The Dwarvish Flute
by Cúthalion

June 1416

He was going to kiss her. He'd been looking all day and she'd been looking right back and he would get a kiss out of her if it was the last thing he ever did. Though, perhaps it might be a good idea to get her name first. Lasses tended to appreciate it if you took an interest in other things besides those incredible sea-glass eyes, that hair that shimmered like a copper shower over nape and shoulders, those lips plump as cherries and just as red and when she leaned just right, reached a bit with the dipper, he could see a lean, tanned calf beneath the sway of her skirts, tapering down to a fine-boned ankle and the fur on her feet…

He smiled, eyed her steadily as she made her way over, bucket in-hand.

"Thirsty?" she asked him, as she'd done four times today. And as he had all four times, he nodded, broadened his smile and promised himself he would actually speak this time, rather than nod and grin like an idiot. Right up until the time he realized he was already nodding and grinning like an idiot.

He leaned the pitchfork against his shoulder, took the dipper. The water was cold, straight from the well, he knew, and clear and sharp on his tongue. He drank until there was only a mouthful or two left then splashed the rest on his face. It was sweltering today and the air was thick and heavy. He'd pay for his time beneath the sun today with red skin and blistered hands tomorrow. But if he could just get that kiss…

"Like what you see, then?" she asked and he started, realized he'd been blatantly staring. He flushed, dropped his eyes then flicked them back up again, looked boldly into her eyes.

"I do, in fact," he replied and mentally patted himself on the back for keeping his voice steady. "I thought perhaps I might steal a kiss but then you spied me and spoilt my nefarious scheme."

Hmph. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. He braced himself for the possibility of a swift kick to his shins but she only grinned, dipped her head and peered at him through long, burnt-auburn lashes.

"Awfully bold, aren't you, then?"

"I am many things," he answered with his own grin and watched as her eyes sparkled bright with mirth and afternoon sun.She took the dipper from his hand, refilled it then handed it back to him again. Her grin turned sly and coy.

"What sorts of things?" she wanted to know.

"Well," he answered slowly then took a swig from the dipper, planted a foot to the curve of the tines of the pitchfork and leaned in further, murmured conspiratorially, "I don't go about telling all and sundry, you know, because I am quite humble…" He paused, nodded with a not-terribly-sincere smirk. "But the fact is that I am independently wealthy, you know."

"Aye, I can tell," she replied, her sincerity matching his tone-for-tone. "The way you swing that pitchfork just screams money," she told him.

"I'll have to watch that," he whispered then peered about, ostensibly checking for eavesdroppers. "Wouldn't want word of my piles of riches getting about, else I'll have streams of lasses knocking down my door." He leaned yet closer, said, "You should maybe agree to that kiss now, before word gets 'round and then I won't be able to find you in the hordes."

She shot him a stern gaze through the copper red curls falling into her brow.

"And you should maybe learn to handle that fork properly, or you’ll be able to peel your palms like an apple tomorrow." she said, "and folks back home will see at once that you've spent your time in a rather inappropriate way for a gentlehobbit."

Merry felt himself again blush deeply – something that lately didn't happen to him very often, at least not twice within a few minutes. He suppressed a sudden sting of embarrassment and piercing anger; he had no intention of losing this game. It was only a kiss after all.

He put on his finest smile… the legendary Brandybuck-smile that had helped him more than once to weaken the knees and melt the heart of many a lass. It challenged the word to give him all the fun and adventures it had to offer, it was highly infectious and he could normally rely on its irresistible power. Luckily enough it didn't fail to work its spell on her. She smiled back.

And then she suddenly leaned in and he felt her lips slightly touching his skin. He suppressed a shiver of anticipation and the fierce urge to make good use of the situation.

"Do you really think all that matters is your charming grin, Meriadoc Brandybuck?" she whispered. His eyes widened in surprise. "The first time I ever saw you, you pulled at my braids and made my cry. And the last time we met in Brandy Hall, you stitched up the sleeves of my favorite blouse.* Instead of kissing you I should box your ears."

And with these words her teeth gripped and she bit into his earlobe. He opened his mouth to protest, but all he could manage was a shocked gasp. He saw her eyes, a deep, shining green, very close and filled with laughter, and then she turned away, lifted the dipper from the ground and with a swirl of skirts and long curls vanished in the crowd.

He stood stock still; he completely ignored the fact that he probably looked like a complete idiot again.

"I don't believe it", he murmured, unconsciously raising one hand to his throbbing ear. "Estella…?"

*****

The second biggest parlor in Bag End was cozy, warm and silent… a tad too silent for Merry Brandybuck's taste. Since the encounter with the flame-haired beauty two days ago – who had turned out to be a snappish (but still very charming) cousin – he and Frodo had been constantly on the road… to Waymoot, to Needlehole and this warm Midsummer Day even to Michel Delving (where Frodo had picked up two dozen bottles of wine directly from the cellar of Will Whitefoot).

Now Merry sat beside the open window, feeling a soft breeze on his face and longing for a glass of the wine… not that he had much of a chance of getting one. Frodo had carried the bottles downstairs, holding them as lovingly and carefully as finest china, and he had told him that the wine would have to "rest" a few days until it was fit to drink again after the day-long journey in the rattling pony carriage.

"You have lowered the level in the beer cask enough anyway", the master of Bag End added with a humorous glance over the book he was reading. "Perhaps you should change to apple juice this evening."

Merry didn't answer. He lolled in the deep, comfortably stuffed chair, gazing at Frodo, trying to fathom what lay behind that calm, impervious face. Suddenly he wished for Pippin's cheerful, mischievous presence… his cousin always managed to lure Frodo out of his reserve by placing a well-aimed joke or even performing one of his clumsy accidents; they never failed to make Frodo laugh.

He had known Primula's son since he was a toddler, barely able to walk. He knew these features nearly as well as he knew his own… the high clear forehead, the deep eyes under dark, beautifully swung brows, the narrow nose and the full, sensitive mouth… the chin with the small dimple that spoke of a strong, unerring will.

Suddenly he remembered a day in his childhood; Frodo had already been adopted by Bilbo, but he had come to visit Brandy Hall. Merry had spent a long afternoon in the small parlor near Frodo's bedroom, and Frodo had told him stories, turning the pages of a fairy tale book from the library and filling the air with the aromatic scent of his pipe (a gift from Bilbo, and he was enormously proud of it). From one moment to the next Merry had fallen asleep, and when he woke up the scent of pipe weed still lingered in the parlor and the book lay open on the chair, the pages turned upward - but Frodo was nowhere to be found. And then eight-year-old Merry felt a sudden, overwhelming onrush of panic. Frodo was gone, he would never return… some kind of wizardry had made him vanish into thin air, and Merry would never see him again. He sat on his stool, staring at the book, and tears welled up in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. His whole body shivered uncontrollably. Suddenly he felt a warm, firm hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong, Merry?" and it was Frodo's hand, and he turned around and buried his burning face against the chest of the elder hobbit. The afternoon ended with him sitting on Frodo's lap and with Frodo's gentle, laughing voice in his ear: "I may live with Uncle Bilbo now, but I'd never really leave you, you little ninny!"---

"Merry?"

He startled and saw that Frodo had closed his book, looking at him with some curiosity.

"Are you well, lad?"

"Of course I am", Merry said hastily, "I was just thinking of…" no, I can't tell him that story, it's simply ridiculous. But perhaps… "…of a lass I met a few days ago… on the Cotton Farm, you know. She walked around with a bucket and gave me something to drink. She was very pretty and I… well, I stared a little. It turned out that it was Estella."

"Estella? Estella Bolger?" Frodo smiled. "Well, then I understand that you stared. Everybody with eyes in his head does. She has come from Budgeford to visit Dick for a week, and all the lads are in an uproar."

His smile deepened to a grin when he saw Merry's blushing face.

"Did you try your luck?"

"I… well, I… oh, for pity's sake, I only wanted to kiss her!" Merry blushed even deeper, and now the pretty face with the glorious crown of red curls stood very clear in front of his inner eye. "She… she told me she'd prefer to box my ears instead… and she bit my earlobe."

Frodo raised one eyebrow and snorted.

"Clever lass." he gave back. "And don't tell me that you are surprised! You have played more pranks on her over the years than I'm able to count. Frogs behind the collar, stitched-up sleeves…"

"She mentioned that", Merry murmured.

"… salt in her breakfast milk, fresh stinging-nettles under her bed covers…"

"You have forgotten the grass snake in her chamber pot, Yule 1394." Merry remarked, his spirits rising.

"That was you?" Frodo shook his head, shoulders shaking. " I remember that Dick was punished for that!"

"He was indeed", Merry answered dryly. "Two days later he told me that he wished it had been his idea."

Their eyes met, and one moment later their united laughter rang out through the open window.

"Well, it's Midsummer", Frodo said when he had regained his breath, "and there's a dance on the party field. Would you like to look if Estella is there this evening? Most of the lasses from Bywater and Hobbiton certainly are."

"Do you want to dance?" Merry was slightly surprised. Frodo was a quite sociable, well liked gentlehobbit, and in his younger years he had been a regular - and rather skilled - guest on the dance floors in Buckland. Merry smiled secretly. He still looks younger than any hobbit of his age, he thought, looking fondly at his cousin, and perhaps there is a maiden pretty enough to catch his eye. I'd love to see him lose his head…

"Oh…" Frodo turned around, a strange sparkling in his eyes. "By the way, did you bring your dwarvish flute?"

"It happens that I did." Merry frowned. "But – why?"

"Maybe I'd like to play the drum this evening." The sparkling grew more pronounced.

"You haven't done that since…" Merry fell silent, instinctively swallowing the rest of the sentence. But Frodo gave him an open, untroubled smile.

"… since the evening before Bilbo's last birthday in Bag End, I know… the evening you got the flute from Glóin." he replied. "But I think it might be a good idea, to celebrate the good memories. I'm sure Bilbo would be very pleased if he knew it."

"Now… I'll fetch the flute and you should put on a waistcoat. Take the deep blue one; it makes you extremely handsome… and it will make the lasses forget that you're a withered, old bachelor." Merry grinned and left the room before he could get the answer he deserved.

*****

The feast was in full swing when Merry and Frodo arrived on the party field. Merry quickly scanned the crowd and saw the curly heads of many lasses, colored from lightest brown to deepest black, but he didn't discover the fiery head he was searching for. The rich aroma of roast pork mingled with the sweet scent of apple cake and walnut pie, pleasantly tickled his nose, and he didn't pass the enormous beer cask near the illuminated party tree without taking a long cool sip from the dark ale.

Their arrival had been greeted with big cheers and applause, and a few minutes later he found himself on the dance floor. People stepped aside to make way for him and Frodo, and Merry leaned against the banister, curious what his cousin would do.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. Frodo had a short conversation with one of the musicians. He bowed with a smile and received a small drum in both hands. Merry watched him sitting down on the raw wooden planks, and then he started to play. It was a slow rhythm, soft and haunting, and Merry could feel the reaction of people almost immediately. Heads turned around, hands stopped right in the middle of a gesture, and the chaos of voices, stomping feet and clattering plates slowly died down. The sound of the drum grew louder, and now Merry pulled out the flute and began to play the tune.

He closed his eyes, carried away by the stream of notes, and images passed by in his mind, colorful and clear; Bilbo, sitting near the fire Sam had kindled in the back garden, a vivid pattern of light and shadow on his face… Frodo sitting close to him, now and again seeking the gaze of the hobbit he loved like a second father. Merry could read in his eyes: Are you sure, Bilbo? Do you really have to go? And Bilbo's silent reply: Yes, I have to. But I love you nevertheless, my lad. The stomping of feet from the dancing dwarves, moving in a long, swaying row around the flames… and now the stomping had sprung from his memories into the reality of this very moment and made the floor under his feet tremble. He opened his eyes and felt a sudden, intoxicating joy rising from his heart into his fingers, and he played faster, his eyes fixed on Frodo's profile and his long, slender hands still beating the drum.

Suddenly Frodo stopped, got up from the floor and returned the instrument. He gave Merry a short glance and a blazing smile, and then he lifted his arms and started to dance.

Merry felt himself gasp with surprise and delight. The young musician beside him held the drum close to his chest, his brow furrowed in concentration; he continued the rhythm Frodo had begun, and Merry took up the tune of the dwarves once again.

Frodo moved in slow steps to the left and the right, jumping and stomping and whirling around with a billowing shirt and flying, dark curls. To Merry he seemed almost weightless as he saw him turn again and again, his face flushed and his eyes dark, fired by the spirit of the music and of this Midsummer night. Good gracious, he is splendid, Merry suddenly thought, the music humming in his ears, I bet he could have the heart – and more! - of every single lass on this field if he wanted to…

And then his gaze moved away from the dance floor and found a young girl standing directly in front of the platform. It was not Estella; her hair had the color of ripe chestnuts and it fell unbound and unbraided down to her waist. She had a lovely face and big eyes, slightly brighter than her curls. In spite of her prettiness Merry would barely have noticed the girl if not for the fascination and joy radiating from her; it mirrored what he had seen in Frodo's eyes, and suddenly Merry realized that her feet also mirrored his dancing. She was moving unconsciously, her gaze fixed on his cousin, while the dance floor filled with more and more folks joining the master of Bag End.

Suddenly Frodo stopped. For a moment he stood completely still. Merry saw that he was breathing heavily; his shirt was fluttering in the night breeze. Then he made one, two steps towards the edge of the platform and reached out.

Merry gasped for the second time this evening, and his flute gave a shrill squeak. The young girl made a long step and stood in front of Frodo, her shining face rivaling moon and stars at the same time. He saw how Frodo took her hand, and then they danced together. The beating of the drum grew stronger and louder, and Merry played better than he'd ever played before. He was utterly lost in the flow of jubilant music and fluent, harmonious movement in front if his eyes. He was half surprised when his fingers found the last note of the song, high and triumphant. Silence fell on the party field, suddenly broken by a loud cheer, laughter and applause.

Merry blinked; Frodo kissed the hand of the young girl, turned in his direction and gave him a short nod, then he jumped down from the dance floor. Merry had no choice but to follow him; he looked back over his shoulder and saw the girl still standing on the platform, an expression of deep amazement on her face. Without thinking he twinkled and blew her a kiss.

Finally he managed to catch up with his cousin.

"Who was that?"

"Who was what?"

"The girl", Merry said, "the girl you danced with."

"Oh… she's the daughter of Violet Proudfoot, our local seamstress and embroiderer." Frodo smiled absently. "I don't think that you know her."

"You are right, I don't", Merry said. Slowly the enchantment of the dance ebbed away, and now he remembered why he had originally come.

"Have you… have you seen Estella anywhere?" He grinned with some hesitation. " You know, it was exciting to watch you dance – aside from the surprise that you are still able to dance, my dear Frodo – but do you remember that you primarily baited me with a certain, red-curled lass?"

"Listen, my little fledgling", came the silky-smooth response, "listen and learn. Estella Bolger likes strawberry punch, and there is an enormous bowl of strawberry punch on the left side of the party field. You should start your investigations over there… and the old bachelor will retire now. "

Merry tilted his head.

"And you don't feel the need to protect her virtue?"

Frodo laughed.

"Not at all." he said, shaking his head. "I'd rather protect you from being bitten."

He easily avoided the playful hit aimed at his head, and then he was gone. Merry sighed, turned around and made his way toward the table with the bowl. When he arrived there, Estella was nowhere to be seen. Of course, he thought. So much about the advice of an old bachelor. But he still felt like a fledgling somehow, and his heart sank… he turned away and searched his way through the crowd until he had reached the edge of the party field. He left voices and lights behind him and took the way over the market place through the narrow pass leading towards the bending to Bag End.

"Good evening, Merry."

Estella.

He didn't dare to trust his eyes and ears… but there she stood as if she had climbed out from the pages of a fairy tale book, and the full moon darkened the flames of her hair to midnight ebony. He was doing it again… staring at her and gaping like an idiot, but he couldn't help it. She was so beautiful.

"What…"

"I saw you following Frodo, and I lost you in the crowd", she said, "and it took me some time to find out where you'd got to."

"And now you've found me", he replied, a hesitating joy slowly rooting in his heart.

"And now I've found you." He could hear the smile in her voice. I want to kiss you, I've been waiting to kiss you for two days now , he thought, would you mind if I ran my hands through that unbelievable mass of hair, if I let my mouth explore the way down over your chin to that long, slender neck? If I… and then Estella leaned in, laying both hands on his shoulders and sinking against him with her entire body. He stumbled back in utter surprise; his back met the wall of the pass and every clear thought came to naught and left a blissful emptiness.

Her mouth was sweet and spicy like a fresh apple, and he savored everything within reach… the lips, willingly opening to his probing tongue, her soft cheeks, the scent and texture of her hair. He heard himself moan with delight and his hands cupped her head at the base of her skull, stroking her ears and the line of her jaw. He felt her shiver, and her fingers slid down from his shoulders and caressed his back. He could feel the immediate response of his body and his face grew hot - and then she drew back, her breath a fast panting, her eyes glittering silver. This is the second time that I see a girl sparkle like that this evening, he thought, drunken with jubilation, but this time it was me who did it. It was me.

"This…" She gasped for air. "… this is for your flute playing, Meriadoc Brandybuck. It was marvelous."

"Thank you." He managed a bow and noticed that his hands were still shaking… but her next words brought him back to the ground immediately.

"I must go home, my brother is waiting", she said. "And tomorrow I'll return to Budgeford." She certainly couldn't see very much of his face in the darkness, but he knew that she was able to feel his deep disappointment. "I'm sorry." Her voice was soft and regretful. "I guess you have hoped for… more."

"N… no." He shook his head, heroically fighting down the urge to protest. "I'm… I'm very grateful for what I've already got."

Suddenly her fingers closed around his hand.

"Would you visit me in Budgeford some time?" she asked. "I would be very glad to see you there."

"Of course… of course I would!" he assured her, this time with honest enthusiasm. "Nothing could keep me away!"

"Bring your flute." The promise in her voice made his heart beat faster. "Good night, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”

He felt the butterfly-soft touch of her lips on his cheek.

"Good night, Estella."

She vanished into the darkness as fast as she had come, and for a short moment he wasn't sure if their encounter hadn't perhaps been a sweet, arousing dream.

But then he pulled the dwarvish flute out of his pocket once more… and the simple, tender tune he was playing filled the night air like birdsong and laughter and a last lullaby for this wonderful, surprising Midsummer Evening as he slowly returned up the Hill to Bag End.

FIN
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The story how Estella's sleeves got stitched together is told in Breath of Winter, also here on SoA.

For this is part of a LJ-challenge, initiated by the skilled Aratlithiel back in 2006, I would like to mention that the first 11 paragraphs were written by her, giving the participants the chance to continue as they pleased. And it was a pleasure indeed. *smiles*.