver tray, delicately etched with interlocking circles of flowers, with the White Tree of Gondor in the center.  Denra’s eyes shone with the delight of it.  “Oh, Alvric--it can be used with the punch set, don’t you see?  And a prince--a real prince--sent it to us?  But why us?”

            “I’ve known and worked with Prince Faramir and his father before him for some years, my beloved.  It was so thoughtful of them.”  He examined the handles carefully.  “Ivory—I’ll wager the ivory was taken from the tusks of the mumakil that were killed in the battle before the city gates.”

            But it was the other case, once it was fetched, that managed to leave Denra totally speechless, for it was sent by the King and Queen themselves--in it, padded with golden straw and layers of purple velvet of the finest quality, were a pair of great pitchers of blue glass that shone with different colors as one turned them, and a set of nested, fluted bowls also of the same glass.

            “Volcano glass,” Alvric said reverently as he held the smallest one up and turned it.  “They are all made with the ash from Orodruin.  Master Celebrion from the Fourth Circle blows some of the finest glass in all of Gondor.  Oh, Denra--this helps us remember the victory over Mordor!”

            At that moment there was another knock at the door, and Alvric went to find Persivo Bracegirdle there.  “We’ve just now come,” the young Hobbit told him, “and Mum sent me over to tell you and to ask if you’d all wish to join us at dinner tonight at the Prancing Pony.  Oh, I say,” he said, his eyes caught by the bowl Alvric was holding, “if that isn’t beautiful!”

            Alvric drew him in and showed him the dining room with its carefully dressed table covered with the great shawl sent by Frodo Baggins and their own punchbowl set upon it.  “Oh, yes, from Vito’s shop!” he said.  “So, that’s what Mum sent you from us, is it?  It’s so wonderful she managed to find a home for it with those as will love it.  And you say as--you say that the table shawl is from Cousin Frodo Baggins?  I wonder if it was made by Marigold Cotton?  I’ve seen some of her work displayed at the Free Fair, and it is beautiful.  Yes, she was Marigold Gamgee, but she’s married young Tom Cotton of Bywater now.  It was?  Oh, but she’s won so many prizes for her work.”

            Denra’s eyes were shining with tears of pride as she arranged the punch bowl set upon the great silver tray with its ivory handles and set a pitcher on each side of it, and circled them with the nested bowls.

 *******

            On the Highday all attended the dance at the Guild Hall, and even Enrico managed to enjoy himself far more than he’d expected, particularly when he led out his mother.  Soon an Underhill lass caught his eye, and he realized that perhaps lasses weren’t all simpering fools—lasses other than his sisters, that was. 

Late in the party the door opened to admit a party of Rangers and a group of ladies none within Bree had seen before.  For a moment all went quiet with surprise and, on the part of some, a degree of dismay.

            The one they thought of as the Scribe looked about the room.  “Would you truly be uncomfortable if we were to join you?  As we’ve come for the wedding tomorrow….”

            Many of the company already there blushed, and Barliman Butterbur gestured them further into the room.  “Beg pardon, masters and mistresses,” he said.  “It’s just you’ve taken us by surprise is all.  No, don’t stand on ceremony.  We was setting to dance a reel.”

            It soon was apparent that these could dance with the best, and all watched with admiration as Lord Halladan and his lady wife proved particularly skilled at dancing reels.

            “I didn’t never think as those Rangers even had wives,” Missus Blackroot murmured to Denra Gorse.

            All were clapping in rhythm as the pair before them stamped and turned, their faces alight with the joy of the dance.

 *******

            Bartolo Bracegirdle was sitting at second breakfast in the common room with his family when Master Alvric came down from the room he’d taken for the night, smoothing his curly hair with one hand while rubbing his eyes with another.  “Oh, what a night!” he said as he came to join them and plopped into one of the low chairs intended for Hobbits.  “I’ve not danced that much for years!  And I suspect I drank rather too much as well.  Will I truly be ready to marry Denra today?”

            Delphie examined him with an experienced eye.  “Oh, I think you’ll do, Master Alvric.  You’re nowhere as bad off as many a Hobbit I’ve seen on his wedding day, after all.  Some of my cousins....”  She shook her head with a rueful smile.

            “I see.  Yesterday I was trying to help set up the house for the wedding, but was finally sent off with Holby to get us out of the way, or so they told me.  Apparently I, as the bridegroom, cannot be expected to properly place anything.”  He sighed as he accepted a cup of tea from Jape.  “Thank you, sir,” he said with a nod.  “I only hope that when I turn up in my formal clothing I don’t upset everyone--or make them laugh.  Our formal clothing is, after all, quite different from what is worn here.”

            “Can’t be all that different from what I’ve seen the Travelers wear,” Barti said.  “That fancy cloak of Frodo’s----”

            “That was the only truly different article of clothing he has worn that I’ve seen or heard tell of,” Delphie interrupted, "other than the grey-green cloaks they all four wear.  Even the clothing he wore back from down south-aways was, according to all, Shire fashion, even if it wasn’t made in the Shire.”  She turned rather pointedly to Alvric.  “Is it true that in Gondor only those who are of the highest rank are allowed to wear certain garments?”

            Alvric found himself looking from the face of the wife to that of her husband and back, realizing that this was actually an undeclared quarrel between the two of them, and somehow he’d been caught in the middle.  He wasn’t certain what this talk of certain garments was about, but had an idea it somehow had to do with Frodo having been named a lord of the realm.  “Well,” he began warily, “only the King may wear the crown, of course; and only the highest of lords wear circlets of honor, and then usually only at the most solemn or formal of occasions.  Then there are certain garments that are made only for the purposes of the rulers of the realm, to be bestowed on those who have made great sacrifices for the good of the nation, who have saved the lives of the ruling lords or their close kindred, or who have given other great services to the good of all.  Usually these are cloaks, I’ll grant, with the White Tree on the back and stars running down each edge.  Did our Lord King give one of these to Master Frodo?  If so, it was well deserved.”

            He saw the swiftly hidden smile of satisfaction on Mistress Delphinium’s face and the darkening of Bartolo’s, and knew that he’d hit the point squarely.  Well, in for a brass, in for a silver, he thought.  He decided to hazard, “And did you consult with Master Frodo before sending your wedding gift to us?  I must say it complements his most admirably.”

            Barti’s expression grew more wooden, while Delphie’s was now intrigued.  “Consult with Cousin Frodo?  Oh, no--we’ve not seen nor heard from him since the banquet there in December, not long before Yule, in fact.  Unless you have, dearling?” she asked sweetly, turning to her husband.

            “No.”  The Hobbit lawyer’s tone indicated he had no interest in discussing Frodo Baggins further.

            Alvric had to suppress his amusement.  Yes, a most prickly of souls, Bartolo Bracegirdle; and he’d love to know precisely what had caused his companion to detest Frodo Baggins as he did.  But now it was time to eat as good a breakfast as he could get down himself, for he’d not yet become so nervous he’d lost his appetite.

            As he ate, Persivo described to him his experiences as apprentice to Master Bernigard, and somewhat of his life in the Great Smial.  “It’s always interesting, having others about--one doesn’t have time to become bored.  On the other hand, it’s often hard to find a time and place to have a quiet think, if you understand.  The food is very good, but not all the apartments have facilities for cooking, and we have none in the rooms as where we stay as apprentices.  I share the room with a Bolger lad--he’s quite nice, and is a second cousin twice removed from Captain Fredegar.  He joined the rebels at the last, and just managed to escape when the Big Men found out where they were hiding in the caves and boreholes there near Scary.”

            “Rebels?”  Alvric wasn’t certain what this was about.

            “You hadn’t heard how some Hobbits during the Time of Troubles formed the rebels, and they were led by Fredegar Bolger?  Captain Freddy is another cousin of Cousin Frodo Baggins, and went with them to Buckland when Frodo moved there.  He’d told folks he’d spent all his money and that was why he sold Bag End and was leaving, but apparently that wasn’t all true.  He really needed to leave the Shire....”

            Alvric listened to the story with interest.  When Persi described the coming of the Black Riders and the blasting of the doors, he shuddered visibly, pushing the last of his breakfast from him.  “They came even here?” he asked.  “No wonder Master Frodo felt moved to leave the Shire, with such as the Nazgul pursuing him!  And this Fredegar Bolger saw them coming and fled?  That was wise of him!”  He shuddered again.  “So he stayed behind, and later was one of the few to stand against the White Wizard’s forces?” he asked thoughtfully after a time.  “And this one you share quarters with told you this?”

            The young Hobbit shrugged and flushed slightly.  “Well, he didn’t know all of it.  But when you live in the Great Smial you can’t help learning more than you’d thought to, I’ve found.  Master Berni questioned Pippin about the leaving and what happened to Captain Freddy the last time he came to visit.  He doesn’t live with his family for now, for he and the Thain argue as to what happened out there.  Apparently neither Thain Paladin nor Mistress Eglantine wish to believe what Captain Peregrin tries to tell them.  So the two of them, him and Merry Brandybuck, they live alone together at Crickhollow in Buckland now.  He says that it’s easier when the bad dreams come than to be around other folks.  He was saying something about the door jamb and the lock having been blasted by the Black Riders, and Master Bernigard asked him about it, so he told what Captain Freddy had told them about what happened after they left.”

            Alvric nodded.  “Oh, I can understand about the evil dreams,” he said gently.  “I’ve seen too many within Gondor who’ve known them since the war was over, and particularly those who were touched with the Black Breath or heard the cries of the Nazgul as they stooped on the city or over them as they fled back toward Minas Tirith from the outer posts.”  He was quiet for a time.  “I’m sorry that Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc are not fully believed by their own.  Both were very courageous, and almost gave their lives for those they sought to guard.  They are honored so by our people.” 

            He sighed.  “Well,” he said finally, “I had best repair to my room and see to my garb.  Oh, and Master Bartolo, if I might have a quiet word with you?”  So saying, he rose and led the Hobbit out into the passageway outside the common room.  After a time Barti returned and sat again, his eyes thoughtful as he replaced his napkin in his lap.

            “And what did he want?” asked Delphinium at last as her husband continued to stare at his plate as he sipped from his mug of tea.

            He looked up, apparently surprised she was still there.  “He simply had a request to ask of me.”  When she continued to look at him questioningly, he at last flushed, and said in a tone of wonder, “He asked if I’d stand up for him for the marriage.  Apparently Master Eregiel will stand for him, too; but he also wished me to stand for him as the first he worked with here in Bree.”  He searched her eyes.  “No one,” he said rather slowly, “has ever asked me to stand up for them at a wedding before--not even Rico.”

 *******

            The Hedges arrived at midday, and took other rooms for the night at the inn.  They joined the Bracegirdles in the Hobbits’ parlor, and after a time Nob came to ask if it would be all right with them for Holby to stay there while Master Alvric bathed and dressed.  So he and Lister lay down together under the table with bones Nob found for the two of them, and Delphie saw first the lasses and then her husband and sons dressed and groomed, finally slipping into her room to don her own dress for the wedding.

            Bartolo was holding her cloak for her when at last she came out, and the two families together headed out of the inn and down the lane to the Gorse house, leaving Holby behind to accompany his master.  Barti remained rather formal, but the younger children were chattering away like old friends as they walked.  “We’ve found a door into an old cellar,” Teoro was telling Persi, Ricki, and Pet.  “It’s ever so dark, and it’s where they kept the wine and beer, what we can tell.  There’s a few old barrel staves there, and some hoops.  Most’ve been broke up a long time now.  It’s terrible cold there right now, it is.  But it might be comfortable in summer, cool as it is, I’m thinkin’.”

            “And we found a doll--a doll made of porcelain,” Anemone added.  “Her hair’s all gone, but her face is right pretty.”

            “Her arm was broke, but Nuncle Eboli fixed it,” Lilia said.

            At last they arrived at the Gorse home and were welcomed in.  “And did Master Alvric talk t’ye as he’d said he would?” asked Carnation of Bartolo.

            “Yes, he did.  Although I’m not certain what all I’m to do,” he answered.  “He said as he would be comin’ with the Rangers from the Prancing Pony.”

            She nodded.  “Well, the weddin’s to be made in front of the house, and afterwards we’ll have the food here inside, and dancin’ in Master Alvric’s parlor.  It’s nowhere as cold as it was two days back--even feels warm out, it does.”

            Lord Halladan was already there in the second parlor, examining the marriage contract, which was written apparently in both the Common Tongue and an Elvish language.  When pressed he explained, “The records of Gondor are written in Sindarin for the most part, so these are written in both that language and Westron.  I have the marriage cord ready, and will need a candle to set upon the table where the marriage contract will lie.”

            “Were you there when the King married our Queen?” asked Petunia curiously as she carried out the candle provided by Carnation, following Persi, who was carrying out a table on which to set the document.  Barti was bringing the inkstand and a fine quill with which to sign the contract.

            Halladan nodded.  “Oh, yes, I did, and a beautiful wedding it was.”

            Ricki, who was following after with a bowl of greenery, asked, “Did you marry the two of them?”

            The Man shook his head.  “No, for Lord Elrond of Rivendell married them.  He is our Lady Arwen’s father, and served as foster father also to Aragorn when he was a child.  I believe both wished to have him perform the marriage, actually.  My younger brother Hardorn and I both attended him at the wedding, though, as did both Master Frodo and Master Samwise.  Poor Master Sam--it was both a delight for him and a matter of embarrassment.  He’d never been one to think of himself as being particularly important, after all, and now he was one of the King’s Companions and closest friends, and sitting at the top of the table for feasts and all.  By the time we left Gondor and Rohan, however, he’d become comfortable with the situation.  At the wedding he was rather quiet and dignified, and all were so honored to know he was one of the King’s attendants.  And that night Master Frodo danced what I am told is a dance of the Shire for the King--although I understand he hasn’t danced since then.  He didn’t even dance for the handfasting of Prince Faramir to the Lady Éowyn in Edoras, for he said he found at the King’s wedding he’d lost his stamina for dancing.  It’s too bad, really, for he showed himself a flame on the dancing floor.”  They were setting the objects brought out of the house in readiness at the site where the wedding was to take place.

            Soon all was in order, and they went back into the house.  There was a sound of much chatter of womenfolk from the area where the bedrooms lay, apparently from where Denra Gorse was being made ready.  Freesia Sandybanks, Begonia, and Freesia’s cousin Agatha were working together in the kitchen to see dishes prepared to be served at the wedding feast, and Alyssa and Lilia were setting out carefully fanned piles of napkins and plates on the table.

            Carefully Lord Halladan went over Bartolo’s place in the ceremony until a rising tide of voices approaching the house indicated the arrival of the groom and others coming from the Prancing Pony, and Lister was suddenly scratching at the door to alert them he wished to go out and greet the approaching party, particularly Holby and Eregiel’s hound.  Halladan looked up.  “I must assume it is time for us to go out, then.  The ladies will follow soon enough....”

            Lady Mirieth and Carnation were to attend Denra Gorse, and Eregiel son of Miringlor and Bartolo to attend Alvric.  Many of those who’d been crowded into Denra’s bedroom were now coming out to join their menfolk, and all were beginning to form up around the site where the wedding was to take place.  A circular stone set over the marriage contract kept it from being swept away by the light breeze, and now Teregion was leaning over the candle lighting it, then setting around it a lamp chimney to keep it from being blown out. 

            At last all went quiet as the last of the women came out of the house, all being chivvied by Mistress Blackroot.  At her nod, Lord Halladan indicated to Ronica and Freesia they should start the wedding song.  There was a shifting of those nearest the corner of the house as the bridal party approached from around the place, and all watched as Denra Gorse, glowing with happiness, approached the place where Alvric, dressed in Gondorian tunic and surcoat embroidered with Scales of Justice, stood waiting with Eregiel and Bartolo beside him.

            The words were not those familiar from weddings in the Shire, but the ceremony was similar enough to allow for a level of comfort for Barti; and when the hands of bride and groom were bound together with a multi-colored cord he found himself intrigued.  “See them bound now,” Lord Halladan intoned, “one to the other, bound in body and spirit, to rejoice with one another, to grieve with one another, to come and go with one another, to comfort and hearten one another--from this day forth until death alone breaks this bond.  Do all see and agree?”

            The Shire lawyer found himself answering “Yes!” automatically with the rest.  Then the cord was being unbound and laid again over the Steward’s forearm.  “Then let you exchange your marriage tokens.”  Alvric brought out a bangle of gold to slip over Denra’s wrist.  “Denra Gorse, I take you to wife gladly, and will cling to you faithfully, and may the Valar turn their faces from me should I ever play you false.”

            She gave him a ring set with a great blue sapphire to wear, saying as she slipped it on his finger, “Alvric, I take you this day as my husband, and accept you as my family, and believe that my parents and brother would be as happy to see this as I am.  I promise to remain true to you always, and am looking forward to our future in joy.”

            Then they were leaning forward to kiss one another.  Alvric had earlier held his crystal to his eye to watch her coming, as if to assure himself it would not be another who came in her stead, and he’d kept it clutched in his left hand throughout.  Now as he set his hand to her back to draw her near it slipped, forgotten, from his fingers, and Ricki leaned down to rescue it for him.  At last the kiss was broken, and Alvric stepped back somewhat, a wondrous look on his face, somewhat winded and with delight in his eyes.  “That’s what it feels like to embrace my own wife?” he murmured, then reached forward to kiss her again.  All laughed and applauded, Lord Halladan joining in with gusto.

            Then they were signing the marriage contract, and Barti was the first of the witnesses to sign it, followed by Eregiel, who signed it in both Westron and Sindarin, then Lady Mirieth and finally Carnation.  Faradir signed it also, as did Ora Watercress and Barliman Butterbur as the head of the Bree Council.  At last Lord Halladan signed it, again in both the Common Tongue and Elvish, to indicate he’d presided at the ceremony, and all trooped into the house to share in the feast prepared.

            Barti held Delphinium’s hand as together they followed the rest into the dining room, and way was made for them and the other Hobbits to go to the front to examine the wedding feast as it had been laid out upon the main table.  “Oh, my,” Delphie breathed, “the table shawl--it is lovely.  Why, that’s the work of Sam Gamgee’s sister Marigold, isn’t it, Pet?”

            Petunia, who’d been thinking it looked familiar, suddenly brightened.  “Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes smiling.  “Yes--I thought it appeared familiar.  And it matches the flowers on the punch set--do you see, Mum?”

            “Did you purchase the tray of a purpose?” asked Lady Mirieth.  “For it, too, looks as if it was made to go with the others.”

            Alvric was smiling and shaking his head.  “It was our gift from Prince Faramir, and our beloved Lord King himself sent the bowls and pitchers.”

            Faradir was nodding.  “Ah, yes, from the glassblower in the Fourth Circle in Minas Tirith--the one whose work Lord Iorhael gave the King and Queen as a wedding gift.  He does fine pieces!”  Snowdrops and early crocuses filled the smallest of the nested bowls, and glasshouse flowers filled vases set about the table and on the sideboard and near the cake set upon a lower table nearby.

            There was not room for all to sit and eat at the table, so most settled where they could to eat the smoked goose and great roast prepared, and the potatoes and turnips and early greens and buttered carrots.  And if not all were able to drink from one of the eighteen porcelain cups, none went thirsty.

            As they returned to the dining room for thirds, Barti and Delphie together examined the cloth and the punch bowl.  “How wonderful that these should have gone together so well,” Delphie commented.  “No wonder we were asked if we’d consulted with Frodo.  The table shawl is so detailed.”

            Barti nodded.  He was surprised to find himself pleased with the effect.  “May they bring Master Alvric and Mistress Denra joy for many years,” he said.  And when they returned to the Shire two days later, it was with a feeling of satisfaction he’d also not thought to know.

            As for Petunia and Persivo--they carried with them the volume of the Baggers history given them by Lindor Greenwillow.  Its mate had stood upon the mantel in the front parlor in Denra--and Alvric’s--house.  Both were looking forward to going through the great tome.

An Escape Attempted

            Angrapain, formerly of Umbar but now (by the order of the King Returned) the thrall of Lynonië, a healer and midwife of the Dúnedain of Arnor, sat up slowly, listening carefully to assure himself that all within the small cottage indeed slept, and particularly his mistress.  Usually she was a markedly light sleeper, but the birth she’d been attending had been long and arduous for all concerned, having lasted only slightly less than two entire days.  Then much of the third day had been spent assuring that both mother and child would indeed survive the extended ordeal.  Now Mistress Lynonië knew the sleep of the exhausted, as did the child, its parents, and its older brother.

            Angrapain, however, did not intend to sleep this night, for he had determined he would finally leave this life to which the mighty King Elessar had condemned him.  Nor would he be leaving alone--he would have a companion, and perhaps two if the one he’d met the day ere yesterday had been successful in convincing his comrade to leave their loose imprisonment.  This Bill Ferny knew the region around these so-called Breelands, after all, and would know the best places to hide from the local authorities, whatever they were.  They’d met at the village well, where Angrapain had been sent to fetch water for the birthing and Ferny had been sent by his overseer to bring water back to his fellows on the road gang.  “Been set to this by them Rangers,” he’d said with disgust.  “Them in Bree named me a thief, and here I sit now.  Who’d of thought the Rangers’d have ties to the new King?”

            Who indeed? thought Angrapain as he rose from the rough pallet granted him by the fire.  Almost he wished to slip his hand into Lynonië’s healer’s bag, bring out one of her healer’s blades, and slash her wrinkled throat for her.  If he were to do that, however, it was more likely he would be hunted down quickly, and returned to face the judgment of either the King Elessar once more, or perhaps his lieutenant who remained here in the northlands.  That was not a prospect he felt equal to facing, for he was certain he would not come off well from the situation.

            “Carry your own healer’s bag and goods, and collect and prepare your own herbs, witch!” he hissed softly between his teeth.  Having relieved himself of that wish, he found the bag of food he’d prepared the previous day hidden behind the corner stool, retrieved the small bundle of his own goods and the knife he’d stolen from the kitchen here, and softly stole out of the cottage, glad the family had kept cats and no dogs.

            He saw no one as he approached the village well, and cursed under his breath.  “I can’t linger long here!” he muttered to himself.  “If I am seen this time of night they will know something is wrong and will come and take me again!”

            A deeper shadow moved behind a nearby pillar, and he went still in fear, but it proved itself but a cat.  It had to be well over a mark before he heard a hiss.  “You!  Thrall!  Here!”

            It was the Man’s voice, and it was with relief that the Umbari moved in its direction.  Halfway down the lane to his right waited this Bill Ferny and another, older Man.  “Took you long enough!” grunted Ferny.

            “I had to wait until all were asleep, or they would only have raised the alarm.”

            “Like them care about the likes of you,” Ferny said.  “Let’s off to the smithy--want this chain off my leg!”

            But when they reached the smithy it was locked closed, with no way to enter to find files or hammers with which to remove the single shackle about the ankle of either of the others.  “Won’t do to break in,” the second, older Man said, “and this smith has too many in his place to force him out to free us.  Nah, we’ll have to get away as we can.  But where can we get to as they’re not likely to just catch us agin and bring us back?”

            “There’s a place, few hours north and west, near the Brandywine, it is.  Was old ruins there when I was a boy.  We can hide there, I’m thinkin’,” Ferny suggested.  “C’mon.”  So saying he led them out of the village, then northwest down a little-used track, away from the outlying farmsteads.

            “Ain’t fair,” he commented as they paused by the smokehouse for a farm where he’d fetched out a ham and some jerked meat.  “Was doin’ well, there in the Shire, I was.  Hobbits jumpin’ when I said ‘frog,’ plenty of beer and vittles for the takin’.”

            “Then why’d you come away?” asked the older Man.

            “Them four as come through Bree--come back and broke in, they did, and chased me out.  And if that blasted pony of theirs as I sold ’em didn’t kick me enough to break my leg!  Should of cut its throat, the ungrateful wretch!  Well, we’d best be off afore Thornapple wakes up and hears us.  Thornapple’s never kept a dog, but we’ll not be so lucky with most of the rest around these parts.”

            He led them a long and, for Angrapain, a weary road.  It was near dawn when they paused to rest in a copse just off the track.  Angrapain could hear the swirl of water of an unseen watercourse of some size, not far to the west of them.  “We’re not too far now,” Ferny said.  “Good place we’re headin’ for--partly treed, partly not.  Good place to set snares--me dad an’ me, we used to get a good number of pheasants and quail, back when I was a boy.  And conies?  Lots of rabbits there!  Some deer, too, not as we was set to butcher one of them, though.”

            “How come no one lives there?” asked the older Man as he tore off a piece of the ham as best he could with his hands and teeth.

            “The Rangers won’t allow nobody to live there.  Chased me’n me dad off there a time or two.  Said as someone held title to it, and it’s not for just any to settle on.  Could be good farmland, though, I’m thinkin’.  Me dad had his eyes on it, him did.  But we can hide in the tower, I’m thinkin’.  Those few what know about it think as it’s haunted or somethin’.”

            He pulled out a small folding knife from the inside of his boot.  “Here--let me cut that for you.”

            As the older Man handed over the ham he asked, “And how come you got a knife on you?”

            “Found it a few weeks back.”

            “Where’d you find it?”

            Ferny gave him a level gaze.  “In the pocket of a Hobbit farmer was passin’ by too close.  Never realized as it was gone.”

            The older Man laughed as he accepted back the slices shared out to him by Ferny.  “Well, you’ve proved yourself what you was pressed about, then.”  He looked at Angrapain.  “How about you?  Don’t seem to be from hereabouts.  How’d you end up a thrall?”

            Angrapain shrugged as he brought out his own food and shared some of it around.  “I was--accused--of----”  He tried to think how to characterize how it was he’d come to his current estate.  At last he said, “I was accused of indiscretion.”

            The other two exchanged amused glances.  “Indi-what?” demanded Ferny.

            “Indiscretion.”  Angrapain was annoyed.

            “And that’s an offense fit to make you a thrall?” demanded the other one.

            “It is when it has managed to offend the new King’s--companion.”

            “This new King they’ve been on about--he likes boy, then?” Ferny asked, intrigued.

            “So, at least, it might appear,” Angrapain answered.  Certainly he had found himself drawn to two of the King’s smaller friends, although he’d only approached the one.  And although that one had insisted he was not so drawn himself, Angrapain had his doubts.  The solicitation offered that one by the Lord King Elessar and the openly expressed affection returned by the alleged Halfling spoke of other things in Angrapain’s experience.  Although it was more likely that one was drawn to the burlier figure of the companion by whom he’d sat at the King’s Coronation Feast, the one known as Sam.  But it was time to draw attention away from himself.  He looked at the third.  “And you?  How is it you found yourself on the road gang?”

            “Got me for highway robbery, they did.  Good thing as they didn’t check more where they found us--I ever get away clean, got a good bit of gold set by--could take it to Dunland and set myself up right fine, I could.  Dunland or mayhaps Rohan.  Yes--get me one of them fancy horses they raise there--could pass then for some’un of breedin’, or so I’m thinkin’.  Not one what was under suspicion o’ murder like now.”

            Angrapain’s insides twisted.  “Murder?  And are you indeed guilty of murder as well as highway robbery?”

            The Man shrugged negligently.  “Only offed two or three--not what I’m keepin’ score, mind.”

            Both frightened and strangely attracted, Angrapain found himself strongly tempted to ask more, but paused as he received his share of the ham from Ferny.  A sneak thief and thug, a highway robber and murderer--and himself--a former lord in Umbar and now a runaway thrall assigned to a mere midwife!  They made quite the company, he realized.

 *******

            It was some time later they approached a small track down off the larger way into a parcel of land lying between the track and what he was told was the Brandywine River.  “We can’t cross it,” Ferny said.  “As much as our lives are worth, we’re found over that side.  Still Hobbit land there, and word is that their Thain’s give the Bounders and Shiriffs there the right to shoot trespassers first and ask questions afterwards.  And small as their bows are, their archers are still good with ’em.  One of my mates when we was there got took out with one arrow.  Never found the one what shot him, or we’d of strung him up quick as quick.  That was afore them four come back from wherever it was them went with that Strider.  Never thought to see any of ’em come back, not with Strider as their guide.

            “Funny customer, that Strider.  One of them Southerners was after me to find out about Strider and the rest of them Rangers.  I followed ’em for months, but never learned about  ’em proper.  They know the Wilds, them Rangers, and Strider knows ’em best, I’m thinkin’.  Somehow he always knew when I was followin’ him, and would give me the slip--until one mornin’ I woke up with his knife at my throat.”  He rubbed at the bulge in his gullet thoughtfully, almost as if he still felt the prick of the point of it at the place.  “Told me if’n he was to find me followin’ him again he’d kill me hisself.  Did try to follow him when him left with the four Shirefolk, but he lost me again, and Hobbits don’t leave much of a track to begin with.”

            “Funny how you Men got run out of the Shire like that,” commented the older Man between swallows of meat.  “These Hobbits hardly look enough to face down grown Men with weapons.”

            Ferny spat disgustedly.  “You never saw four armed with swords, and all of ’em intent on runnin’ you through with ’em.  Funny, that--Hobbits don’t take to weapons, nor for usual, at least.  Oh, there’s some what’ll hunt what’ll use a bow; but mostly they’re all for thrown stones and such.  Although I suppose as a proper-thrown stone can kill you as much as a thrown knife.  But these as went off with Strider--they come back changed.  Got the feel as they’d kill me as gladly as look at me.  And get enough of anyone after you--it can get a good deal dangerous--even with Hobbits!  And with all their talk about the new King and such--I’m not the only one what found ’em uncanny.”

            They finally started off again, and soon found themselves at a point where the land dipped down into a hollow into which a lane led, thickly screened by young trees.  “This lane’s new,” Ferny said thoughtfully.  “But I’d swear as it leads to the tower.”  He pointed at where the trees appeared to be growing taller, across the hollow.  “It ought t’ be there, behind them trees where the hill rises.”

            “How long since you was in these parts?” asked the highwayman.

            Ferny shrugged.  “Not more’n five years, although I suppose as some trees can grow powerful big in that time.”  He gnawed at his lip.  “Wonder what made them Rangers let someone cut a lane in, then?” he finally said.  “Made it plain enough t’me and me dad they wasn’t lettin’ folks just settle there.”

            “Sounds as if that was long ago, though,” the older Man noted.

            “Could be.”  The thief shook himself.  “Well, let’s see just what’s doin’ there, then.”  So saying, he led the way down the lane, then up the other side of the hollow through the screening trees.

            “I’ll be blest,” he said as they came into the open space before the place.  “That’s a Hobbit hole, or I’m a wizard!”

            Angrapain examined the ridge before them, and saw how round windows and doors had been cut into it, in some places the stone and earth reinforced with brick or stonework before the circular window frames and wooden shutters had been set into place.  The wood had been painted a bright, cheerful red.  “But why would someone dig a house into the ridge?” he asked.

            “Not someone--these is Hobbits,” hissed Ferny.  “Now, be quiet--Hobbits got good hearin’, and we don’t want to rouse those what lives here.”  He gestured them back behind the screening trees. and peered at the place between the trunks.  “This ain’t quite normal for Hobbits--they like livin’ near other folks.  Not given to bein’ off alone, they aren’t.”

            “You are certain this wasn’t done for children, then?” asked the Umbari.  “Everything appears so low.”

            “I told you--it’s a Hobbit hole, and Hobbit’s ain’t exactly the tallest of folks,” Ferny said impatiently.  But then his expression went from concerned to--well, it went from concerned to outright cruel.  “And just mebbe us will be able to get somethin’ back on some Hobbits.  Chase me out of the Shire, will they?”  So saying, he led the way to the door.

 *******

            As he approached the back door to the smial as he returned from the early morning milking, Holdfast Hedges saw a moving shadow against the light from the window of the kitchen.  “They’re back!” he began, then paused.  “No,” he amended his first thought.  “That’s not my dad.  And none of the Rangers, neither, not movin’ like that.  But who?”

            He took the milk into the stone well-house they’d built over the old well they’d recently uncovered in what had once been a rear courtyard, and set the pail there with the cover still over it to protect it and allow it to cool.  How he would manage to creep up on these unseen he wasn’t certain; but he must make the attempt.  He then slipped out of the well-house and studied on the challenge of getting into the smial undetected.

  *******

            It was early in the afternoon that the party that had attended the wedding in Bree the previous day arrived at the upper end of the lane down to the smial being dug in on the Queen’s Dower Lands.  Boboli Hedges drove the wagon that contained the three younger children who’d traveled into Bree with him, while about them rode a contingent of Men and their wives, including Steward Halladan.  Faradir was leading a cow and calf that Bob had purchased while in Bree, and Anemone cradled a new kitten given her by the Blackroot children.

            “You’ll be stayin’ with us the night?” Bob asked Lord Halladan and Lady Mirieth.

            “We’d be most honored, Master Hedges,” agreed the latter, “if you will allow us to add our supplies to yours.”

            With Boboli’s cheerful agreement they started down the lane, Eregiel and Halladan riding before the wagon, until----

            Eregiel held out his hand in warning, and all stopped, Poppet appearing confused as to why she should not take another step forward.  The young Ranger pointed to something on the ground, and immediately several other Rangers dismounted, their faces now all grim, and crowded around, examining and discussing it in whispers.  Halladan nodded and returned to the wagon.  “Footprints,” he warned the Hobbit in low tones.  “Men’s footprints.  Going toward the smial.”

            Lady Mirieth searched her husband’s face.  “Not ours, then?” she asked.

            He gave the slightest of shakes to his head.  “No--not ours.”  What else had been learned from the examination of the print he did not say, but it was obvious all the Rangers were concerned.

            Another consultation was held, and three Men nodded, then melted into the trees.  “They’ll head for the area behind the main smial, into the courtyards that used to be there between the wings,” Halladan advised the Hobbit.  “They will seek whatever intelligence might be gained, and watch for any who might seek to flee in that direction.  Perhaps it might be best to have you turn about and leave....”

            But Boboli shook his head.  “If’n there’s anyone there, then they probably already heard as somebody’s comin’ down the track.  And my other lad--my Holdfast, he’s in there.  I have to know as what’s happened to my son.”

            Halladan gave him an approving nod.  “But let us take the younger children to keep them safe.  We can set them with our wives, who are also skilled in defense.”

            The Hobbit thought, then nodded.  “Don’t want them in any danger,” he agreed.  And in minutes the three children were sitting each with one of the women, who drew out of the drive and across the road into the copse there, accompanied by Teregion.  Certain now that his children were indeed well out of it, Boboli nodded to the Men, and giving the reins a shake headed the cart down into the yard before the door to the smial.