Angst

Chapter 1. Conspiracy

Merry picked his way across the crowded room, trying not to step on toes, and also guarding his own unprotected toes from the boots of the Men surrounding him. The talk ran high, there was a festive atmosphere, and sprinkles of laughter were scattered about the common room of the Prancing Pony.

When he reached the long bar, Merry climbed up on the step provided for hobbits, for Men and Hobbits mixed freely in this place, and there were high tables with Man-sized benches and high stools where both kinds of folk could mingle, as well as low tables with Hobbit-sized benches where the Little Folk could meet with any Man who wished to sit upon the floor.

'What's taking so long, Pip?' he asked. 'I might die of thirst before you get back with the mugs.'

'Mr Butterbur was just telling me about how the Rangers chased away the ruffians that we sent packing last winter,' Pippin said with a grin. 'Seems as if it wasn't a fair fight.'

'You mean, several dozen ruffians for each Ranger?' Merry asked.

'No,' Barliman said. 'One Ranger for each several dozen of ruffians. The ruffians were far outmatched, you see.'

'Ah,' Merry nodded wisely. 'But I think we had better get some beer into Samwise before he starts having second thoughts about the wedding.'

'We brought him to Bree for a last fling, you see,' Pippin said earnestly. 'He's about to become an old stick-in-the-mud, you know, marrying and all that.'

'He won't come to any of our parties, now,' Merry agreed.

'He never came anyhow,' Pippin said. 'Too busy planting trees and whatnot.'

'The Shire blooms again,' Merry said, seizing one of the waiting mugs and lifting it in a toast, quaffing deeply of the mug and wiping his mouth with a satisfied sigh. 'Ah, Barliman, you have the best beer this side of Buckland.'

Pippin lifted his own mug, 'To gardeners,' he said.

'Well let's get the beer to the table before we drink it all,' Merry urged, and the cousins took two mugs each back to their table. Sam came in from checking on Bill the Pony, taking up the mug Merry shoved at him with a nod of thanks.

'Where's Frodo?' Merry said.

Sam looked startled. 'He gave Strider an apple and came ahead of me, whilst I was talking with Nob and Bob,' he said. He was referring, of course, to Strider the pony, not the King of Gondor and Arnor. 'He ought to have been here.'

'I don't like this,' Pippin said.

'D'you suppose he went to our room?' Sam asked. 'He's been a bit tired lately.'

'You go check,' Merry told him. 'Pippin, you look around outside, and I'll ask Mr Butterbur if he's seen him.'

'Outside?' Pippin said, his eyes wide.

Merry gave him a push. 'Go on with you,' he said cheerily. 'No black breath to worry about anymore.' Pippin took another deep draught of his beer, set it down, and stood up from the bench.

'Don't let my beer wander away, now,' he said sternly, and Merry laughed.

'Plenty more where that came from,' he answered.

Merry looked about the crowded room, trying to locate his missing cousin. He'd begun to wonder if perhaps Frodo had found another Ring, when he felt a tug at his trouser leg. Looking down, he saw Frodo peering up at him from under a table.

'What in the world are you doing down there?' he asked. Surely Frodo had not had time to drink himself under the table yet...

'Shhh,' Frodo said urgently, then hissed, 'Get down here!' Merry ducked under the table.

'Come out, cousin,' he said. 'What is this, some kind of joke?'

'No joke!' Frodo whispered. 'And keep your voice down! I do not want any of them to notice us here.'

'What is it?' Merry asked, then more slowly said, 'What... did you see some ruffians mixed in with the crowd? Is Bill Ferny back?'

'Worse,' Frodo said.

Merry looked around uneasily, but saw only Big Folk and Little making merry.

'Frodo, are you feverish again?' he asked. His cousin impatiently fended off his seeking hand.

'No I am not feverish!' he snapped in a low tone. 'But that's part of it.' He gestured to one of the tables, full of a cheery crowd of Big Folk, talking animatedly.

'Did you ever wonder why I got so many fevers along the way?' Frodo asked.

'What are you talking about?' Merry said reasonably, then thought back. 'Well, now that you mention it, I did think it a bit odd. But I thought, perhaps, it might be an effect of the... well, you know.'

'If it were the Ring, it affected more than myself,' Frodo said quietly. 'You had your share of fever, as well as Pippin, and even Sam. Not to mention Aragorn and Boromir. Do elves get fevers?'

Merry scratched his head, thinking back. 'Legolas might've,' he said. 'I don't remember.'

'It's their doing,' Frodo said, gesturing to the table of merrymakers again. 'They're the ones gave us the fevers.'

'You're delirious,' Merry said. 'What in the world are you talking about, Frodo?'

'And that table over there,' Frodo said, ignoring his cousin's words, 'they're responsible for all the knocks on the head we had. Why, that one...' he gestured to a laughing female, 'she caused an avalanche that swept myself and Pippin over the side of a cliff... gave the poor lad such a turn that he didn't speak for days afterwards, as I recall.'

'That was an act of nature,' Merry protested. 'Or of Saruman, at the most. How could she have...?'

'And that one,' Frodo continued, 'broke your wrist, and it had to be splinted with some sort of abominable bread sculpture or somewhat...'

Merry had a vague memory of such an event, but really, so much had happened along the way...

'Not to mention the shards you had in your pocket that cut your fingers to shreds,' Frodo went on. Merry stared down at the fine white scars on his hand, then back to the indicated figure.

'And speaking of broken bones...'

'Do we have to?' Merry asked, feeling rather queasy.

'That one over there delights in breaking Pippin's,' Frodo continued determinedly.

'Frodo, I think you're light-headed. Why don't we get you something to eat and...'

'And that one caused a flash flood that washed Aragorn and Boromir downstream; they nearly drowned!' Frodo finished indignantly. 'And had Pippin fall over a cliff, now there was a fine knock on the head... he might've died!' He breathed heavily for a moment. 'She could've had Gimli and Legolas learn to cooperate in a manner much less dangerous and painful to our young cousin!'

Pippin walked by then, only to be grabbed and dragged under the table by their crazed cousin. Frodo slapped a hand over the tween's mouth until he stopped struggling, seeing who had grabbed him.

'Frodo tells me there's some kind of conspiracy about,' Merry said, 'that somehow a lot of the folk here tonight were mixed up in our mishaps on the quest.'

Pippin shot him a quizzical look. Grimly, Frodo said, 'That's right. Why, that one, over at that table...'

Pippin looked, saying, 'She seems a pleasant enough lass, though over-large for my taste. I prefer hobbit lasses, myself...'

'She had orcs doing unspeakable things,' Frodo said grimly.

'What sort of things?' Pippin said.

'You're too young to know,' Frodo snapped. Merry leaned closer with an inquiring look, and Frodo whispered into his ear. His face blanched with shock.

'What is it, Merry?' Pippin asked curiously.

'You're too young to know,' Merry echoed. His head was beginning to ache, and Frodo noticed.

'Hah,' he said cryptically. 'And don't you go trying to pry it out of Merry's brain, Pip, for he is wise to your tricks...'

'Pry it out of Merry's brain?' Pippin said, puzzled.

'Don't tell me you've already forgotten how we could mind-speak,' Frodo said, annoyed. 'That was all her doing, you know,' and he pointed to a Big Person next to the "unspeakable orc" lass. 'Thick as thieves,' he muttered, and gave a shudder.

'Mind speak?' Merry whispered. He began to wonder if he ought to seek out a healer; Frodo was obviously out of his head.

Just then, one of the Big Folk slammed her mug down upon the table, saying fiercely, 'I won't! And you can't make me!'

Another at the same table smiled and nudged a bundle of sticks with her toe, saying soothingly, 'That's all right, my dear. You just have another mug and think it over, I'm sure you will see reason...' Merry felt a distinct chill tickle its way down his spine.

'And that one!' Frodo said, pointing discreetly. 'Because of her, Pip, you nearly died of pneumonia as a child, and Merry nearly died of pneumonia a few years later!'

'Because of her?' Pippin said, growing more confused.

'Believe me,' Frodo said, 'We have got to make our escape whilst we still can. Who knows what dastardly things they may be plotting, even now?'

Merry looked a bit sick. 'I don't even want to imagine,' he said. 'Look, there's Samwise.'

'Pip, you grab him, quick pack up the room. Merry and I will go to the stables, saddle the ponies. We'll make our escape, head back to the Shire.'

...but would the Shire be far enough? Would it be safe? From what he'd overheard, some of these folk were crazed enough to follow him there... he might not be safe in the Shire, or anywhere in Middle-earth. He wondered again about Arwen's offer. Had she known, even then, about this? Had she been offering the only possible avenue of escape? He thought about the Havens... That choice was looking more attractive with each passing moment...

Chapter 2. OCs and Free Lunches

Just then a massive face appeared under the lip of the table. ‘Er, what seems to be the trouble, little masters?’ Barliman Butterbur said. He frowned at Frodo. ‘You’re not about to pull one of your tricks, Mr. Underhill, er, Baggins, are you?’

‘No, no,’ Merry said hastily, popping up from under the table and hauling at Frodo’s arm. ‘My cousin, er, dropped something and we were looking for it.’

‘P’rhaps I can help,’ Mr Butterbur said. ‘But you all come up from under there. You’re drawing attention, and folk are beginning to talk.’

‘We cannot have that!’ Frodo snapped, giving in to Merry’s pull so abruptly that Merry fell backwards, hitting his head upon the table behind him.

‘O Mr Brandybuck, are you all right?’ Mr Butterbur said in alarm.

‘No harm done,’ Merry said faintly, though his head was ringing and he saw distinct stars in the air before him.

‘Come, sit down now,’ Mr Butterbur said worriedly, assisting Merry back to his seat. ‘I’ll bring you some dinner, best that’s in the kitchen, on the house, of course.’

‘Very kind,’ Pippin said promptly, and elbowed Frodo. ‘Sit down, cousin,’ he said. ‘I’m sure a bit of food will put some cheer into you.’

Frodo sat down resignedly. He knew there was no leaving with an offer of free food before them, and besides, he’d wanted to slip away unobtrusively. Now it seemed as if the attention of all in the room was upon them. Had he seen an avaricious gleam in more than one set of eyes as Merry’s head hit the table?

‘There you are, Mr Frodo,’ Sam said, relieved. ‘When I didn’t find you in our room or the stable or taking the air outside, I began to wonder, like the ninny-hammer I am. What was I thinking? Naught ill could come to pass now that the Troubles are over.’

Just then a barmaid came with a wet cloth, which she proceeded to press against the back of Merry’s head. ‘Is that better, Mr Brandybuck?’ she asked worriedly.

‘Fine,’ Merry muttered, pushing her hand away. ‘Really, please don’t fuss.’

‘Why Merry!’ a cheerful voice said, ‘Don’t tell me you’re in your cups already, and falling into tables!’

‘Berilac, what are you doing here?’ Merry said.

‘Ilberic told me you were off to Bree, and I thought I’d help you drink up the beer before you did yourself some harm,’ Berilac laughed. ‘Hullo, Frodo!’

‘What would you know about anything?’ Frodo said rudely. ‘You’re only an OC after all.’

‘OC? What’s that?’ Berilac said, mystified.

‘Frodo’s on about something, I can’t quite make out what it is,’ Pippin said, then his face lit up as Barliman came up with a well-loaded tray.

‘There you are, little sirs,’ he said. ‘Eat up, and plenty more where this come from.’

‘You can ask them what an OC is, if they’ll even talk to you, which I doubt,’ Frodo said bitterly, gesturing to the tables of Big Folk. When they saw him pointing to them, they immediately left off watching the Shirefolk and pretended to busy themselves in talk. Soon genuine talk had arisen again, and the room rang with laughter.

‘All right,’ Berilac said unexpectedly. ‘I shall!’ He got up from the hobbits’ table and sauntered over to one of the large tables, climbing onto a stool.

‘Hullo, you’re a cute little fellow,’ one of the Big Folk hailed him. ‘What’s your name?’

Something unpleasant glittered in the eyes of those around the table, and Berilac, though he didn’t know why, felt compelled to give a name not his own. ‘Hornblower Bracegirdle,’ he said, seizing on the first name that came to mind.

‘Ah,’ one said in dismissal. ‘An OC.’ She turned away to talk to her tablemate, obviously thinking him beneath her attention.

‘What’s an OC?’ Berilac asked the one who thought him a cute little fellow.

‘Ah,’ she sighed, a smile of remembered pleasure touching her lips. ‘Someone who’s tall, dark and handsome, has muscles but isn’t muscle-bound...’

‘Does everything right,’ another put in.

‘Saves the Fellowship in the nick of time,’ a third added.

‘...and does everything you want him to do,’ a fourth said, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. A snicker ran around the table.

‘Not all OCs are Marty-Stus, you know,’ one of them said.

‘Marty-Stu?’ Berilac said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know him.’

‘Mary Sue’s little brother,’ one of them laughed.

‘Big brother, you mean,’ she was contradicted, and to Berilac’s mystification, a great laugh resulted. He didn’t even want to ask who Mary Sue was.

‘Well, it was nice chatting with you ladies,’ he said politely.

‘Nice to meet you, Hornblower,’ the one who thought him a cute little fellow returned. He slid from the stool, bowed, and returned to his cousins’ table, scratching his head.

‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ he said to Frodo, ‘with this OC business. I asked them, and I don’t think I’m an OC at all, from what they said.’

‘Hah!’ was all Frodo said, and Berilac peered at him more closely.

‘Frodo?’ he said slowly. ‘You don’t look all that well to me.’

‘They’re at it again!’ Frodo cried wildly. ‘Leave me alone!’ he shouted.

‘I think he’s delirious,’ Berilac said worriedly to Merry. ‘Didn’t you say he was on about something?’

‘No, I said that,’ Pippin replied through a mouthful of food. Samwise had immediately put down his fork at Berilac’s words, and reached his hand towards Frodo to check for fever. Frodo batted the hand away.

‘Mr Frodo, I think you ought to lie down,’ Sam said firmly, his eyes meeting Merry’s. Merry nodded. He didn't think there was all that much wrong with Frodo, he'd probably imbibed a bit too much of the beer that those Big People had been buying him earlier.

‘Yes,’ Merry said. ‘Come, cousin, Sam and I will take you up to the room.’

‘No!’ Frodo shouted. ‘No! They’re at it again! Tell them to stop! Stop it!’

‘You need any help?’ Pippin asked, cutting another slice from the roast.

‘No, we’ll be fine,’ Merry said. ‘Save something for us, will you?’

‘Plenty more where this come from,’ Pippin said, quoting Barliman. Frodo wasn’t delirious, of course he wasn’t; his face wasn’t flushed, he didn’t look feverish to Pippin. More likely he’d quaffed a bit too much of Barliman’s fine beer. Pippin was confident he’d be fine after he slept it off. He’d seen Frodo in his cups once before, and naught had come of it, though he’d been quite startled at the time to see a drunken Frodo, one midnight at Bag End when Pippin had come unexpectedly to visit. A drunkard at Bag End, whatever would Bilbo have said had he seen Frodo attempting yet another way of leaving the memory of the Ring behind?

‘Come on, Fro, you can sleep it off,’ Merry said soothingly as he and Sam each took an arm. Frodo gave in suddenly. At least in the room he would be out of sight of those watching eyes...

‘I’ll sit with him, Mr Merry,’ Sam said. ‘You go on down to supper once we get him settled.’

‘I’ll bring you a plate up, Sam,’ Pippin said.

‘Yes, if you don’t eat all the food up yourself,’ Berilac laughed.

‘Plenty more where that come from,’ Mr Barliman reiterated, plonking down another platter.

Chapter 3. Fevers and Frets

In fact, it was Berilac who brought up the tray. ‘Pippin’s still eating,’ he said to Sam. ‘As a matter of fact, he’s challenged Merry to a contest to see who can eat the most bangers, and they look to be eating themselves into a stupor before the night is out. The Big Folk are cheering them on.’

He looked to the figure in the bed. ‘How’s Frodo?’ he asked, showing some of the anxiety he’d concealed in the common room. Frodo was never rude, and yet, the way he’d spoken to Berilac earlier...

He must have been thinking aloud, because Sam said, ‘He’s been a regular Sandyman; he’s not himself, Mr Berilac, and that’s a fact.’ Berilac stared. He hadn’t seen much of Sam, true, but he’d never heard the gardener speak a word of reproach against his master.

Samwise, interpreting the glance correctly, flushed. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Berilac, sir,’ he said humbly. ‘There was no call for me to say such a thing.’

‘You’re OOC,’ Frodo said softly from the bed, and Sam started.

‘You’re awake, Mr Frodo! Can I get you somewhat?’ He started to put together a tempting plateful from the contents of the tray, but when he turned to offer it to Frodo, the latter pushed it away.

‘No, thank you, Sam,’ he said. ‘I’m quite fed up as it is.’

‘You haven’t eaten nothing yet!’ Sam protested. ‘A few beers with the Big Folk, that doesn’t count...’

Frodo raised a hand to his aching head. ‘I seem to recall being unconscionably rude to you, cousin,’ he said to Berilac. ‘Terribly OOC, I’m afraid. I apologise.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Berilac said, absently taking a buttered piece of bread from the plate Samwise had prepared, and topping it with a slice of meat and a few fried onions. ‘You’re not yourself.’

Frodo smiled faintly. ‘You seem to have learned the meaning of OOC quite well,’ he said. ‘Have you been chatting up the Big Folk?’

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been avoiding them,’ Berilac said. ‘I had myself a wonderful nuncheon, and my pocketbook is still as heavy as ever, thanks to Merry’s rap on the head... but there’s something about those folk,’ he concluded.

‘I know what you mean,’ Frodo said, closing his eyes with a sigh. ‘If you heard them talk for any length of time, or saw the look in their eyes...’ His voice trailed off, and he slept again.

‘He doesn’t look at all well,’ Berilac said sotto voce to Sam. The gardener nodded, then tentatively rested a hand against Frodo’s brow. He sat up with a jerk.

‘He might not have been fevered before, but he is now,’ Sam said. He rose, went over to the pitcher and bowl on the dresser, and poured out some water. Taking a clean handkerchief from his pocket, he wetted it and returned to the bedside to lay the cloth on Frodo’s forehead.

Hearing a noise at the windows, he turned, but saw nothing. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

‘Some of the Big Folk,’ Berilac said. ‘You’d think they’d never seen hobbits before. They were peering in at the windows!’

‘We’ll soon put a stop to that!’ Sam said staunchly. He got up again to shutter the windows, and Berilac jumped to help.

They sat talking quietly together while Sam renewed the compresses at regular intervals. Berilac, gentlehobbit that he was, put Sam at his ease by questioning him about his replanting efforts around the Shire, and asking advice about growing marrows. Sam glowed under Berilac’s patient, sober attention, and when Merry and Pippin returned to the room (rolled in, stuffed to the gills as it were) the usually retiring gardener was holding forth upon potatoes in confident tones.

‘Has he slept it off yet?’ Pippin asked brightly. He’d washed down the sausages with a fair amount of Barliman’s good beer, and he was feeling quite cheery, despite certain annoyances that had threatened to interrupt the free meal.

‘No, as a matter of fact, he’s feverish,’ Berilac informed him.

‘What?’ Merry said, starting forward, his own good feelings evaporating with the news. ‘I thought he’d just had a bit too much...’

‘Should we call a healer, do you think?’ Pippin said. He didn’t care for healers for himself, mind, Took that he was, but Frodo was another matter. He pulled a chair close to the bed and determined to stick to his eldest cousin like glue.

‘Healer’d just say to let the fever run its course,’ Merry said practically, settling into his own chair. He put his feet up on the bed and slouched into a more comfortable position.

‘There’s plenty of beds,’ Samwise said meaningfully. The cousins had taken the chairs on either side of Frodo, which had the result of forcing Sam from his beloved master’s side. He finished wringing out the handkerchief and crossed to the bed again, reaching past Pippin to lay the refreshed cloth on Frodo’s forehead.

‘Yes, mustn’t let them go to waste,’ Merry murmured, laying his head back on the chair. Soon he was snoring.

‘He does that a lot,’ Berilac said. ‘Does he have something against sleeping in a bed?’

Frodo moaned then, striking out feebly in his dream. ‘Pippin,’ he said. ‘Pip!’

Pippin leaned forward, taking Frodo’s hand. ‘I’m here, Fro,’ he said encouragingly.

‘Got to find him,’ Frodo said. Opening his eyes, he looked desperately into Pippin’s face. ‘Where is he?’

‘I’m right here, Fro,’ Pippin said more urgently, squeezing Frodo’s hand.

‘Got to find him,’ Frodo said. ‘He’ll drown!’ He grew more agitated with every word. ‘That water’s so cold, so icy... where is he? The water’s taken him away... o how shall I ever tell Paladin his only son is gone?’ he wailed.

‘I’m right here, Frodo,’ Pippin said again. He had a vague memory of the incident Frodo was reliving in his fever dream, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how it had all come out.

‘I’m going to get a healer,’ Samwise said decisively, straightening up from the bed.

‘You do that, Samwise,’ Berilac said, taking Frodo’s other hand.

Merry snored on.

Chapter 4. Dogged by Disaster 

Gandalf stalked into the Prancing Pony, glaring about himself from under bushy eyebrows, more white than grey these days. Whether that was due to his promotion to white wizard, or the advancing of the years, or another reason, who could say?

Although he’d blessed Barliman Butterbur’s beer, the clientele certainly had not improved. The tables were filled with gaggles of goggling females, nudging one another and giggling. Giggling! He humphed to himself. He had no use for their sort.

 ‘Look at his boots!’ one hissed. ‘I just love those white patent leather boots!’

 ‘So much so you got yourself a pair,’ another needled, but the other just smiled happily, and Gandalf saw to his shock that she wore a white robe similar to one he’d worn a year or so previously, on the field of Cormallen.

A puppy that had been wandering about the public house, sniffing for scraps, bounded happily to him and stood up on its hind legs, small tail gyrating wildly, to rest a feather-light front paw against his knee. Bright black eyes met deep black wizard eyes, and an involuntary smile touched the gruff face. Somehow he found himself bending to caress a fuzzy ear.

 ‘So you’ve come for your puppy!’ Barliman said, bustling forward, a towel and glass in hand. ‘I was wondering...’

 ‘I don’t recall ever owning a puppy before,’ Gandalf said quizzically.

At a nearby table one of the ridiculously attired females gasped and made as if to swoon. ‘Oh!’ she cried in ecstasy. ‘O... o... he’s so... so very...’

Even the gruff old wizard found himself holding his breath, waiting to see what possible conclusion might result.

 ‘So very what? Spit it out!’ another snapped, rather impatient with the swooner’s thespian attempts.

 ‘So very... Obiwan,’ she managed at last, completing the swoon into the arms of her companions.

A no-nonsense type who’d been turning over a bundle of sticks as she discussed something in low tones with her blanching tablemates put the sticks down on the table with a thump.

 ‘You’ve mixed your fandoms, dearie,’ she said softly, with a sweet smile that raised the hairs on the back of the wizard’s neck. ‘I’d suggest you do some thinking about it, and try again.’

Her tablemates had been relieved by the reprieve, but it was short-lived at best as she resumed her grasp on the sticks, put on a bright smile, and said, ‘Now for the next challenge I’d like you to...’

 ‘What brings you here, Mr. Gandalf?’ the good innkeeper said. ‘How did you know Mr. Underhill... er... Baggins was took ill?’

 ‘Taken ill?’ Gandalf growled. He’d been compelled by some sudden urge to visit the inn, some inexplicable urge, though several of the females at a nearby table were smirking at him in a proprietary way.

 ‘I just love his staff,’ one of them whispered to another. ‘I have one just like it above my fireplace.’

 ‘I’ll just show you to his room,’ Butterbur said hastily, seeing the storm clouds gather on the wizard’s brow.

Gandalf nodded, put on his best and pleasantest grandfatherly look, and followed the innkeeper. The pup, which had been tugging at his robes, was bowled over and ki-yied in alarm. ‘I’m sorry, little fellow,’ Gandalf said, leaning down to pick up the ball of doggy distress and cradle it to his chest. The winsome bit of fluff snuggled into his beard and he found himself stroking the creature as he walked along. It was a taking little being, truly, and he didn’t want to leave it to the tender mercies of those denizens of the common room, not from what he’d seen thus far.

They ran into Samwise in the hallway. ‘Mr. Gandalf!’ he cried. ‘I’m that glad to see you, that I am!’

 ‘What’s happened to your master, Samwise?’ Gandalf said, bending to address the faithful gardener.

 ‘He’s been saying all sort of wild things, sir, and he’s feverish. I was just on my way to fetch a healer.’

 ‘I’ll send Nob for the healer,’ Butterbur said. ‘You get back to your master, Mr. Under... er... Baggins, now.’

 ‘Thanks most kindly, Mr. Butterbur,’ Samwise said. He hurried down the corridor, trotting to match the wizard’s long strides. Looking earnestly up at Gandalf, he said, ‘You’ve arrived in the nick of time, you have, sir! Mr. Frodo thinks there’s some sort of conspiracy afoot, and...’

 ‘Conspiracy, Sam?’ Gandalf said sharply. ‘That sounds serious.’

 ‘That it does, Mr. Gandalf, sir,’ Sam said. ‘And here I thought all our troubles were behind us.’

The white wizard did not answer, for he was thinking furiously. He’d thought they’d dealt with the worst of the evil in Middle Earth, for the nonce. Although... a corner of his mind was toying with the suspicion that not all the business had been taken care of. He ticked off the points in his mind. Sauron... yes, the Ring had gone into the Fire and the Dark Lord had been destroyed, with the Dark Tower and all his works. Saruman...

He stopped abruptly. For the life of him he could not remember if he’d dealt with Saruman or not. He thought he had, but what if he’d just thought about it and hadn’t actually seen the task through? He found this happening more and more these days. Unless he wrote it down in his planner, sometimes he would think he’d finished a task when he’d really only thought about finishing it.

 ‘Planner? What’s that?’ Sam said in confusion, and the wizard realized he had been thinking aloud, another annoying habit that seemed to be cropping up with more regularity these days.

He forced heartiness into his tone. ‘Nothing, nothing, my lad,’ he said kindly. ‘Just talking to myself. It is best, when working out a problem, to discuss it with the wisest person present, you know.’

 ‘O yes, I see, of course,’ Sam said politely, though he didn’t see at all.

Merry sat up abruptly as they entered the room. ‘What...? he said, blinking in confusion, and then his face brightened. ‘Gandalf!’ he cried joyously.

 ‘Gandalf!’ Pippin echoed, running to the wizard to embrace him. ‘Look, Merry, he’s got your pup with him!’

 ‘My pup?’ Merry said, puzzled. ‘What pup?’

 ‘The one you rescued that day you fell in the River,’ Pippin said. ‘Don’t you remember? The Bridge collapsed in the flooding and everyone thought you were dead? Your parents were prostrated with grief... and I was running Buckland... and...’ His voice trailed off in the face of Merry’s incredulous stare.

Merry rose from his chair, thrusting out a hand which landed on Pippin’s forehead with devastating accuracy despite the younger cousin’s attempts to wave it away. ‘Are you sickening with something, Pip?’ he said anxiously. ‘Is Frodo’s fever catching?’

He looked over at the pup, still in Gandalf’s arms, now chewing contentedly on the wizard’s beard. ‘That looks like Frodo’s pup,’ he said slowly.

 ‘Frodo’s pup?’ Pippin said. ‘I never knew Frodo to have a dog! He’s terrified of them!’

 ‘No, the one Bilbo gave him after... but that was before you were born, Pip, so of course you wouldn’t know... but how could it be...?’ It was Pippin’s turn to look worriedly at Merry.

 ‘None of you is making sense,’ Berilac said slowly. He cocked an eye at the wizard. ‘You know, Gandalf, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad to see you. It looks as if you’ve turned up, just as you always do, when trouble’s brewing.’

 ‘Indeed,’ the wizard said dryly. He rescued his beard from the pup and set the ball of fluff upon the floor, where it immediately attacked Sam’s woolly foot with a miniscule growl.

 ‘Here, now!’ Sam said in alarm, picking up the mite in sheer self-defence. The pup wagged a joyful tail and licked his face.