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

She does not yet know what she will make as she sits down beside the bed that holds her youngest child, but I am already here in her heart. The lad still coughs deep, rattling coughs but not as often now and he needs to rest less between them. Because of that, he has grown fussy and today his mother brought in the needles and yarn.

He knows how to knit, although at this juncture ‘tis only knit stitches and pearl stitches, and those only straight back and forth. He has made a scarf for Merry and bands that his Ma and sisters use to hold their hair away from their faces. He also made one the hair bands for his Auntie who taught him to knit. There he sits in his bed, blankets pulled up over his legs and around his waist, well supported by a few pillows at his back while his hands and mind are busy with the needles and yarn the colour of a summer sky.

The yarn she has chosen for herself is pink, as well it should be for what she will be making. She has started later than her lad, having needed to help him with casting on the stitches for the scarf he said he wishes to make for his Da. How to cast on seems to be easily forgotten by the lad. His mother deftly casts some stitches on her needle and begins to knit. She watches her child much more closely than she watches her hands, not really noticing as she increases here, casts on a couple of more stitches there, or decreases the number of stitches.

“What are you making, Ma?” the lad has stopped his own knitting and has been watching her for a few moments.

She looks carefully at what is in her hands for the first time. “I’m not sure I know what it is, Pippin.” She holds me up, well the beginning of me, turning me this way and that to see if I make more sense from different angles.

“Looks too small for a sweater, Ma. Too small for any of us that is.” The lad is looking at me as intently as his mother, turning his head different ways as she turns me about. “And it looks too big for a dolly sweater.”

She smiles. She has her suspicions. After all, I won’t be the first stuffed toy she has made. Yet she is mystified. “How have I got this far and have no idea what I’m making?” she wonders to herself as a small shiver goes down her back. She shakes off her strange feeling.

“My! Look at the time, Pippin. You must be starving, my dear little lad. Shall I fetch us some elevenses?”

“Yes Ma,” Pippin answers through a yawn. “I’m goin’ to sit back while you’re gone,” he says as he wiggles comfortably into the pillows behind him. His eyes are already closing.

She is a good mother to all her children, a good wife as well, so she is not able to sit in the low, armless sewing chair beside the sickbed all day. It isn’t until past afternoon tea of the next day that she stops with a surprised gasp.

Her son looks up from his own work with his bright smile upon his face. But the smile fades. “Wee?” he asks, confusion showing on his face and in his tone.

My back and my tummy have been joined together, and as my head is included, it is fairly easy to tell my species. It wasn’t comfortable, being sewn together, but I am very new and not yet as real as I will be, so it didn’t hurt as much as it might have otherwise. That, however, is not what has the lad troubled. I look more a sow than a piglet.

“Yes . . . yes indeed,” she mutters as she turns me all about again. “Yes, Pippin a wee piglet, or she will be when she is fulled*.”

Pippin looked blank for a moment then nodded excitedly, which caused him to moan and hold his head. “That made me dizzy,” he whimpered, but he looked up at his mother with a smile despite his woozy head. “That is shrinking things you want to shrink, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Very good Pippin! I’m surprised you remember that word as it isn’t one that gets used often.” His mother smiles affectionately at him while gently patting his cheek. “Shrinking and making the fabric smoother too. She will be a wee smooth, slightly fuzzy piggy after she is fulled.”

They both look at my over sized, snout-less, earless, faceless self. I would have nodded if I could, or said something, but I’m not quite able to do those things yet, but she whose hands are forming me slowly nods her head.

I was gently stuffed with soft lambs wool, which will shrink a little within me as I shrink a great deal during my fulling. Not stuffed full, mind you, lest I be hard as a stone when I’m my proper size. Stuffed a bit more than half-full. Then she knitted my snout and my ears; stitched them all into their proper places, placed me in the bag she uses to wash her dainties in, and carried me off for my fulling.

The water is hot as hot can be with a small touch of pleasant smelling soap added to it. Not that the pleasant smell in the least bit makes up for the burning hot water. Some other things are dumped into the hot water with me to bump against me and cause the fulling to happen faster, then we are all beat about the inside of the tub with a large paddle!

I barely hear her say it above the sloshing of the hot water and the fact that I’m in a bag.

“I’m being as gentle as I can and still have you shrink to a proper piglet.”

I get pulled from the water, lying on the broad flat blade of the paddle, several times until I have finally shrunk to my perfect baby porcine shape and size, then she blots me dry as best she can before setting me beside the hearth in the kitchen to dry thoroughly.

It is there, in the kitchen, in the quiet of the night, that her skillful fingers give me my eyes, nostrils and smile. They are embroidered, which is a fancy form of sewing. The needle hurts, but it is worth it to have my face.

“There,” she says to me at last. “You are finished, wee lass. Wherever did you come from? I sat down thinking I would make a sweater for Tolley’s new baby daughter, and instead I make a wee piglet.”

She smiles her mother’s smile. She gives me a kiss on my snout, breathing her breath upon me . . . and into me, not knowing the gift she has given to me.

As she hugs me to her cheek, we leave the kitchen to go to her dear son’s room. He lies in his bed, cheeks faintly rose coloured, hair bed-tousled. His mother tucks me under his left arm that lies atop the blankets as though waiting for something to cuddle.

I snuggle up to nuzzle my lad’s chin, and as I fall asleep I promise her, “I will, Mama. I will.”

The first day of my new life begins as my lad wakens to find me tickling his ear.

“The piggy! You’re the wee piggy Ma was knitting. And here you are in bed with me. Are you my piggy?”

“All right,” he says nodding his head and planting a kiss on my snout. “But I am Ma and Da’s hobbit-lad first, then I can be your hobbit-lad.”

“First try, my young hobbit!” I grunt approvingly. “Now, we need to attend our morning business then get our breakfast before we both starve.”

It is a very short time before he is running into the kitchen with me perched upon his shoulder, one wee pink hoof tucked under his braces.

*What is often called felting should be called fulling according to Wikipedia.
“Knitted woolen garments which shrink in a hot machine wash can be said to have felted, but it is actually "fulled". Felting differs from fulling in the sense that fulling is done to fabric that is constructed before continuing with the felting process as noted in the above paragraph. [felting is done with unwoven, un-knitted fiber] Modern fulling is an example of how the fibers bond together when combined with the movement of the washing machine, the heat of the water, and the addition of soap. Therefore, woolen clothes should only be hand-washed or machine-washed in cold water.”

I know Eglantine would not have had a washing machine, but felting and fulling are both very old techniques for making the type of fabric we know as “felt”.

Hobbits know about felting: “Presently Sam appeared, trotting quickly and breathing hard; his heavy pack was hoisted high on his shoulders, and he had put on his head a tall shapeless felt bag, which he called a hat.” FOTR: “Three Is Company”

A wee bit of fluff. Because Jana is a slavedriver ;-)
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The snow was drifting peacefully down upon the rowdy children. Some were building a huge snowhobbit while others were having a snowball war. It was all such bliss. A really decent snowfall only happened about once or twice a winter in the whole of the Shire, at least outside of the North Farthing, and even there it was only the parts furthest north that had regular snowfalls.

That this particular snowfall should happen to fall on Buckland and should happen to fall just after Yule was nothing short of a marvel. Just as the adults were beginning to tire of looking after energetic young ones, the blessed white fluff arrived to give a reason to send them all outside to play. Although it must be said that many of the adults were outside as well, even several of the older ones, after all, it was fun and it built up a wondrous appetite.

Merry, at the ripe old age of thirty one, still became a bit giddy at the idea of snow that was deep enough to romp in. He was old enough, however, to be willing to leave off being in the snowball war to help the littler lads and lasses with their giant snowhobbit. It was thanks to Merry’s help, and that of a few other of the older lads as well as two adults, that the snow hobbit ended up standing perilously close to four and a half feet tall. Several large swaths of green grass, already becoming re-dusted with snow, showed where they had rolled the huge snowballs for the giant’s three sections. The head was lifted into place by two of the Hall’s stonemasons; Marin Stoner set it in place whilst standing on his brother Nolo Stoner’s back.

Now, Merry stood looking away from the snowhobbit; away from the snowball war. He and his older cousin Frodo were looking toward what, in the warmer months, was one of Brandyhall’s beautiful gardens but now was several beds of dead looking sticks with benches positioned here and there amongst them. On one of the benches, all alone, sat their younger cousin Pippin. He looked to be sad as well as alone for he was hunched over and his head was down. The older cousins gave each other a nod then quietly walked toward the lad.

They knew, even though many believed otherwise, that Pippin could sit still for long periods of time if he was downhearted or something was holding his interest. On occasion, he did it just to prove he could. It was easy to tell that he had been sitting on the bench for a lengthy time; his head and back were white with snow and there was at least a half-inch layer upon the bench around his bum. As they neared him, they could hear him talking to himself.

“There! Another whole one. ‘Tis one of the fancier ones. Drat! You were too close again, Pippin.”

“Too close for what?” Frodo asked, making the youngster jump with surprise and sending a cascade of snow down off of his head and back.

He gasped sharply. “Don’t do that!” He took a deep breath, holding his hand to his chest and looking very much like an old auntie about to swoon.

“Sorry Pip and too close for what?” Frodo smiled at the lad and ruffled his hair, sending more snow flying. “You nearly blended in with the scenery, Peregrin you’re so covered with snow. You ought to have a hat.”

“I do,” he said sheepishly, pulling the snow encrusted garment off the bench beside himself and shaking it free of the white fluff. “I was too close and melted it. Melted the snowflake with my breath that is.”

“Nothing to be saying ‘drat’ about on a day like today,” Merry chuckled. “There are plenty more of them floating around. I hardly think your melting one will make a great deal of difference, Pippin.”

“Yes, yes. But I was trying to look at that one. They land on my scarf and I look at them. I was using my mittens, but my hands are too warm and they melted too quickly.” He looked at his mittened hands to see they too were crusty with snow. “Well, they were too warm before.” Pippin shrugged his shoulders.

“You must be getting cold!” Frodo exclaimed. “No,” he added looking more closely at the hair he had ruffled moments ago. “You are frozen. We need to get you inside.”

“No! No, I can’t go in yet. I . . . I need to look at some more of them. I’m not even shivering, Frodo.”

Merry was shaking his head. “No. Sorry Pip, but you are at least trembling, your nose and cheeks are bright red, and your jaws are clenched so tightly that I’ll be surprised if you will be able to fully open your mouth for a week.”

“But . . . but, they’re beautiful! Have you ever really looked at them Merry? Frodo? There are different types and sizes. Some very plain ones and some very, very fancy ones that look like those circular doilies that hobbitesses put on tables and such.”

“Really?” Merry asked, moving forward to look more closely at the white specks on his cousin’s scarf.

“You’ve never looked, Merry?” Frodo’s surprise showed in his voice. Merry usually wanted to know everything.

If his cheeks hadn’t been so cold, Merry would have been blushing. “No. Whenever it fell I was always too busy playing in the snow to really look at it.”

“It really is beautiful, Merry,” Pippin enthused. “When it is sunny after it has snowed, the sun shines on it and some of the flakes are like wee tiny round mirrors. You have noticed that, haven’t you, Merry? It looks like someone scattered diamonds on the snow. And today I was making more of a s-study than I h-have before of the different kinds of f-flakes.”

Frodo narrowed his eyes and scowled at Pippin. “You got me distracted you imp. Into the Hall with you this instant! You’re teeth are chattering.” He pulled the lad up by his arm. “We’ll all go in. I’m more than ready for some tea and biscuits. How about you lads?”

“It’s a s-shame you c-came over so late, M-Merry,” Pippin chattered away through his chattering teeth as they trudged through the snow toward one of the side doors into Brandy Hall. “I c-could have s-shown you so m-much! T-there are at least f-four different t-types of f-flakes that I n-noticed. And Merry?”

“Of the t-two hundred an-and twelve I l-looked at, I would s-swear n-none of them were e-exactly alike.”

That was a lot to consider as they walked in silence through the dying light of a snow dusted winter’s evening toward the warmth and sustenance of the Hall.

“Pip is a toddler and discovers the use of scissors while being at bag End, using them to cut off his foot hair.”

He’s older than a toddler, I think, because he is speaking rather well, but still too young to be trusted with scissors. :-)

Pippin looked at the shiny metal tool laying on the small table next to his Cousin Bilbo’s favorite chair. Pippin had seen Bilbo, and so many others, use those things to make big things smaller. It seemed such a wondrous thing; almost a magical thing.

In fact, his mother had often said he wasn’t to even think of touching scissors let alone actually touch them.

His cousins, Bilbo, Frodo and Merry, would have been amazed at how slowly the little lad snuck up upon those innocent scissors, until the very tip of his first finger touched them like a baby’s sigh.

‘It doesnant feel bad,’ the child thought as the finger once more inched closer to the forbidden object.

The little finger lingered on one of the shiny round circles that were one end of the scissors.

“Where your fumb and finner go,” he whispered. “The circles is - are - where your fumb and finner go when you make the skizzers go ‘Snip! Snip!’.”

Pippin traced round and round the two circles with the tip of his first finger and the side of his thumb. It really wasn’t his fault when his finger dropped down into one of the circles. Nor when his thumb dropped into the other circle.

“Oops! They sipped and fell in the circles!” he said. “They dinn’t get hurt, so it’s all right.”

He almost dropped them when he pulled most of their length past the edge, but managed to hook them with his thumb that had fallen into one of the circles, and suddenly he was holding the scissors.

He stared at them, dangling from his tiny thumb and finger. They weren’t a tight pair of scissors and opened easily as he pulled his thumb and forefinger apart.

Slich! Snip! Slich! Snip! What wonderful noises they made! Pippin stood there a while just opening and closing the scissors.

There was a small desk in one corner and he could barely see that there was a stack of paper on it. Waving the scissors about as he walked he went over to the desk. He had to tip-toe to see over the edge, but his left hand had no trouble reaching the papers. He grabbed a few and pulled them off, while a few more fell down on their own. Pippin looked at the pages in his hand and the pages on the floor. There wasn’t any writing on them so he wouldn’t get into any trouble . . .

. . . except for the trouble he would be in for having the scissors to begin with, but he had already forgotten about that.

Carefully he put the paper between the long pieces of the scissors as he had seen all the grown ups and older children, like Merry and Sam, do. But the paper seemed to twist and get caught sideways in the long parts and it got folded instead of cut.

That wouldn’t do! He wanted to cut it; to make the big piece small like everyone else could do.

He held onto the paper with his left hand. Shakily at first, then with more confidence, Pippin made a cut into the paper.

“I did it!” he nearly shouted, catching himself after he said “I” and whispering the rest.

Soon, all the paper he had pulled off the desk was in little pieces on the sitting room carpet.

Pippin looked at it all. That was it? That was all there was? He frowned. He had just begun to get good at this cutting business. He looked around.

He spotted the crisp linen cloth that was laid over the arm of the sofa. He looked at the scissors.

He got up and walked over to the arm of the sofa. He held the cloth with his left hand, opened the long things on the scissors . . . Blades! He suddenly remembered hearing his Ma call them the blades. He eased the cloth in between the blades and . . .

“It feels diffent than the paper.” he muttered to himself as he opened the scissors, repositioned them, then made another cut. “Sounds diffent too.”

Pippin looked at them lying on the floor. Beside his feet that were on the floor. Beside his furry feet that were on the floor.

“I wonner if these skizzers will cut foot hair? I know skizzers will cut head hair.”

He thought about it for a few moments then plopped down on the floor, pulled his left foot toward himself and opened the scissors.

“Oh!” Pippin said, and soon there was a pile of foot hair on the floor and his left foot sported only a few tufts here and there. It had felt oddly good, the cool touch of the blades of the scissors against the skin of his foot; a place where skin was hardly ever touched by anything. Then, there was the crunchy noise as the blades cut the course hair. It had been an immensely satisfying experience, one Pippin wanted to have last awhile longer.

It was not as easy to cut the hair off of his right foot, the angles just seemed all wrong with the foot being on the same side as the hand with the scissors, but soon his right foot looked the match of his left.

In the study, Bilbo jumped in surprise, causing him to leave a long line trailing off the “t” he had been crossing. Frodo and Merry jumped. They jarred the little table with the board for chess and draughts inlaid in its top so hard it caused their draughtsmen to slide off their places.

“I thought he was napping!” Bilbo exclaimed as they all ran out of the study and toward the sitting room.

A red-faced, wailing child stood in the center of a disaster with a pair of scissors dangling from his small right hand. The floor around him was covered with assorted sized pieces of . . . well, a lot of whatever it was.

“Peregrin, lad!” Bilbo cried out as he rushed through the debris on the floor. His first thought had been that the child had cut himself, more than the matter of playing with the forbidden scissors. “There, there now my little lad,” he cooed as he knelt and drew Pippin into a comforting hug. “There, there now. Have you cut yourself, Pippin? Are you hurt?”

The little head against his shoulder shook to indicate “no” while the child kept saying, “my foots, my foots” over and over through his crying.

“And the linens off the arms of the sofa too,” added Merry, who then snorted with laughter. “Look at his foot!” He guffawed, pointing at Pippin’s left foot; it being on the side Merry was standing on and the only one of the pair he could see. He laughed even harder.

“Noooo!” Pippin wailed. “Don’ look at my ugly, nassy foots!” He tried to hide his feet, but that is hard to do when one is standing on one’s feet. The lad covered the one nearest Merry, his left one, with the other foot, his right one.

“Shush, Merry!” Frodo said sharply, though of course Pippin had already heard his favorite cousin’s words.

Pippin howled even louder into poor Bilbo’s right ear. “Meerrryyy! No, Merry! Don’ look, Merry. Don’ laugh at my ugly, nassy footses!”

Frodo grabbed Merry around the waist and dragged him out of the sitting room while Bilbo sought to calm the hysterical wee lad.

When the child was sniffling instead of sobbing, Bilbo said, as he slowly got up from kneeling, “Come over here, Pippin, and sit on my lap.”

Bilbo sat in the old soft wingback chair then helped Pippin clamber up onto his lap. He wrapped his arm around the lad and gave him a gentle squeeze.

“I see. And why didn’t you come and tell me that your nap thought it was over?”

The child shrugged and looked down at his lap. “You would say it was wrong and to go back to my room,” he whispered.

“Yes, I would have. Was that the only reason you didn’t come to the study?”

The golden-red brown curls swished a bit on his bowed head as Pippin slowly shook his head. “Wanted to look at the skizzers,” he said in a voice so soft even Bilbo’s hobbit ears barely heard him.

Another slow nod, accompanied by a small sniff. Bilbo saw the small dark spot from a tear form where it fell on the lad’s breeches leg.

Intermixed with sniffing and tears the story came out. “I came in and looked at the skizzers. Then I touched them and then my fumb and finner went into the circles and . . .”

“I put my fumb and finner into the circles and . . . and . . . I picked up the skizzers.”

“I moved my fumb and finner and made the skizzers move. They’re called blades, Bilbo.” Pippin suddenly smiled as he shared this bit of, what he felt was, grown up knowledge.

The smile vanished. “They made a nice sound when they moved, but . . . I . . . eh, wanted to see if I could make something big get little, and I saw the paper and I could reach it, and it din’t have no - any - thing on it so it wasn’t ‘portent, so I made it little.”

It had all come out in a rush and Pippin needed to take quite a big breath when he finished.

“It was important,” Bilbo said softly but firmly. “It is, eh, it was very expensive paper that I had bought for something special I am planning to write.”

Pippin paled and the tears pooled in his eyes before running down his already wet cheeks. “I’m sorry, Cousin Bilbo. I’m looked and . . . I’m sorry I made your ‘spensive paper all little, Cousin Bilbo.”

“I’m quite certain you are, Pippin,” the old hobbit said, patting the lad’s back and finally handing him a handkerchief. “But, I don’t think that is the only thing I see in pieces on the floor, is it, Peregrin?”

“I made the cloth things little too,” he whispered, then he looked up quickly. “I wanted to know if it felt diffent and sounded diffent than when the skizzers made paper little. Ma uses skizzers on cloth and . . . I wanted to . . . It sounds diffent, Cousin Bilbo an-and it feels diffent.”

Again he was breathless with the excitement of his discoveries, although his eyes showed that he knew he had been naughty. Bilbo nearly chuckled aloud as he thought, ‘And they say cats are curious!’ To Pippin he said, “Yes, it does feel and sound different to cut paper than cloth.”

Bilbo sighed as he looked at Peregrin’s feet. “And I’m sure that felt and sounded different too, didn’t it?”

Pippin threw his arms around Bilbo’s neck and began to sob into his collar. “Ugly!” he heard the lad saying. “Ugly and nassy! An-an’ Merry laughed an’ Vinca will laugh an’ Nel will laugh an-an’ Sancho will laugh an . . . an . . . everyone will laugh at me.”

The last came out as a plaintive, desperate wail, and for a long time the old hobbit did nothing but cuddle the lad and rock him gently.

“Yes, I’m afraid to say that other children will laugh at your feet until your foot hair grows back, but that is the good part, my lad, it will grow back.”

Pippin turned his head so he could speak more easily. “Like when I get my head-hair cut?”

Bilbo looked stern, but he hoped not too frightfully so. “You know you were very naughty this afternoon, don’t you Pippin?”

“You not only touched the scissors, which you knew you are not allowed to do, but you destroyed several sheets of expensive paper and the linen protectors from my sofa. I know you know better than to ruin other people’s things.”

“I should give you a rather hefty punishment, however . . .” Bilbo paused as he closed his left hand over one of Pippin’s little bald feet. He gave the cold foot a tender squeeze as he continued. “I think you gave yourself an excellent punishment. One that will last a few weeks, I dare say, so I don’t see any need to add to your discomfort.”

Bilbo moved his hand to hold Pippin’s other foot for a few moments and sighed. “Your feet are cold.”

“Frodo!” Bilbo called, though not too loudly as he knew Frodo and Merry were just out in the tunnel. Both lads came into the room.

“Sorry I laughed at your feet, Pip.” Merry said, his sincerity showing in his voice.

“Frodo,” Bilbo said, “will you go to Number Three and ask Mrs. Gamgee if she can come up here. I want to see if she can make some . . . ah . . .” He nearly said booties but caught himself. He didn’t want the poor upset lad thinking he was making an infant of him. “Slippers to keep Peregrin’s feet warm.”

“Yes, Bilbo,” Frodo replied as he tugged at Merry’s arm. “Come along, Merry.”

“If it’s all right with you, Frodo, I’d like to stay here,” Merry said, then he turned to Pippin. “Shall we go play a game of draughts, Pip? Get your mind off things a bit? Mrs. Gamgee can measure your feet while we’re playing.”

The younger lad looked up at his cousin. “You’re not going to laugh when she comes, are you Merry? When I have to get slippers?”

“No, Pip, I won’t laugh. I promise you I won’t laugh about your feet again.” Merry paused, then a grin spread across his features. “Not to say I won’t laugh at you for other reasons . . .”

But then both lads laughed out loud. Merry held out his hand, Pippin took it, and they went off together to the little table with the inlaid game board to set up their game of draughts.

My entry into the shire_kitchen 2008 recipe challenge. The theme this year was "In a Pinch".

Pippin sighed as he leaned against the door frame of the doorway of the bedroom in the small home he and his older
cousin shared in Minas Tirith. He was looking at Merry, who sat propped up in his bed.

“You are not that old.” he said firmly. “You just want to act old today.”

“I’m nearly one hundred and four years old, Peregrin Took,” Merry replied just as firmly, although there was a touch of a wheeze in his voice. “I’m old.”

“I refuse to see ninety-six as old.” Pippin retorted. “And in your case, I refuse to see one hundred and three . . .”

“. . . and three,” Pippin replied with force. “I refuse to see it as old. You’re a hobbit. You’re a Brandybuck. You aren’t old. And you were fine just yesterday.”

Merry sighed, almost but not quite dramatically, as his eyes looked down at his hand plucking at his coverlet. “Today is First Yule, or, well, it is First Yule in the Shire and it is part of what they consider to be Yule here. I’m missing home. Last year on Yule being here was still fresh and new and . . .” A shadow came to Merry’s face. “I was still rather caught up with mourning Eomer to really think about it all.”

He now looked back up to Pippin, still leaning against the doorpost, arms crossed over his chest.

Pippin’s irritated look was instantly replaced with one of concern and sympathy. He uncrossed his right foot from where it had been leaning over the top of his left foot and planted it firmly next to the doorpost to leverage himself into an upright position. Crossing the room he sat down in the chair between their beds. It was there to make things easier for someone to sit with either of them should one of them be feeling under the weather. Pippin sat in it slightly sideways so that he was turned toward Merry instead of his own empty bed.

“I miss them all too, Merry.” He patted his friend’s hand as he spoke, though the sparkle returned to his eyes as he added, “You aren’t ancient, even if you feel that way.”

“Hrumph,” Merry contradicted the comment but then he turned his hand a bit on its side to grab hold of Pippin’s hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Thank you, though. I know you mean it.”

“Well,” Pippin said with a nod of his head. “So you are feeling homesick and old. I’m really certain that lying about in your bed is just the thing to cure those problems.” The knight of Gondor stood up. “Get up, Merry.”

This time Merry was the one with his arms crossed over his chest in a gesture of defiance. He did not respond other than by shaking his head.

“Pull me out of bed, Pip?” Merry taunted. “That’s the spirit, lad! And I know you will be all patience while tending me as I’m bedridden for months with a broken hip.” Merry cocked his head to one side and looked thoughtful. “Actually, more than a few months. Most likely it would leave me permanently incapacitated. You could have the fun of taking care of me the rest of my days.”

“I . . . I wasn’t going to say ‘pull you out of bed’, Merry.” Pippin lamely tried coming to his own defense. “I was . . . eh . . . I was going to say, eh, say I won’t bring you any Yule treats. Yes, that’s it! I won’t bring you any Yule treats, I’ll just go off and have them myself and you won’t get any unless you get your cranky old ar . . .”

“Aha!” Merry crowed, pointing at his now blushing cousin. “Aha! Yes! I’m old. You just admitted it yourself, Peregrin Took. Ha!”

Pippin quickly recovered. “Either way, it makes no difference at all. You’ll get no treats if you don’t get up.”

“I want fruitcake,” Merry sullenly stated, crossing his arms over his chest again and giving them a sharp bounce to emphasize his rebellious mood.

“Fruitcake?” Pippin replied, distracted from restating his ultimatum by both the force of Merry’s statement and the item mentioned.

“Fruitcake. Good, rich, dark, moist, nearly more fruit and nuts than cake, aged by soaking in Brandybuck Brandy, glazed and generously sprinkled with icing sugar, like our mothers and our wives used to make fruitcake.”

Pippin’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out so he closed it again. He looked thoughtful, puzzled, irritated, then resigned. With a sigh and a drooping of his shoulders, Pippin turned and walked slowly toward the door.

“I’ll see what I can do, Merry,” he said without turning around, and then he was out the door.

“Fruitcake!” Pippin muttered to himself as he headed out with the small shopping basket over his left arm. He had taken the time to dress in his least formal livery before heading off to his and Merry’s favorite bakery, The Golden Loaf, in the fourth circle of the White City.

“Good morning, Tildor,” he called out over the jingling of the bells on the shop door.

“And a good morning to you, Sir Peregrin!” the jolly, plump baker replied. “You are about bright and early. I’m surprised, it is one of your feast days, is it not? I thought you and Sir Meriadoc had made your purchases yesterday, my lord.”

Pippin sighed as he set the basket on the counter. “We did,” he said as he bent a bit to rub his arthritic knees. “Four squares of that luscious, flakey honey-nut pastry. Half an orange cake for me and half a lemon one for Merry. A dozen of your jam-filled puffballs, and a dozen cream-filled ones.”

“I don’t know as they’ve not been touched.” Pippin looked imploringly at the shop owner. “Merry wants fruitcake.”

“I have some. A moment, sir,” Tildor said as he moved toward the far end of his display case. He bent over, grunting a bit as he pulled the confection out. He proudly set it on the counter before the hobbit.

It was a pale, though heavy looking cake, about the size of a loaf of bread, topped with a layer of various berries and pieces of fruit held in place by a thick syrup.

It wasn’t anything like what Pippin knew his cousin wanted, but he said he would take it anyway.

“I’m afraid I don’t, my lord, but I know one of the bakers in the fifth circle has a cake she makes that has fruits and nuts in it.”

“Ismelda’s Exotic Confections. She moved here about fifteen years ago from Belfalas.”

Tildor had boxed up his cake and placed it in the knight’s shopping basket. Pippin handed him his money and turned to leave.

“Thank you, Tildor, for this lovely cake and for telling me of this other shop,” he said with a wave of his hand as he left The Golden Loaf.

Pippin looked sadly down at the cake on the counter of Ismelda’s Exotic Confections. It looked entirely delectable . . . it just wasn’t what he was looking for. It was more like a somewhat darkish knotted bread.

Pippin raised his eyebrows and gave a small, approving, slightly tilted nod of his head. This was sounding a bit closer to the right thing.

“Might you have one with, eh, candied fruits as well. Um, cherries? Lemon and orange peel? Almonds?”

“I see. Could you perhaps put some sort of glaze on it and sprinkle it with icing sugar?”

She took the twisted bread into the back, glazed it by spreading a thin coating of apricot marmalade on it, then sprinkled a generous coating of icing sugar over that. She proudly brought it to the front of her shop and placed it on the counter before the small knight of the realm.

“Thank you,” Pippin said, giving her a smile that was more confident than he was feeling. “That looks quite nice.”

Good, rich, dark, moist, nearly more fruit and nuts than cake, aged by soaking in Brandybuck Brandy, glazed and generously sprinkled with icing sugar fruitcake. Fruitcake with treacle and honey in it to make it heavy and sweet. Fruitcake like they made in the Shire, well, made in the Shire after they came home from the Quest. Before then it would have been a bit more like Ismelda’s bread in that it would not have had the candied citrus peels in it. Those delicacies were added after trade between the Shire and the rest of Middle-earth increased.

He made a pot of tea cut a two generous slices of both confections, put them on one of their best plates, put the pot of tea, cups and the slices of cake on a bed-tray and headed into the bedroom.

“Ah, Pippin!” he said smiling broadly as he set the book down on his nightstand. “You found a fruitcake for me!”

“I did the best I could, Merry.” Pippin said as he set the tray over Merry’s lap.

There was a slight pause and then Pippin snatched the serviette off of the plate of cake.

Merry tried a bite of each, solemnly chewing each before washing it down with a sip of his tea. Then, he set his cup down with a genteel rattle.

Pippin had intended to try the treats himself, but had been too busy anxiously watching for Merry’s reaction. He now sank despondently into the bedside chair.

“It’s the best I could do, Merry. Can’t you just . . .” The younger old hobbit paused with weariness and frustration. “Can’t you just make do that it’s real fruitcake?”

“I’m not as good at that as I used to be Pippin,” Merry quietly said. “Neither are you, my dear cousin. Remember the whisky?”

Pippin pulled a disgusted face. “Ugh! Gondorians have no idea how to make a decent whisky. I was quite frustrated until we thought to order some from Tookland.” Pippin suddenly paused, then his face lit up. “Merry, we could send home for a fruitcake!”

“Yes, we could and it will get here by part way through Solmath. No, later than that if it is to be properly aged.”

The excitement drained from Pippin. “True,” he said as he sat back in the chair with a sigh. “We’ll just have to try and think of it in time for next year.”

“We aren’t getting any younger,” Merry said, waving his hand toward where Pippin was rubbing his stiff knees. The younger cousin quickly pulled his hands away and rested them on the arms of the chair.

“Did you ask in the royal kitchens?” Merry turned back to the original topic.

“They might have something closer. Strider used to live up north you know. Spent time in Bree where there are hobbits.”

“Alright, I’ll go.” he walked toward the bedroom door, his knees obviously hurting him as he went.

“Yes?” he replied turning around to look at Merry. He was hoping he would say not to bother.

“Write a note, hail a passerby and have them run it up to the Citadel for you.”

Pippin smiled. “I do forget about doing that, don’t I?” He went into the study, wrote a short note, then went and stood on the steps outside their front door. Soon a lad came by. Pippin gave him the note and a coin and sent him off at a run toward the Citadel.

A short while later, there was a ringing at the bell. Pippin opened the door to find the head pastry chef of the royal kitchens standing on the small porch.

Dorigon bowed and held out a covered plater. “I hope this will suffice, Sir Peregrin. As you suggested, I enquired of His Majesty and he said this should be close to what you and Sir Meriadoc requested.”

Pippin took the heavy platter. “Thank you, Dorigon, and thank King Elessar for me as well. I’m sure it isn’t right but I at least appreciate the effort. Please tell the king not to expect us for dinner after all as Sir Meriadoc is in a snit and won’t leave his bed unless he get some real fruitcake.”

“I will so inform His Majesty and I am sure he and Queen Arwen will be disappointed.”

This was going to be a dull and horrid Yule, Pippin thought as he took the platter straight to the bedroom. No feasting with Strider and Arwen. No stories by the fire in the parlor, smoking some Old Toby and sipping some Tookland Whisky. He set the platter rather firmly on Merry’s lap.

“There. That’s it. That is the best I can do. Strider picked it out himself and said it should be close to what you are wanting. I’m quite sure it won’t do.” He plopped down into the chair and stared up at the ceiling.

Pippin heard Merry removing the lid from the platter, but he didn’t hear anything that sounded like chewing. Gradually, a familiar rich, sweet scent came to his nose. Sweet with the pungent scent of spirits mixed into it. He sat up and looked at the platter.

Pippin’s mouth slowly dropped open. It looked perfect! It was dark, moist, full of so much fruit and nuts that there was barely any cake. Suddenly, an envelope was thrust into his field of vision. As if in a dream he took it and opened it.

We were so pleased when Father’s/Uncle Merry’s letter and request arrived. We (Beryl and Eowynda) got together in Solmath to make this and be certain that it would have enough time to properly age before we sent it to Minas Tirith. He said it would be a Yule surprise for you, Father/Uncle Pippin. We hope it is the best fruitcake you have ever had.

We all love you and miss you terribly, but Uncle Strider has written often to assure us that you are happy in the warmer clime of his city.

We sent sixteen two pound cakes so that you may share them with all of your friends, there in Minas Tirith.

“You! You . . . you *knew* this was up there in the kitchens? You sent me all over looking for . . .”

“Happy Yule, Pippin!” Merry cut his cousin off in mid rant. “I know how much you like to be surprised.”

For a moment Pippin sat there glaring at Merry, then slowly his right hand reached out and grabbed a piece of the fruitcake. He took a huge bite. Slowly his eyes closed in sheer bliss.

Merry only nodded in return, his own mouth similarly full of moist, fruity goodness.

It was only after they had nearly finished off all of the slices of cake on the platter that Merry coughed and looked startled.

“Why, Merry! Is something wrong with the cake? Are you ill?” Pippin asked as he stood, snatching the platter away and sitting it on his empty bed.

Merry was moving very quickly for an “ancient” hobbit. “No!” he exclaimed as he almost ran to his wardrobe. “We have to get up to the Citadel as quickly as we can.”

“Are they expecting us for something? Dinner isn’t for several hours yet.” Pippin asked as he helped Merry into his tunic while Merry was trying to get his breeches pulled up.

“No, Pip. There are fifteen of the best fruit cakes in all of Middle-earth sitting unguarded in the royal kitchens, and Strider likes fruitcake!”

*********************************
A/N Beryl is Pippin’s daughter and Eowynda is Merry’s

15 oz. seeded dark raisins
1lb-¾ oz. pitted dates
1lb candied pineapple
1lb candied red cherries
1lb candied orange peel
1lb candied lemon peel
1lb whole almonds
1lb halved pecans
½lb citron
1c grape juice
6c flour
1T cinnamon
2T nutmeg
2T allspice
1t baking soda
1lb butter
2c brown sugar
1doz. large eggs - beaten
1c dark molasses (treacle)
1/8c honey
1T salt
1 fifth of brandy (you need a fifth not a pint)
1 cup of the brandy goes into the cake batter

**If you can find it, it is best to use whole fruits and cut them up yourself with scissors dipped in warm water to keep everything from sticking as badly. The pre-chopped fruit isn’t as tasty.**

**This is a large recipe. You will need a large roasting pan (like for a turkey) or large dish pan to mix it in.**

**This is best baked in loaf pans, an angel food cake pan, Bundt pan, or 1-pound metal coffee cans.**

This recipe makes about 17 pounds of fruitcake - about 5 3lb cakes or 8 2lb cakes.

Mix together (in a paper or plastic bag) the flour, salt and spices. Add the fruit and nuts a bit at a time and shake to coat the fruit and nuts. Set aside.

Add some of the fruit, nuts and dry ingredient mix, then some of the grape juice, brandy, honey and molasses. Alternate until all is mixed together. *you may want to do this mixing with your hands*

Spoon into your various pans. This cake does not rise much, so fill the pans almost to the top.

Bake at 250°. 2½ hours for smaller cakes, 3½ - 4 hours for ones in angel food or Bundt cake pans. If the tops look to be cooking too fast, cover them with a piece of foil. Test for doneness with a wooden skewer - it should come out clean.

You will have to bake in shifts unless you have more than one oven. Cover the unbaked cakes with a damp dish towel until you are ready to bake them.

The cake will be dry and this is why it needs to be “soaked” while it ages. Wrap them in a piece of old sheet (white) or buy a cheap white sheet or some white gauze. Pour a few tablespoons of the brandy over and down the edges of each cake then cover it tightly and store in a cool, dry place. If you are using the coffee cans, you can just store them in that and use the plastic lid. Otherwise put foil over the top of the angel food or bundt cake pans as tightly as you can. If need be, you can just wrap the covered cakes in foil and change the foil each time you add more brandy. About once or twice a week, open them up and pour on a few more tablespoons of brandy. They should age at least 4 weeks before eating them. My mother, my grandmother and my great-grandmother all made them in mid November to have ready for Christmas.

In the story I mention glazing them and topping that with confectioners sugar. That is one way fruitcakes are served in the UK.

It isn’t either of the stories you suggested I write, but I hope you like it anyway. The plot bunny was from Golden’s bunny hutch and I wrote the story.

The day dawned bright and fair over The Shire, shining its light down the length of The Water and lighting the top of the tree that grew atop The Hill before it graced any of the town of Hobbiton. Gradually, the Sun rose and its light made its way down the tree to light The Hill itself and Bag End; the residence of one Bilbo Baggins and his heir, Frodo.

This particular day there were three guests visiting at Bag End. Young cousins of Bilbo and Frodo named Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took and a most wondrous Big Person named Gandalf, who was a wizard.

The light of the sun had barely touched the top of The Hill itself when the kitchen door of the hole opened and a small figure emerged, quietly shutting the door behind him. Little Pippin Took was a farmer’s lad and used to getting up with the sun. His cousins were town folk and more accustomed to sleeping in while the wizard enjoyed laying late a-bed whenever the opportunity presented itself. Pippin was alone.

Well, nearly alone. Upon his shoulder rode a knitted piglet with one wee hoof tucked under his left brace.

“They are always such a bunch of slug-a-beds, Tulip!” the youngster complained to his toy. “By the time they get up half the day is gone and I’m starving.”

The lad sighed heavily, as though the weight of the world were upon his shoulders and not just a wee stuffed piggy. He had often heard his father say the same thing when they would visit Bag End and Brandy Hall, and Pippin felt very grown up when he could sound like his father.

“Yes, yes. I did go into the pantry and eat all of the buns that were left from supper last night, but there were only five of them and that’s not nearly enough. Plus I had to share with you.”

“True, you don’t eat that much. I’m sorry,” the lad said as he patted her soft head. “Maybe there will be some berries amongst all the things growing in the garden or near the base of The Hill,” he said then quickly added to his friend, “No, I won’t go further than I’m allowed.”

It was a lovely mid-May morning and Pippin eventually found his way to Bag End’s strawberry patch. He and Tulip very quickly had red faces and happy full tummies. Pippin was just about to pick what he assured his friend would be his last berry, when the piglet squealed in his ear.

“Not so loud, lass!” he said as he stuck a red tipped finger into his left ear, wiggled it about, then let it out with a soft pop. “What are you going on about? What egg? Oh!”

There, on the ground under the bright green leaves of the strawberry plants, lay a large brown egg. Tulip jumped down off of Pippin’s shoulder to snuffle and sniff at the egg. Then, to the lad’s amazement, she gently laid down on top of it, shifting about until her belly comfortably covered and surrounded the egg.

“What do you mean, it’s yours?” Pippin said, his eyes wide with surprise. “Pigs don’t lay eggs! It’s a chicken egg.”

“I know a chicken egg when I see one, Tulip. I’ve had to fetch enough of them from under the hens at home.”

“Yes, it does seem that some mama chicken laid it here and just left it, but . . . but . . . but Tulip, you aren’t a chicken. You’re a knitted piglet.”

“Well yes, that’s true. The chick will die if it isn’t brooded.” The lad paused, a sheen of tears forming along his lower eyelid. “That would be sad, wouldn’t it?”

Pippin pulled out his shirt tail then knelt down beside his piglet and her egg. Gently he reached underneath Tulip to get the egg, which he put into the sling formed by his shirt tail, then he put the knitted piglet back on top of it. He carefully stood up and slowly walked back to the kitchen door of Bag End.

A short time later, Bilbo, Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Gandalf all stood around the kitchen table looking down at one of Bilbo’s large mixing bowls. Pippin had put two soft towels into the bottom of the bowl, then put the egg on top of the towels, then put Tulip back on top of her egg.

“She said since the mama chicken didn’t want it, it is now her egg and she will brood it until it hatches,” Pippin was saying as he finished explaining to the others why Tulip was in a bowl with an egg under her.

Merry hid his face behind Frodo’s shoulder so Pippin wouldn’t see him starting to chuckle. Frodo’s lips were tight with trying not to join Merry. Bilbo looked at Gandalf, who looked back at him. They each had an eyebrow raised. Pippin stood there looking at everyone with anxious eyes.

“Well, Miss Tulip,” the wizard said to the pink toy piggy with the bright green embroidered eyes. “That is a kindly gesture on your part. You are aware, I hope, that chicken eggs take twenty-one days to hatch?”

“She says she knows that, Gandalf,” Pippin said, knowing that he was the only one Tulip spoke to. But to his surprise Gandalf spoke again, answering a question from the piglet.

“Yes, you can leave the egg for short times to attend to other needs, but you could not be gone long. No more adventures with your lad until your chick is hatched. No,” Gandalf continued after another slight pause. “You needn’t stay here the whole twenty-one days. You could travel back to Whitwell in a nice basket and your egg should be just fine. May I see it?”

Pippin’s mouth hung open. No one else had ever really seemed to hear Tulip before. He watched as Tulip let the Big Person reach under her and bring out her egg. Gandalf gently cupped his hands around the egg as he closed his eyes. He stayed that way a few minutes, while all the hobbits stared at him. Merry and Frodo had stopped chuckling and Bilbo looked surprised. The wizard seemed to be taking this all so seriously!

At last Gandalf opened his wise old eyes. “There is indeed a chicken in your egg, Miss Tulip,” he solemnly intoned as he picked up the knitted piggy to look deeply into her satin-stitched eyes. “Yes. I do think that you will be a good surrogate mother. I think we should allow you and young Peregrin here to tend to this egg. But I dare say Bilbo would like his mixing bowl back.”

He looked over at his old friend with a twinkle in his eyes. “Might you have a nice cozy basket handy, Bilbo?”

A basket was found and the towels, egg and piglet were duly ensconced therein. Pippin made sure that Tulip had time away from her egg, always being careful to cover the egg with a warm towel when he did so.

It was a couple of evenings later that Gandalf told Bilbo that he would be leaving before the morning came.

“You haven’t done something we will all regret with Pippin and that egg, have you?” Bilbo asked warily. He hated to doubt his dear friend, but he also hated the idea of the little lad’s disappointment when the egg did not hatch.

“Me?” Gandalf replied with mock surprise, then he smiled broadly. “There was a reason I asked to hold that egg, Bilbo Baggins. Believe me, I could not live with myself knowing I had hurt that lad’s soft heart anymore than I could ever tolerate disappointing your Frodo.”

Bilbo let out a sigh of relief. “All is well then, though it is the oddest thing I’ve been party to in a long time.”

When the time of Pippin’s visit to Bag End came to an end, he had Frodo hold the basket with Tulip and her egg while he climbed into his father’s cart, then he carefully held the basket on his lap all the way home to Whitwell. His father and mother shrugged their shoulders at each other when their son announced that Tulip was hatching an egg then walked carefully to his room to put the basket in a warm spot in his bedroom.

“‘Twas all I could do to not laugh out loud at the lad when he told me that after he was settled in the cart,” Paladin said, shaking his head and grinning. “He said he and Tulip found the egg in Bilbo’s strawberry patch and Tulip claimed it for her own.”

Eglantine chuckled as she leaned against her husband’s shoulder. “Our son and his piggy! What a pair they make.” Then her smile faded. “Whatever shall we do when it doesn’t hatch?”

“Well,” Paladin said as he put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “That is an even odder thing. Old Bilbo said that Gandalf himself assured him it would hatch, if you can imagine a wizard giving concern to such a thing.”

“I do believe he is just a softy underneath those bristly eyebrows,” Eglantine said, returning his hug. “I’ll just go and make sure Pippin has put the brooding mother and her egg in a safe place.”

The days passed by. Pearl, Nell and Vinca had many a good laugh over their little brother’s odd notions, but they did so off in their rooms or on walks away from the house for their parents had told them they did not wish to listen to Pippin’s anguish if his sister’s were to mock him or Tulip.

The morning of Forelithe 4th dawned bright and fair over the farm of Paladin Took in Whitwell. As his bedroom grew lighter, and a certain young hobbit lad began to stir with wakefulness, he became aware of a soft peeping noise. At first he wished the silly bird outside his window would be quiet. Then, he jumped from his bed and rushed to the hearth in his room.

There was a wee yellow ball of fuzz next to the pink knitted piglet in the basket.

“Wake up!” Pippin happily shouted as he ran down the halls of the house. “Wake up everyone! Tulip’s a Mama!”

For the June Community Challenge: Theme = father. Quote: “My father farms the lands round Whitwell near Tuckborough in the Shire.”

Pippin hadn’t wanted to put the lad off. Though he hadn’t yet declared that he was Beregond’s son, Pippin suspected as much, their relation to each other was written on the lad’s face, and the lonely hobbit wanted to be friends with the kindly Guard’s child.

The people of the White City had already given him that fool title - Prince of the Halflings; Ernil i Pheriannath in their own tongue - and Pippin didn’t want to do anything that might encourage every one to continue seeing him that way.

“We’ve no princes in the Shire,” his thoughts had grumbled nearly every time he heard people using the moniker as he walked a rambling path down through the circles of the city. But, when Bergil had asked him, “What is your father?” it had brought Pippin up short.

“Which question shall I answer first?” he had said, to buy a few moments in which to think.

“How would it sound,” his thoughts asked, “if I say, ‘My father is The Took and Thain of the Shire?’” Giving his father’s titles would only confirm the frivolous and inaccurate title the people of Minas Tirith had bestowed on him. That really wouldn’t do at all.

His answer niggled at his thoughts, popping up randomly through the rest of the day. Not quite a lie; not really the truth. His father still owned the farm, the lands were still planted in crops or were pasture for herds. The same farm hands still worked there and lived in nice little houses on little bits of land near the stand of trees and small pond along the western border of the property. But Pearl and Ordegar and their children now lived in the main house and Ordegar was the one overseeing the workings of the farm.

Yet the thoughts of home, of the farm he had grown up on, mingled and swirled about with thoughts of where he was and what was surely about to happen. They settled upon Pippin, mixing with the gloom that had rolled in upon the city as the sun dropped behind the tall mountain, setting the ashen sky aflame with an angry glow. Then the gloom moved inside his heart, and he wished to see a familiar face in this vast city of Men, so he took his leave of Beregond and the men in the mess, making his way through the darkness to the room he shared with Gandalf. The room was empty, so soon after arriving there Pippin went to bed, where thoughts of home and here, peace and war first kept him awake, then plagued his dreams.

Pippin stifled a yawn. It was very much against the rules to yawn whilst on duty. It was only a shame that duty was often so boring. Sir Peregrin Took struggled to stay alert despite the soothing droning of the voices of his King and the emissaries with whom he was currently conversing.

“It is an honor,” Pippin reminded himself in his thoughts. “It is an honor. I am honored. I am being honorable. I am behaving honorably. I was an honorand, then I was an honoree given the honorific of knighthood by my King. My King who at least is looking the part these days.”

Pippin was vaguely aware that one group of people were leaving and another was approaching. He recognized the new group as being some of Strider’s advisors.

“He has said he often misses wearing his Ranger’s togs,” Pippin’s thoughts continued. “He wouldn’t have made much of an impression on that last lot wearing those. And, if he gets his wish and marries Arwen . . . well, I’m certain she would rather him looking like this than like that. As they say, ‘The clothes make the hobb . . . er, Man.’ Most of those old saws are quite accurate if one actually pays . . . attention . . .”

Pippin had found that his ability to keep his mind rambling had helped immensely with keeping himself awake. This time, it seemed he was more in step with what was going on around him than he had thought. Just as he was thinking about paying attention he found himself doing exactly that.

“. . . that breed of cattle are excellent milk producers, sire,” the tall, broad-shouldered advisor was saying to Strider. “Even more to the point is that the milk is of a vastly superior quality, containing a nearly thirty-three percent cream to milk ratio.”

“And there are some of these . . . ah . . .” the king gestured with his hand for the advisor to supply the name of the cattle.

“Yes. There are some of them left? I know there were herds lost to Orc and Southron attacks.”

“There are, sire. Several small herds were taken to the valley where the River Gilrain comes down out of the mountains and placed well apart from one another. That area did not suffer as many attacks and only two of those herds sent there were lost.”

Stri . . . eh, King Elessar was nodding thoughtfully as his smallest knight leaned forward with interest. “Good, thank you for making us aware of that. And you feel there is sufficient grazing available to distribute these small herds elsewhere within the realm?”

“Without doubt, my lord!” the shorter, very thin advisor spoke up. “Arda seems to be rejoicing in our victory as much as we ourselves. Most areas have already had a second cutting of hay, sire and the third is well on its way.”

“And weren’t the lambing a treat! Why, was best it’s been since five years back, sir.”

“Yes,” Pippin could hear his father saying as he could see in his mind how he had looked that day in the farmyard. “It has been a marvelous year. Which is why you will all be getting a bonus in your pay packets. We’ve all worked hard and all will share in the bounty!”

Pippin’s attention returned to the present as his King was saying, “We will make sure the hay and the cattle are evenly distributed about Gondor, paying heed to first help those farmers who suffered the most losses.”

The advisors had bowed and were on their way out of the room. King Elessar turned to his knight. “What was that Pippin?”

His friend chuckled. “We are alone. Call me Strider.” His smile lit his whole face. “You just said something aloud, I asked you what it was you said.”

“Eh, nothing, Strider. Those men, pardon, those advisors; they were here to discuss farming with you, weren’t they.”

“Yes. I have to know what is happening on the farms in my kingdom. I have to know if there will be food to feed all of my people, as well as food stuffs and stock to sell or trade. A good ruler pays attention to these matters as his people’s lives depend upon them.”

Strider blushed a little as he smiled, raised an eyebrow and tipped his head in acknowledgement. “In a way you could say that, yes. Say, rather, a gentleman farmer with herdsmen and crop farmers working for me.”

Pippin was nodding eagerly. “Yes! Yes, that’s it! My father is The Took and . . . well you know that . . . he has to know what all the farms in the Tookland are doing. He has to know if there is enough of each sort of crop being raised, how the cattle are each year, how the sheep herds are doing and the going price of fleeces and such. He had to know all of that when we lived on our farm near Whitwell and now he has to know it for the whole of the Took clan. ‘Tis the same thing, really, though he’s not going out to help plant nor harvest, nor with birthing and shearing. But it really is much the same.” Pippin paused and smiled even brighter. “Actually, he does still help! I just recalled, twice since becoming The Took, he has gone with others to help at farms where the farmer couldn’t do his own planting or harvesting due to ill health or having been injured.”

“Yes, it is similar to running a large holding. And although I am certain I shall not be going out to help, I will send soldiers to help whenever I hear of such a need.” Strider wasn’t sure why his friend was so pleased by this revelation, but he was glad to see the lad so tickled. “Now then, Sir Peregrin Took, if I am not mistaken your time on duty is over. Will you take luncheon with me and partake of some of the goods the farms which I oversee have produced?”

“I will and with pleasure, sire.” Pippin replied with a bow. As he and his dear friend walked toward the King’s chambers, Pippin was glowing with joy as he thought, “My father farms the lands round Whitwell, and throughout the Tooklands in the Shire . . . and so will I.”

“Try again, Pip,” he said as he placed the small fingers into their proper positions on the silverware. “You hold the fork like this in your left hand, with your first finger on top of the handle down close to the tines. Just like I showed you the last time.”

“Why Frodo? Why do you hold it way down there and why do you have your finger on top like that and why with my left hand, Frodo, when you know I use my right hand to draw with and Ma says I’m right-handed? Why Frodo?”

“I don’t know why, Pippin. That is just the way it is done,” he sighed again. “No, no, Pip. Not with your finger down onto the tines.”

“There! There, that’s perfect, Pippin. Keep your hand and fingers just like that. Now, you hold the knife in your right hand. See Pip, you do get to use your right hand as well, just as I’ve been showing you. Hold it like you are holding the fork. No. Keep your hand on the handle, Pippin. Some knives are very sharp and you’ll cut yourself if you hold onto the blade. Yes! Yes, just like that! Now you stab the food with the fork . . . No!”

Frodo gasped as Pippin took a full swing at stabbing his fork into the rather think slice of ham on his plate. He could clearly hear it hitting the porcelain beneath the meat with a thump and a scratching sound.

“Not that hard Pippin. You know better than that. No harder than you stab the bits your Mum cuts up for you.”

Pippin giggled as he waved the slice of ham on the end of his fork up in the air.

“Alright now, put the edge of the knife on top of the meat and push down with your hand and the finger that is on the top edge of the blade.”

Pippin did as he was told then put his head down close to his plate. “’Didn’t do anything, Frodo.”

“Move the knife back and forth a little. Like this,” Frodo demonstrated the proper cutting motion as he spoke.

The slice of ham slid merrily back and forth while the knife seemed to stay in one place.

“No, Pippin,” the elder cousin sighed as he wearily crossed his arms on the table top then laid his head down upon them.

Frodo’s shoulders rose and fell with another large sigh and soon his breathing had softened.

Pippin smiled a mischievous smile at his slumbering cousin. Then he cut himself a nice tidy piece of ham and popped it into his mouth.

Merry slowly woke up, the odd tune being played on a whistle not fading as it should have had it only been part of a dream.

“That’s odd,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe I’m dreaming that I’ve woken up.”

He closed his eyes, left them shut a few moments while the strange music played on, then he quickly opened them again.

“Very odd,” Merry said more clearly. “I must really be hearing that whistle. But it’s the middle of the night. Surely Pippin wouldn’t . . .”

Merry paused in his monologue as he realized that surely Pippin would be up playing his tin whistle at . . . he looked at his pocket watch hanging on its stand where it could be read by the low light of the bedside lamp.

“Two o’clock in the morning!” He looked toward his window. The curtains stirred in a lazy manner on a subtle breeze, letting in glimpses of bright moonlight. The sounds of his cousin’s whistle were coming in from outside. Merry sat up, grabbed the watch and held it to his ear to make sure it was running. It was. He set the watch down on the nightstand none too gently. He left his cozy bed with an aggrieved grunt, shoved his arms roughly into his dressing gown, then tramped outside.

Merry looked around until he spotted his cousin. Off a ways from the Took’s farmhouse, on a low hill to the west, Pippin was dancing and playing his tin whistle in the moonlight. Only the brightest stars could be seen surrounding the silhouetted form of the swaying youngster, the rest were over powered by the blue-white glare of the full moon.

“They are right, all the gossips in Hobbiton and Buckland,” Merry said has he neared the rise. “Tooks are lunatics!” He sighed heavily. “Just what do you think you are doing, Pippin?”

Merry had expected Pippin to jump in surprise as he was not facing the house as he played and moved about on the flat top of the hillock, but he hadn’t. He kept dancing, only removing the instrument from his lips so he could reply.

“I’m dancing and playing my whistle.” Pippin put the whistle back in place and the strange tune began again.

“I can see and hear that, Pip. I suppose the better question would be why. Why are you dancing and playing your whistle at two o’clock in the morning?”

The whistle moved, glinting a bit in the moonlight; the music stopped. “Why have you heard it when no one else seems to have?” The whistle moved back, the music returned.

Merry marched around to be in front of his cousin. He grabbed hold of the lad’s shoulders, endeavoring to hold him still. Even beneath the elder lad’s strong grip, Pippin continued to sway to the music.

Merry looked carefully at his cousin. It was difficult to tell if he was pale with illness or flushed with fever in the moonlight. Nothing ever looks quite as it should in moonlight. He could, however, see stars in the lad’s eyes. He hoped his voice would sound more stern than frightened.

“Why were you dancing about and playing your whistle this time of night, Pippin?”

“No!” the lad replied hastily. “No, not at all. It’s more a . . . um . . . way to see the bright side of life.”

“The bright side of life? Wouldn’t that work better in the light of the midday sun?”

Pippin’s head tipped a little to one side. “One would think that it might, yes, but this works in the light of the full moon on a very clear night.” His eyes widened as he spoke enthusiastically. “You see, Merry, you have to have a good clear moonshadow, and it has to be following you, so you have to be facing the moon. Then you dance about on the feet of your moonshadow., and as you are dancing your moonshadow is dancing and you can see happier ways of looking at life. It really is quite amazing.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know.” the lad admitted after a pause to think it over. “It has for me!”

Pippin laid his finger along side his pointed nose. “Ah, yes! But Merry,” he leaned in conspiratorially. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, old lad.” As he backed away he added a nod and a wink to his gesture.

Merry did his best impersonation of his father. “Prove it to me, Pip. Prove to me that this lunacy works.”

“Alright, I will. I will play and dance and you give me some dire situation to contemplate.”

The strange melody filled the air as Pippin played and danced. After a few moments, Merry spoke.

“What if you grab hold of a hot cooking pot with both hands and forget to use pot holders and your hands get burned and don’t work right afterwards?”

“If I couldn’t use my hands I wouldn’t have to do chores anymore. I could eat with my face in the plate and no one could tell me I oughtn’t do it. I would sing and just whistle with my lips instead of using my tin whistle or playing my fiddle.”

“What if,” Merry began then paused to think of the next calamity. “What if you got lye in your eyes?”

“I wouldn’t see . . .” he said softly after taking the whistle from his lips. “I wouldn’t see myself grow old,” his voice grew cheerier as he spoke. “Nor dying flowers, nor dried out stream beds. I could imagine things the way I want them to look and, for me, that is how they would be.”

A shiver ran through Merry. Pippin was good at perceiving a more pleasant view of life, but this was different somehow. The music had begun again as the agile Took danced in large, sweeping steps. His movements gave Merry his next idea.

Pippin’s voice glided along with his movements, gracefully using the legs he was talking about losing the use of.

“I would have a wheeled chair like Cousin Lalia, and I would have company all the time as someone would need to roll me about. I wouldn’t complain. I could enjoy a good book or a game with a friend, or Patience if my chair pusher wasn’t about, and no one could tell me to quite being idle.”

Merry wasn’t sure if he was becoming angry or frightened. The moonlight seemed to be getting so bright that it was hurting his eyes; the air so clear that it hurt to breathe it in. Into his mind came the final blow. Something that should bring an end to Pippin’s turning the dark things of life into moonbeams.

It was a Pippin smile of the highest order leaving Merry smiling back. Pippin nodded, then began to laugh. Silently, of course, but no one could not know it for laughter, and soon, Merry was laughing. Suddenly, the older cousin was enveloped in an enthusiastic hug, joined by a hearty kiss on his cheek. He hugged Pippin tightly and placed a kiss of his own on the lad’s cheek. When Pippin pulled away, his shoulders slumped and tears glistened in the moonlight as they lay along his lower eyelids, and sorrow welled up in Merry’s chest. Then Pippin was dancing away, acting as though he were playing his fiddle, then he whistled with his lips before putting the tin whistle in place to continue the tune.

Merry smiled. Loquacious Pippin would figure out someway to express himself. Another thought slowly formed itself in Merry’s mind.

Pippin played and danced until Merry was near to repeating his question, when suddenly Pippin danced up to him. He started the steps to a familiar dance where the lads would dance together and the lasses with the lasses until they would eventually split off into pairs, a lad with a lass. Merry matched Pippin’s footwork. The music stopped but they kept dancing.

“Yes, Pippin,” Merry said, finally giving himself over to the music in their heads. “We’ll go together.”

And they danced on their moonshadows until the moon himself sank behind the trees at the edge of the clearing where the farm buildings stood.

*************************************************************************************

This was inspired by and is titled after a song written by Cat Stevens in 1971. Here are the lyrics:

Oh, I'm being followed by a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow
Leapin and hoppin' on a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow

And if I ever lose my hands, lose my plough, lose my land,
Oh if I ever lose my hands, oh if.... I won't have to work no more.
And if I ever lose my eyes, if my colours all run dry,
Yes if I ever lose my eyes, oh if.... I won't have to cry no more.

Yes, I'm being followed by a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow
Leapin and hoppin' on a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow

And if I ever lose my legs, I won't moan, and I won't beg,
Yes if I ever lose my legs, oh if.... I won't have to walk no more.
And if I ever lose my mouth, all my teeth, north and south,
Yes if I ever lose my mouth, oh if.... I won't have to talk...

Did it take long to find me? I asked the faithful light.
Did it take long to find me? And are you gonna stay the night?

I'm being followed by a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow
A’leapin and hoppin' on a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow
************************************************************
I could see Pippin “leaping and hopping on a moonshadow” every time I hear the song.

Written for the July 2008 LOTR_Community Challenge
My starter was:
The sound of the waves, the cry of the gulls and the salt smell seemed familiar, no matter that he had never encountered them before.

I didn’t think of it much at the time. I was busy. Busy with the War and the army and my place in it all. The cries of the gulls caught my ears, how could they not, loud raucous creatures that they are! Not like the cries of the water birds I was familiar with. There were hundreds of them about, I am certain. Perched on every wooden post jutting out of the quays and every pile of rocks on the shore, while others bobbed about on the surface of the water. Their cries echoed into the city. But what were the gulls to me? Yet . . . all these years later, the sound is with me still; comforting, although I find it makes me restless.

The memory of the smell of the Sea on the wind as it blew from the South is with me too. Well, all I knew at the time was that the air smelled fresh in a way I had never smelled before. I did not connect it with the Sea. Not that I had never smelt the scent of a body of water, I had. That different smell of wind flowing over the surface of a lake or broad river. I knew that smell well. But this; this was different. I know the smell of salt when I smell it, and it was there in the wind, though faint, as though the breeze had only been lightly seasoned. Sometimes, in my dreams, I smell it still.

And the soothing sound of waves lapping against the shore. So different if the ground slopes into the water or if it forms steep banks. Different too against the side of a boat. Yes, I had heard the sound of the waves before. Ofttimes now, it returns to lull me to sleep.

Familiar, but different now. It is all different here. Different on this late summer’s day in this place I have never been to before.

The cries of the gulls do not echo here as they did then. Well, a bit from the ruins of the ancient harbor behind me, but even so, much of their noise is lost in the Sea’s vast expanse. The salt smell is strong and I taste it upon my lips. The waves upon the rocks near the shore crash and roar. I am lost in the wonder of it.

How odd it will be to leave it all behind. But I find I am not sad at the parting. A new adventure awaits!

“Come, my friend. The time has come. The others all have gone before us. It is our turn now.”

I nod as I follow Legolas up the plank and onto the ship that will bear us away from Middle-earth.

For the July 2008 LOTR_Community Challenge.
My sentence was:
The day was beginning perfectly. Everything was going ______’s way.

The day was beginning perfectly. Everything was going Merry’s way as he ambled down the path through his mother’s garden.

“Today is a wonderful day, Blackie!” he enthused to the little black kitten who was lolling on his back in his young master’s arms. “The sun is shining. The air smells nice. Birdies are singing their songs to us.” The little lad sighed a contented sigh. “Yes! Today is a wonderful day.”

Blackie was still a new addition to the household of Saradoc Brandybuck. It had only been a fortnight since Merry had first brought him into his mother’s garden, asking her to look at his new pet. The small, friendly black kitten went everywhere with the lad.

The wonderful day had started being wonderful as soon as Merry woke up. The sun was peeking through his bedroom window, a pleasant sight seeing as it had been raining all week. Then, as he started to get dressed, he noticed his small clothes were torn. The band that held the drawstring had pulled away from the pants. Merry happily showed them to Blackie.

“Look! I can finally stop wearing this pair of unders that Auntie Petunia gave me for Yule. Awful, stiff, itchy, nasty things but Mum always said I was just ex . . . ex-a-gger-ating and we don’t waste perfectly good small clothes.” He threw the hated garment on top of Blackie then laughed as the kitten worked at finding his way out.

If his mother, father, or a servant had come in just then, they would have not seen the cast off pair of unders wiggling and squirming about on top of the bed, for only Merry could see Blackie.

Once Merry finished dressing, he headed off to the dining room in his family’s apartment in Brandy Hall. Even though his father was the Master’s son, they rarely took any meal except supper in the Hall’s large main dining hall. The cook tweaked his ear as she set his filled plate in front of the lad.

“Thank you, Lily!” Merry said cheerfully. “Might I have some sticky toffee pudding for afters?”

“One doesn’t have afters when done with breakfast, young Master!” Lily said aloud, the appropriate amount of scolding in her voice and expression to impress the child’s parents with her good skills when dealing with their son. But, as she leaned over the table to remove an empty serving bowl she whispered to Merry, “I’ll put a small bit in a bowl for you on the low shelf of the pastry table.” Before Merry could respond she whisked herself and the empty bowl back into the kitchen.

He stuffed the treat into his mouth on his way outside to play in the sunshine. Oh, yes . . . it was being a marvelous day!

As he continued his walk down the garden path Merry’s quick eyes spotted something lying nearly in the middle of the flower bed that had the old broken wagon wheel set in it for the clematis to climb all over.

“Look, Blackie!” he shouted excitedly. “Isn’t that the fancy button that Mum had made into a pin? The one that used to belong to her Gammer, I mean her Grandmum?”

Blackie mewed and leapt from Merry’s arms into the flower bed. The soft dirt of the cultivated bed was mushy mud from the rains and soon his paws were a lighter shade of black than his body. Merry saw the kitten start to bat at the button and decided he better get it before Blackie’s playing buried it. He walked into the flower bed, sinking in over the bone on the side of his ankles. Then, as he bent to pick up the button something bit him. He lost his footing and fell face first into the mud.

“M-Mum! My b-bum hurts, M-mum!” was all the answer she got from the crying child.

Esme had to take a step into the flower bed herself to get close enough to pick Merry up without losing her own balance, but soon she was cuddling her messy, crying son.

“We will just get you into the house and see why your bum hurts, shall we dear?” Esme cooed too her lad as she carried him into the Hall. The fact that his clothes were caked with mud, that he was caked with mud and that some of the flowers in the bed were ruined were of no consequence. That Merry was hurt was now all that mattered to his mother.

It didn’t take long to discover the bee sting on Merry’s wee bottom. His muddy clothes were sent off to the Hall’s main laundry. Old Adamantha could get stains out of anything. Merry was first put into a coolish sit bath with Dwaling Salts* in it to take the stinging out of his bee stung bum. Then he had a warmer bath to get the mud off of his feet, hands, face and hair. Much as he hadn’t enjoyed it, Merry had his Mum wash the mud off of Blackie as well. Esme indulged her son by going through the motions of washing his imaginary pet.

“Whatever were you doing in the flower bed to begin with, dear?” Esme asked Merry as she was combing out the hair on his head.

“I saw your pin over by the wagon wheel. Blackie saw it to and jumped into the bed and he started to paw at it and I was scared he would bury it, so I went after it.”

“Oh, you found my pin!” His Mum hugged him tightly. “I have been so sad over losing that.” She paused and held her son at arm’s length. “Ah, Blackie was after it, was he?” she chuckled. “Well, it was very kind of you to try to fetch it before he pushed it further into the mud, Merry.” Esme gave his hair a final touch with the comb, then placed her hands on his shoulders. “Would you and Blackie like to come and help me put some straw down in the garden, so we can get my pin without getting all muddy?”

“Yes, Mum!” Merry said happily as he bent over to pick up the kitten only he could see. “Blackie will be happy to help if he can, and if not, he’ll be a good kitty and not get into the mud again.”

After they fetched the pin, Merry and his mother enjoyed a picnic lunch out on the lawn that surrounded Brandy Hall. He sat in her lap as they swung in the bench swing (his bum was too sore to sit next to her), and Esme joined her son in knocking rocks off the top of a stone wall by throwing rotten apples at them.

Latter that evening, after a supper of all his favorite things, Merry’s Mum gave him a new toy to reward him for finding her pin. It was a triangle shaped piece of wood with little pegs in it that you had to remove by jumping them, like playing draughts, until only one peg was left. She gave Blackie a hopelessly tangled ball of yarn for his reward.

As he lay on his tummy playing his new game in the cozy parlor while his Mum knitted, his Dad read them all a story, and Blackie was curled up asleep with his ball of yarn, Merry smiled. It really had been the most wonderful day ever.

***********************
* A/N “Dwaling Salts” are what I decided to call what we know as “Epsom Salts”.

August LOTR_Community Challenge: different POV and these elements: Green, a Dozen, Triangle

With deep apologies to those who use the Elvish languages and understand them, I needed to create names for some Ents. I used two English-Elvish online dictionaries, one of which seems to have no home page. The one with no home page is at this URL: http://home.netcom.com/~heensle/lang/elvish/sindarin/engsind.html
The other is at Arwen Undomiel.com

Raenbrethil    raen = crooked & brethil = birch = Crookedbirch
Cadwaranc    cadwar = shapely & limb (arm) = ranc = Shapelylimbs
Celevonriv     celevon = silver (of) & skin = riv = Silverskin
Fordoron       forod = north   & doron = oak = Northoak
Gadorost       gado = catch   & rost = rain = Raincatcher

We had withdrawn deep into the woods, fleeing the rape of our realm. Fleeing the felling, the burning; seeking to hide where the forest was still green. Hiding amongst the birches of the high foothills on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains.

At least, that is where those few of us who remained now dwelt, having followed Fladrif, the head of our folk.

There was nothing for us any longer on the western flanks of the mountains and foothills that formed the eastern side of Angrenost. It was now called Nan Curunir - the Valley of Saruman. For long, long ages those hills had been our home and the pastures of our herds. For the long, long ages of the Elves. For the long ages of the Dunedain. For the years of the Rohirrim. For most of the speck of time that have been the years of the Tower of Orthanc being the home of the Wizard whose name the vale now bears.

My home was now the furthest down the mountains on the eastern face of the Misty Mountains, for I still craved news of our other kin and of the wide world.

And one day word came to me. The eldest of us all was bidding us come. Come to Derndingle! Come to Entmoot!

“I will not go,” Fladrif gravely intoned when I told him I had heard from Fangorn. His eyes flamed with his anger. “I have had enough of what the world has become! We trusted. We were betrayed! I will not look again upon the scorched, barren earth that was our home. I will not look again upon the cut and burned bodies of our folk nor upon the hacked stumps that are the remains of our tree-herds.”

He paused, restraining himself in the manner of our kind. Finally he spoke again.

“Hom, Hrum. You may go if wish to, Raenbrethil. You and any other of our folk who wish to be part of such folly. I will not go near any of the other beings of Middle-earth again. No!” he said firmly, holding up a hand to stop the words before they passed my lips. “No! I will see none of them, not even the Elves. But most particularly I will never again look upon the Nan Curunir!”

With that Fladrif turned his back to me and raised his hands up to cover his face.

There were only three of us who answered Fangorn’s call. Cadwaranc, Celevonrif, and myself, Raenbrethil; one fourth of the dozen who remained of Fladrif’s kin. Together we strode to Derndingle.

“Hm. I am not sure, cousin. I only know there has been a change in the feel of the forest which began yesterday, as though there is a ray of sunshine piercing the clouds that have been thickening over us.”

“I am sure you are right, living nearer to the lower forest as you do. I have felt no such changes,” he sighed sadly. “I have felt only the heaviness of evil creeping like a foul fog over the crest of the foothills from the NanCurunir.”

“Nor have I,” added Celevonrif. “but then, I live near to the tree line and it was only chance, if chance one may call it, that brought me down to speak with Fladrif yesterday and I was about to leave him when you arrived with your news of Fangorn’s summons, Raenbrethil.”

“Well, my cousins,” I replied, “we soon will know how many of us have answered the summons and what will be the subject of the Moot.”

We made our way in silence after that; listening as we strode deeper into the great woods. Soon we could feel the tension in the ground below us, in the air about us, and in the increasing whispers of the tree herds all around us. Eventually, a great call came to us, far away and dim to the ear yet filled with forceful urgency. We rolled our fingers and set them to our mouths, trumpeting our replies. Fangorn would know that a few of Fladrif’s folk had heeded his call. We heard the calls of others of our kin as well. We were not the only ones coming to hear the news.

So we strode onward, being called and calling in return until there was no longer need for us to call through our tubed hands in order to be heard. We were eventually joined by eight others before Derndingle appeared before us, its high, thick hedge shielding from view any who were within it. We made our way through the western gap in the hedge and down into the dingle itself.

Several of us had already arrived, including Fangorn I noticed. We seemed to be the last to arrive.

Whatever was Fangorn doing with two of the foul creatures sitting upon his shoulders? I intended to storm up to him, to fling the question into his face. I took a step, but felt a restraining hand upon my arm.

“Be not hasty, Raenbrethil,” Cadwaranc whispered close to my right ear. “I think they are not Burarum. Their faces are fair and I cannot imagine Fangorn would suffer any of that evil race to live in his presence.”

I took a deep breath to calm myself as I patted my cousin’s hand before he let it fall from my arm. Only Burarum cause me to act in such a hasty manner. Yet, my thoughts were that the old Ent had a great deal to explain to us. I turned my eyes upon the others gathered there, nearly fifty in number, and saw anger like my own in other eyes.

“Hrum, Hom. I welcome you all to Entmoot,” Fangorn began. “I am greatly pleased that so many of us are here, for a matter of great importance has arisen and it is not for any one of us to determine which course we will follow.”

“This had best be of great importance, Fangorn. You have called us from our own herds.”

“Exactly! Maybe some of us have no need to attend to their own business, but I rarely leave my part of the forest.”

“The axe wielding Burarum of Saruman could take this moment to attack. I cannot afford to leave my trees for long.”

“I am aware, my friends,” the eldest of us responded in calm, steady tones. “Unlike most of you I walk abroad in what remains of our forest. Unlike most of you I walk the edges of the wood. Unlike most of you I am somewhat aware of what is happening in the world beyond our realm.”

He had our attention for we knew his claims to be true. We let Fangorn proceed as we murmured our interest in his words after the ways of our people.

“I know you have noticed the beings I carry with me,” Fangorn said as we muttered and murmured in quiet undertones.

(“Yes, yes!” “Strange creatures.” “I’ve never seen the like.” Many voices were merely uttering the words, “Yrch!” and “Burarum!”)

“I introduce to you two representatives of a people we have not before known . . .”

(“Hoom. Hom!” “Not known before?” “They must be Burarum!” “All that is is in the lists, and the lists we have know for many ages.” “Yrch!”)

(“Not a proper name! It is not Elvish.” “Can there be any new creatures?” “ ‘They call’ . . . They have named themselves?” And still the murmurs of, “Yrch!” and “Burarum!”)

“Hm. Hrom! You must not be hasty, my friends. They are not Burarum, so set your minds at ease.”

There was still a great deal of suspicious muttering from our number, including comments of my own.

“I have spoken to them at great length. These two are known by the names of Peregrin Took but he is also called Pippin.” Fangorn gestured toward the small person on his left shoulder. “And this is Meriadoc Brandybuck who is called Merry,” he said indicating the other one who sat on his right shoulder. “They are a hasty but gentle folk who come from the West and the North, love the land, and care about all growing things. They suggested we add them to the lists after Men. ‘Half-grown hobbits, the hole dwellers.’”

There was now much rumbling and mumbling. It was not a light matter to add to the lists. Several of us, myself and my kin amongst them, stepped closer to Fangorn to look more closely at the small ones still seated on his shoulders.

“Yes!” old Fordoron said loudly. “I say yes. They do not seem to be Burarum. They appear to be much like small Elflings. There is a pleasantness in their countenances.”

Many were chanting the section of the lists which dealt with the free peoples to see how well the suggested new line would fit.

It was young Gadorost who spoke up next, saying, “The new line for the lists fits well.”

After allowing for a thorough discussion, Fangorn raised his voice above the clamor. “What does the Moot decide upon the issue of whether or not these creatures are Burarum, Yrch in the Elvish tongue?”

“What does the Moot decide about them being Hobbits, as they declare themselves to be?”

One of the hobbits yawned. It had been nearly two hours as Men reckon the passage of time since we had begun our discussion of the Hobbits. The Eldest had said they are hasty folk. Fangorn spoke to them in Westron, a language I recognize the sound of but do not speak or understand more than a few words. Indeed, few of us Ents know the tongue. He then set them down and they bowed low to the Moot before walking away on the path that went towards the gap on the West side of Derndingle. Many of us chuckled lightly at this feat of flexibility as it had long since been beyond their ability. Only a few of the youngest amongst us could still bend much.

“The Hobbits told me much interesting news,” Fangorn began as they walked away. “We have a great deal to discuss, and then, depending upon what decisions we make, we might have a great deal to plan. Let us begin with the tale told to me by the Hobbits.”

The Eldest related an amazing tale of a journey undertaken by the little ones, by Merry and Pippin, and others leaving from Imladris of Elrond Half Elven and making their way slowly eastward. They had told him of a strange blizzard upon Caradhras, and entering into of the Mines of Moria. He said that Mithrandir had fallen along with a Balrog in the mines and that afterwards the little ones, the Hobbits, and the others had been allowed into Laurelindorenan and into Caras Galadhon itself!

What a stir that caused amongst us! Fangorn had to pause as we expressed our wonder. Few were allowed to even cross that land’s borders and it was nearly unheard of that any were allowed into the heart of the realm. What were these small beings that the Lady Galadriel and her Lord granted them entrance there? I had no time to consider the matter further as Fangorn continued his telling of the Hobbits’ tale.

They had left Laurelindorenan, going in watercraft upon the Anduin. At a place called Parth Galen they were attacked by Burarum.

Once more he was interrupted by the rising pitch of muttered comments voice by the nearly fifty Ents who surrounded him.

“Yrch!” “Foul creatures!” “We should kill all the Burarum!” “We should not be hasty!” “Are they not living beings?” “Evil! They are naught but evil!”

More indeed! The small ones had been captured by those foul creatures. They had been cruelly treated and made to run nearly the entire length of Calenardhon, what I have heard called Rohan in Westron, to the very edge of our forest.

“But they managed to escape those foul Burarum and flee into our woods. It was there, upon the a-lalla-lalla-rumba-kamanda-lind-or-burume * where I stand to look out upon the wide world in the early mornings, that I met them. They were talking and their voices sounded full of light and joy. As I told them, I would have stepped upon them and squished them, taking them for small Burarum, had I not heard their voices.”

(“Understandable.” “I would have done the same.” “Hoom. I would like to hear them for myself.” Came our comments)

“I do,” Fangorn replied. “They had no need to lie. They are rather open people, and most hasty. Although . . .” He paused, muttering under his breath to himself in our language for a few moments. “I do think the two of them have practiced some restraint. I do not feel they have told me everything about themselves or their journey.”

We stood murmuring and whispering amongst ourselves, until Fordoron raised the question that troubled us all.

“Fangorn. This is a strange and sad tale you tell us, and I think that most of us feel sorrow and anger at these small people having suffered at the hands of the Burarum. Yet the question begs answering: What does it have to do with us?”

The Eldest did not look at us, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on things unseen.

“Why were they brought this direction?” he asked so quietly that some did not hear him. He posed the question again. “Why did the Burarum bring them west and not take them east to the Dark Land, which was closer to the place they were captured?”

We all turned to the voice that had rung out like a bell. No whispering nor muttering for Bregalad, who is one of the youngest of us.

“Yes. Yes, my friends and kin. They are the servants of Saruman not Sauron. The source of this trouble is on our own doorstep. He and his Burarum are something that has concerned us all and we have done nothing.” He sighed deeply, great pain shadowing his eyes. “We have done nothing and now others are suffering because of our inaction.”

He slowly looked around him, taking the time to look long into the eyes of each one of us.

Every Ent there had something to say and we all said it at once. For a long while all fifty of us talked, then Fangorn announced we would take a short recess.

“When we come back I shall start at the beginning of the troubles, for there are those amongst us who dwell at the far end of the forest from Saruman and have not been hurt by him and his Burarum as badly as others of us have been. You may get drinks and I encourage you to continue discussing this matter. Listen for my call and then return to the Moot.”

“I have no need for further thought, Eldest.” the young Ent stated firmly. “I know what our choices are and I know what I wish to see us do.”

I resisted the urge to laugh. It was not for naught that his nickname reflected his ever-present hastiness. Fangorn looked at him solemnly, but I could see the smile in his eyes.

“Hoom, Hm, young Bregalad! But there are others who still need convincing.” Fagnorn raised his hand to stave off Bregalad’s reply. “Your vote is duly noted, my friend. I will not make you remain at the Moot, yet I would ask of you a favor.”

“Come with me. You shall now leave, for a time, your task of Tree-herder and become instead a Hobbit-herder. My small friends will have need of company and a place to rest this night and other nights that may come and go before our decision is reached.”

It was a good choice, I thought, as I walked off to get a long, cool drink at the fountain and Fagorn and Bregalad walked off to find the Hobbits. A hasty Ent to be companion to two hasty little beings, that and he spoke Westron. I shook my head with the wonder of it all. I very nearly spoke out and said I had also made my decision . . . but no, I would stay at the Moot to help Fangorn with convincing those who were undecided.

“We will tell them of the fate of our trees, Raenbrethil,” Celevonrif said firmly, as though he had been hearing my thoughts.

“Yes, we will use whatever words we can find that will make them picture the terror and destruction wreaked upon our people by the traitor and his Burarum,” Cadwarnac said as he taped his left fist into his right palm.

I nodded in return, too busy thinking to speak. My thoughts were of Fladrif refusing to come to Entmoot. I was thinking that he would live to regret that decision.

We came back to the Moot and started over again. We listened to each other talk about our dealings with the White Wizard all the years he had lived in Orthanc. He had been a friend at one time and knew many of us by our Elvish names. Particularly, he had known Finglas, Fladrif and Fangorn. As the heads of our three main families they had represented all of the Ents in most any interactions that involved any other beings. The rest of us tended our trees.

The day ended with Fangorn saying, “And so it had long been, or so we thought it had been. Fladrif, Finglas and myself thinking Saruman a wise friend and good neighbor. But now the story changes and now the Sun has also long taken her leave of us.”

He looked deeply into our eyes, taking time to weigh what he saw there. Slowly, he nodded.

“Those of you with houses nearby, please invite home those from the furthest reaches of the forest. Of course, some of you may stay here. There is water to drink here, though there is nowhere to bathe. We gather again at sunrise tomorrow.”

The next day Fangorn began the long slow story of Saruman’s betrayal of our trust. How at first he had asked us only to allow the ill seeming Men who served him to glean fallen wood and cut trees that were dead. And this was as it should be. It is part of their place in Arda for the fallen branches and lifeless shells of our trees to be of service to the other peoples. Every living thing serves a purpose in its living and its dying. But gradually Saruman’s unkempt Men, including some that looked nearly like Burarum, were cutting the nearly dead and the not dead from among our herds.

“It has been in the last year, perhaps two, as the outside world measures such things, that our lives had become a horror, my friends,” I said, keeping my voice quiet in order to keep it under my control. “His Men and these strange Burarum walked the woods all the night and, of late, all the day!”

(“Into the day?” “Surely not! Burarum cannot abide the Sun!” “How dare they!”)

“Yes!” I let my emotions reach my voice. “Yes, even in the bright light of the midday, they came with their axes. Most of our trees they hauled off to the fires, which now burn constantly in caves below the circle of Isengard. Yet there were also many they cut and let lie, doing nothing with them, leaving them to rot upon the earth.”

“They attacked and killed many of the elder Ents. Those who had become more tree-ish and had trouble moving quickly enough to defend themselves. Our family has suffered greatly and it is for this reason that our head, Fladrif, moved us into the highlands on the eastern side of the hills and mountains. Far away from Nan Curunir and the world outside the forest.” His voice was nearly a whisper. “It is why he is not here. He will deal with the outside world no longer.”

So it went. A cousin of Bregalad’s told their family’s tale which was every bit as hideous as our own. And there were others who had isolated incidents to relate. The stories continued until it was a little past the midday and all had had their say.

The muttering and murmuring of Ent discussion was of short duration. Fordoron stepped forward.

“We take Isengard. We either kill or take captive the tree-killer. We destroy the Burarum in his keeping and we kill or take captive the Men who serve him.”

“Is this the decision of all who are gathered here? This must be what all of us agree to. This must be unanimous. I will not go any further otherwise.”

We all looked at each other. We are not hasty people given to rash actions, yet that was what was before us. The Eldest asked each of us in turn. Each of us said this was what we wished to do.

We marched. We sang. We beat the time upon our legs. We met up with Bregalad and the Hobbits. Fangorn took the small ones back to ride upon his shoulders. As representative of the family most grievously hurt by Saruman the Traitor, I was striding upon Fangorn’s right and Bregalad, whose family had suffered nearly as much as ours, fell into step upon his left. We were marching to the breaking of Isengard.

Occasional beams of sunlight shot through the clouds, shining through the branches of the forest around us in gleaming triangles of light. Gradually the light faded. We marched in silence through the gloom until we crested the hills that formed the eastern side of Nan Curunir. Without a word from Fangorn we stopped. Below us lay the lair of our enemy. We thought of what we were about to do, but in those thoughts were none of leaving. Our fates, and those of the trees we loved, lay before us. We stealthily made our way into the Valley of Saruman.

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A/N: “Burarum” (Orc) and the long word “a-lalla-lalla-rumba-kamanda-lind-or-burume” (hill) are a couple of the few words in Entish that Tolkien uses in LOTR.

For the August LOTR_Community Challenge: Theme was POV. The elements were Silver, 3, Sphere.

Movie version and a little book version: based on an idea I came up with while trying to help Cathleen do some brain storming for her challenge story. After I finished describing it, she said she loved it . . . but that I had to be the one to write it. I will be using her elements of: Silver, 3, Sphere.

My world jiggled and slid; a slice of light opened into a wide open view of the ceiling of a room barely remembered. A pair of hands reached down, took hold of me, and lifted me out of the cedar lined drawer that had been my home for thirty years.

The hands and voice were familiar. She had tended my owner when he had worn me those many years ago. Worn me until I was much too small for him.

“And here, all the mail and such that went with it is all here in this drawer. Right where I myself set it . . .”

She turned to hand me to a man I do not recognize, then she turned back to the drawer to get out the rest of young Faramir’s livery.

My owner, my boy, must have wed and now has a child of his own! The threads of my weft and warp swelled a bit with joy. I was wanted again! I would again go forth with a son of the house of Hurin to do battle against whatever foes his imagination set him after.

“Yes. I do not know why. The Master Armourer told me to seek for the small livery and gear of the Tower that had been made for Captain Faramir as a child and that I should seek out his old nurse as she, you that is, might know where it was.”

She continued handing him the other garments from the drawer, which he, rather uncomfortably for me, set on top of me.

“Ah! Thank you, mistress. I say I do not know, yet I can make a reasonable guess.”

“I think it is for the one many in the city are calling ‘the Ernil i Pheriannath’,” the young man she had addressed as Gilmith said in a conspiratorial manner. “It is known that he has offered his service to our Lord.”

She chuckled heartily. “This should just about fit him, from what I have heard. They say he is no taller than a young child.” She waved him off with both hands. “Go now, and hurry. You wouldn’t want to find yourself in trouble for dallying.”

I was affronted! Dumfounded! What was this? I was to be given to some foreign personage? No matter that he was a prince. What good is that to me when he is a prince of some fairy tale folk? A Halfling indeed! There must be some mistake.

I was carried to the armoury. I was throughly inspected, along with the gear that completed me; the hauberk with its black steel rings, the helm, breeches, boots, sword belt and the wooden sword in its black leather sheath. A few tears where found and mended. All the metal work was cleaned and polished. The silver embroidery of the Tree and Stars upon my front was polished until it gleamed nearly as brightly as it had the day it was first stitched into place.

However, I took little joy from all the fuss and attention. Long years I had dreamed of being fitted upon my dear Faramir’s own son. To be given to another was a sad blow indeed.

The day drew to a close, There was still a bit of work to be done to have my entire livery be fit for service, but for now I lay upon a work table in the darkness.

I awoke to dim light coming through the windows and the armourers lighting lamps. It was while I was being given a final brushing that something strange happened. They took away our sword. Then I sighed. It made good sense, I had to admit. What princeling would wear a sword of wood? My sigh changed to a gasp as a beautiful short sword was brought in and laid on the table beside the sword belt. This prince would wear a weapon of Gondor as well as her livery? All the more I wondered at what sort of prince this halfling was. Did he have no weapon of his own?

They stopped and looked down upon me and the rest of Faramir’s livery. And I in turn looked at them. The Master Armourer I had already seen, the child beside him . . .

“If you will, Peregrin son of Paladin,” the Armourer was saying as he picked us up from the table, “we will go to the back of the shop where we will dress you.”

This was no child. This was the Halfling. I strained every fiber to see and hear all I could.

I could tell he had been somewhat offended. Did this supposed ‘prince’ know nothing?

“And please, sir,” he added. “Call me Pippin. Or at least just Peregrin.”

The three of them, the Master Armourer, an assistant and Peregrin the Hafling, went into a small room at the rear of the armoury.

“Oh, I see,” he said cheerfully. “This is like going to the tailor when one has ordered a new jacket or waistcoat. It isn’t so much that you thought I can’t dress myself as it is that you need to make sure it all fits. Although I did notice that some of that seems to be mail and I’ve no idea at all what you will do if that doesn’t fit me.”

He had stripped down to his short clothes and was reaching for me. I was not wishing to have him touch me, nor to have to be worn by him. The clothes he removed were stained and horribly worn. His short clothes looked as though he had only the one set and had hardly ever been out of them, although they did appear to have been washed and were not too malodorous. Hardly the garments of a prince!

“No, sir” the Armourer said firmly. “You will be dressed, sir. If you will please mount the platform.”

I huffed. It was as I had suspected. This was no prince, no matter what the foolish people thought. A prince knows of being dressed by servants.

The Master Armourer placed upon the halfling the trousers and shirt. At least I would not have to touch his skin, I remembered with relief. The silly little creature was obviously unaccustomed to the process, but I think he began to understand when the hauberk was placed upon him, for indeed it is an awkward thing to do for one’s self. Yet, he would have need to dress himself after this, so the Master then schooled him in how to properly remove the hauberk and to then to put it on without assistance.

I was held above his curly-haired head. His arms were guided through my armholes and I was gently, but firmly, tugged into place. The belt was placed about his hips and fastened. The beautiful metal sword in its scabbard was fastened to the belt. The gauntlets were drawn onto his hands. Then the assistant knelt beside him.

“If you would raise your . . .” The Master paused, staring open mouthed at the hafling’s feet. No one had noticed till that moment that his feet were unshod. Unshod and hairy. Hairy and a bit too large for the rest of him, though not to the point of ridiculousness.

The Master cleared his throat. “If you would raise your foot, Peregrin, so that we might see if the boots will fit you.”

“Boots?” the small, vague creature parroted. I doubted he knew what they were. “Boots? I . . . eh . . . we . . .”

He took a deep breath. “We hobbits I mean, don’t wear boots, if it is all the same to you, sir.”

He paused again and I felt him draw himself up a little straighter and pull his shoulders back.

“I’ve never worn boots or shoes in my entire life, sir,” he said with a new tone in his voice. “I walked most of the way here from my home in the far north and west without boots. I climbed part way up Caradhras without boots. I ran much of the way from Parth Galen to the far edge of Rohan without boots.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I don’t mean to make much of myself. I . . . I will be fine without the boots, sir.”

I was watching the Master Armourer’s face as the halfling spoke. Watched as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped ever so slightly. I was also amazed at what the little one said. If it was true, it was quite an accomplishment.

The Master Armourer bowed to the halfling as he motioned for his assistant to stand up.

“My apologies, Peregrin of the Halflings. We will set the boots aside.” He then held out his hand and the assistant dropped a small, white sphere into his palm.

Tailor’s chalk. I was surprised that I remembered what it was and its function. It had been many years since it had been used to mark needed adjustments to me.

“If you would turn about for me, Peregrin.” the Master said as he held his arm up, pointed his forefinger downward, then moved his hand in a circular motion. The halfling complied with the request. “Hm. The trousers are a little too short . . .”

“Oh, no!” the halfling interjected. He had turned past his starting point and was now looking at himself in one of the full length mirrors. “Not at all. You may have noticed my own breeches are nearly this length. These are fine.”

In the mirror I saw the Master raise an eyebrow, but he said nothing. No normal Guard would wear his trousers so short. The assistant handed him the helm and it was placed upon the halfling’s head. In spite of his thick, curly hair, or perhaps because of it, the helm fit perfectly.

“I have to wear this too?” he asked with a frown on his face. “It is rather heavy.”

“You must wear it, yes. Whenever you are on duty, unless you are esquire to the Lord Steward. Esquires usually do not wear their helmet, but need have it near by while on duty at the Lord’s side in the Citadel. Most especially you must wear it if you go into battle.” A wry grin came to the Master’s reflection in the mirror. “I doubt your head is as tough as your feet.”

The halfling turned to face the Master and his assistant. “Thank you so much,” he said as he stepped down from the low platform. “May I have my clothes back?”

“No. Now that we know your size, another uniform will be made for you. Even when you are not on duty, you are to always be in your livery.”

“But, but my scarf and the grey cloak! They are both near and dear to me,” Peregrin cried out in a panicky tone. “The scarf I have had most of my life and it is a precious reminder of my home. The cloak was gifted to me by the Elves of Lothlorien and the Lady Galadriel, that and the broach that is pinned on it. I will not be parted from these items.”

My thoughts were spinning. Elves? The Golden Wood and its Lady? These were mentioned in the stories that my Faramir and I listened to and imagined in our playing. Surely this small person, this half . . . I stopped. Were not halflings themselves beings of story-time and pretend, yet, wasn’t one now wearing me?

The Master was picking up the scarf and the cloak with reverent gentleness, bowing as he handed them to Peregrin.

“Then by all means, sir, you may have these in your keeping, but I remind you that you may not wear them except when you are off duty.”

The halfling bowed in return, taking the cloak and scarf and clutching them tightly against me. I felt a strange thrill run though me as the soft grey fabric of the cloak touched me, and I thought I heard a musical, though stern, voice say to me, “Watch over him well when he is not under my protection!”

“I will,” I replied . . . and I meant it, for obviously the one who now wore me was a more wondrous creature than I had at first allowed.

“Thank you again,” Peregrin was saying and then, quite hurriedly, we left the armoury.

We went briefly to his quarters to put his scarf and the mysterious Elven cloak in his room. He put his precious garments in the small chest at the foot of one of the beds then he stopped for a moment, even though I imagine he was to return to the Steward as soon as he was finished at the armoury. Peregrin looked at his reflection in the polished metal full length mirror that hung upon the wall. Although it gave a poorer reflection than the glass mirrors in the fitting room at the armoury, it was adequate for most needs.

Peregrin stood there a few moments turning a little this way and that before simply staring at the symbol of the Tree and Stars upon his chest.

“Seven stars and . . .” he paused to swallow hard, as though he had bit off more bread than he could chew. Yes, the Stars shone there as well, surrounding the Tree. He started again. “Seven stars and seven stones, and one white tree.” * He sighed sadly. “If only Boromir could be here to see me now. I think he would have been proud of me.”

He knew my Faramir’s brother! Knew him well enough to call him by name and not by rank. But my joy cut short as I realized that he spoke of Boromir in the past tense. What had happened while I was sleeping in a drawer?

The hobbit, as he called himself, gently brushed his gloved fingertips over the bright silver threads. He sighed deeply again, then he slowly turned from the mirror and we went to the Citadel.

After being granted admission to the Citadel by the door guards, he was told that orders had been given for him to remove his helm and await his call in one of the side halls. We went were the guard pointed for us to go.

Oh, how well I remembered this place! How many times did my Faramir and I play in these halls, taking peeks into the throne room where his father sat upon the Steward’s seat. We would be watching for spies and assassins who were after the Lord Steward of Gondor, knowing we were the only ones who could save him.

Peregrin removed the helm, placing it on the floor beside a bench in the long hall, then hoisted himself up to sit, his feet dangling well clear of the floor. He sighed and slowly shook his head.

“So,” he said as he looked down at me. “I used to see pictures in the books at Cousin Bilbo’s and the library at Great Smials of people wearing such a garment as you. I should be feeling proud, and I am in a way, but now that I’m here, now that I’m the person in the fancy livery, all I am is scared. You should be on a man of Gondor, not on me.”

Once more he gently traced my silver embroidery. He had a touch that felt as though his fingers tips could feel the fine metal of the threads despite the thick gauntlets covering them. Yet the bigger wonder was that he was speaking to me, as though he somehow knew there is sometimes more to things than meets the eye.

“I reckon you were once on a Guardsman, and they have cut you up and re-stitched you to my size.”

He drew in another deep, deep breath, held it a moment then let it out with a sigh.

“What were you thinking, Peregrin Took?” he said to himself. “What service can a hobbit offer a great lord of men?” *

As if in answer to his query, a voice came from the far end of the hallway, making Peregrin jump with surprise. He got down from the bench as a tall man approached him

There was something familiar about the man. His eyes looked kindly upon Peregrin. It was clear the two had met before.

Every thread in me tingled and if a voice had been mine to have I would have shouted so that the echos would dance in the vaulted ceiling and be heard in the whole of the Citadel.

He was still speaking. “A very foolish one, who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of attending to his studies.” *

Yes! Oh yes! All the many times we strode along the battlements, wooden sword in your hand, my boy, as my White Tree and Stars gleamed upon your chest. Those were never wasted hours, my dear, dear Faramir.

“This was yours?” * Peregrin excitedly asked as I could feel a new pride growing in his heart.

“Yes, it was mine,” * my Faramir replied, his fondness for me, his pleasure at seeing me again softening his voice. “My father had it made for me,” * he added as he reached to give an affectionate tug to one of my shoulder caps.

They talked easily. It hurt a bit when my boy . . . well, no longer my boy as it was a man full grown who stood before me, it hurt when he said I had never fit him either. Yet, as he spoke of his brother, Boromir, I realized it wasn’t the fit of my cloth he spoke of. He was right, although we had shared many a gallant time, I always knew he had not a soldier’s mind nor a soldier’s heart. That he could be a soldier, and a good one at that, I had no doubt, but it would never be what he loved.

My Faramir began to speak of his brother and his father and his voice tightened with pain. I knew then what I had feared when Peregrin had spoken of Boromir in the past tense was indeed the truth. I would not see Boromir again.

“They were so alike, he and my father,” my boy’s sad voice continued. “Proud; stubborn even, but strong.” *

There was self doubt in Faramir’s tone and it hurt my fibers to hear it. He was all that and more. How I wished I could speak!

“I think you have strength . . .” the hobbit spoke, confidence strengthening his voice. “. . . of a different kind, and one day, your father will see it.” *

He spoke the words I wanted to speak and suddenly I could tell, he had given his loyalty and his heart to my Faramir. Though he was soon to swear his oath to the Lord Denethor, and I’m sure would serve him faithfully, his love had been given to my Faramir.

I could tell how deeply the hobbit’s confident words touched Faramir’s heart. I could also see the doubt of their truth in his eyes. The touch of distance I had sensed between father and son after Finduilas’death must have increased between my boy and his father after he had out grown me and I was placed in the cedar lined drawer.

For several moments they looked into each other’s eyes, then a soft “ahem” broke the spell.

“The Lord Steward sends for the hobbit, Peregrin son of Paladin,” the page said before bowing slightly then returning to the Throne Room.

My Faramir smiled. “You will do well, Pippin.” He tugged affectionately at my other sleeve cap then patted the hobbit’s shoulder. “Do not fear too greatly the oath you are about to swear.”

I could feel the fear returning to Peregrin’s heart as it beat more quickly in his chest. Yet somehow I knew he would not let his fear hold him back from whatever he was called upon to do.

“My people have few oaths or vows that we take, and none like this one. I do this for your brother who was my friend and cared for me and my kinsmen. For Boromir, and if I may be so bold, for you as well Faramir, who showed kindness to my cousin, Frodo, and Sam . . . and to me. I will do my best to make you both proud of me.”

“I . . . we, are proud of you already,” Faramir said as a smile grew upon his face. “Come, it is about time my old livery was officially sworn into service.”

As we entered the Throne Room and strode toward the Lord Steward sitting on his chair of office, I no longer felt awkward being worn by a hobbit. Truly, there was nowhere else I would rather be.

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A/N
* “Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree.” is quoted from the book “The Two Towers”

* There are numerous quotes here all taken from the movie “The Return of the King”

This story started out as a sarcastic response to a minichallenge given to me by Golden. Cathleen read the very short sarcastic version and felt it could be turned into a good story and pestered my until I did so.

Warning: Pippin does get spanked in this story. Not abused, not whipped, not tortured; just a spanking. It is not the focus of the story, but, if you don't approve of a child being spanked then this is not a story you will want to read.

The starter Golden gave me was: Pippin does something and Frodo is dissapointed in him. Elements: a bed, a talk, a party

Pippin was at Bag End for a visit. A rather odd occurrence as Bilbo was off visiting Dora Baggins and he usually didn’t leave Frodo to his own devices when the little Took was coming. Pippin was only a little over ten years old and somewhat young to be visiting for an undetermined amount of time without his family, but there was an illness of some sort abroad in the Tookland and Eglantine presently had little time for anything but her healer’s duties. Pearl was an apprenticing healer, so she was off with her mother. Nell and their cook were managing the house, and Vinca was too young to mind little Pippin without someone to help her. That and, truth be told, Lanti wanted her youngest away from the sickness. Hobbiton was closer than Brandy Hall, so Pippin was being sent off to Bilbo and Frodo’s comfortable hole.

It had really been dreadful timing, as far as Frodo was concerned, when the note explaining the matter arrived from the Tooks. Not that he disliked the wee lad, nor that he didn’t enjoy having him visit, but seeing as Bilbo was going to be away for three weeks, Frodo had made some plans of his own. Bilbo had given him permission to host a big party for all his friends at the mid point of Bilbo’s absence; the first party Frodo was hosting entirely on his own. He had even sent out six very proper invitations to the friends he was inviting. There was no changing it all now and, as luck would have it, the party was set for the first night his little cousin would be at Bag End.

Pippin arrived the afternoon of the party day with his little travel bag in his hand and his larger bag in the hand of his father. Frodo noticed that the child seemed nervous or frightened instead of his usual bubbly self. His eyes had an odd haunted look to them and he seemed to be clinging to his father.

“I’m sorry to do this to you Frodo,” Paladin said with an awkwardness not normal to him as he set his son down on Bag End’s front step. “We truly do hate putting you and Bilbo out, but Lanti just won’t have the lad kept by kin nor friend in the Tooklands.”

“I understand Cousin Paladin. He shouldn’t be exposed to whatever it is that is plaguing the Tooklands,” Frodo said, trying to sound as mature as he could for his 28 years. He squatted down to speak to Pippin. “Sam is in the garden, Pip, if you would like to go see Sam.”

The lad perked up a little. He smiled and nodded happily. “Yes! I like Sam!” he said as he hurried off around the hole to where the garden was, his little travel bag still clutched in his hand.

Frodo stood up and addressed his older cousin. “Have there been any . . .” he paused, “. . . any deaths?”

“No, lad, thank all that’s good and fair in Middle-earth, though you may want to chose a word other than “plaguing.” The haggard hobbit smiled a weary smile.

Frodo startled a little. “Oh! Oh, my! I should say so. I’m sorry, Cousin Paladin. I . . . eh . . . I was just about to say that Bilbo is not here just now.”

“He will be back in a week and a half. He is visiting his Cousin Dora Baggins and doesn’t even know yet about your needing to have us watch Pippin. But . . .” Frodo hastened along, “I have the Gamgees just down The Hill. Should I need any assistance I can get help from them. In fact, should I need to, Cousin Paladin, would you mind my taking Pippin down to their hole occasionally so I can have a small break from watching the lad?”

Paladin smiled a knowing, and relieved, smile. “That will be a fine thing to do, Frodo. If the Gamgees are willing to take him some of the time, that will be all well and good.”

They chatted a little longer then Paladin took his leave of Frodo to hurry back to Whitwell.

Frodo had hoped he could send Pippin to the Gamgees to stay overnight while he had his party, and did some sleeping it off the next morning. But he hopes were soon dashed when he asked Sam about it back in the garden.

“I’ve a favor to ask you, Sam,” Frodo began. “Well, to ask of your Mum and Gaffer more than you.”

“You know about the party tonight . . .” Frodo began, but paused as he saw the light of understanding come into Sam’s brown eyes.

“The little tyke,” Sam said with a nod toward where Pippin was playing in the dirt under the swing.

“They can’t take the lad. The whole family is goin’ to visit Aunt May and her new babe. They’re leavin’ right after tea and are spendin’ the evenin’. All that is ‘cept me, as I’m invited to your party tonight.”

“I reckon the party is why you were wantin’ someone to watch over Pippin for you.”

“Tell you what, Mister Frodo. I haven’t been too terribly comfortable with comin’ to the party . . . I know, I know,” the gardener said holding up his hands to stop the words his master was about to speak. “I know that I know all your friends, and there are very few of them as make me feel anything but welcome, but I feel awkward just the same. I am suggestin’ that I’ll be there, sit at supper with you all, be in the parlor and sing songs and such, but that I be responsible for the lad.”

“Of course I would! I like that little lad and I’m used to a young one being underfoot.”

And so it went. Supper was superb, the bottle of Old Winyards was excellent, and the beer barrel in the cellar had been filled with the best the Green Dragon brewed. Pippin had appeared to have fun as most of Frodo’s friends were cousins of his and he already knew them, while Sam had kept the child occupied whenever the other guests and the host were too busy for him. Finally Pippin’s bed time arrived. All the guests received a sloppy kiss goodnight, Frodo excused himself for a few minutes to help the lad get ready for bed and tuck him in. Sam stayed behind to tell Pippin a bedtime story or two so Frodo could return to his party.

And return he did! He had had three glasses of wine with his meal, two more than his usual, and afterwards had three half-pints of that wonderful beer in fast order. After tucking Pippin in, he decided he liked the beer so much that he had three more, then added a few swigs from the bottle of a distiled home brew that Tolly Chubb snuck out of his father’s store in their cellar. Good old Frodo was feeling very happy by the time Pippin showed up in the doorway of the parlor.

The little lad was looking very forlorn, hugging the small, satin pillow he cuddled at night.

“Frodo, I wet the bed,” Pippin softly said, his embarrassment adding a tremor to his voice. He was a “big lad” of ten who knew enough to use the privy or the chamber pot; it wasn’t pleasant to feel like a faunt.

It was easy for Frodo and all his friends to see, and smell, that the child had indeed wet the bed. This was not something Frodo wanted to have to deal with in front of all his tweenaged friends. They were having fun. He was having fun and now this smelly little child was ruining eveything. Sam had said he would take care of Pippin, so he started to push away from the table where he was playing draughts with Tolly, but he didn’t move fast enough.

“Pippin!” Frodo screamed at the lad as he turned all red in the face. “How dare you do that! You are much too old for that and you know I’m having a party and wanting to be with my friends.” Frodo’s words were sightly slurred from too much drink. He staggered a bit as he marched over to stand, swaying, in front of his little cousin, who now had a look of horror on his small face. “You did this on purpose to get attention, didn’t you? Just like at your house, you have to be the center of attention! Fussing and annoying your sisters until you get what you want or you get them in trouble.”

Frodo grabbed the child by the arm, pulling Pippin, too quickly for his little legs to move, all the way to the child’s bedroom, leaving all of his friends in stunned silence behind him. With a nod to the others, Sam silently followed them. He had seen his friend and master’s temper a few times before. It had been back when Frodo was a bit of a wild youngster and had come to visit Mister Bilbo. He could also remember Master Merry’s father not always being able to handle the orphaned lad who was in his care. But Sam had seen only mild remnants of that temper since Mister Frodo had come to Bag End to live.

Frodo pushed the door into Pippin’s room open with a shove that sent it banging against the wall. He yanked the child over to the bed. The room stank with urine. He bent Pippin over the edge of the wet bed and spanked him, giving him five solid swats before rather roughly letting go of him. The little lad’s wobbly legs gave under him and he ended up landing on the floor with a soft thud.

“Eewww!” Frodo spat out as he looked for a dry part of the bedding to wipe his hand off. “Eeeww! Now I have your pee on my hand!”

A small cup of water stood on the nightstand. Frodo picked it up, held his hand over the bed and poured the water over it, then he dried it on an different dry spot on the sheets. He looked down at the child. Dealing with his hand had taken the hot edge off of his anger, but he was still terribly upset. Much more than he would have been had he been sober.

“There was no oilcloth on the bed, Pippin, because you aren’t supposed to wet the bed anymore!” Frodo fumed while pacing back and forth. “So the mattress is soaked as well as the linens.” He stopped pacing and held his head. For a moment, he thought he might get sick.

“Just what I need,” he thought angrily. “As if the little brat hasn’t made enough mess.” Even as he thought it, it sounded wrong. Pippin wasn’t a brat, but the thought quickly swirled away as another wave of nausea rolled through his midsection.

Lifting his head, the pale and queasy tween shook his finger at the child who sat huddled and crying on the floor. “You will take the filthy linens off the bed and put them in the laundry, then you can sleep on the floor since the mattress is wet. And you had better not let the linens drag on the floor and spread your pee all over the hole. I’m . . .” Frodo belched loudly, bringing a foul taste into his mouth. “I’m going back to my party and I better not hear another peep out of you tonight, or you’ll get another spanking!” With that Frodo stomped out of the room.

Sam barely had time to duck into the linen closet before Frodo stormed past on his way back to the parlor. He could hear him telling Rolo Boffin to start playing his fiddle again and offering everyone another round of beer. The guests were all drunk enough that they quickly forgot about the interruption and went on with the party.

By the time Sam felt he could come out of the closet safely, and tend to the little one, Pippin had stood up and was starting to try to pull the soggy linens off of the bed as he had been told.

“Here now, Master Pippin,” Sam quietly said as he gently pulled the sheet out of the child’s hands. “Here now. Let me help you, lad.”

Pippin was crying and sniffling too hard to respond, but he nodded and let Sam finish with the bedding.

“You stay here, Pip, and I’ll just put these in the laundry. Then I’ll get a few towels and a basin and we’ll get you all washed up. Don’t sit on the chair, now, bein’ as you’re wet. I’ll be right back.”

In less than a quarter hour, Sam had Pippin washed up, in a clean nightshirt, taken to the privy for good measure, and bedded down in front of a small fire on a pallet made with a thick quilt.

“I din’t mean ta . . . ta wet the bed, Sam.” Pippin whispered. “I din’t do it for ‘tension.” Large tear filled eyes looked up at the gardener. “I’m scared. I want my Mama.”

Sam sat down on the floor beside the frightened lad and took him onto his lap. He felt so sorry for Pippin. Mister Frodo had never treated his little cousin so harshly, and he was already frightened from being away from his family.

“How about I sing a song for you, real quiet like so as not to bother the others? Just for you. Will that help?”

Sam rubbed the lad’s back and sang to him until he fell asleep. He laid the little one down on the soft pallet, covered him gently, then he went back to the party - or what was left of the party. Frodo had fallen asleep in Bilbo’s favorite wingback chair and all the guests had, Sam hoped, managed to find their way to the guest rooms or home. Sam covered his friend up with a coverlet then made his own way home.

During the night, Frodo awoke with a very recognizable and unpleasant feeling. Moving as fast as he could he rushed to the privy to let his stomach empty itself. Then he let his bladder empty itself before shuffling back down the tunnel towards his room. With a jerk he stopped and stood swaying beside the door to little Pippin’s room.

“I seem to remember Pippin doing something last night, but . . . what was it? Did I do something? Say something?” Frodo wondered as an unpleasant guilty feeling stole over him. “I . . . eh . . . I’ve the feeling I wasn’t very nice to him, poor wee mite, but I don’t really remember.”

Cautiously, as though there was a dragon on the other side of the door instead of a small hobbit child, Frodo opened the bedroom door. By the light of the small lamp on the nightstand he could see the bed. It was stripped to the ropes. The mattress and the linens were gone.

“Why did Pippin do that?” he mumbled aloud to himself. “How did he do that?”

He looked toward the hearth and saw a small, comforter covered form lying before the now cold ashes of a small fire. Though he wasn’t feeling all that steady, he quietly entered the room, put some kindling and a couple of small logs on the hearth, lit a new fire, then turned to look down at the small child.

Pippin had his head on his satin pillow, which he was also clinging to with both arms. There was an air about the lad of someone who was sleeping soundly because they were exhausted.

“I’ve the feeling I didn’t handle things well,” Frodo mumbled again. “I’m sorry, Pip,” he whispered to the sleeping lad, then shuffled out of the room and off to his own bed.

Morning came too soon for Frodo Baggins. It came too soon and with smells that should have been most appealing but instead turned his stomach in unpleasant circles. He lay staring at the wall, hoping the wretched feeling would pass when he heard a light tapping on his bedroom door.

The door creaked open. “Are you awake, Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s voice softly asked.

Sam chuckled wheezily, “I’m bettin’ you do, sir, that’s why I’ve made up a batch of the Gaffer’s Cure. Sit up now, Mr. Frodo, so’s you can drink it down.”

Sam quickly set down the mug of Cure, lifted Frodo’s head and got the basin he had brought in with him in place just in time. When his master was done, he set the basin aside and helped him sit up.

“I’ll be right back, sir,” he said as he handed Frodo the mug of Cure. “You just drink this down while I’m gone.”

Sam headed out, but paused at the door. “No dumpin’ that out somewhere’s, Mr. Frodo. Drink it down quick. Straight down. I’ll be right back.” He hurried on his way before the smell from the basin made him ill.

Frodo held the mug up to his lips then almost gagged. The smell was hideous! But the Gaffer’s Cure was legendary in Hobbiton, so he held his nose and swallowed the foul smelling concoction. At first he thought it was going to all come right back up, but within a few moments his stomach actually started to feel better. Frodo leaned back and sighed.

“Well,” he said aloud to the silhouettes of his parents that hung on the wall opposite his bed, “I meant to get drunk, but I do believe I went too far.” He sighed. “I’m certain you wouldn’t have approved, Mum.”

Suddenly he was assaulted with the feeling of guilt that had come over him last night. What had he done? Frodo was trying to get his still fuzzy thinking to help him remember the night before when Sam came back into the room carrying a bed tray.

“Ya drank it, I see, Mr. Frodo. A body can tell just by lookin’ that you’re feelin’ better.”

“I am, yes. Thank you Sam. That’s an amazing elixir your Gaffer created.” Frodo paused, then with a wry grin added, “I’ll not ask what’s in it as I’m sure I wouldn’t like what I’ll hear.”

“Right you are about that, sir!” Sam said with a wink as he placed the tray over Frodo’s legs. “Here’s a bit of dry toast and some tea for ya.”

Frodo’s grin was fading as he picked up the delicate tea cup. “Sam?” he began, then took a small sip of his tea.

“Eh . . . ah,” Frodo wasn’t sure how to ask what he needed to ask. Sam noticed a blush rise in his friend’s face. “Sam, did I . . . umm, do anything last night? I mean,” Frodo rushed on, “something other than get horribly drunk?”

“I . . . well,” Frodo took a bite of his dry toast, chewed it well, added a sip of tea, chewed some more then finally swallowed. “This is perfect, Sam! It isn’t upsetting my stomach at all.”

“You’re quite welcome, sir.” Sam replied pleasantly, but Frodo could tell his gardener was calmly waiting for him to get back to the other subject.

“I woke up last night and . . . uh, had to run to the privy.” Frodo said to his plate of toast. “I was . . . eh, on my way back to my room when I stopped in front of the room Pippin is in.” Frodo looked up suddenly. “Is he still in his room?”

“No sir,” Sam said, working very hard at not smirking. “He finished his elevenses and I took him down to visit with my Mum and Marigold before I came to look in on you. My family got home just before elevenses, ya see, and I thought it might be good to tend to you without the wee lad about.”

“Good thinking, Sam. Yes, good thinking.” Frodo ate a little more then looked up at Sam with worried eyes. “Did I do something bad last night? I had the most terrible feeling of . . . well, guilt as I stood by Pip’s door. Then I looked in and his bedding was gone. The mattress and all, Sam! However did that happen? And the lad was laying on a pallet on the floor with the child’s size comforter that he so likes when he is here put over him. The fire had burned out and he just looked so . . . so” Frodo’s gaze went back to his plate of toast.

Sam was glad to see his master’s discomfort. He had been very unhappy with how he had treated his little cousin.

Frodo sighed heavily. “Usually Pip looks so sweet and peaceful when he’s sleeping, but last night he looked troubled and exhausted. It broke my heart to see him on the floor like that.”

“I just cannot seem to shake this awful feeling of guilt.” Once more the sad, worried eyes looked up at the stalwart gardener. “Did I do something wrong, Sam?”

Frodo’s only response was to swallow hard at the lump in his throat before Sam continued.

“You had more to drink than you ought to have, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, then his voice softened a little. “Mind, so did everyone else.” He looked away and sighed. “I would have too if I hadn’t told you I’d keep an eye on the lad.” He brought his eyes back to his master’s. “Master Pippin wasn’t his usual self, hadn’t been the whole time he was here, as you might have noticed if you hadn’t been havin’ the party on your mind, it bein’ such an important event for you and all. He wasn’t at all happy to see his Pa leave, he wasn’t eatin’ as much as usual neither. And though he did have fun with you and his other cousins, I noticed that he would go quiet some times, and look toward the front door, like he was hopin’ his Pa would come back for him.”

“I didn’t notice any of that,” Frodo sadly whispered. He was looking at the toast on his plate again. He hadn’t taken a bite since the discussion had started.

“No, I didn’t reckon you did, sir. I told him three stories ‘fore he went to sleep and you and the others had done a goodly deal more drinkin’ by the time I came back to the party. Mr. Rollo’s fiddle playin’ was getting rather wild and you were talkin’ a good deal louder than usual. About an hour went by and suddenly Master Pippin was standin’ in the doorway, huggin’ that pillow of his and lookin’ upset and frightened. He said he’d wet the bed just about the time I could smell the pee on him, me sittin’ by the door and all, I smelled it first.”

“That was the whole point, Mr. Frodo. The whole reason the lad looked as he did. He was embarrassed. That, and, I think he knew how important the party was to you and that he was not going to be welcome.”

“I . . . I got upset,” Frodo said, nearly to himself. “I remember it now. I seem to be able to see myself getting upset as though it was someone else and I’m watching.” He was still looking down. “I’m yelling at him and dragging him off down the tunnel to his room and he can’t keep up, so he’s running and stumbling along after me. I’m yelling at him and spanking him. I . . . I told him to strip the bed and not drag the linens on the floor.”

Frodo paused, swallowing hard. Tears had formed as he spoke and now trickled down his cheeks.

“Foolish thing to order him to do. He’s too little to do any of that all by himself.”

“I took care of it, Mr. Frodo,” Sam’s voice was soothing. He laid a caring hand on his master’s shoulder. “I went after you, waited till you were done gettin’ your upset out, then I went in and took care of the lad. Got the bed and him all cleaned up, got him calmed down and back to sleep. By the time I went back to the parlor you were asleep and the others gone home or to the guest rooms.”

“The others!” Frodo sat up sharply, looking at Sam with a worried expression at the sudden reminder that some of his guests had intended to stay the night at Bag End.

“All taken care of, Mr. Frodo. The Hobbiton lads had all gone home last night, and I got Mr. Rolo and Mr. Regie into the pony trap and carted them off to the Green Dragon after second breakfast this mornin’. I . . . eh, I thought it might be best if they were gone by the time you woke up, sir.”

Frodo slumped back against the pillows. “Yes. Yes, good thinking Sam. Good thinking.” He sat quietly a few moments, staring down at the stone cold toast and tepid tea on the bed tray, then asked tentatively, “How is Pippin?”

“He’s sad more than anything, Mr. Frodo. We had us a good long talk this mornin’ over breakfast. I told him how sometimes folk have too much of good things and it makes them act poorly.” Sam smiled and chuckled lightly. “He said, ‘Like when I eat too much sweets and get sick to my tummy and throw up and have to go to bed?’ And I laughed and told him yes, sort of like that exceptin’ that when it’s ale and wine and such that folks have too much off it makes them behave different than how they usually behave.”

“Pippin’s a right clever little lad, he is, knew right off what I was meanin’. He said, ‘Cousin Frodo must of had too much ale and wine and such then, ‘cause he wasn’t being Cousin Frodo.’ I told him that was right. He asked if you were still having too much of that stuff this mornin’ and I told him no, you wouldn’t be, but that you would be feelin’ like he does when he’s had too many sweets, and might he like to go visit with Marigold when she came home, and he said he would. So that’s what we did.”

Frodo looked up with a grateful smile. “You handled that all perfectly, Sam. You really are a wonder.”

Just before afternoon tea, Marigold brought Pippin back to Bag End. Sam had fixed a light, but lovely, repast for Mr. Frodo and his young cousin, but he went home with his sister to have tea with his family.

In between this rudimentary conversation the cousins were silent, which was highly unusual for Pippin. They had also avoided meeting each other’s eyes. It wasn’t until they were both picking at their custard tarts that Pippin finally brought up the subject they were both avoiding.

“I’m sorry you can’t send me home, Cousin Frodo,” Pippin mumbled as he stirred the custard around in it’s pastry shell. It was one of his favorite treats, yet he had not taken a single taste of the tart.

“That’s what I would do if I lived in a nice hole and someone wet the bed.” The last few words were said so quietly that Frodo barely heard them. He was about to reply when the lad continued in his more accustomed fashion. “But Ma and Da said that they didn’t know how long I had to stay away from all the sick people, and so I know you can’t send me home. Maybe you can send me to the Gamgees. Their hole isn’t as fancy as Bag End and they have had a lot of children, Marigold and Sam have told me there are six children in their family, and they most likely wouldn’t mind it so very much to have me visit them. And Marigold said they don’t have any parties planned or nothing so that would be all right too. I wouldn’t ruin anything.”

It always amazed Frodo how much the little Took could manage to say in one breath. But this time that wasn’t what was foremost in his thoughts. For a while Frodo let his thoughts coalesce; Pippin kept stirring the custard around in his tart.

“You are saying I should send you away because you did something bad? Because I got very upset with you?”

The little lad slowly nodded his head without looking up from the well stirred custard tart.

“Pippin, if anyone should be sent away for being bad or behaving poorly, that person should be me.”

Pippin’s little mouth slowly dropped open. “But . . . but . . . You live here, Frodo!”

The elder cousin smiled wryly. “Yes I do, but that’s what Bilbo should do to someone who misuses his nice hole like I did. I wasn’t a good host, Pippin. A good host should never get so drunk that he can’t care for the needs of his guests.”

“You took care of their needs, Frodo,” The lad said softly lowering his gaze back to the custard tart. “You served a really good dinner and had all sorts of nice afters and things for filling up corners. And they all said how good the wine and ale was.”

“They? You mean my friends who came to the party? Well, I supposed they did, though I don’t remember some of the evening, and they weren’t my only guests. Weren’t you one of my guests? Weren’t you visiting Bag End?”

The little head nodded. “But I’m just family and a lad. I’m not a grown up friend.”

“A guest is a guest, Pippin, whether they are family or friend. After all, everyone here last night was a relative, excepting Sam. You were, are, no less a guest because you are my cousin, nor because you’re just a lad, and I didn’t take good care of your needs at all.”

“I left you with Sam most of the day while I dallied about with rather unimportant parts of the preparations for the party. I didn’t speak with you at dinner, and I most certainly did not pay mind to your needs afterwards either.”

“Who had spent time with you all day, and who played with you while I was busy with my other guests?”

“Yes. Sam. Sam was a good host, though it was not his place to be one. He took care of you and all my guests. He took care of me. I was not a good host, and I’m certain that Bilbo will not be pleased when he finds out how I behaved.” Frodo sighed and took Pippin’s hand in his. “Pip, what you did was not your fault. You had gone to the privy before you got into bed, just like you should. You were scared and missing your family and what happened happens sometimes to young ones when they are afraid and feeling lonely. Then, you were a very good brave lad because you came to tell me what happened so I could help you. Did I help you, Pip?”

Pippin shook his head. He blushed and lowered his head. “No,” he sadly whispered.

“No need for you to feel badly about it, Pippin! I was the one who was wrong,” Frodo softly exclaimed. “Look at me, Pippin.”

Out it all poured. “You yelled, Frodo. You yelled at me and your face got all red and you yelled and you pulled me down the tunnel and you spanked me and yelled some more and you said I just wanted ‘tension and you told me to clean up my mess and sleep on the floor.”

The lad was crying hard now and his speach had been peppered with many sniffles and quick, shaky gasps. The fear and humiliation he had felt the night before shown in his eyes.

Frodo hung his head, then suddenly went down on his knees beside Pippin’s chair, flinging his arms around his little cousin and hugging him tight.

“I’m so sorry, Pip!” Frodo sobbed. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m so sorry. You weren’t naughty, I was!”

For a long while the two held each other and cried. Frodo had never felt so horrible and was lost in a internal tirade against himself for being so harsh to his little cousin. Then Frodo noticed one small hand was patting his back.

“It’s all right, Cousin Frodo,” Pippin was cooing in his ear. “It’s all right. Cousin Bilbo won’t make you leave. I’ll tell him you didn’t mean it and he won’t make you leave. I love you, Frodo. It’s all right.”

Frodo’s heart took a moment to be amazed at the love of children, then he squeezed Pip a little harder.

“I love you too, Pip,” he whispered in the little ear that was brushing his lips. “I love you and I promise you I will never treat you that badly again.” Frodo pulled away to look into the child’s eyes. He grinned at Pippin. “That doesn’t mean you won’t get punished if you misbehave, young hobbit, but I will never be out of control with you again, and I’ll never treat you rudely when you come to visit.”

They hugged again. As they did, Frodo’s glance fell upon Pippin’s stirred up, toyed with, custard tart.

Pippin looked over at the pastry. “I sort of mixed it about too much I think.”

Pippin nodded and the tarts were exchanged. Pippin dug in with all the enthusiasm of the child that he was. As Frodo ate the soupy tart he felt it was the least he deserved for how he had behaved.

Pippin stayed for two weeks, the last few days of which Cousin Bilbo was back home at Bag End. Bilbo was not happy to hear how Frodo had behaved, but was proud of how his lad owned up to his misdeed. Frodo was never such a poor host again.

This is from a plot bunny given to my by Cathleen. I'll share the actual bunny at the end so as not to give spoilers.
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It really was a lovely late Thrimidge day. The sun was warm, but not too hot. The air was fresh, not heavy. The more annoying insects weren’t hatched out yet. It was decidedly too nice a day to spend in doors. Even most of the adult hobbits of Brandy Hall were out and about.

The Master’s son and his favorite cousin were no exception, although typical for them, they had made more of an adventure of it then just being outside in the environs of the Hall. They had crossed the Brandywine on the ferry to go trout fishing in The Stockbrook. Merry was leaning comfortably against the trunk of a large elm tree near the water’s edge, Pippin was sitting on the edge of the bank, dangling his feet in the water. They were fishing in a section of the brook that was a fast moving mixture of shallows and deeps where the trout loved to hide, just downstream from a narrow old wooden bridge.

Earlier, they had been fly fishing and had filled Merry’s creel with lovely trout, but now they were letting their luncheon settle while they fished for dace with small worms for bait and their bobbers set to keep the bait shallow. Merry was nearly asleep, leaning comfortably against the tree, when a cry from Pippin jerked him awake.

“That hobbit just threw something off the bridge. Do you think it might disturb the fish?”

The hobbit in question hadn’t noticed the two lads on the bank when he made his way onto the bridge and threw his burden over the edge, but he heard Pippin’s “hoy”. His head jerked up then he scuttled off the causeway and away into the woods.

“I wouldn’t think it will disturb them too much, Pippin. They have to be accustomed to things floating by, one would think.”

Merry had already slipped into the rushing stream. He sucked in a gasp; the water was icy cold. He knew where the sandbar was, he had been fly-fishing off of it before lunch, but then he had worn his waders and the cold hadn’t been as noticeable. Now, he quickly was losing the feeling in his feet and legs. Merry hoped he would keep his footing as he waded out into the current while keeping his eyes on the wriggling bag.

“It’s squealing, Merry!” Pippin was becoming very agitated. Against Merry’s order, he was now standing up in the water at the edge of the stream. “Help it Merry!”

Merry neatly snatched the bag from the water, nearly losing his balance in the process, as it was much heavier than he had expected. He had been concentrating so hard that he had not heard the noises until now. Whatever was in the bag was terrified and frantically trying to get out. Merry struggled to get to the bank. Pippin, who had clambered out of the water, took the bag then set it down to give his cousin a hand up. Without waiting to see how Merry was, he set to trying to open the bag.

“U-use th-th-this,” Merry stuttered out between chattering teeth as he handed Pippin his pocketknife. Pippin cut the cord that bound the top of the bag then opened the top as wide as he could.

“Kittens! Oh my! It’s little wee kittens, Merry!” He let the top edge of the bag fall, revealing two very wet kittens while the folds of the bag recovered the others. Merry knelt to help and they quickly had seven cold, soggy kittens out on the grass. Pippin stripped off his shirt.

“Shirt, Merry. Take off your shirt. We have to dry them and get them warmed up.”

“D-dry th-them and w-warm th-them!” the rather soaked hobbit sighed, but he dutifully removed his shirt and started to dry off one of the kittens. Typical of his cousin, Pippin was talking and thinking a mile a minute.

“We need to dump the trout out of the creel, Merry, and I’ll wind my scarf onto the bottom and we can put the wee mites in there to take them home. Then we’ll need to see if you have any mama cats with kittens in the barns at the Hall and then we’ll have to see if they will take these babies too. We have to do that sometimes with lambs and piglets at home.”

“N-not leaving th-the f-f-fish.” Merry said slowly. “P-put kittens in p-picn-nic basket.”

“Poor wee thing.” Pippin crooned at the kitten he was drying. “That’s an even better idea, Merry. That already has the cloths in there that the bread and cheese were wrapped in. We can put the kittens in those.” He looked at his shivering cousin. “You can have my scarf,” he added cheerfully, as though that would be enough to warm Merry up.

They soon had the kittens as dry as they could get them. Pippin packed them into the basket while Merry saw to their fishing gear, then they were on their way as fast as they could go without jostling the kittens too badly. Both lads found they were warmer without their damp shirts on, so they left them off. They were quite a sight to old Moro Brandybuck, the ferry hobbit.

“Master Merry, whatever are ya up to?” he asked, staring wide-eyed at the pair. “Goin’ ‘bout half nekked like that. Master Pippin too.” Then his old ears heard the kittens, which were still complaining about their condition. “Whatever am I hearin’?”

“Some hobbit threw a bag full of kittens into Stockbrook!” Pippin answered angrily. “Live kittens!”

“What colors are they?” the old hobbit asked. He had a strange look on his face.

“One that’s parti-coloured, two grey, two black and white, and two white ones,” Merry informed him.

Moro stepped back with his hands coming up in front of him, as though to hold something at bay.

“White cats! Thrimidge cats! You ain’t takin’ them on my ferry. They’re bad luck, they are.”

“But you have to let us cross!” Pippin exclaimed, growing panic in his voice. “It’s too far to the Bridge and we have to get back to the Hall.”

“Easy Pip. Easy.” Merry said calmly to Pippin before turning to address old Moro. “You really do need to take us across, Mr. Moro.” He knew he had some authority as the Master’s son.

“Mr. Moro,” Merry began, sounding exactly like his father. “We will recompense you in any way appropriate or necessary. Or . . . well, my father will.”

A struggle played itself out upon the ferry hobbit’s face until he reached his decision. It was really that hard. On the one hand, that basket was full of bad luck sure as sure. One the other hand, the Master was a good, fair and honest hobbit, but he would not be pleased if his son and nephew had not been allowed to use the ferry to come home.

“I’ll need the usual fare, Master Merry, then you’ll have to send me down three springs of white heather tied together with four strands of a young lasses hair and two acorns. I’ll be needin’ all that before the day is out, Master Merry.”

Moro nodded and waved the lads aboard, but he kept a safe distance away from them and their, to his mind, cursed picnic basket. He didn’t breathe easy until the Master’s lad and his cousin were off the ferry and well on their way toward Brandy Hall.

“Aunt Esme!” they were calling as they came in the side entrance to the Hall that led into the Master’s apartments.

“It was awful, Aunt Esme! This hobbit came onto the little bridge over the Stockbrook and I saw him throw something over the short wall that bridge has on the sides of it too keep folk from falling off. I asked Merry if it might frighten our fish away and he said it oughtn’t and then we saw it was wiggling and Merry went into the brook to get it and it was full of wee kittens, Aunt Esme!”

Esme looked at her son while Pippin was talking. Merry breeches were obviously damp, his lips were blue, he was bare from the waist up, and he was shivering. But he also seemed as anxious as his young cousin was about the kittens. Pippin had been tugging at the basket she had packed their luncheon in while he explained the matter, and Merry had finally seemed to realize it and set it down. His mother knelt down and opened it up to find it contained seven kittens wrapped in the towels that previously held bread and cheese.

“Mr. Moro had not wanted to let us on the ferry, Mum,” Merry said quietly as she began to look more closely at the little animals. “He said they were bad luck as there are two white ones and they were born this month.”

She nodded. “Yes, Merry. Some folks think that, well, think white cats are bad luck and that Thrimidge born cats are of no worth because they will not be good hunters.”

“Well,” Esme said, looking up sadly at her two favorite lads. “I’m sorry to say that two of the kittens are already dead, and the others will follow if we don’t find them a mother very soon.

Pippin and Merry looked into the basket. One of the grey kittens and one of the poor, supposedly unlucky, white ones weren’t moving.

“I think I know just the cat to take these wee mites in,” Esme said as cheerily as she could while she quickly closed the lid on the basket. “Let us go and find Mistress Pearl.” She would leave the dead kittens in there when she put the others with Pearl the cat, then give the basket it to Madoc, the head of the stables, to take care of burying them.

She got to her feet, picked up the basket and they all headed for the main stable for Brandy Hall.

Esme and led the lads straight to the tack room. There, in a corner of the room, in a box with straw in it was Pearl and her four kittens. The big grey cat with the teardrop shaped white “pearl” on her head was a strong lass with a reputation for producing strong cats that were good hunters. Her current litter had been born on the last day of Astron, and so was free of the curse of being Thrimidge kittens like the ones the lads had pulled from the river. Pearl’s little ones had eyes just starting to open. In another week or so they would be scrambling out of their box home.

Madoc had seen them come in and went over to stand behind the Mistress and the cousins, watching as she placed one wee kitten near one of Pearl’s ample teats. She always had milk enough for her own little ones and to spare, and had been a surrogate mother before. The little black and white kitten nudged about for a few moments then latched on. Esme added the other five one at a time. It was a success as Pearl’s own kittens did not seem to mind the newcomers and Pearl herself immediately set about grooming the new additions to her family.

She noted the suspicious tone in his voice. Esme stood to her feet, picked up the basket, and drew the stable master away from the box full of mother cat and kittens. “The lads rescued them from the Stockbrook, Madoc. I know you are wishing I’d not brought them in here, but I won’t hold to those superstitions about Thrimidge kittens. Nor,” she added with emphasis, “the one about white kittens either. Our best house cat when I was growing up was a pure white cat, and nary a dram of bad luck did she bring to us. So I won’t abide it.”

Madoc knew when to hold his piece. “As ya wish, Mistress,” he calmly said while silently reminding himself to get the appropriate good luck charms and hang them about the tack room.

“Thank you Madoc,” Esme said with a sigh of relief. “I’ve another task for you.” She held out the basket. “Two of the poor little things were already dead when the lads got them home. If you would please take care of burying them . . .”

“No, Auntie!” Pippin called out as he hopped up and came to her side. “Merry and I will bury them. We tried to help them and I feel we should see them off properly. I’ve helped with burying kitties and pups and the like that my sisters and I had already named.”

With a solemn look, Pippin gently tugged the basket out of his Aunt’s hand then turned to look up at Madoc Brandybuck.

“No offence Mr. Madoc, but I know the farm hands at home just don’t do it right. Merry and I will give them a proper burial.”

“Of course, Master Pippin,” the stable manager replied with a nod. He turned to the Mistress as the lad went back over to the box in the corner. “I know what he means, Mistress,” he said in a low tone so the lads wouldn’t hear him. “Ma sister ‘n I always wanted to do a proper burial for any wee critter we had come to have feelings for. I’ll find the lads a shovel.” He bowed his head to her then went to get the shovel.

Merry paused in his digging to wipe his brow. The little grave didn’t need to be too deep, but Pippin insisted it be at least a couple of feet deep so nothing would dig the kittens up. Whenever he had needed to dig a hole for any reason, it had always surprised Merry how hard the ground could be. At least the spot was under the shade of a large oak tree not far from the stables.

“Is that deep enough, Pip?”

“I think so.” The younger cousin stuck the measuring stick he was holding into the hole up against one of the sides. His face scrunched up with concentration as he bent low to look at the markings. “‘Tis an inch short of two feet, Merry, but I won’t begrudge you an inch.”

“Good thing you don’t! Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve not taken a turn at the digging.”

“I’ve been wrapping up the kittens. You said you didn’t want to do that.”

“No,” Merry said softly, disgust mingling sadness in his tone. He turned his head to stare at some of the old oak’s roots. “They’re . . . dead.”

“Well, everything dies eventually, Merry.” Pippin said with the hard won wisdom of a farmer’s son in his gentle voice. “I’ve seen dead animals most of my life. I still don’t like it, wish it didn’t happen, but I’ve sort of grown accustomed to it.”

“But why,” Merry exclaimed harshly, causing Pippin to startle at the sudden change. “Why put a litter of helpless little kittens into a sack and throw it into a stream? That’s a dastardly thing to do!”

“It was cruel and stupid and . . . and . . . senseless! As if those kittens could harm him somehow,” Merry ranted on as he began to pace angrily back and forth. “And,” he turned to look at his cousin, “I’ve heard some of the farm lads here in Buckland say they ofttimes do the same cowardly thing because they simply ‘don’t need no more cats about ta farm, Master Merry.’ Of all the horrible things!”

Merry stopped his pacing, his jaw dropped in surprise. “You’ve known? You have known that some farmers do that?”

Pippin nodded. A tinge of fear crept into his eyes. Merry was getting frightfully worked up.

“I . . . never . . . I don’t like it, and my da says he has never done it and won’t allow none, eh, any of our farm hands to do such a thing. But yes, there are some of our neighbors that do it. They . . .” The lad paused, trying to gage whether or not he should go on. Merry’s face was red with anger.

“Well, they say that if they don’t do it they get so many cats about their farms that they starve and such. That there aren’t enough varmints around to keep them all fed and that they can’t be feeding a huge clowder of cats and so they . . .”

Pippin left the sentence unfinished, hanging awkwardly in the air between the cousins.

Merry’s anger vanished like a popped soap bubble as he sat with a thump next to Pippin. There were tears glistening on the edge of his lower eyelids.

“It shouldn’t be that way. Life just shouldn’t be that way, Pip.” Merry drew in a deep, shuddering, breath then let it out in a long slow sigh. “It just isn’t right to kill something because there are too many of them or because they are supposedly bad luck.”

Pippin weighed his reply carefully. He didn’t want to get Merry all riled up again. That, and, it simply felt strange that he was the one with the knowledge and experience. He was sounding like the older cousin.

“I agree with you Merry, especially with the bad luck part of it, although I do have some superstitions of my own, none of them involve needing to kill something to set things right. But . . .”

Pippin nodded. “Da won’t allow it on our farm, he has the farm hand who gelds the ponies geld all the boy cats. We still have a few litters because stray toms come around, but he says there is truth to the having too many cats, or too many any things, on a farm.” Merry looked shocked, Pippin hurried on. “He said that there can be times when there are too many of something for the area they have to live in and that they can eat all the food and then they starve or get sicknesses. Da said it happened once when he was a lad.

He said that a farmer near to our farm had started to go a bit dotty and wasn’t tending his sheep flock properly. They were in a moderate sized field with stone walls keeping them in. Da said the dotty old hobbit didn’t sell or slaughter any sheep or lambs for a couple of years. Grand Da rode by one day and noticed the place had a foul stench about it. He went and talked to the old farmer and could tell he wasn’t right in his head any longer. Well, he went about the farm to check on things and there were dead chickens in an over crowded coop because he hadn’t thinned the flock, and there was that field of sheep near to packed full of thin sickly sheep and lots of dead ones lying about.”

Merry had gone pale. He was currently learning about farming so that he would be able to properly do his job when he became Master of Buckland. He was spending time with the head of the stables, with the master gardener, Brandy Hall’s smithy and others. But he had not heard anything like the information being told to him by his young cousin.

“Then there was the Cat Hobbitess in Tookbank. Three years ago it was found that her hole was over running with cats. For a long time, no one realized how many she had. Nobody thought about her cats having kittens and that she hadn’t given any away. Then, her daughter came to visit from the Northfarthing and found her Ma was living in filth and there were fifty cats in there! Most were half starved and sickly, several were dead . . .”

“Enough Pip!” Merry cut his cousin off, holding one hand up, palm towards Pippin, to strengthen his request. He swallowed hard a couple of times. “Just take care of the kittens, please.”

Merry kept his head turned away as Pippin picked up the two little cloth wrapped bodies, placed them in the grave, then filled the soil in over them.

Merry slowly got up and stood beside Pippin. He took hold of his cousin’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Ah . . . we are sorry, little kitties, that your lives were so short and . . . and ended in such a terrible manner. We are sorry that you won’t get to grow up with your brothers and sisters. We’re sorry . . .”

“May you both go some place beautiful,” Pippin said softly. “Some place where all is happy and healthy and there is no bad luck. Some place where all the other animals have gone, so there will be lots of other cats for you to play with.”

They stood for several minutes beside the little grave, then, without a further word between them, Pippin picked up the shovel and they walked back to the stables. In silence they put it away, then Pippin caught hold of Merry’s hand, pulling him down the long central aisle of the stables. They went into the tack room and over to the box in the corner.

Pearl looked up at them, blinking contentedly. Her older kittens and the new little ones were all in a jumble sound asleep. Pippin knelt down and stroked one of the little ones they had rescued with an outstretched forefinger.

“See Merry,” he said as his cousin knelt down beside him. “You can see them all breathing and they have full, fat little tummies now.”

“I rather like this one,” Pippin said as he stroked one of the black and white kittens. It hardly seemed right to call it black and white as it only had three tiny white spots on it’s back and a few flecks of white near it’s nose.

“It looks like it has snowflakes on it.” Merry said. His voice still heavy with sadness.

Pippin smiled. “It does! Hello, Snowflake,” he said, gently touching the three tiny white spots.

“No, you named it Snowflake,” Pip said with a wink at his cousin. “Would you mind if I ask about taking that one home with me? When it is old enough that is.”

“I think that would be fine.” Merry reached out to gently stroke the remaining pure white kitten. Its fur had dried and fluffed out. It was obvious that the kitten would have longish hair. “I will ask Mum if I may keep Snowball,” Merry said, giving the kitten its new name. “I’ll show folks around here that white cats aren’t bad luck.”

Pearl purred contentedly as the lads took the time to stroke all the kittens in the box before getting to their feet and sauntering out of the stables.

“What do you say to going into Bucklebury tomorrow, Peregrin, old lad?” Merry said in a mock grown up voice. “We can spend the day perusing the merchandise in the shops and take a few meals at the Brass Buckle Inn. I know how much you love their mushroom stew.”

Pippin noticed that Merry’s plans took them nowhere near to any streams or bridges, and that they would be east of The Hall, not west of it.

“That sounds a most appetizing idea, my dear Meriadoc,” Pippin replied in kind.

“And, speaking of appetizing; it is nearly time for dinner. Shall we see what cook has prepared?”

A/N: In England, white cats are the ones considered unlucky as opposed to black ones as in the US, and cats born in May (Thrimidge) are supposed to be poor mousers.

Cathleen's plot bunny:
Pip and Merry see someone throw a bag into a creek, and discover it has kittens in it. How do they react? Is it a hobbit who does it? Why? Do they find out it isn't all that uncommon on the farms? Use Cathleen's grandma's cat - Pearl

The young hobbit lass crept silently out the window of her bedroom. She nearly fell when a flash of lightening startled her, but she quickly regained herself, slipping down to land on her feet in the flower bed below the window. She ran with the wind of the storm behind her to the small clearing at the head of the lane that led to their farm from the main road. There was a small copse there with a small pond and a bit of open space in the midst of it.

Esmeralda knew that you don’t go out into the middle of an open field in a thunderstorm. You don’t go stand under a lone tree in the middle of an open field in a thunderstorm. And you especially didn’t go stand on the top of the small rise to the west of the house in a thunderstorm. Lightning liked to strike in those sort of places.

No, she decided the only really dangerous part would be the long run down the open lane of the Took’s Whitwell Farm; she also decided it was a risk she would take. Esmeralda laughed to herself as she ran. She was the risk taker, the wild child, of Adalgrim Took’s family. Flying on the fierce breath of the storm, her feet barely feeling the ground beneath them, soaked to the skin through her thin robe and night gown, she knew she was different than the rest of them. When stories were told of daring adventures, she wanted to be in the story, and as far back in her young life as she could recall, she wanted to be a wizard like old Gandalf. A female hobbit wizard with helpful magic words and a magic staff for doing good things.

She wanted to be a person with powers, and thunderstorms had more power than anything else in her world.

The thin ring of trees did not block all of the wind, they only took the sting out of it as she tiptoed through them to the wide, sandy bank that made up the south edge of the small pond. The wind was from the north so that it was nearly as strong in that open place as it had been out on the lane.

Esmeralda stood out of the cover of the trees, yet not at the edge of the pond, for that was another rule of thunderstorms: you are not to be in or near the water in a thunderstorm. She breathed deeply of the storm-charged air then slowly raised her arms before her.

“I am the Hobbit Wizardess Esmeralda!” she intoned. “You will give unto me some of your power, mighty storm.”

The sky burst into glaring light. Immediately the thunder roared. A tree somewhere cracked and broke apart. The lass stood firm. She thought of the storm her Cousin Bilbo described from his adventure; the storm that caused them to take shelter in a cave that led into the Goblin realm.

“Up in those mountains, the storms aren’t like they are here,” the old hobbit said eerily. “You’re nearer to the sky in the mountains, you see. There *the lightning splinters on the peaks, and rocks shiver, and great crashes split the air and go rolling and tumbling into every cave and hollow; and the darkness is filled with overwhelming noise and sudden light.*"

But there were no Goblins in The Shire, and she was not hiding in a cave, so Esmeralda felt no fear at the storm’s fury.

There was a blinding flash and she saw herself, standing high upon a hill top. She wore flowing green robes and bore a staff in her left hand. It lay across her chest. Slowly, she drew the head of the staff from her right to her left and a vision bloomed before her.

“They have all lied, Esmeralda!” her friend bitterly wept. “Everyone believes them. You will see. At Peridot’s birthday party, no one will talk to me. I’ll be all alone!”

Esmeralda drew her friend close. “No,” she whispered. “I will be with you. You won’t be alone. And I’ll ask Paladin to be with us as much as he can. He’s a good egg. He will be with us too. He will most likely even ask you to dance with him. You won’t be alone, Maybelle.”

“No, Esme. You go have fun at the party. I’m the one as dumped this grain all over the tack room floor, I’m the one who needs to clean it up.” Her brother’s shoulders slumped as he moved to get the straight-edged grain shovel and the large dustpan.

Esme hurried ahead of him to get the dustpan before he did. Paladin reached for it but she danced away with it held as far from him as she could get it.

“No, no, Paladin Took!” His sister smiled while shaking her finger at him. “I shall hold the dustpan for you to shovel against and I’ll hold it when you get the floor broom and sweep up all that the shovel won’t catch.”

She was in a darkened room. A large room that seemed vaguely familiar. Saradoc Brandybuck, looking quite old, was pacing before a hearth in which a feeble fire burned.

“Esme, I think I did the wrong thing. Even with all my plans and schemes people are still hungry and being chased from their homes. I can feel the mood of the Bucklanders turning against me.”

She rose to her feet and embraced him, though the part of her watching the scene didn't know why she would be doing that. The Esme that was watching barely knew Saradoc, who was, after all, four years younger than her.

“I have not, nor shall I ever turn against you,” she heard herself say. “We will see this through together. I do not think the feelings of the Bucklanders are as bad as you think.”

“Your magic is loyalty. You do not forsake kith nor kin. Because of this many will owe their happiness, their comfort, their lives to you. But you will not seek their praise and gratitude. You will not see anything beyond that you were loyal to your friends and family, and that is the only way you know to be.”

A blue-white bolt hit the surface of the small pond. Esmeralda slumped to the ground. She awoke only a few moments later, stood to her feet, then made her slow and dizzy way back to the house. Her mother found her asleep at the kitchen table the next morning, her hair and clothing damp and smelling somewhat singed. Esmeralda was sent to bed for the rest of the day. Her mother could not understand her youngest daughter.

*****

The young hobbit lad crept silently out the window of his bedroom. Oh, how he wished his cousin Merry was here . . . but then again . . .

“No,” Pippin muttered to himself. “Merry would only talk me out of this. He wouldn’t understand.”

He slid agilely down and took off running toward the rise to the west of the house, at the edge of the farmyard. The wind whipped his hair into his mouth and eyes, his nightshirt was so wet and tight against him that it looked as though his skin had odd wrinkles in it. The lightening cracked and a while later, the thunder answered.

He started up the small hill.

Mind you, he knew the rules about thunderstorms. He knew the rise was not an approved place to stand during a thunderstorm. Pippin simply didn’t care. He knew, from past experience, that there was no better place on Whitwell Farm to watch all manner of weather than the top of the hill to the west of the house.

He just hoped no one decided to look out of any of the west-facing windows.

Pippin stopped upon the very highest point of the rise, leaning his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. The wind buffeted him. The rain stung. His ears rang a little from the deafening roar of the thunder. He smiled. There was nowhere else in all of Middle-earth that he wanted to be.

He straightened up, took a deep breath and raised up his arms.

“This had better work this time,” he thought irritably. “The other five times nothing happened and two of those times I got caught sneaking back in and got punished.”

Pippin closed his eyes, reaching a little harder until he could feel the pull in his finger tips. “I am Peregrin Took! By my name I am destined to be a mighty adventurer. I will know the ways of the beasts, the look of all the plants, and I will have within me the power of the storms of the skies.”

The wind screamed. He heard something behind him fall with a crash.

“Just like Bilbo’s mountain storm,” he thought with a mischievous chuckle.

"*The lightning splinters on the peaks, and rocks shiver*, just like Bilbo said!” Pippin cried out. “*Great crashes split the air and go rolling and tumbling into every cave and hollow; and the darkness is filled with overwhelming noise and sudden light*. But I will fear no storm! I will suck all your noise, wind and light into me!”

For a moment, the small hobbit lad couldn’t see, nor hear, nor feel.

“I’ve not heard Pimpernel laugh in days! Not since her pony died.” Eglantine Took’s voice swirled in his head, then, he could see his mother as well as hear her. “Look, Paladin! She’s laughing!”

His father laughed as well. “Who wouldn’t laugh at the lad’s antics?

Pippin saw himself. His shirt was tied by its sleeves around his head. His braces were wrapped around his waist and between his legs. He had circles like a dartboard or archery target drawn on his chest and he was hanging upside down by his knees from a tree.

“Come on then, Nell! Try to knock the squirrel out of the tree! There’s a nice pile of acorns for you to pelt him with at the base of the tree over there.” He yelled, then began making chattering noises.

In between laughing, Nell managed to gasp out. “I can’t. I’m . . . laughing too hard.”

Leaves fell in a rush around them.

He saw a room. It was the parlor at Bag End.

“And that, my dear cousins, is why Tobias Took never again used the privy out behind the Horse and Wagon Inn in Whitwell!”

This was followed by applause and hearty laughter.

“Ah, Pippin lad!” Frodo exclaimed. “You truly know how to distract a person’s mind from their aches. I do believe I’ve not had so much as a twinge in my twisted ankle the whole time you’ve been telling tales.”

“That is only because his prattle numbs the senses, Frodo,” Merry said with a wink of the eye and a finger along side of his nose.

“You’re right with that, Mister Merry!” Sam said with a wink of his own.

“Well,” Pippin heard himself say with mock offense, “if I’m not wanted here, I can go.”

“Don’t you dare!” Frodo exclaimed. “Send these two away, if someone need go. I want more stories.”

Pippin bowed with a flourish. “Your wish is law, oh incapacitated one.”

With a puff of smoke from Frodo’s pipe the scene was gone.

The smoke formed a mist, pale lit as if by moon light. The air around him carried a foul stench and dark menacing shapes just ahead of him vanished into the fog. He knew he had to do something. He ran to one side then dove to land sprawled in the damp grass.

“**No hope of escape!**” he heard his own thoughts say. “**But there is a hope that I have left some of my own marks unspoilt on the wet ground.**”

He felt his hands fumbling with something at his throat, then he let that something fall as he was roughly jerked upwards.

He didn’t know why, but he felt good about what had just happened.

He felt his head spin. The darkness burst into brilliance. The air rang with a voice.

“Your magic is hope and cheerfulness. With these you will change the course of many things. With these you will strengthen those around you. With these, even poor judgement on your part will find a way to be of use.”

Lightening burned a hole into the ground at the base of the small hill with a horrible crackling noise. Paladin Took, wrapped in a robe that did nothing to keep out the driving rain, went out to see if his home or farm buildings had been hit. Another flash showed him a figure in white laying upon the hill. His parents were too grateful to find Pippin alive to punish him too badly, although he did get a cold that kept him in the house for a week and that was punishment enough.
*******************************************

Faramir Took could not resist the urge to go outside in the storm . . .

***********************************************

A/N: * Marks my challenge quote which is from the chapter “Over Hill and Under Hill”
in “The Hobbit”
** Marks quotes from the chapter “The Uruk-Hai” in “The Two Towers.

Sept. Challenge: Theme:An old person and a young person interacting.
Elements: elegant, old fashioned, fragile, wandering, sticky

The year is 1410. Pippin is 20. Ferumbras Took, The Took and Thain, is 94 and will die in 5 years so there is talk already in the Tookland of Paladin [Pippin’s father] becoming The Took and Thain of the Shire when Ferumbras dies. An OC I’ve created for this story - Cousin Isembold II (b. 1310, 6 years older than Ferumbras) - has died and it is his funeral that has sparked Pippin’s thinking.

Pippin stood in the dim light in a back corner of the huge library at Great Smials looking at a shelf holding mystery stories. Why was it, he wondered, that hobbits liked scary stories? Ones with ghosts and spirits and strange creatures. Even ones of death and murder. The Hobbits of the Shire made quite the proud boast that no hobbit living in the Shire had ever murdered another hobbit. Yet . . .

He sighed as he ran his fingers along, tickling the spines of the books. He wondered if it gave them shivers the same way such a touch would often do to him.

Yet . . . he drew his mind back to what he had been thinking, yet the hobbits of the Shire were always more than willing to suspect murder. Pippin thought of his cousin Frodo. He had long endured the whispers of murder in the death of his parents. Primula pushed Drogo. Drogo pushed Primula. One was pushing while the other one pulled the pusher in with them. The shadows of the gossip would still darken Frodo’s eyes from time to time.

There was that story concerning Briffo Boffin who rather suddenly decided to move to Bree in 1210 a mere two months after his wife’s death. Her’s had been a sudden illness which no healer had been able to do anything about. There was still the whispered talk of those strange herbs Briffo grew in his garden.

And there was the horrible time in his very own family, eight years ago when he was a little lad of twelve. His dear sister Pearl being whispered about in the matter of Lalia’s strange, accidental, demise. Pippin sighed loudly. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he sometimes wondered if something indeed had happened between Cousin Ferumbras, Pearl, and that creaky old wheeled chair full of a very fat hobbitess. Ferumbras certainly had been very kind to Pearl afterwards, doing all he could to convince everyone that it was the faulty old chair that had caused the accident. Then he gave Pearl that beautiful pearl necklace. Pippin shivered. He was certain that, to this day, he sometimes heard Lalia’s chair squeaking and groaning down the main hallway toward the Great Door on pleasant mornings. Going down that hallway on what had been her last time to “take the air”.

Oh yes! Such tales were more than popular amongst the Hobbits of the Shire, even when there wasn’t the taint of murder. He looked at the titles on some of the books before him. “The Hidden Hole,” “The Hobbit Who Dissapeared,” “Lost Passageways in the Smial,” “Whispers on the Winter Wind,” “The Ghost of Griffin Goold.”

What was it about death anyway? Pippin punched lightly at the row of books, denting in their formerly neat, tidy line. Why the fuss and the bother and why did they die anyway when Elves don’t? Cousin Isenbold II’s funeral was one of those fuss and bothers, even though Pippin had really liked the old hobbit. Just another time to have to be at the Smials and among the Tooks who lived there.

“Snobs, the lot of them!” he exclaimed aloud without meaning to as he punched another section of books out of alinement.

Pippin jumped, though the voice was soft with a smile showing in it. He turned to his left. An elderly hobbit stood there, dressed in elegant, though old fashioned, attire. Pippin did not recognize him but assumed he must have come for Cousin Isenbold II’s funeral. The lad shook his head and looked down at the floor.

“No, not the lot of them, I reckon. If you insist on being particular about it.”

“Ferdibrand, Isenbras* and Hildifons II* aren’t so bad,” the hobbit said encouragingly.

“Not Merry!” Pippin quickly looked up, a glint of fire in his eyes. “Not Merry nor Frodo, nor Sam, nor Fatty, nor Folco. They’re nice lads.”

“No,” Pippin replied. His momentary ire faded and he let his head droop forward again. “They tease me here because I’m a farmer’s son. A rural lad, not a town lad. You would think I’d not been educated or something the way they go on.” The heat was coming back to his blood and he looked up at his elder. “They tease me because I speak a bit differently from the town lads, and I have chores to do and they don’t. And they tease because I have all sisters and no brothers and they tease because . . .”

“I should run off and have an adventure,” he muttered as though the other hobbit had suddenly disappeared and he was alone again. “I should run off where no one cares about who might be Took and Thain when old Cousin Ferumbras dies. And no one would care who’s daughter Pearl is, or who her brother is, or that I’m my father’s only son and a little small for my age.”

The library was silent. So much so and for so long that Pippin jumped again when the old hobbit spoke.

“It will not do you any good, lad. My goodness! You are a nervous, lad. Do you always give such a start when other people speak?”

“Well, that’s a comfort. Come along, then, and let us sit down.” He gestured toward a couple of overstuffed leather chairs sitting on either side of a small table just to the right of where he and the youth were standing. Pippin had always thought it an odd place for them to be as the light was always poor back in this corner. The lamp on the table was often not even lit, and even when it was, its glow was anemic at best. The two sat down, Pippin with his legs tucked beneath him and the old hobbit with his crossed at his ankles.

“There now! This is much better. Friendlier. Cozier.” He held out his hand. “Mr. Boffin, at your service,” he happily announced.

“Peregrin Took, at yours and your family’s,” Pippin properly replied as he clasped the proffered hand. “Most everyone calls me Pippin though,” he added. The old hobbit’s skin felt cool and dry to the touch and fragile like tissue paper.

“As I was saying,” Mr. Boffin said, picking up where he had stopped, “it will not do you any good, running off on an adventure.”

“Why not? Cousin Bilbo said it did him good. And I’ve read Isengar Took’s account of his travels with his friend, Rollo Boffin, and he said it did him good.”

“Yes, but they went for a reason different than your’s, young hobbit. As I recall Isengar Took went on his adventure because he felt that irresistible urge to see the world that seems to afflict you Tooks. Bilbo, if memory serves me correctly, barely chose to go, and he most certainly was not running from his own life here. Why, even my ancestor, Basso Boffin, back in 1195, left because he had to, not just in the hope it would put an end to his own problems. You, young Pippin, would be running away from your problems and, I think, from yourself as well. That, I am quite sorry to have to tell you, never works.”

“Of course it will!” Pippin was irked at this person he did not even know trying to tell him his plans were flawed. “I would not be here any longer, so the problems wouldn’t affect me any more.”

“Will it change who’s only son you are? Will it change the effects of that old problem Pearl had to deal with, or that you are her brother? Will it change that you are small for your age and that you have doubts about yourself because of all these things?”

The lad’s mouth dropped open as though he meant to respond, but no sound came out.

“Why are you looking so surprised? You said all of that just a few moments ago, although I will say you said it more to yourself than to me, even though I was standing right there. And, well, I will allow that you didn’t mention doubting yourself, but I know that is part and parcel of how you are feeling, is it not?”

Pippin had closed his mouth. His lips were now curled in to form a tight, straight line across his face. He nodded.

“Then you need to see that running from troubles doesn’t work. Wherever you go, you would be there, and the troubles are inside you.”

“But . . . but.” The lad stopped and sighed. He had to admit to himself that, even though the lads who teased him would not be there, that would not solve everything. “I would be there, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes. I doubt very much that you would change the moment you go a-wandering. But,” Mr. Boffin leaned over to pat Pippin’s knee, “that does not mean you might not change eventually. You might.”

“No, no, lad. I am saying no such thing. You might change without ever leaving The Shire. You might also go on some adventure or other and change for the worse.”

The old hobbit sighed heavily. He stared off into the dark above the tops of the bookshelves and below the ceiling. “Adventures can be a sticky business. One never knows what will happen. Yours will fall upon you for a good reason when its time is full. My own I chose, and it did not go a thing like I had expected it to.”

“It all seemed so grand and glorious when we planned it. He for the thrill of seeing the outside world, and me just to leave home. Off we went. But every where we went, I had taken myself with me. Nothing had changed. I was still shy and unsure of myself. I was still not as confident or strong as he was. And everywhere we went he had to get me unstuck from some folly or other. There was that time . . .”

For a moment, Pippin saw himself, trudging down a gloomy road in the pouring rain . . . alone. It gave him a shiver. Then the spell, and Mr. Boffin’s tale, were interrupted.

Pippin glanced toward the end of the library where the entrance was. He recognized the voice; Hildifons was looking for him.

“I’m wanting to play draughts and you are much better at it than most of the other lads. Are you in here, Pippin?”

“It seems you have a friend here after all, Peregrin. He has come searching for you, has he not?” Mr. Boffin asked with a smile. “You should answer before he leaves.”

“A moment, Hilly! I’m . . .” He almost said he couldn’t go, but something in Mr. Boffin’s look made him choose to accept Hilly’s invitation. “I’ll meet you in the game room. I, eh, need to put this book back on the top shelf,” Pippin called out, then to Mr. Boffin he more quietly said, “But you’ve not finished your story.”

“All right, Pip. Meet you there, but don’t be long, will you,” Hilly called back.

“Will you run away lad?” Mr. Boffin asked Pippin; his look and voice suddenly intense.

“I won’t be long, Hilly!” Pippin called to his friend, then they heard Hildifons leave the library.

Pippin’s eyes locked with the old hobbit’s eyes “I don’t think I will, Mr. Boffin.” They remained frozen in place as an unspoken understanding passed between them. Finally, Mr. Boffin smiled and nodded. Pippin smiled shyly at the old hobbit as he stood up. “As you said, I would only take myself with me. Will you tell me the rest of your story, sir, or at least the rest of the part Hilly interrupted? I have a few minutes before I need to leave.”

“Perhaps I will some other time, lad.” A warm, gentle smile brightened Mr. Boffin’s old face. “For now, I have been able to show you the folly in trying to run from your troubles, and that shall suffice. You are a good lad, Pippin. Go be with your friend.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Boffin, and thank you!” the young Took said as he turned and trotted off down an aisle between the book shelves.

“I’ve helped another to not make my mistake, Isengar, my old friend,” Rollo Boffin sighed contentedly as he slowly faded from view.
*******************************************

A/N:
Isenbras and Hildifons II are OCs that I’m having be in Isembold Took’s line. The Took family tree says he had “many descendants.” So, Isenbras will have been born in 1392 and is two years younger than Pippin, and Hildifons II will be born in 1386 and is four years older than Pippin. They are not brothers but are cousins.

Rollo Boffin is canon (b. 1260) according to the Boffin family tree and was two years older than [also canon] Isengar Took (b. 1262) who was “said to have ‘gone to sea’ in his youth”. Since Tolkien has Basso Boffin “reputed to have ‘gone to sea’ in 1195” I decided a later Boffin might get the urge to wander as well, and that he might have gone with his friend, Isengar Took.

Written for Dreamflower as part of the 2008 Yule Exchange of the LOTR Community Challenges.

Dreamflower’s request was: I would like to see Bilbo’s Yule at Beorn’s house. (I’ve done one myself but I’d love to see another!)

“He [Bilbo] had many hardships and adventures before he got back [to The Shire] . . . but he was well guided and well guarded - the wizard was with him, and Beorn for much of the way - and he was never in great danger again. Anyway by mid-winter Gandalf and Bilbo had come all the way back, along both edges of the Forest, to the doors of Beorn’s house; and there for a while they both stayed. Yule-tide was warm and merry there; and men came from far and wide to feast at Beorn’s bidding.”

The three travelers were glad to see the ancient oaks and high thorn hedge that encircled the grounds of Beorn’s home and gardens. Even with the best of guides the Wild was not easy to travel through in the waning of the year and Bilbo was more than ready to sleep once more upon the straw-filled mattress under the warm woolen blankets that had been his when last he slept in Beorn’s great wooden home.

Bilbo had noticed a change in the large man’s demeanor. He seemed less close than he had before the war. Whereas before their first meeting Gandalf had made it quite clear that not many were allowed into the compound within the hedge, now there were frequent guests. Few at first, and only men, but as Yule-tide neared their women and children came with them.

As was usual for Bilbo, expecially now that his Tookish half had been nurtured by his adventure, he wondered about a good many things; things he felt it was not polite to ask Beorn about. He wondered who these folk were and why they had been allowed to enter Beorn’s land. He wondered if there would be much, if anything at all, done about Yule. And, much as he would never admit this to his host, he wondered how long he could be content partaking of Beorn’s limited diet. He had only been here a short time with the dwarves and such a diet as Beorn’s had been quite pleasant. But this time he and the wizard would be staying until the better weather arrived and, though the food was excellently prepared, the menu was becoming rather dull. If there was a Yule celebration, the hobbit feared the accompanying feast would be a disappointment.

Bilbo did not let these matters trouble him too much. He was an amiable soul and soon was the friend of the other guests. The children in particular enjoyed this strange adult who was no bigger than themselves. He kept them entertained for hours with stories of his adventure or of his home in the distant Shire. From them he learned that their families did celebrate Yule-tide. He also discovered that the young ones were as curious as he was to know if they would be doing so here in Beorn’s Hall.

“It is all so different this winter, Mr. Bilbo.” The children looked about to see if their parents were near enough to hear them. “We have never been here before and Master Beorn doesn’t do very many things the way we are used to. We have asked our mothers and fathers, but they have told us to hush. Do you know if there will be a Yule-feast, Mr. Bilbo?”

“I am sorry to say I do not know anything about it.” The children looked so crestfallen Bilbo felt terrible. “But I would love it if you would tell me about what you usually do for Yule, and, if you like, I shall tell you about Yule in the Shire.”

The hobbit and the children kept each other entertained for the rest of the evening until the young ones had to go to bed.

Yule morning Bilbo awoke to a stronger than usual scent of the forest permeating the huge house. He sat up in his cozy bed and looked around. His bed was set upon the low platform at the side of Beorn’s great hall as it had been when Bilbo had been there with the dwarves, and all about the hall Beorn’s animal servants, along with the women, were hanging garlands of holly, ivy and fragrant pine. The hobbit nearly gave a shout of cheer; there would be a Yule celebration after all! He hopped out of his bed and began to look around.

A huge log sat near the fire pit. From what the children has told him, he knew it would be lit during the great Yule-feast that evening to burn through the night and bring good fortune to all within the hall, just as was done at Great Smails and Brandy Hall. Holly boughs were run down the length of the huge table with large red, green and natural beeswax candles set among them. Everything in the huge hall looked and smelled wonderful!

Bilbo paused and sniffed the air more carefully. It did smell wonderful. Like . . . like bacon cooking.

“Bacon?” he asked aloud to no one in particular, knowing full well that his host didn’t eat meat. Well, at least when he was in his Man shape he didn’t. Bilbo had no idea what Beorn did while in his Bear shape.

Bilbo spun about to find Gandalf behind him. “But . . . bacon, Gandalf? I didn’t think that Beorn ate meat.”

Gandalf made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “These men and women are Beorn’s kin. When he drew apart from them, for reasons even I don’t know, he chose to live as he did and eat as he did. But now he has welcomed them into his home and I think, my friend, that he intends to let them live with him and for him to dwell with them.”

“Ah!” Bilbo smiled. “I have been wondering who they are but hadn’t felt it my place to ask many questions.”

“You were right to not be nosey, but you could have asked me, my dear hobbit.” The wizard smiled as he sat down on a chair so as to be at his friend’s eye level. “These men are hunters and fishermen. They have always been so, just like most others of the race of Men that I have known. Beorn is aware of that and he and the elders have had several discussions regarding this and other matters. He has granted to them the eating of certain animals within his house. You have noted those animals which serve him?”

“A few societies of Men eat ponies or horses and there are a few that eat dogs.” Bilbo made a face at the thought of eating either of those animals. “Most all Men do, however, eat sheep and goats and cattle. Beorn has asked that these be removed from the diet of those who are his kin, and they have agreed. Also, you will remember that our host does not eat the beasts of the fields and forests.”

“I remember, yes. Honey, cream, vegetables and breads were all we were served when we were here before.”

Gandalf nodded. “He has also asked them to eat no deer, nor the larger animals of the wild. They may eat squirrels and rabbits, for they are plentiful, and they may fish the lakes and rivers. But, as far as I am aware, he will not do so himself. Of the other domestic animals commonly used for food he is allowing them to eat chickens and pigs.”

“I also believe that they are to do no butchering within sight of the compound nor roast any beast whole. Even so, it is a difficult thing for Beorn.”

“Understandably,” Bilbo nodded. “Though I must admit I am glad for the change.”

Gandalf laughed. “I think most folk would agree with you, my dear hobbit. Although I know many Elves and some groups of Men who eat as Beorn does.”

They reached the kitchen where the last bits and bobs of food were being readied for serving. Platters were heaped high with bacon and sausages, fried eggs and various types of bread. Bowls were filled with scrambled eggs, potatoes, fruits and, to Bilbo’s great delight, mushrooms. And, as there would always be, there were various honeys and luscious thick cream.

The entire day was spent in merry feasting mixed amongst times of songs and tales. A large evergreen tree had been set up in one corner of the vast hall. It was decorated with pairs of mittens and socks. Bilbo had heard of this custom from the children, but it was new to Gandalf. He was told that any who needed new of these items were to help themselves on the morrow then the matron who explained the custom shyly pointed to the bottom of the tree.

“There are some for made in sizes for our boys and girls that ought to fit you, Bilbo, should you have need.”

Bilbo blushed. “Actually, I do have need, dear lady, and I thank you and the others most heartily. It was springtime when I left on this journey and I have only a few winter garments with me that we were given before leaving for this return journey. They are good, mind you, and no lack of appreciation is intended to those who gave them to me, but there are not enough for changing when the weather has been wet.”

The feast in the evening was sumptuous. There was ham and roast pork, chicken and rabbit and fish, both smoked and fresh caught earlier in the day. There were carrots and potatoes, turnips and onions. Oat bread and wheat bread and various rolls and buns.

Beorn’s wonderful bees provided a wondrous variety of honey. There were the various golden honeys made from different kinds of clover, the light amber of alfalfa honey and the reddish amber of honey the bees made from heather. The most unusual of all were the white honeys that had their origin in the flowers of the raspberry and rosemary plants.

Everyone ate to nearly bursting then waddled slowly away from the long table to sit around Yule Log burning in the fire pit for more story telling and singing. Bilbo told a story of the first Yule he remembered spending at Great Smials. Gandalf told of a comical Yule he spent in Bree at the Prancing Pony. Beorn told a tale of Yule in the deep woods on a crystal clear night when he was a bear. When the story finished he paused.

“But, my dear kinsmen and dear recently acquired friends, I think this will be my most memorable Yule of all. I am reunited with my family and I have allowed myself to be part of the wide world of other races.” The large, burly, man looked slowly around at every person and animal in the room. “You are all incredibly dear to me. Thank you all for being here.”

He finished and sat down amid their happy tears and reassurances that they all felt the same. His animal friends, and the pets of his kinsmen, all came forward to nuzzle him with their noses.

Later, after everyone had taken to their beds, Bilbo Baggins lay awake. It just wasn’t right to his hobbit sensibilities that he had been so well fed, and would be invited to partake of the gifts on the tree in the morning, yet he had given nothing at all. Suddenly his eyes gleamed in the dim light of the still burning Yule log. Quietly, so quietly only the animals were aware of him, he snuck past all the sleepers to the storeroom where his and Gandalf’s luggage had been stowed. There he found what he was looking for.

The next morning, after another hearty breakfast, everyone gathered around the tall tree. A young mother whose husband had died that summer while hunting nudged her young son forward. The boy shyly took a pair of socks and a pair of mittens off of the tree. He slipped his hand into a mitten as he walked back to his mother.

“Mother!” His eyes lit up as he jerked his hand out of the red mitten. “Mother look!” The lad held up a shiny gold coin. He felt the toes of the brown then shoved his hand deep inside one of them to pull out another coin. His mother found the same thing in the mittens she took from the tree. Indeed, there was a one coin in every pair of mittens and socks, even those near the top where only the tallest of the men could reach.

“How did you get them way up there, my dear hobbit?” Gandalf bent low and whispered into Bilbo’s ear.

“Oh! Yes. Well, I had some assistance.” The hobbit pointed up to where several pairs of doves nested in the rafters.

Gandalf smiled and nodded. “Well done, Bilbo Baggins! Well done, and a Happy Yule, my dear, dear friend.”

“Thank you, my dear Gandalf, and the best and brightest Yule to you as well.”

The wizard rested a caring hand upon the hobbit’s shoulder as they basked in the warmth of their new friends’ joy.

Mattygirl requested a Frodo h/c with Aragorn as the healer.
****************************************

Frodo stood looking at the large blank expanse of the the east wall of the dining room in the house he and the others of the Company of the Ring shared in Minas Tirith. It was the perfect place to hang the painting he had purchased in the artists’ market in the fourth circle of the city. He looked at the painting which was sitting on the floor, leaning against the east wall, and sighed. In it gentle waves curled then broke on a beach of pristine, pale golden sand. The sea was a blue-green-grey color he had never seen before. The curls of the waves glowed as green as Strider’s elfstone with lacy swirls of white foam on their surface; the edges were a bubbling froth like the head on a mug of good beer, only pure white. Delicate shells lay half exposed in the sand. Mare’s tail clouds swished across the blue of the sky and two sea birds hovered on the breeze.

He sighed again. How the sea calmed yet taunted him. “Will I ever behold the sea?” He asked the painting. “And if I do, what will the circumstances be that lead me there?” Frodo stared at the painting a moment longer then shook himself. “This isn’t getting you hung up, is it? I think this spot here is where you need to be.”

He moved the step stool into place, picked up the nail and hammer and stepped up. Frodo had gone from the artists’ market straight to the smithy’s lane to find and purchase the proper sort of nail. Hobbit holes were not made of stone and it was easy to find somewhere to hang a painting and most any nail would do the trick, but, as there were already a few paintings on the walls of the house, he knew there had to be some way to do it. He learned there were nails that were strong enough to penetrate the mortar between the stones and in that fashion things could be hung upon the walls.

Carefully Frodo positioned the nail where he wished, drew back the hammer and swung.

Nail and hammer fell to the floor as the Ringbearer shook his thumb then stuck it into his mouth.

He stepped down, retrieved the tools, remounted the stool, gingerly held the nail in place between his forefinger and his slowly swelling thumb, drew back the hammer and proceeded to hit the stone wall. His hand slipped upwards along the handle as the hammer came to a more sudden stop than had been anticipated.

“Ow! Bloody hell! Shouldn’t swear, Frodo Baggins. Drat! Bloody stupid hammer!”

At first his hand stung but that faded as a sharp pain shot through his palm. Frodo looked at his hand. There was a quarter inch sliver of hammer-handle wood driven into the pad at the base of his thumb.

“I’ll tend to you later, you bloody rude splinter. I’m going to hang this painting while the others are out and about or they will insist on doing it for me and I am getting fed up with them all wanting to help me.”

He stepped down, angrily grabbed up the nail and hammer, stepped up on the stool, reared his arm back and swung.

The hammer connected with the nail, driving it into the mortar half an inch, but the force of the impact made Frodo’s thumb ache, it drove the splinter more deeply into his hand, and threw him off balance. He wobbled. He flailed. The stool shot out from under him, skidding sideways to end up resting upright on its legs under a tall table which stood against the wall. Frodo toppled backwards, landing hard on his back. His head bounced once off of the stone floor as the hammer bounced from his hand to skitter away, coming to rest under a low chair.

Frodo groaned. Everything had gone dusky with tiny golden lights flickering along the edges of each object.

Strider? What was the new King of Gondor doing here? Frodo heard someone moving about then the aroma of fresh athelas cast into steaming water pleasantly filled his nose. He opened his eyes.

“He doesn’t look too bad! How many fingers am I holding up, Frodo?” Pippin waggled three fingers in front of his cousin’s eyes.

Frodo batted them away. “Quit, Pippin! They all blur together when you waggle them so fast.” He drew a slow, deep breath. The back of his head felt cold and achey. “You were holding up three fingers.” He tried to sit up but the King wouldn’t let him, so he settled for glaring at the circle of friends around his bed. “Why am I in bed and why are you all staring at me?”

“I found ya laying on the floor in the dining room, Mr. Frodo. Laying there out cold as the boxer who lost the match, so I fetched Strider and Mr. Pippin was on duty, so he came with Strider and Merry met up with us part way as he was coming of honor guard duty. Then we met Mr. Gandalf and Legolas heading up toward the Citadel as they had come home and found you and were coming to fetch Strider themselves. Gimli had stayed here with you.”

“Don’t speak too much right now, Frodo.” the healer-king soothed with his best bedside manner. “You have had a fainting spell of some sort, hitting the back of your head when you fell to the floor. Have you eaten properly today?”

“No need to get irritable, Frodo.” Aragorn paused. “Or have you been feeling irritable of late? That could be a symptom.”

“He has been restless and irritable, now that you mention it, Strider.” Merry put in.

“Hmm. I see.” Aragorn slowly nodded. “I’m thinking we should perhaps move you to the Houses of Healing for observa . . .”

“No! No, I don’t need to go to the Houses.” Frodo looked around at his friends, his gaze coming to a stop on the wizard. His old friend’s eyes sparkled with mischief and the hobbit grasped at a meaning in the look.

“Gandalf! Gandalf, you know, don’t you. You know I don’t need the healers. Will you make Strider listen to me?”

The wizard smiled. “I think I can manage that.” He turned to the King. “Let the lad speak, Aragorn.”

Sufficiently chided, Strider blushed. “Ah, yes. What is it you wish to say, Frodo?”

Frodo was still looking into Gandalf’s eyes. “I want to hear what Gandalf knows.”

“I may be able to shed some light on our dear, valiant Ringbearer’s condition.” Gandalf winked at Frodo before clasping his hands behind his back like a school boy getting ready to recite.

“When we returned to the house, after meeting Sam and the others on their way here from the Citadel, we hurried to the dining room to minister to Frodo. I happened to notice a painting of a beautiful seascape leaning up against the wall. That painting had not been there this morning before we all left for the day’s activities. Why, I wondered, was that painting there? An idea occurred to me and a glance further up the wall confirmed my suspicions. There was a nail partially driven into the mortar. Someone had been attempting to hang the picture, but if that someone were Frodo, the nail was too high for him to reach.”

The members of the Company stood staring at the wizard, their attention captured as though he were telling some magical tale.

“I looked around the room more carefully. One of the small stepping stools the hobbits use in the kitchen was sitting under the small serving table against that same wall and, by bending down I was able to find a hammer under a chair across the room.”

“You will correct me if I am wrong, Frodo, but I think I know what happened. You purchased the painting at one of the markets in the city. I know the sea has special meaning for you even though you have never seen it. You wished to hang it yourself as you are getting exasperated with everyone doting on you because of your missing finger and because you are the Ringbearer. Why, even your cousins have been overly solicitous of late.”

He turned to look at Strider. “Have you examined more than your patient’s head, Aragorn?”

The examination was brief. “I see a bruised and swollen left thumb and a sizable splinter in the pad of the right thumb.”

“You are amazing, Gandalf. I was trying to hang the painting and I am very weary of everyone doting on me. I had purchased the proper type of nail to set into the mortar, I fetched the stool and got to work. I hit my thumb first. I ah . . .”

“Ah!” Merry’s eyebrows rose in a smirk. “Not so much the ‘gentle Ringbearer’ all the Gondorians keep on about after all, eh?”

Red crept up Frodo’s face. “Ah, no. I picked up the hammer and nail, got back up on the stool and gave it a good wack. I was still rather irate. I missed the nail altogether. The hammer hit the stone wall, stung my hand which slipped up the handle and I got the splinter in my hand. I dropped everything again and was quite upset . . .”

“Well, there goes the ‘sweet Ringbearer, meek and mild’,” Pippin interrupted. He winked at Merry and everyone chuckled.

“Yes,” Frodo continued as everyone quieted. “Although I’m glad no one was around to hear me.”

“Ahem! Yes, I did, Sam. Well,” Frodo hurried on, “I was by then quite determined to get the job done. I placed the nail and really reared back to strike it, which from what Gandalf said, I did. The blow was so hard that it made my thumb ache, it hurt my right hand where the sliver is and worst, it knocked me off balance. I remember the stool moving out from under me and I remember falling and seeing pretty golden sparkles around everything. Then I woke up in here with all of you staring at me.”

“Sam, if you will make up a cold compress for Frodo’s thumb and Pippin if you will fetch some tweezers I should be able to fix all that is amiss with the gentle, meek Ringbearer. Then I will retire to my chambers with a novice level book of instruction in doing proper examinations of patients.”

The two hobbits ran to get the requested items. Frodo leaned back with a grin and a contented sigh.

“I had better not find that painting hung up for me when I get out of bed.”was all he said.

“In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.
Ah! the sight and the smell of the Spring in Nan-tasarion!
And I said that was good.
I wandered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.
Ah! the light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!
And I thought that was best.
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.
Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!
It was more than my desire.
To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in the Winter.
Ah! the wind and the whiteness and the black branches of Winter upon Orod-na- Thon!
My voice went up and sang in the sky.
And now all those lands lie under the wave,
And I walk in Ambarona, in Tauremorna, in Aldalome,
In my own land, in the country of Fangorn,
Where the roots are long,
And the years lie thicker than the leaves
In Tauremornalome.” *

Fangorn sighed deeply and slowly as he strode onwards through his woods. It had been many long years in the reckoning of the outside world since he had thought of those long ago days. Much had changed. Elves had come and they had gone and then come again. Dwarves had come and hidden away in their mountain keeps. And Men had come and gone and come again only to fade.

Alas, that is the way of living things. The way of Arda. Even the way of the immortal Elves.

He had once heard that the Valar in their mighty realms did not change, yet, he wondered at that and began to doubt it. Time moves on. Things are born, live and die and new lives are born to replace them and the immortal ones came to find their endless lives a cruel burden. Perhaps even the mighty Valar wearied under the burden of their timelessness within the fierce bonds of time. For did they not interact with Arda, and Arda existed in the realm of time.

Now, this moment, things were changing again. He had been aware on some deep level that things in the wide world were amiss. He had known that The Wizard was changing his ways. Knew, yet had done nothing but think. What business was it of his, what the White Wizard did within his vale?

These little ones he carried. What of these two little beings that weighed nothing as they sat comfortably in the crook of each of his arms? These are new and different and they herald change. They are so wondrously young, yet . . .

Yes. He could sense the years of their kind within them. They are tough like a tree that has withstood the ravages of the weather. Deep roots. Supple limbs. Able to bend and yet hold firm to the earth. Yes. He liked their earthiness. He knew he could trust the tale they would tell him when they reached his home. Until then, he would think. Think about the passing of time and of changes.

Merry wondered at the names of all those places Treebeard spoke about. What had he said? “There was all one wood once upon a time from here to the Mountains of Lune, and this was just the East End.” And then, in the poem he had chanted; something about “. . . all those lands lie under the wave.”

“Where?” Merry’s thoughts asked. “Under which waves? And did that vast wood once cover what I know as The Shire?”

He had looked at a good many maps while they had been in Rivendell. Now he shut his eyes and tried to bring them back to mind. Yes. He could barely recall ones that did not show the lands as he knew them. The Keeper of the Maps said those maps were of no import for their journey. He had hastily pushed them aside with a whispered, “Those places no longer exist.”

Somehow, Merry knew those lands had been to the west of The Shire and that the sea had swallowed them all. He knew that his home had once been part of one immense forest and not the gentle rolling fields and hills with snug Hobbit holes burrowed into them that he so dearly loved.

He opened his eyes and started naming the types of trees he saw as Treebeard walked quickly through his wood. It kept his mind busy.

Pippin swayed gently to the rhythm of the Ent’s stride. He was being lulled by both the swaying and the chanting.

“In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring. Ah! the sight and the smell of the Spring . . .”

Oddly, Pippin did not think of the willow in the Old Forest. He thought of the gently swaying curtains of green along the bank of the stream that ran through the farm at Whitwell and the sights and smells as he would lie in the soft flickering light that would pass through the new leaves of the willows in the spring.

“I wandered in the Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand. Ah! the light and the music in the Summer . . .”

Summer in The Shire. The long days with warm nights full of parties and gatherings . . . and music. He sang before he could play an instrument, then he would do both in turn, and when he wished to do neither he would dance; swaying as effortlessly as he did now to the rhythms surrounding him.

“To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn. Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of the leaves in the Autumn . . .”

Crisp days and chilly nights. Harvest festivals. Skies of the clearest, deepest blue with the many different coloured leaves bold against it. Spiced cider beside a cheerful hearth listening to all the old stories, and the whispering of the leaves as he walked along wooded paths. He always loved the autumn.

“To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in the Winter. Ah! the wind and the whitness and the black branches of Winter . . .”

Grey. Black. Muted dull greens and browns. Only occasional whiteness in The Shire. Staying inside on cold, damp days, except to do chores when he was in his childhood on the farm. Staying inside on cold, damp days at Great Smials, playing games and telling stories with his kin. And Yule. Glorious Yule-Tide! And the rich smell of pine boughs and the tree in the ballroom.

Pippin shivered and the spell laid upon him by the swaying and chanting was broken.

“No!” his thoughts scolded him. “You will not think that way, Peregrin Took. You and Merry survived the Orcs and I’ve the feeling this Treebeard fellow will be able to do something. We aren’t beaten yet!”

He nestled more comfortably into the crook of the Treebeard’s arm and watched the play of light and thoughts in the old Ent’s eye. There was strength for good in the world yet, and a good portion of it was in places one would never think to look for it.

And in all the wood, as far as ear could reach, there was not a sound. *
******************

*The poem and the last line of the story are both quoted from “The Two Towers”, chapter, “Treebeard”

Jana asked, “What is the most unusual and most difficult
Pippin-plot-bunny you can think of?”

Celeritas came up with. “Currently the best I've got is an AU in which
Pippin /kills/ Merry (not Ring!possessed Merry, and not a mercy
killing) but neither of them break character.”

Merry chuckled. “Oh come now, Pippin. It is just a bit of teasing
and you know it.”

The two cousins were just inside the woods to the north of Brandy
Hall. Pippin had insisted they needed to talk away from anyone else’s
prying eyes or ears.

“All right.” Merry rolled his eyes. “Some teasing. A fair amount of
teasing. Whatever you like. But whatever you decide, it is only
teasing after all.”

A strange sound came from his younger cousin’s throat as the muscles
in his jaws clenched, unclenched and clenched again.

“Teasing. Mean, insulting teasing, Meriadoc, and I’m done with acting
as though it is all just fun. I’m done with it altogether. I mean to
have it out with you.” Pippin wasn’t really feeling as strong as he
was trying to sound.

Merry did well at holding in the explosive laugh that wanted so badly
to leap forth from his mouth. Whatever was the little ass thinking?

“A fight, or a contest of some sort that when I win you shall promise
to quit insulting, mocking, teasing and humiliating me in front of
everyone.”

“When you win.” Merry’s tone was unconvinced. “What could we
possibly do that you could win? Wrestle? Fisticuffs? I don’t even
think you could beat me at spitting, Pippin.” He looked down his nose
at his insolent cousin.

Pippin was seething now. He knew Merry was right there were very few
things he could best him at. But there was one he felt he stood a
chance with.

Merry’s left eyebrow rose. “Rock throwing.” He paused to consider
it. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

They walked off toward a small clearing further into the woods where
there was a log often used to set up targets on. It made a good range
for either archery or throwing. Merry and Pippin both saw to setting
up the straw-stuffed blocks that were left there for just that purpose
then each one set about collecting his stones.

Biting his lower lip in concentration, Merry quickly felled eight of
the ten targets.

“Good luck beating that, Pip-squeak,” he gloated as he walked over to
set the targets up for Pippin’s turn, as courtesy demanded.

Pippin fidgeted as Merry completed the task then turned to walk back
to the throwing line. He never made it back. Pippin’s throw was fast
and on target, hitting Merry squarely between the eyes. The older lad
slipped gracefully to the ground.

“I win.” Pippin whispered, then turned and walked away. It had gone
as he hoped. He had put Merry in his place, at least a little, and
now his cousin would have to quit harassing him. Pippin smiled up at
the sun shining through the leaves. Soon, everything would be good
again. Merry was always telling him he needed to stand up for himself.

Everyone was surprised when Merry didn’t show up for afternoon tea.
Pippin was asked if he had seen Merry; weren’t they usually together?
But it was well known that Pippin had gone off to his room and
slammed his door earlier that day after some of the older lads had
been teasing him. They had been teasing him with a rhyme that Merry
had made up, but that was forgotten. In fact, the grownups had found
young Peregrin in his room yet, having his tea upon a tray. The lad
had gone pale at the question and seemed genuinely surprised at
Merry’s absence, but it made sense that he had no idea where his
cousin was.

The adults left the room. Pippin was drenched with sweat. What did
this mean? Had he hurt Merry seriously? He hadn’t meant to. Just
hurt him a little. Stun him a bit perhaps. He had been a little
surprised that Merry hadn’t caught up to him as he snuck back into the
Hall. If he was hurt badly, how could he admit to it all? Why had he
not run for help when he saw Merry was unconscious? He would be in
more trouble than he had ever been in in his entire life.

Pippin’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. Merry was doing this on
purpose! He was larking about somewhere just waiting to be missed,
then he could show up with a lovely goose egg on his forehead and
triumphantly point the finger at Pippin. Oh, how he would gloat over
the lecture and punishment they would give him!

“No,” Pippin muttered. “They already think I’ve been in here all day.
They all just said as much. Let Merry try to prove otherwise when he
shows up. We’ll work it out between us later.”

When Meriadoc did not show up for dinner, searchers were sent
throughout the Hall and the grounds. It was then that the body of the
Master’s son was discovered at the target range. Someone else must
have been there. The targets were all set up and ready and it was
obvious Merry had been struck with a stone, but there were no
witnesses and no one confessed to the accident.

The poor Took lad was beside himself with grief; after all, Merry was
his best friend. It was to be expected that he would be devastated.
Pippin was never quite the same after the accident.

For surely, it was an accident; no hobbit would have thrown a rock at
the Master’s son intentionally.

In ancient times, dim in the memories even of those who saw them and still walk upon Middle-earth, there were battles. Battles fought between the Firstborn Children of Iluvatar and one of the Ainur; he who fell from grace and was named Morgoth by Fëanor of the Noldor. Eventually, the Noldor lay siege to Angband and the Mighty One was held within his own realm, brooding over the making of weapons and creatures for when the time would arrive for him to burst forth upon his ancient foes.

Lovely fire that brought great physical pain to those it killed. Dear fire that brought to its base elements all that it consumed. Charming fire that could melt the very foundations of Middle-earth itself.

If only he could make it obey his commands. But it is ephemeral. Like a living being it needs air to breathe, substance to consume as it grows, yet . . .

. . . it is not a living being with a mind that can be manipulated. Yet, manipulated it must be. He had need to send it where he wished, when he wished. It must do his bidding.

One day, he saw a snake coiled in the sun, its bright red tongue flicking the air. A bright red tongue flicking.

He killed the snake to examine how it was made. It was close to what he needed yet it was too limited. He thought. He schemed. He ordered a slave to fetch to him creatures that, like the snake, flicked their tongues in the air. After many months the slave returned with lizards.

Morgoth liked the lizards. They had limbs, particularly forelimbs, with which to grasp things. They could grasp and hold weapons - or enemies. He chose those the vile Firstborn called Iguanidae* and Corytophanidae* for his uses. The Iguanidae were large, sturdy lizards; the Corytophanidae agile and cunning.

These lizards Morgoth would reform into the Creatures of Fire. They would be Dragons!

Long years the Great Dark Lord and his minions worked reforming, corrupting, the lizards as he had earlier corrupted the Elves he formed into Orcs. He cared not about the pain they suffered, nor about the deformed mutations his efforts often produced as he sought to increase the lizard's minds and infuse their bodies with flame.

He could not tell male from female, as was easy to do with the Elves. He had not intended that they should breed amongst themselves. There should be only males, as with the Orcs, bred by perverted means and at his command. But it was not so. He could not control their breeding and the females, smaller than the males, found it easy to escape. Most died in the wilderness as they were deformed and weakened by Morgoth's crafts. Those of these early corruptions who lived became the mothers of the Cold-drakes. They left Angband already bearing fertile eggs. Because of their corruption toward hugeness, and the evil implanted in their minds, they grew to be enormous and vicious, as did their descendants. There were now male and female of them and they bred amongst themselves. But, because of the corruptions of Morgoth, never were there many who survived to maturity.

Morgoth also did not realize what giving them intelligence would do. He did not have the control over his creations that he had intended. Unlike the Orcs to whom the idea of disobeying him never seemed to occur, the lizards did not give him the loyalty he had anticipated. They kept their own cunning and will to survive.

Eventually, the Great Dark Lord's efforts succeeded. Glaurung, The Golden, The Dragon-King, father of all Fire-drakes hatched forth. The heat of his being scorched his egg as he struggled to break free and he glowed and flickered with flame beneath his scales. Soon, he was roasting Orcs for his meals.

Morgoth was pleased. He treated his prize with due respect and so it was that the Fire-drakes, more than the Cold-drakes who had fled Angband, learned well the art of subtle speech and high-seeming manners. But too much of the Great Dark Lord's nature infected these creatures, both the cold and the hot. They were rebellious and would not always do as their maker commanded; particularly, the chafed at their captivity. They would not remain contained within his benighted realm. The Dark One could not control fire as he has sought to do.

Glaurung The Golden, left Angband before he was given leave to do so. He burned the fields of Ard-galen. He roasted and ate the Firstborn of Iluvatar who dwelt there. But, he was yet a youth. Though as large as he was ever to be - fierce and vicious, great and glorious - he was not yet to his full mental powers. Fingon led the Eldar against the Great Dragon, driving him back to his Maker's lands.

Morgoth imprisoned Glaurung, binding him limbs and neck with mighty chains of a metal the dragon's flames could not weaken nor melt. For two hundred years he kept the Great Dragon chained while he used what he had learned to make other Creatures of Fire. When at last he knew the time was ripe, he loosed them all upon the plains of Ard-galen. He vanquished his foes in the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame, and for a while much of Middle-earth was under his sway.

But the Great Dark Lord's hold over Glaurung and the other Fire-drakes who had been born, was tenuous. Many were slain in Morgoth's battles, the others, having tasted freedom, soon left his realm. They found mountains to their liking and gave themselves over to serving themselves. The greed of Morgoth had infected them. They sought the treasure of the others to create for themselves vast hoards upon which to dwell.

To acquire their wealth they killed any who got in their path and so became hated by all the peoples of Middle-earth who have since killed every dragon they could.

Yew sighed. "Now, young Pippin, you know the story of my kind. It is part of my instincts to know all this, although I think the peoples of Middle-earth reckon this all as myth. It is the tale of who and what I am."

The lad slowly nodded his head. "Yes. I can see that and yet there was the dragon I told you about that worked with the faeries to clear the Orcs from their lands. He wasn't evil . . . well, not totally evil. He wasn't tricking them. If . . ." Pippin shivered. "If Morgoth made the dragons, shouldn't you all be as evil as he is?"

Yew pondered this. "Perhaps, it is because we retained the ability to breed on our own. The Elves he corrupted into Orcs could not do this. He used only males to make the first Orcs so there are no females of their kind. All of the dargons now alive were born in the natural way and are not of his making. We are tainted but I think not wholly evil. Perhaps, Pippin, as time has passed and we are no longer born in his realms under his watch, something of our original nature is able to show itself. But to what degree, I do not know. I readily stole treasures from your family and the desire to obtain and hoard such things is growing stronger in me. If I did not know your family values the creature, I would have roasted and eaten your wretched cat last week as the infernal beast loves to walk around my cage and taunt me. I fear there is evil within me, my dear friend."

Pippin nearly chuckled aloud as the image of the cat taunting Yew in his cage was funny to him, though it obviously wasn't to Yew.

"Perhaps there is, but I think you're a very good dragon." Pippin said as he stood up. "Thank you for telling me this, Yew, but I need to go now. It's time for tea." He stopped at the door. "Would you like me to bring you some of Ma's crowberry jam? I know you like sweets and hers is the best crowberry jam in the Shire."

Yew's tongue flicked out of his smile as his eyes glowed from the fire within him. "Most noble Pippin, I will be forever in your, and your mother's, debt."

As the lad left the room, Yew whispered, "And I will never forget all that I owe you and yours. So swears Yew of the Dragons."

* Iguanidae and Corytophanidae - Yes, I know - these names are Latin not Elvish. Also, the vast majority of these two animals are New World not Old World. But the map of Middle-earth just fades off on its eastern and southern edges, hinting at lands beyond. What was to stop Morgoth from seeking far afield for his subjects?

The reptiles used here are Iguanas and Basilisks. I used them because, to me, they look the most like the drawings of dragons that we have - both ancient and new.

The star Sam saw: was it Earendil? What would a star think about going back and forth across the heavens over the generations? Does he realize the hope he gives?

". . . they took Vingilot, and hallowed it, and bore it away through Valinor to the uttermost rim of the world; and there ir passed through the Door of Night and was lifted up even into the oceans of heaven.
Now fair and marvelous was that vessel [Vingilot] made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elven-gems, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow. Far he journeyed in that ship, even into the starless voids; but most often was he seen at morning or at evening, glimmering in sunrise or sunset, as he came back to Valinor from voyages beyond the confines of the world."

The Silmarillion

"Of The Voyage of Eärendil"

"Sam struggled with his own weariness, and took Frodo's hand; and there he sat silent till deep night fell. Then at last, to keep himself awake, he crawled from the hiding-place and looked out . . . Far above the Ephel Dúath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach . . . Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master's, ceased to trouble him . . . putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep."

The Return of the King

"The Land of Shadow"

I gave the choice to my beloved, though I knew what her choice would be. Thus, I am of the Firstborn: an immortal elf. Beyond that, I knew not what the Valar would decide to do with me. That I would not return to the mortal lands of Middle-earth I knew in my heart, but what would be my fate, I could not discern.

"What oceans shall I sail," I dared to ask, for this took me by surprise, "if I am not to return to Middle-earth?"

Manwë smiled in reply. "You shall sail the greatest ocean of all, whose substance is the breath and energy of Iluvatar."

My ship was changed, reworked by the thoughts of the Valar, hallowed by their touch, made fit to sail upon such a sea. I was set in my place at her helm and together we passed into the Beyond; through the Doors of Night into the oceans of Over-heaven.

Once, and once only, was I allowed back into the mortal realms. It was given to me to fight in the battle against Morgoth. For that reason, to obtain assistance from the Valar in the struggle against his evil might, I had sailed the seas to the Blessed Realm; risking their wrath. I found instead wisdom and mercy. I was allowed to come to the aid of both my Men and Elves in the War of Wrath before returning to the vastness of Ilmen.

I am not here, in the Over-heaven, to merely wander about in my ship. He who made all is not so wasteful as that. Here there are other beings that have become entangled in the thread of rebellion Morgoth sewed in the far off time when Iluvatar was making all that has been made. I am sent to both reason with and take up arms against them, for in the end they all seek the destruction of Arda and those who dwell thereon. Some have repented. Most have not, and I fight them, along with others who stay true to the One. We are tasked with holding evil from these realms at bay.

But, as I said, there is mercy in the dealing of the Valar, and, at times fixed by He who ordains all, I come within sight of the Blessed Realm and of Arda. This is so my Elwing need not be separated from me forever as this would break the spirit within each of us. And at these times, I have been told, those dwelling in Middle-earth can see the light of the Silmaril which I bear upon my brow.

Gradually a question grew within my spirit - am I still able to help those who struggle upon Arda? I know that the Firstborn remember Elwing and I; that the three who sailed with us took back the tale of the Valar's mercies. Long are the memories of those who do not die. But what of the race of Men? I had learned of my sons' choices. Do my descendants from Elros remember the full history of their family?

My questions began to consume me, at times distracting me from my tasks, until Manwë called me to him.

"It will not do to have you so distracted with your erstwhile questions, Eärendil, Mariner of Ilmen," he said to me. "Know, our friend, that much time has passed upon Arda. Your journeys have kept you distracted. Your age, Arda's first age, passed with the victory over Morgoth in which you were allowed to take part. A second age came with the founding of Lindon and the creation of your son, Elros', realm; Númenor. Long did this age of Middle-earth endure, but again Evil began to flourish. Sauron, a disciple of Morgoth, grew in power until another great battle was fought by the Firstborn and Men. With the over throw of Sauron, and the planting by the people of Elros of the White Tree, scion of Nimloth from their lost realm of Númenor, a third age began."

"Yes, and the light of the Silmaril upon your brow guided them to the place we prepared for them. And some called the land Elenna, Starwards, because your star insured their safe passage upon the waters."

I felt great joy at having been of aid to my son and his children and the Men who went with them, but it faded.

"Do not mourn over much, Eärendil. Such is the way of things. Like the tides of the ocean, life rises and ebbs. In the third age the people of Elros again shine forth for many of Middle-earth's years. But the disciple of Morgoth did rise again as the wisdom of those Men, the Dúnedain, faded. Now, at this moment in time, once more the peoples of Arda stand at the edge of a precipice and their third age is drawing to a close."

And I regretted my wondering, wishing I had contented myself with the tasks given to me in the Over-heaven.

"Eärendil." Manwë spoke my name with great tenderness and I looked into his sparkling eyes. "Do you not know your creator better than that? Always, there is hope."

My mind was filled with a vision. A man of proud bearing, though roughly clad, stood upon the prow of a black ship, and I knew he was of Elros' lineage. Suddenly there broke forth above him a banner as black as the depths of Over-heaven upon which there gleamed the image of a White Tree, a crown and seven stars. The gems in the stars flared in the light of the lowering sun and I knew them to be elven-gems. And in my vision this distant child of mine changed. I saw him dressed as a king, a gleaming star upon his brow, a green gem, like the Elessar, flaming upon his breast.

"Ever there is hope, Mighty Mariner," Manwë's words filled my thoughts, "but his hopes are placed upon another, not upon himself. For had the hope of Middle-earth rested solely upon his shoulders all might well be lost, for the disciple of Morgoth, Sauron, has his mind focused upon this veiled king of Men. See! Hope lies elsewhere!"

And I saw skies filled with vapors and reek. A thick layer that, when finally pierced, revealed a vast desolation below. A land as denuded of life and beauty as was Morgoth's accursed realm of Angband. I knew I looked upon his minion's copy of that vast corruption. Closer and closer the vision carried me until I beheld two small beings; filthy, tattered and weary with their struggles in that barren land.

My spirit felt a great burdening and I knew one of the two bore something of great, but evil, power. As I watched, they crept under some bracken and were lost to my sight.

"You sense correctly oh Hero of the War of Wrath, Destroyer of Dragons. Much evil abides in a Ring that hangs upon a chain around the neck of the Hobbit, Frodo Baggins. He journeys in the Dark Lord's land in order to destroy The Ring and bring down Morgoth's disciple. Your son, Elrond, gave him sanctuary as long as he could and he goes forth with the blessings of the Firstborn, and all free people, upon him. With him is one of his kindred; a plain and simple Hobbit of great heart named Samwise Gamgee, whose loyalty knows no bounds."

The Valar's voice softened. "Without the love of his friend, Frodo Baggins would long since have failed in his mission. But now, the heart of Samwise Gamgee is weary and he feels hopeless."

I felt Manwë's touch upon my arm. "Will you lift his spirits, oh Mariner of Ilmen?"

Faster than thought I stood in the prow of Vingilot as she sailed low, near to Arda. I closed my eyes. I visualized the light of the Silmaril, made brighter by the dust of elven-gems in my raiment, shining forth toward Arda. To Middle-earth. To the desolate destruction made by the follower of Morgoth. To that ridge of rock. To that thatch of bramble. The light must get through!

There! A break in the fumes and vapors. The light of the Silmaril touched the bracken.

I saw Samwise Gamgee come out and look to the West. He gasped at the beauty of the light; hope bloomed in his spirit. Despair gave way to new strength and determination. The Hobbit and I shared a moment of peace then he went back under the bramble to strengthen Frodo Baggins with the blessing of the light.

Pearl's Pearls - A New String by Pearl Took