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

The characters and setting belongs to Tolkien, New Line and anyone else with a legal claim. Only the crabs belong to me. And the story. I own nothing and make no money from this not for profit work, I just like to take a break in Middle Earth every once in a while...

Pippin gasped, trying to catch his breath. He could scarcely sleep for this blasted cough! He coughed until his head ached and his sides were sore, and still this blasted tickle in his chest persisted. “Drat!” he said again.

“Poor lamb,” came a voice from the doorway. He looked up to see Ioreth enter with a basket on each arm. “I have something for that cough of yours. Perhaps it will help you rest. You look hungry, my dear.”

Pippin wondered exactly how one may look hungry, yet the old nurse was right, he was indeed quite hungry. Having given Pippin a syrupy concoction which eased the tickle in his throat, Ioreth took a tray from a nearby table and placed it in Pippin’s lap. Her gnarled but still nimble fingers grasped a silver dish from inside one of her baskets and drew it out, placing it on Pippin’s tray and lifting from it a linen napkin.

“Whatever is this?” Pippin said, “It does not look too appetizing, I’m afraid. I hope it tastes better than it looks. I trust they aren’t what they look like!”

“Have you never had crab, then?” Ioreth said, taking a chair beside the bed. “What do they look like to you?”

“Well, I don’t wish to upset you, but they rather look like spiders. Very large ones, but spiders, only with those big claws.”

“Oh, but you don’t think I would serve so awful a thing to my special patient, do you? No, my dear, these are crabs, and not just any crabs, they are soft-shells!”

“I have heard of crabs before, but I’ve never eaten them, or even seen them. Boromir spoke of them; he seemed quite fond of them, if memory serves.”

“Aye, he was very fond of them. He enjoyed catching them as much as eating them!”

“Catching them?” Pippin picked up fork and knife. “How does one go about eating these things?”

“As I said, these are soft-shells, so you just cut them, as with any other dish.” Ioreth watched Pippin cut a piece of crab and pop it in his mouth. She smiled, quite pleased with the expression on the face of her ‘lamb’. She had heard that this hobbit had a nose for mischief and the curiosity of a kitten, but she refused to believe it. How could so sweet a creature ever cause mischief? “Yes,” she continued, “Boromir loved to catch crabs. Why, I remember the day he learned how as though it was but a fortnight ago!”

She watched the hobbit take another bite of crab eagerly. Intent on his meal as he was, he looked at her as though expecting her to elaborate. “’Twas on Dol Amroth, one fine day when he and Lord Faramir went to visit with his uncle, Imrahil. ‘Twas soft-shell season then, too. Aye, I remember it well. Poor lamb, he had only just lost his mother, and Prince Imrahil thought the pair of them, the Lords Faramir and Boromir, could do with some time by the sea.”

Ioreth watched Imrahil pull up the crab-trap from the end of a long dock, empty its contents into a net, and hand the net to his young nephew. “You’ve caught yourself a delicacy, Boromir!” Imrahil smiled at the look of puzzlement on the faces of his nephews. “These are soft-shell crabs! There a quite a few of them in here with the hard-shells. Each year, you see, the crabs shed their shells. For a time, they have no shells, and are soft and vulnerable. In only a matter of hours, the new shell forms, like armor.”

The boys looked up at their uncle silently. They had been wordless since Finduilas had died, and had become more inseparable than ever. An expression of sad fondness crossed Imrahil’s face as he looked at his nephews. The sun over the island Kingdom had tanned the faces of the boys and brought golden light to their red-gold locks. They were the very picture of good health, but Imrahil knew their hearts must still be quite heavy. His gaze lingered on the eldest child. How like Finduilas he was, with his warm, golden locks and his seawater eyes as opalescent as mother-of-pearl. The lad had taken to watching after his younger brother almost obsessively. As they walked back to the beach, Imrahil saw Boromir lift Faramir and carry him as if his younger brother was, in fact, his own son. He placed a hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

Boromir, with obvious reluctance, let his little brother down and watched anxiously as Faramir ran the rest of the way down the dock, crying “Ioreth! Ioreth! We caught crabs, we caught crabs, we caught crabs, we caught soft-shells!” Faramir tripped in his excitement, and Boromir almost bolted forward, but Imrahil held him back.

“Come, Boromir, I should like to speak to you privately, since you are the oldest.” Imrahil sat on the edge of the walk and motioned for Boromir to join him. The boy tore his eyes away from Faramir to look up at his uncle. “Now, you see, he is unharmed by his fall. Boromir, you cannot forever hold onto him. You must let him find out for himself what he can and cannot do.”

“But Uncle! He is only little, I am his older brother! My duty is to take care of him, now that mother… ” The boy looked down at his hands, then raised one hand to his mouth to bite his nails.

“Here, lad, let us take a look at these crabs. You see the ones with the soft shells? Well, you and Faramir are much like them. Your mother and father were always there to protect and guide you. They were like the shells on the hard-shelled ones. But now, my sister your mother is gone, my boy. You and Faramir are like the soft-shells. Denethor is deeply sorrowful. He loved my sister dearly, as did we all. When he is better, perhaps he can help you and Faramir through this dark time, but for now, why, he is so benighted by his loss that he cannot see what he must do. This is a very trying time for you and your brother, so you see; you have to wait, to be patient. Too soon you will have shells of your own to protect you, when you grow to be men. Yet when you are grown to manhood, do not forget, you may be hard on the outside, but inside, keep a soft spot or two, for those whom you hold dear.”

“Yes, like the crabs. It is only the shell that is tough, you know. The crab itself lies within. The shell protects the crab, but it is not the crab itself. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

“I rather think that I do, Uncle.” Boromir looked at his hands once more, but he no longer nibbled his nails. “It is very hard, you know, to be without a shell. But I shall be patient, as you say. I must still take care of Faramir, though. Mother would have wanted that, I think.”

“She would be so proud of you, my boy,” Imrahil said, tucking his nephew under his arm for a brief hug. Too soon the boy would think himself too old for such open affection. “And now the time has come for two young crabs to go in for supper!”

Boromir looked at the net full of crabs and laughed. “Will this crab be eating those crabs for supper?”

“Of course, my boy!” Imrahil said, handing the net back to Boromir. He watched the youngster run the rest of the way to Ioreth, whom, Imrahil was certain, had been listening to every word. As he approached the nurse, the pair of boys pelted off like colts towards the kitchens of Imrahil’s private chambers. Imrahil offered his hand to Ioreth to help her up. He watched her eye her charges as they ran, and she brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Wise words, my Lord,” she said to him, nodding her approval. “My Lady Finduilas would be well pleased.”

“I thank you, good Ioreth, for the compliment as well as your guardianship of my nephews,” said Imrahil. “Your loyalty to your charges mirrors your loyalty to Minas Tirith, a good example for my nephews to follow. I know the task proves difficult betimes. As fond as I am of Boromir, he can be as obstinate as a bull.”

“I beg to disagree with my Lord!” Ioreth said haughtily, “Boromir, like his brother, is a lamb, I tell you! Hmmph!” Imrahil laughed to himself as she departed after her charges with a flouncing of her skirts, which bespoke her ire at his seeming criticism of his nephew. Looking back over her shoulder, she departed with “A lamb, I tell you!”

Pippin, now so full his belly felt rather tight, handed the tray to Ioreth, who laid it aside. From one of her baskets she produced a sheaf of papers and handed them to Pippin.

“What are these?” The hobbit took the papers and began shuffling through them. “Why, these are all drawings, and is this Boromir’s name here?”

“That they are,” she replied. “Deft was Boromir in hand and eye. He was not always a soldier, you know.”

“These are quite good,” Pippin remarked. “Look, here is one of a crab! They look like this when they are alive, then?”

“They do,” she said. “And now that you have eaten, you look quite sleepy. You should rest now, the sooner to regain your health.” She took the drawings and set them aside, then tucked the blankets around Pippin and sat quietly until he dozed off.

She looked at the sleeping hobbit, his lids like gold-fringed shells on his cheek. She had heard tales of his bravery, and did not doubt them in the least. She had also heard that hobbits seem soft on the outside, but could be as tough as old roots, but she would have put a description of this particular hobbit a little differently.

She rose from her chair, rubbing her aching back, but despite the pain in her aged bones, she bent and secretively placed a kiss on Pippin’s cheek. “Rest well, little crab,” she said. She paused at the door, looked back at him as he slept. “A lamb, I tell you,” she said softly.

Disclaimer: I own nothing which I didn't create myself. The setting and characters belong to Tolkien, New Line and anyone else with a legal claim. This is a not for profit work, I own nothing and get nothing but reviews and the satisfaction of visiting my beloved characters in Middle earth.

This story was birthed in and is dedicated to the original members of The Ernil i Pheriannath thread at billyboyd.net and to the wonderful actor who portrayed my beloved Pippin so well, Billy Boyd, who recently became a new father. I'm sure his heart has been thoroughly stolen by his own Little Apple. Much thanks to my beta reader, Marigold. May the imaginary hair on her feet never fall out.

Peregrin Took couldn’t remember when he had not known his dearest friend and cousin; Merry had always been there, had always been a part of his life. He could not even imagine his life without Merry. Merry was just there, as constant as the sky above. But Merry, why Merry remembered it all: how it all began, Pippin and himself, and often told the story of how it came to be.

Merry had been eight years old when the letter came. How happy his mum had been when she opened it! “Saradoc, Merry! Oh, the baby has come! Listen to this: ‘Wonderful news from the Great Smials: we are proud to announce the arrival of our son… a son! … Peregrin Took I.

“ ‘The baby arrived early, but is now quite healthy after a few days during which we were a little worried. We did not send the news as swiftly as we would have liked, because we wanted to be assured of his survival first. He is small, but he is now very strong. He is quite alert, and notices every little thing. He has a good appetite, and is in every way a very happy little fellow. He is thriving and already gaining weight, and we are anxious to see the day of his Presentation and Naming. We are very much looking forward to the moment we see his Auntie Esmeralda and Nunky Saradoc hold him.

“ ‘Give Merry our love, and tell him we very much want our dear nephew to be there when his new cousin is Presented and has his name set in the family books.’

“Oh, my dear brother must be so very happy, he has wanted a little lad of his own for so long!”

How Merry’s mother and father carried on! This was all well and good, Merry supposed, but… “Mum?” he had said, tugging at Esmeralda’s skirt.

“Yes, darling?” Esmeralda had to tear her eyes from the letter to answer her son. Why was his mother behaving this way? It wasn’t as if it was her baby.

“Does this mean I’m not Aunt Eglantine and Uncle Paladin’s favorite lad anymore?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Esmeralda said, cupping Merry’s chin in her hand. “Their hearts are very, very big, you know. Why, there is so much room in their hearts, it would take dozens and dozens of lads before they ran out of room. You will always be special to them, darling. Never doubt it.”

“When will they have his Naming Day party?” A party sounded fine but Merry wasn’t sure about any of the rest of it.

“It will be a some months just yet,” said Saradoc, lifting Merry and giving him a joyous toss in the air. “He must be six months old, for that is the custom amongst his clan. I’m sure you will enjoy the day. You know your aunt and uncle will have tables and tables of every kind of good thing to eat, and they will be very, very proud to have you meet your little cousin.”

And how much fun shall that be? thought Merry. Cousin Daisy’s baby was no fun. All she ever did was eat and soil her nappies. And cry—a lot! “Well, I imagine he is too little to be very much fun just yet.”

“But he will not always be too little. I’m sure that as he gets older, he will take quite a shine to you, since you are such a big lad. I’m sure the two of you shall be good friends, when that time comes.”

“Perhaps,” said Merry as his da put him back on his feet. Then his mum gave him a fresh apple tart, and Merry, kissing her cheek, skipped out of the back door to play in the garden, where he did not have to hear anyone talk about how wonderful a baby was.

But soon the time to celebrate the Presentation and Naming came, whether or not Merry liked it. As their carriage rolled to a stop near the bright red front door of the Great Smials, Merry frowned, having decided in advance that he would not——no, definitely not—— enjoy the day very much. Aunt Eglantine and Uncle Paladin greeted him as they usually did, and indeed seemed very happy to see him, but soon it was as if Merry had simply disappeared. Why, everyone was busy hugging each other or thumping one another on the back, like his da and uncle were doing, and nobody paid attention to Merry at all. Not even Bilbo. Not even his cousins, Pearl, Pervinca and Pimpernel. Not even Frodo!

How could they take on so over a little baby when there was such a fine lad like himself around? Could they not see that a big eight-year-old lad must be more fun than a baby? Friends and relatives had come from near and far just to see a helpless little baby, and Merry simply did not understand why they made so much of the little thing. He hoped no one expected him to carry on so, because he wouldn’t. He wished fervently that he had not been made to come along.

Well, if he were going to be overlooked, why, he would just go and find somewhere quiet in which to play. Besides, this was all so very boring, and it would be some time before everyone was ready to eat. Anyway, the baby was nowhere to be seen, so there wasn’t even that to amuse him.

Wriggling his way through a sea of Tooks, Banks, Boffins, Hardbottles, Brandybucks, Thornbushes and Burrowses, Merry crept into the long and meandering hall and slipped away as quietly and quickly as a mouse. He turned left, then right, then right again, making his way to the room set aside as a nursery, knowing there would be toys aplenty in it, and that he would have them all to himself. There it was, just past the sewing room where his aunt and Cousin Pearl spent so much time, the door open just a crack.

Quietly, he crept into the room. The old nurse, Lily Smallburrow, dozed in a rocker near the door, and Merry slipped by her carefully, so as to be able to collect a few playthings to take out into the hall or garden. He had an idea of which toys he wanted, and where they would be found, for he knew this room very well. It was a pleasant place. The window was open, and the sun poured through it like warm honey.

Spying a little box full of wooden animals and farmers which Merry had enjoyed playing with many times, he bent to pick up a few of the little figures. That was when he heard it; the tiniest little soft cooing sound, like that of a mourning dove. Perhaps it was a bird, flown into the nursery accidentally. Where was it? There, there it was again! Where had the sound come from? Once more he heard it, such a soft, pleasing little sound. He followed it. There! Just by the window.

He crept toward the sound on tiptoes, so that if it were indeed some kind of bird, he wouldn’t frighten it and make it fly away. Why, there was something new there. Was it a new toy-box? He peeked into it, to see if there might be new toys as well. But no, it was no toy. Lying in the little bright blue cradle, for cradle it was, lay the object of all this commotion. Merry knelt beside the cradle. There inside it lay someone remarkable, though Merry did not then know it. This would be his life-long friend, more brother than cousin.

“So… you are the new baby,” Merry whispered, knowing full well that if he woke the nurse he would be chastised and chased out of the nursery for disturbing the baby. “Well, you do not look like much, to me.” He was regarded by two very large and deep green eyes, fringed with long, thick lashes. The tiny ears looked like the little seashells in one of Merry’s picture books. Little Peregrin looked up at Merry and made a small, soft, happy sound.

Merry looked at the tiny feet. He reached in and gently took one in his own small hand. Someday, the soles would be tough as leather. But now, Merry thought they felt much like the tender, newly unfurled petals of spring flowers. The little feet would someday be covered with a thatch of woolly hair, but for now, it felt like the fur of a new kitten.

"Well, hullo, there!" Merry said, softly. The little one laughed. Merry knew he shouldn’t pick the baby up without one of his elders around, but he could not resist—there was a curious tugging in his chest which compelled him to reach in the cradle; he simply must hold this little thing!

Well, if he was very careful and sat down on the floor right away, perhaps that would be all right. As he lifted the tiny thing, the baby reached out little fingers to explore Merry’s face. Merry indulged him. He didn't even mind when the baby poked a tiny, dimpled finger up his nose. It made Merry laugh. Merry eased himself down; wriggling his bottom to settle himself comfortably, he cradled the baby carefully in his arms.

The baby smelled just like apples to Merry. And since that’s what he smelled like, Merry decided then and there to call him "Pippin", meaning "little apple". It was only later that Merry found that "pippin" also means "a thing that is precious."

Merry heard the soft rustle of fabric and shot a quick glance toward the door—there stood his aunt, uncle, mum, da and cousin Frodo. Obviously they had noticed the absence of young Master Brandybuck and gone in search of him. Having found Merry holding his tiny prize, they were amused that Merry, who had been reluctant to even see the baby, now seemed enchanted with the little fellow.

“Isn’t Merry a dear lad?” Lily Smallburrow said with a soft smile. “Quiet as a mouse, he was, and very careful with the wee one. Such a dear lad, and so loving with little Peregrin!”

Merry felt very proud of himself upon hearing this. Why had he not thought of this part of meeting his new kin? Now all the grown-ups had reasons to love him more than ever! Be that as it may, Merry’s found he simply must pay attention to the baby. He could visit with his other relatives later. Right now, he wanted to have his Pippin all to himself.

“I see you have found your little cousin,” Saradoc smiled, and then smiled wider still when his son seemed so captivated by his find that the lad didn’t give anyone else a second glance. Saradoc slipped an arm around Esmeralda’s waist, pleased that Merry had at last come around to accepting the arrival of little Peregrin.

Merry paused and thought for a bit before replying, cocking his head and grinning ear to ear, with eyes for the baby only, then shook his head.

"No, I rather don’t think I want one like him. No, I am sure I do not, I don’t want one like this one; I fancy I want this one."

This not-for-profit work claims no legal rights to characters not of my making, or to Middle Earth. That belongs to Tolkien, New Line and whoever else holds intellectual property. Only the plot is mine. And the snow-snipes; no such creature exists, but necessity is the mother of both invention and snow-snipes.

Boromir’s cradle song is from the soldier’s song, “Forget Not the Field” by Thomas Moore, (1779-1852) He wrote these lyrics to the air The Lamentation of Aughrim. The Battle of Aughrim took place on July 12, 1691. The defeat of James' forces was the last battle of the Williamite War and led to the Treaty of Limerick that same year. Pippin’s song is a well known English song written in 1833 by English songwriter and dramatist, Thomas Haynes Bayly. The Bath Song is, of course, Tolkien’s.

During World War II, American soldiers used Boromir’s method of staying awake, but I don’t recommend it for the obvious reasons.

Many thanks to our lovely Marigold and Llinos for their beta. May your cyber-quills never dry up!

“But, really, I feel much better now, I’m quite sure I’ll be just——” Pippin’s words caught in his throat as a rattling cough shook his slight frame.

Aragorn only looked at him with one brow arched, as if to say see, I told you so! He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped as he felt Boromir give him a subtle nudge. The two men gave each other a brief glance, as though speaking wordlessly, and Aragorn walked a few paces away to converse with Gandalf: a future-King heeding the advice of his future-Steward.

“Pippin, I doubt not that you mean well and are very brave in your desire to not be a burden or slow us down, but try to understand, to allow you to rush your recovery now could prove a terrible mistake,” Boromir said quietly. “Another day or two shan’t cause much of a delay. Try not to begrudge Aragorn his caution in this regard. He is a learned man, by all accounts, and surely knows his leech-craft.”

“Leech-craft!” Pippin snorted. “If only I had some of my mother’s chicken soup, I’d soon be well enough.”

“You would know best in that regard,” Boromir said. “But I do not think we shall find any plump hens in these parts for the remedy. Just try to be patient.”

“Just as well, Pippin,” Merry said. He squatted by the small, smokeless fire to feed the flames with some good dry wood. “Not even Sam could make chicken soup quite like your mother’s.”

“A statement I can finally agree with,” Pippin grumbled. “And just so that you know, Boromir, the best chicken soup is made with a rooster, not a hen.”

Boromir’s brows rose, partly in surprise, for Pippin had never spoken to him in such a manner, and partly in humour, for the same reason. A quick glance at Merry told Boromir that Pippin’s response had struck Merry the same way, for he stifled his laughter behind his hand.

“Now, why don’t you just settle down and have yourself a nice nap?” Merry smiled encouragingly and nudged Pippin with a toe.

Pippin sighed. All his life he had heard that: Pippin, why don’t you just… Pippin, if you’ll only… Pippin, do be a good lad and just… “Oh, all right,” he said, rolling himself a little more tightly in his blanket, which, incidentally, did nothing to hide his bristling demeanour. Why did he have to get sick now, when they had only just managed to get down from Caradhras? “Pish!” he muttered.

“If you are going to behave like that,” Merry glared back, “I’ll just have to see if Frodo can talk some sense into you.”

Pippin only snorted and rolled over again, but not before he shot a wary glace at the eldest hobbit, who stood chatting idly with Aragorn and Gandalf. Boromir gently tapped Merry’s shoulder and gave him a surreptitious shake of the head, finger over his lips. He leaned in to whisper in Merry’s ear. “I know what’s wrong with him,” he said. “He thinks he is being treated like a child. It will pass soon enough, when he has had the chance to prove a thing or two to himself. Let us instead take his mind off such concerns.”

“Oh, but don’t you see? He is child enough to not understand he is yet still a child, but also grown enough to take being treated in that manner as an insult,” Boromir said. “I believe halflings are not so different than we men in that regard.”

Merry cocked his head as though weighing Boromir’s words. Boromir smiled inwardly. Being an older brother, he understood completely Merry protecting his younger kin, even from the most well meant advice. After a moment, having seemingly decided to give Boromir’s idea a try, Merry nodded, tapping the side of his nose.

“When I was a boy, and had a cold,” Boromir spoke a little more loudly now, “My nurse used to bring me chicken soup. I can almost smell it now, rich with the scent of rosemary. I can almost taste the pepper upon my tongue. I could do with a bit of that just now, myself.”

“Pippin’s mum makes the most wonderful chicken soup,” Merry said. “It is not to be missed, in fact, even if you don’t have a cold.”

Pippin rolled back over, seemingly over his disgruntlement now. “How I would love to have some chicken soup,” he sighed. “Why are there no wild chickens, I wonder…”

“Perhaps a snipe would do,” Legolas offered. “What if I could find a wisp of snow-snipes? Would that do?”

“It won’t be chicken, but it’s as good as we’ll get, I fancy,” added Sam. “My old Gaffer used to call snipes upside-down chickens, on account of the dark meat’s on the breasts and the white meat’s on the legs.

“Snow-snipe do not make the long journey south for the winter, as their kin do,” Legolas said. “But I have no net, for I did not know I would be journeying this way, and with none of my kind. Does anyone have such a net?”

“As do I,” added Aragorn. “Those who journey are wise to bring a net into the wild places of the world.”

“Aye,” Boromir nodded. “For all creatures with feathers can be eaten, and in a pinch a net may well stave off hunger on a long journey.”

“Won’t do no good, not without onions,” Sam said. He had been paying close attention since the discussion had turned to food, a thing dear to all hobbits, and to Sam in particular, since he prepared almost all of their meals, meagre though they might be. He squatted beside Merry and poked the embers of the little fire with a twig and used the glowing end to light his pipe. “It has to have lots of onions, to clear the cold out of the head. I don’t have any rosemary, either. It has to have rosemary, for the lungs.”

“Those I can find as well,” Legolas said. “There are wild onions to be found, I am very sure of it. Rosemary, too. With some of Sam’s potatoes, perhaps we could make a soup which would serve the purpose of a remedy.”

“A splendid idea, Legolas!” Merry grinned. “Will it prove difficult, do you think?”

Legolas favoured Merry with an arched brow, as if to say I am an elf, how difficult do you think it could possibly be?

Frodo, Gimli and even Gandalf now joined the rest. The prospect of a little fresh meat appealed to them all, for no matter how skilled the cook, traveller’s fare soon grew tiresome.

“We have firewood enough left, I think,” Frodo said. The prospect of enjoying a nice steamy bowl of soup had brightened his tired eyes and seemed to lighten his heart. “But is there time enough today? Sam will need to get the birds in his pot as soon as may be.”

“If Boromir will but lend you his net, I could join you,” Aragorn offered. “Surely two hunters will serve twice as well.”

Boromir dipped his hand into his pack and drew out the leather pouch he stored his net in. He tossed the pouch to Legolas. With a nod of thanks, Legolas and Aragorn left the camp and vanished into the trees.

“There now, Mister Pippin,” Sam said with a satisfied air. “You’ll have your soup soon enough. It may not be proper Shire fare, but I fancy it’ll do right enough. And it’ll cheer you to know we’ve got your clothes all clean. That shirt you’re wearin’ ain’t near heavy enough, though it was good enough when it was warmer. Only we popped a button off when we washed all that sick-sweat out of ‘em, and me with no needle nor thread.”

“You mustn’t feel badly about that, Sam,” Pippin said, his more cheerful nature returning now. “I shall just have to make do. But I need to keep the button, so I won’t have to replace them all.”

Sam fetched Pippin’s garments and handed them to the youngest hobbit, fishing the button out of his pocket to give to Pippin. “Better put it your pack with your other things,” he advised.

“You are in luck, Master Took,” Boromir said. “I keep needle and thread in my pack at all times, as any good soldier will. I have no thread that matches the thread attaching the other buttons, but if black thread will serve you well enough, I can sew the button back on.”

“Well, not as a tailor might, no,” Boromir said. “But often enough I have had the need to do the odd repair. Even if I were married, my wife would not accompany me in the field or on the move. A soldier must do for himself, when the need arises, even the son of the Steward.”

Four pairs of hobbit eyes along with one of dwarven kind regarded Boromir with more than a hint of doubt. Gandalf looked on with amusement, though he only puffed his pipe between lips pressed firmly together to hold in his laughter. This was understandable, of course, since Boromir was of noble birth. Nonetheless, Boromir rose to the challenge, holding out his hands for the shirt and the button. Again, Boromir slipped a hand into his pack and removed the desired item.

“How is it you never have to empty your pack to find something?” Pippin asked. “I almost always have to turn mine upside-down. What I want always seems to be at the bottom.”

Boromir threaded the needle. “I always put my belongings in the same place,” he said, taking up shirt and button. “Every day, I remove all my things, then put them all back where they belong. I may find myself in need of something with no time—or light enough—to hunt for it. We are trained to keep our belongings in such a manner as to be able to lay our hands on them as quickly as may be. It is not simply an exercise in discipline. Time saved can mean a life saved or a victory ensured, for want of what seems to be of little importance may be one’s undoing.”

“Why, I never thought about it,” Sam said. “Fancy that! But I suppose if soldiers have to carry their home with them, it stands to reason they’d have to know how to do for themselves.”

“Indeed,” Boromir nodded. “Even so, often a manservant is sent to attend my needs. But I still had to learn to do for myself. And in truth, I always chafe at the presence of a manservant. I much prefer to attend my own needs.” He paused as if weighing his next words, his needle and thread poised between stitches. “And, whether a manservant is in attendance or no, a leader is obliged more often than not to think of his men. Pride is one thing, a stiff neck another. And one lesson in particular, Master Took, a soldier must learn is this: to press on when one is unable to do so may put all in danger. That was one lesson I learned at great expense. But I was very young at the time, and had only just led my first few patrols along the Anduin and around south Ithilien. The illness started as a simple cold. But I could not be persuaded to rest, and soon had saddled my men with the care of a young officer with a high fever, too ill to even sit a horse. I had placed my men in peril because I did not wish to be seen as a mere lad by more seasoned soldiers. In the end, my choice made me seem every bit as young and foolish as I did not wish to be thought!”

He bit the thread in two near the re-sewn button and handed Pippin his shirt. The hobbits put their heads together, inspecting his work with nods of approval. Pippin quickly changed his clothing and, having taken Boromir’s words to heart, slipped under his blankets once more.

“How old?” Boromir grinned. “Why, from the cradle, though I doubt not the strangeness of that to you. Our cradle songs are full of tales of mighty battles and great deeds. It is mother’s milk to us.”

“Oh! Well, I…” Boromir cleared his throat. “I doubt you would find them very pleasing to your halfling ears. I fear we are made of stonier stuff than your people. You would find little value in them.”

This caused the hobbits to fill his ears with indignant grunts, squawks and mutterings accompanied by rolled eyes and exasperated shakes of their heads. Boromir held his hands up in surrender. “Very well, very well, I shall do my best. I hope your ears shan’t be too bruised, when I am finished!” He paused, then, having apparently decided on the song he wished to sing, cleared his throat. His deep, rich baritone voice softly resonated in the air.

“Forget not the field where they perished,
The truest, the last of the brave,
All gone - and the bright hope we cherished
Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!
Oh! could we from death but recover
These hearts they bounded before,
In the face of high heavens to fight over
That battle for pure light once more;

“Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which evil flung round them then,
No! 'tis not in Man nor in Mandos
To let darkness bind it again!

“But 'tis past - and though' blazoned in story
The names of the valiant may be,
Blessed is the march of that glory
’Neath the banner that bears the White Tree.

“Far dearer the grave or the dungeon
Illumed by one pure brave-heart’s name,
Than the ease of him who'll not join us
And yet lives on in comfort and shame!”

The song ended. The air seemed suddenly very empty. All eyes had dropped, and some sighed sadly. Merry sat beside Boromir and patted his hand. “Dear friend,” he said. “Some day, if we succeed in our effort, perhaps the cradle songs for your own young ones will be brighter and happier songs. For as beautiful as the melody and the words are, they break our hearts for your sacrifices.”

“We thank you for the song,” Frodo added. “Yet, somehow I fear that isn’t nearly enough. I have often wondered if some calamity might not do my people some good, for I fear that we have become too comfortable. I wonder now at the wisdom of such a thought.”

“Well you may wonder,” Boromir said. “Yet I would not see your quiet lands face such foes as we have fought. Learning a little of your people, I think I much prefer to see halflings in a garden rather than in the glory of battle. Let your people remain ‘too comfortable’, as you say. All the better, for some day I hope to pay your home a visit, and try your ale, for Merry and Pippin have declared it the finest in the wide world. I should like to taste it for myself!”

“And I hope it’s sooner rather than later, Mister Boromir, sir!” Sam smiled. Yet the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he patted Boromir’s shoulder.

“Well,” Boromir said. “I sang a song for you, shall you return the favour? I should very much like to hear some of your songs.”

“Then you should not talk so much,” Frodo said. “I’ll make a bargain with you, magpie. If we sing The Bath Song for Boromir, will you try to have a little nap, until Aragorn and Legolas get back and your soup is ready?”

“I am not a magpie!” Pippin said. “But yes, if you sing it, I will try to rest. Only, do get it right. It is supposed to be a happy song, you know.”

“Pippin says we do not sing it with enough enthusiasm,” Frodo explained. “And you are so a magpie, for you never tire of making yourself heard! Now, no sulking! I happen to like magpies; they mean to be heard, just as you do. Sam, Merry, come! Let us lighten the mood. We must teach Boromir the worth of happier songs, for when he has his own children to sing to.” The three hobbits stood together and raised their voices…

“Sing hey! for the bath at close of day
That washes the weary mud away!
A loon is he that will not sing:
O! Water Hot is a noble thing…”

Pippin grinned at the increased enthusiasm in their voices, for they seemingly had taken his advice. Gandalf looked on, watching the hobbits bringing smiles to the faces of Boromir and to Gimli, too. Had anyone looked, they would have seen the wizard enjoying a soft but heartfelt laugh, himself. Indeed, it was well that the pair of younger hobbits had come along, if only for Boromir’s sake.

The song ended, and Pippin, as good as his word, rolled up in his blanket and dozed, heeding the words Boromir had shared with him. When he woke it was to a savoury smell of soup bubbling merrily over the small fire.

“Is it done enough to add the vegetables and herbs, do you think?” Frodo asked, peering over Sam’s shoulder.

“It should be,” Sam replied, turning away from the task of cutting up the wild onions heaped near the fire. “These are very hot onions. As well they should be, for a sick hobbit.”

“You could do that now, if you please,” Sam answered. “Now, that ain’t near enough, sir.”

“Now let’s get these onions in there,” Frodo added, dropping the cut up onions into the pot as Sam sliced the remainder.

Just then Boromir joined them. He leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply. “This smells wonderful,” he said.

“He shall be fine,” Boromir said. “Perhaps he shall be more careful about hunting with Aragorn from now on. He did not count on a man being able to throw the net that quickly, so one of the weights has blacked his eye. In truth, his dignity suffers more than anything else. ’Tis naught that a cold wet cloth will not remedy, though the bruise shall show for a day or so. But elves mend quickly, I hear, and Aragorn has herbs to keep the swelling down and fade the bruise swiftly. As for his dignity, that soup smells good enough to soothe his ruffled feathers. Have you added the pepper yet?”

“You needn’t look so beset, Sam,” Boromir said. “I have some pepper. I warn you, it is very hot pepper. The seeds came from far south of Harad. The Swertings fancy very spicy foods, and their peppers are the hottest I know of.”

“That would be wonderful, Mister Boromir, sir,” Sam said, his face brightening.

Boromir pulled a silver chain necklace over his head. On the end dangled a small container. He opened the box and took a generous pinch of peppers from the box, crumbling them into the soup. “That should do,” he nodded. “I must wash my hands now, lest I forget and rub my eyes. That is what we do when we must stand watch for long hours, after no sleep. We rub our fingertips in the peppers, and then rub our eyes. ’Tis painful…but once done, one need not fear sleeping on watch!”

Well, one thing is certain, Pippin thought, I shan’t be offering my services as a soldier of Gondor - ever! He rolled over to doze a little longer until the soup was ready. Merry shook him awake, and after settling Pippin comfortably upright, he handed Pippin a bowl of steaming soup.

Pippin raised the bowl and sniffed. It wasn’t quite like chicken, but close enough. He took a spoonful and swallowed. He exhaled forcefully. “Oh! That is hot!”

“No, Merry, not that kind of hot,” Pippin said, pulling the bowl close possessively. “It’s spicy-hot, not boiling hot. And I like it!” He took another greedy spoonful, and soon the bowl was empty. Merry fetched him another, then went to get one for himself. Soon all the remaining Walkers huddled around Pippin and the soup bubbling over the little fire. From time to time, one or the other would mop his brow with the back of a hand, but all ate heartily, for there had been enough for all to eat their fill.

As Sam collected the empty bowls he asked, “Mister Boromir, them peppers, what kind are they?”

“We call them Dragon’s Breath,” he replied. “You are a gardener, are you not?”

“Well, then,” Boromir once again fished the little box out on the silver necklace. “I have some of the seeds, if you’d like to have them.”

“Now, that’s just fine,” Sam smiled. “Why, thank you so very much, Mister Boromir, sir.”

Years later, Sam would serve chicken soup to his sick children seasoned with Dragon’s Breath peppers, for he knew first-hand the good of them, for Pippin, just as he had said, was soon right enough. Each time, he would retell the story of how the Took and Thain had fallen ill in the Wild, and how he had been made better by the soup with the very hot peppers. He would sing them to sleep, as well. But he could never sing the sad song that he had learned from Boromir. Instead, he sang another, not of his own making, but one that Pippin himself had composed on the third anniversary of Boromir’s fall, and in later years sang to his own little Faramir:

“Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago,
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,
Long, long ago, long ago,
Now you are come all my grief is removed,
Let me forget that so long you have roved.
Let me believe that you love as you loved,
Long, long ago, long ago.

“Do you remember the paths where we met?
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
Ah, yes, you told me you'd never forget,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Your sweet words made my fears seem absurd
Dear, when you spoke, giving strength to each word.
Still my heart treasures the phrases I heard,
Long, long ago, long ago.

“Tho' by your kindness my fond hopes were raised,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
You by more eloquent lips have been praised,
Long, long ago, long, long ago,
But, by long absence your truth has been tried,
Still to your accents I listen with pride,
Blessed as I was when I walked at your side.
Long, long ago, long ago.”

It was a good song, penned with fond memories, as warm, as nourishing and as healing as the soup, which had been put together, ingredient by ingredient, by the members of the Fellowship. And like the soup, the most healing and most important ingredient of all was, in the end, the simple but vital ingredient known as love.

This not for profit work is purely for my my own amusement and that of my readers. I make no money from it and only hope to receive reviews and the pleasure of the company of my friends who dwell in Middle Earth. Everything but the story belongs to Tolkien, New Line, PJ, ETC.

Summary: Sometimes adults have a lot to learn from little ones. And sometimes little ones are not the only ones who work a bit of mischief...

Of all the children on our little voyage the only one who is completely without complaint is the son of the Ernil i Phriannath. Well, there is Elboron as well, but that is only because the child seems to be the cause of it so easily.

I cannot but heave a sigh at this last thought, even as poor Éowyn heaves something a bit more substantial than a sigh over a leeward rail. No stomach has she for even the smallest and sweetest of estuaries, I fear, much less the open sea, though little help is Elboron to his mother.

“Poor Mother,” he says sadly as she heaves yet again, and turns to speak to Faramir Took, the young halfling named after my cousin. “See that, Faro? And she did not even have any greens today! Do you know why they call this the poop deck? You do? I remember this one time that I used it… Why, you could still see my carrots in it as it washed out to sea. When they came out they looked just like they did when they went in, one could not even tell I had chewed them! Also, there was the time I ate too many pears and I did not have time—”

“Elboron!” My tone is rather harsh, but poor Éowyn has renewed her heaving with enough vigor to turn her inside out, poor thing. In truth, Elboron has been visiting every little imp within him upon her this month of Urimë. The Tookling takes Elboron by the elbow and leads him a little away, pointing to a school of fish leaping from wave to wave, in an effort to distract him from making any further observations. Though the young halfling is smaller, he is older than either Elboron or Elfwine, and somehow closer to the earth and perhaps more straightforward for it. This trait he shares with the son of Master Holdwine, Theomac his name is, though after the manner of their kind his lovely name is shortened to a friendly “Theo”. There are other halfling youngsters here as well. The son of Samwise Gamgee, named for the Ringbearer is in attendance as well as his older sister Elanor, as lovely a little thing as the most perfect seedling pearl.

“Come, Elboron, Elfwine,” says Faro, “Theo and I have never been on such a wonderful voyage. You must tell us all about the parts of the ship. And what kinds of birds are those? And why are those fish flying through the air from wave to wave? And why do some of the deck-hands wear eye-patches and then switch them to the other eye when they go below-decks?”

My Elfwine helps lead little Elboron to the starboard bow. Now I can go to Éowyn and help her to a bench. I send one of our ladies to the galley after a bowl of water and a cooling cloth to soothe her, poor thing, for she is yet whiter than her normal pale color. Elboron is something more than she can manage today. Unfortunately Elboron seems to actually draw strength from the sea as much as the sea saps strength from his mother. And having friends with him sometimes does not bring out the best in him. He forgets himself. He forgets that he cannot be just a little boy, but must behave as befits a young prince. Éowyn has been ill all morning. My cousin, Lord Faramir, had taken ship the previous week to meet with the King and my Éomer, who are riding to meet us all from beyond Umbar. Both Faramir’s ship and ours will arrive at the island of Tol Anfalas, and there we shall meet my Éomer and our King Elessar.

Years have passed since the end of the Ring War, yet many are the enemies of the King. Well do I know how Faramir chafes to fight beside Éomer and his King, yet he must remain at home along with my father to keep safe our lands while my King and my Lord are away. Certain I am that some of Elboron’s behavior stems from this. He is a Húrin, after all, and it rankles his very blood, I am sure. He knows his father wants to fight for the King with a knowing he was somehow born with. Such is the burden of his blood, I fear. Yet my poor Elfwine would do anything to stand in his shoes, he misses his father so. One little one misses his father, the other stings because his father cannot go to war. Ah, me! Thus it is, and thus it shall always be and so I must advise poor Éowyn. I take the bowl of cool water from the young lady as she comes from the galley. Sitting beside Éowyn, I wring the cloth and dab at Éowyn’s temples, then lay the cool cloth along her slim neck to soothe her sickness.

“He is only excited that his ‘knights’ are here, and that he is taking them on their first sea-voyage. And you know what effect the sea has upon him.”

“Sometimes I simply do not know what to say to the boy,” she says. “Even with Éomer, I had at least some control! After all, I am wife to the regent of Ithilien, commanding Hall and Home! The Lady of the Shield-Arm they call me! Yet Elboron can sometimes get me into such a state!”

I can only pull her close, thinking of the songs that tell of her valor, this Lady who rode as a young man named Dernhelm, Master Holdwine fighting at her side, slaying that foul creature, Captain of the Dark Lord, and yet none would sing of the battle she wages in this moment. I let her rest her head on my shoulder. “I know,” I say.

“Well, yes,” I say softly. “He is very like his father and his uncle, you know. They were much the same, until Finduilas died. It’s the Húrin blood, as you know. Also, you must remember, they have elven blood on their mother’s side as well, and have passed it on to Elboron. Sometimes such are born filled with a core of fire. It is not all bad! Remember well how the horses heed Elboron’s bidding? And how the men already adore him? And how he loves his little wooden sword King Elessar gave him? And how even at his age, he has an understanding of duty?

“...but in many ways he really is no different than any other little one, Éowyn. Has he had a nap today?”

“Well, no, he has not,” she says and sighs, as though she is well in need of a nap herself. “How do Merry and Pippin do it? How do they and their wives produce such well-behave little ones?”

“I’m sure I don’t know how to take that,” says a familiar voice. I look up and see it is the very hobbit mentioned a breath ago. “Do you mean our children are well behaved?” Pippin adds. “Or just not caught at mischief yet? Or perhaps trying too hard?”

Éowyn laughs now in spite of everything. Glad I am that the older halfings chose to remain behind instead of sailing forth with Faramir in the larger ship, which is the very image of this small one. They were at first ill at ease with the sailing of this lesser ship, but soon enough they have grown to appreciate it, if not to love it. This I can understand. These are folk of the earth and not of the sea.

Little Frodo has come with them and seeks the other youngsters, while the pretty Elanor decides to sit with Éowyn. Tales I have heard told of this one, that she has been especially blessed, and by her looks one might find this easy to believe. She gazes calmly up at Éowyn, boldly touching Éowyn’s mantle of pale blue. The little one smiles at Éowyn and wins a smile in return: such are the charms of this child of the Shire, this one known as Elanor the Fair, for fair she is.

Now my friend seems calmer. She has lost her sickly pallor and seems much improved. Perhaps this Elanor is indeed a charmed one!

But they are all charming, whether charmed or no, each and every one of these offspring, including my own, and for them was this small ship especially built. Well, for them in some respects, and I am reminded of this by my Elfwine as he tugs at my sleeve, having slipped away from his companions. I lean down so that he might whisper in my ear.

“Elboron and I want to know when it will be time,” he says, barely able to suppress his excitement.

“Just as soon as we dock at Tol Anfalas,” I whisper back. “Your father and the King will join us there along with Lord Faramir. Watch for the sea-birds! They shall hail our arrival, as well you know! It shan’t be long now.”

“Thank you,” Elfwine says with a quick embrace, wary of being caught at it by his friends. “Are we having the prawns with dragon’s breath sauce for nuncheon?”

“Good!” Elfwine gives me a large grin. “Elboron is boasting he can eat at least a hundred!”

Merry and Pippin at table are always a sight to behold, but never have I beheld such wonders as hungry halfling youngsters! Where do they put it? And I had worried about the dragon’s breath sauce being too hot for them, but I worried for nothing. They have taken to it like mother’s milk!

Elboron is doing his best to make good his boast of eating a hundred prawns, and the sauce has dripped down his chin and onto his fine linen shirt, staining the front in a fiery red near-perfect triangle. “I do wish Eldarion could have come,” he says. “But he could not, nor could his mother the Queen. We mustn’t have too many crowns in one basket, isn’t that right, sir Peregrin?”

“Very wise, my Lord,” answers Pippin. “Tell me, where did you learn that bit of wisdom?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Pippin says. “Too many crowns in one basket indeed!”

“But that is the truth of it, isn’t it? Like the time I tried to carry too many puppies in one basket and I dropped some of them and they had to go to the stables, where the puppies have a house of healing all their own.”

“Poor puppies! Indeed, and my poor bum! And I could not play with the puppies again until they were three months old!”

“You are a fine hobbit lass,” Elboron, turning to Elanor, pronounces. “Shall you have an arranged marriage? May I arrange it? If I may, you shall marry Faro!”

“Why, I have never heard of anything so perspicacious in all my life!” Elanor says, clearly outraged.

And Éowyn is laughing—laughing until tears run down her cheeks. How good it is to see her laughing so. But what surprises me more than anything is when, just after a particularly amusing tale jointly told by Merry and Pippin regarding the humorous uses of soot, Éowyn leans close to tell me she has never, ever! seen me laugh so much in all the time she has known me. And I must admit to myself that she is absolutely correct. Glancing at my Elfwine, I can see that he, too, has noticed it. He is happy to see his mother laugh so much.

“It is the halflings,” he says, “Elboron says when he is crowned he shall pass a law stating that halflings shall have holiday homes built in Minas Tirith as well as Ithilien, to encourage long and frequent visits. Shall we build them some in Rohan, Mother?”

“I think it is a splendid idea,” I say, laughing. “And I shall ask your Grandfather to build some on Dol Amroth as well!”

“But not before everyone has a nice nap,” Pippin says. “I’m stuffed! And being stuffed makes me sleepy. Besides, Elanor, I’m sure Elboron didn’t mean anything by suggesting that you marry Faro.”

“And Elanor, do you even know what perspicacious means?” Merry says, trying hard not to burst into laughter.

“No, but I heard Auntie Diamond say to Nunky Pippin ‘how very perspicacious of you,’ and from the way she said it I could tell it was not a compliment.”

“And Elboron,” Pippin says, “I thank you kindly, but I think Faro will find his own bride, though my Lord does us great favor in his consideration.”

“And if you please, let Goldilocks hear nothing of this or Elanor shan’t escape a scolding, I fear,” Faro says under his breath.

“Truly?” Theo says, wide-eyed. Faro nods with an expression that is half embarrassment and half self-satisfaction. Could the little Took have a sweetheart already, I wonder?

“At any rate, soon we shall all see the Kings Elessar and Éomer, and all should be fresh from a nap!” Merry declares.

“Our recent behavior gives us away in this regard, I fear!” Pippin says, “Why, when I need a nap, I could bite the head off a troll!”

“Well, I am not sleepy! I am not sleepy one bit,” Elboron says around a huge yawn.

“Sir Peregrin is right,” Éowyn says, “Why, I feel even I could have a nap. Why not lie upon the deck and let the waves sing you to sleep for a while!”

“Yes,” Merry agrees, “Pippin has quite a good voice, Elboron! Your father and your Nunky Boromir used to love to hear him sing!”

“Is that really true?” Now Elboron actually looks as though he may be persuaded without too much trouble.

“It shall not be some silly infant’s song, shall it?” Elboron says. His brows draw down, and for a moment he looks a caricature of his uncle, so much so I cannot help but laugh all the more.

“No, no, nor shall it be some stuffy tale full of bothersome lessons,” Pippin says. “I say let us have something light of heart for heavy eyelids.”

“Very well, I shall let you sing a song for me, then.” Elboron says imperiously. Pippin hides a grin behind a hand while Merry has to turn around so he can have a quiet laugh at our little Lord Elboron, who offers his arm in a childishly awkward but regal manner to his “knight’s” sire.

I watch them settle down on a blanket spread on the deck. The children all lie down around Pippin like tired puppies. Elboron actually cuddles close to Pippin with a great yawn. Pippin begins his song, the tune a lilting bit of whimsy, yet not so lively as to excite the young ones. Indeed, I can see how Boromir and Faramir could enjoy his singing. His voice is good enough for the finest hall, even a royal one.

Before he has finished the last line the children are all sleeping soundly. I watch him slip quietly up and tiptoe over to where we adults are sitting on roomy benches fastened to the deck near the bulkhead. The boat rocks the young ones gently, and their little chests rise and fall smoothly.

Pippin takes out his pipe and carefully packs his precious pipe-weed into the bowl. From a deep pocket Merry pulls out a twig kept for just this purpose, dips the end into his own pipe to set it glowing, then hands it to Pippin, and I watch the hobbit puff until he has a fine smoke blowing away in the sea-breeze. All of this is done with the seriousness of some dire ceremony none dare defile. “Wish Sam hadn’t stayed behind with the Queen,” Merry says.

“Aye, and Faro with Elboron.” Pippin regards Éowyn with eyes so open and frank that were she any other Lady she would look away. The halflings are odd ones, no doubt, unlike any great lords or ladies or even any commoners I have ever known. One wonders how to respond. Yet Éowyn seems to know exactly how to deal with them. “The boy,” —Pippin nods in Elboron’s direction— “He is a blessing to my Lord Faramir, is he not?”

“Well, Lady, let him have his little fiery one while he may,” Pippin says. “The sons of great ones must all too soon bear a tight rein, and learn to bow and bite the tongue, to dance with the daughters of people whom they despise. He will chafe at his bit, as well you know! He springs from two proud houses, and I need not remind you how hard it can be—to be both young and high-born.”

“I know, Pippin. And yes, he does see his brother there sometimes.” Éowyn smiles and lays a hand softly on Pippin’s shoulder. “I know you see him there, too.”

Suddenly Pippin leaps up and takes Éowyn’s hand, pulling her up to dance with him and sing again in his fair and sweet voice:

“See now!” He says, and sits her down again, and she laughing like a small girl. “My Lord told me that should you grow sad of eye that I should get you up and jig you about and sing that song to you, which he taught to me especially to cheer you up!”

“Faramir never taught you such a song!” Éowyn laughs. “That was a halfling song, or I never heard one!”

“My point, Lady, in all my tom-foolery, is that in these young ones we may celebrate even that which is lost, or thought lost to us.” Pippin says.

Merry, smiling, gestures to the sleeping little ones. “See in Elboron and Elfwine, the very shadows of their forebears? Why, when Elfwine laughs sometimes, I see good old Théoden King there in his eyes!”

Such are halflings. I have heard many words from the wise and from the fool, but few have I heard that caused me to think on the sons of our great ones with such brightness and merriment. On this little ship are the sons of kings and princes, of lords and ladies and mighty warriors, but also the sons of the farmer, the sons of the country hall, the sons of the hills as well as the sons of the seas. For these two halflings were once young ones, as was my Lord, and my King, and Lord Faramir, and all of them, even poor Denethor. Even my father. All were little boys once.

I look at these halfling heroes, Merry and Pippin, these Knights of their Realms, and it is not so hard to see them as little children. And so it is so much easier now to see in Elfwine what my Éomer was as a child. King and Husband he may be to me now, but once he was only a little boy who skinned his knees and pulled his sister’s hair and said things he shouldn’t say in front the very people he should not say them in front of. How imperfect, and how precious they are, each and every one, boy and man. Or lad and halfling, as the case may be. I cannot but smile to myself and give my friend a little nudge. Éowyn looks at the small knights a little more closely and nudges me gently in return. Whilst my thoughts wandered, the rocking of the ship has sent them off to dreaming as they rested against the bulkhead, their precious pipes carefully put away.

Docked now at Tol Anfalas and reunited at last with my husband, I am so filled with joy I can scarce think. The great Hosting House near the quays is quiet now, but for a while all was a-bustle with everyone readying themselves to see those they had been parted from, whether for a year or a month or a fortnight or a week. Elboron actually behaves himself, and fusses over Elfwine, wanting to make sure his dear friend is looking his grandest. “I am sorry your father has to be away so much while mine does not,” he says at last. “Sometimes I am a very selfish boy, Elfwine. Can you forgive me?”

“Did I say I sometimes do not know what to say to the boy?” Éowyn says. She pulls her son to her for a brief embrace. “Proud has my son made me this day, Elboron,” she says. “Now, Lothíriel, Elfwine, there is Éomer! Let us go and give him welcome!”

“And there is Father and the King!” Elboron shouts and hops about. “Come, Mother! Soon it shall be time!”

What a day it has been! Such a welcome did we give them, and how happy everyone is! But now it is time to let the King have his fun. The King wishes to see our little ship, he says, giving Faramir a knowing wink, and so we all trail back to where she is docked. There the King points out to the halflings that there are craftsmen carving a name for the little ship into her timbers: the Pheriannath.

And now it is our great delight to see the realization dawn on the face of every halfling: a half-sized ship made especially for them. The honor is not lost on these small ones. They know the building of a ship, even a small one, is no mean feat. There is a great deal of ‘oh, but you shouldn’t have!’ and ‘whatever gave you the idea?’ and such like when suddenly from the rear I hear it.

“And I say,” comes Elboron’s unmistakable, assured voice, “that if you try to fight a dragon with a sword at the end of the day you shall only have a bent sword, a toasted knight and a dragon full of pish and vinegar!”

“Elboron!” Faramir it is, this time. “And where did you hear that from?”

“I know of only one person he could have gotten that from,” Merry says grimly.

This story was inspired by my love of my son and his children and fueled by the

Perspicacious - adj. - Having or showing penetrating mental discernment; clear-sighted

Urimë – according to the Steward’s Reckoning, the eighth month of the year,

Library of the Lesser Smials by Pipkin Sweetgrass