Thank you all very much (if you're reading this, or even if you aren't, this means you) for your support of me over the year (ish) past.

To celebrate my birthday I put up announcements a month in advance requesting prompts so that I could treat everyone who asked with a story. I got fourteen this year and was able to finish them all by the skin of my teeth, though I did not always fill each prompt out to the letter. And because people are so curious, here they are.

Mysterious_jedi: I would really like to see something about Pippin during his time in Minas Tirith after the war ended.

Linda Hoyland: I'd love a friendship ficlet featuring Aragorn and Pippin or Sam. Marta: Theodicy and how people react to bad events in a providential universe.

Larner: I would like to see an argument between Frodo and Bilbo. I find I rather like arguments, you see. Frodo is angry at Bilbo and is trying to get back at him, and Bilbo gets wise to what Frodo's doing and manages to foil it and teach Frodo some lesson, perhaps one neither he nor Frodo intended.

Kaylee: I would like a story with Legolas and Gimli on Tol Eressea during the Fourth Age...perhaps their first meeting with Orome and Aule, or Araw (as Legolas would know Orome) and Mahal (as Gimli would know Aule, of course) :) And bonus points if you could work in the other Valar.

Dreamflower:

I would love to see you do something with this quote from the LotR "Prologue: Note on the Shire Records":

"In Brandy Hall there were many works dealing with Eriador and the history of Rohan. Some of these were composed or begun by Meriadoc himself..."

Kira optional, although if you work her in, I most certainly would be very pleased indeed.

My Resident Numenorean: Legolas & Gimli Friendship

Raksha: : I'd love anything you'd care to write with Faramir as (preferably) a main character - Faramir of Gondor, not Pippin's son. Faramir interacting with one or more hobbits, Faramir visiting Annuminas (as I'm sure he did at some point), Faramir interacting with Faramir Took, or Faramir doing something else. whatever you'd like and however long or short you like.

Rhyselle:

If your muse cooperates, I'd dearly love a story about Rosie as she gets herself ready for her wedding ceremony, and how she feels about the long awaited day. I remember sitting there, eating my breakfast under my mom's loving eye, almost too excited to eat because I was finally getting to marry my beloved Darling Man. I like to think that Rosie would do something like that too.

Lindelea

I would love to see Pippin's first venture into the Old Took's room--was it his study? I don't remember the exact quote, but there was something about how it never changed, just kept getting older and dustier. I don't even remember if the quote was in The Hobbit or LOTR.

Elanor: How's about a little bit of a conversation between a young-adult Pippin and his lovely mother on the subject of lasses, and why a young gentlehobbit might be expected to rein in his quite natural passions in deference to a young lady's slightly more complicated situation?

Pearl Took:

Can I just say I want something mysterious and with
Pippin? It can be whenever, wherever and with whoever else you want as long as
Pip is the main focus.

Antane: A sequel to an earlier fic involving interaction with Frodo and Nienna on the Lonely Isle.

Sally: Frodo has a dream about a boat.

It took Pippin longer than it should have to realise what was so different about Minas Tirith. It wasn’t that they were at peace now, though perhaps it was related, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Strider was King now.

No, it was that there were women, women back in the City; old ladies and strong wives and fair young maidens with the blush of innocence on their faces.

When Pippin was young, he’d been overwhelmed with female attention, from the last days of Lalia the Great to his three overbearing sisters; and he remembered longing to go on holiday, on an adventure with Merry or Frodo where no lasses could intrude and mess things up.

But now, after more than a life’s worth of male adventuring, he found something almost refreshing in seeing the open faces of Gondor’s maids. Watching Bergil and the other city lads grow up before his eyes had nearly broken his heart and it was comforting to know that they were few compared to the number of children who now flocked the streets.

So Pippin found himself holding doors for ladies and saying hello to them as he passed them on the street. It wasn’t that he hadn’t done so before—it was that now it was a pleasure, and not a mere obligation. And if they were pleased by his attention and thanked him for everything he did or did not do, he was even more grateful to them for the levity that their presence gave his heart.

Sam had never seen Strider look happier in the time he’d known the fellow, and he couldn’t say that he blamed him. After all, if all that he’d heard was true, the man had just achieved everything that he’d ever hoped for.

When he was still working out the particulars of how Strider was the King that actually had come back, he’d thought that he was doing all he did because it was part of some grander destiny—aside from his being a generally decent fellow, of course. It wasn’t until the party from Rivendell arrived that he realised there was more to it than that—though of course he should have figured it out sooner. Just like in the tale of Beren and Lúthien, Aragorn had won the heart of a maiden far above him—and in order to win her hand as well, had to achieve something beyond what a man normally could.

And he had, and all throughout the wedding Sam had to wonder if that was anything like what the weddings in the tales of old looked like.

Now it was two days later, and although Strider did a good job of looking stern and kingly most of the time, whenever there was no business at hand he smiled. Sam had never thought he’d see the day.

And almost against his will he found his thoughts dwelling on the home he’d left even more than usual.

After dinner, as Sam was running his eyes over the White Tree—the only growing thing in sight, but so ethereally beautiful it nearly made up for that—the King came over to cup a blossom in his hand.

“Begging your pardon for the impertinence, sir,” said Sam, “but was it worth the wait?”

“If by ‘it’ you mean ‘marriage to the Lady Arwen,’” said Strider, quietly, “then yes. More than worth the wait, even.”

“Good,” said Sam. “I thought so. It’s nice to see you not grim for a change.”

“I rather agree,” said the King. “Yet the duties laid upon me have not lessened; they have merely changed.”

They stood there in silence for a few moments; then Strider spoke once more and with great deliberation. “If you are wondering,” he said, “whether you did the right thing in leaving the Shire, I can assure you that you were most needed here with Frodo beyond the Bounds.”

“I know that, sir,” said Sam. “Only—thing is, a body gets to wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t, even though it’s mostly pointless nohow. But you’re right, as usual.” He sighed.

“I am sure she will understand once you explain the circumstances. And if it is any comfort, the wait will not be nearly as long or as difficult as mine was.”

“Thank you.”

Aragorn turned to him and laid his hand upon the hobbit’s shoulder. “When you return to your homeland, write to me as soon as you know the happy date and I shall be certain to send you my best wishes. I cannot imagine you choosing anyone unworthy of your regard, and I am certain that you shall find her waiting for you patiently upon your return.”

And as Sam looked at the King’s retreating form he marvelled that he could have something so deeply in common with as high and mighty a figure as he.

I know he was wrong. But I loved him. And I do not think he had to die.

He called me by my elven name because he knew that’s how I liked to be called. I called him in Adûnaic because he did not like elves. If we had lived in one of the cities we probably would never have looked at one another twice; we may even have hated one another. But we both lived in a small town, far away from all of the action and the seclusion and the persecution. And we lived side by side despite our differences and we loved one another.

My cousin in Rómenna was taken; we never saw her again. We mourned together. And we mourned when his grandfather, stubbornly clinging to the last of his life, finally passed. The losses had been hard for them; I could understand why they wanted to live forever.

I, for one, had never thought about life or death. All I knew was this land was a gift and I did not wish to give it up. All I knew was that I would die one day, and that this was the order of things. I had no concept of the Powers on their thrones in the West.

He did not like the sacrifices, no matter what some may say. He did not think they were necessary, and he was so pleased when he learned of the march on Valinor because he thought that then they would stop.

They have.

And if the march had happened a year later, we would have been married and I would be with him even now.

Sometimes I wonder if that would have been better.

But when the war began my father made us move to the City, and I promised him before I left that I would return. The day of the storm I escaped, but my eye was ever on Westernesse, knowing whom I had left behind.

Some say the Powers caused my home to perish. Some say it was One higher. I do not know who it was, but my love is no more and it is His fault.

The other exiles give me strange looks, and when they think I cannot hear whisper that I too should have been plunged beneath the waves. They mourn for their Queen, who could not escape in time, though year after year she sat at the King’s side and did nothing to help them.

As for me, I shall go to the east and forget those who ruled the world for my good. I may have once been among the Faithful, but I am faithful no more. I treat others the way they treat me, and if the Powers have seen fit to kill my love then I see no reason why I should continue to love them.

“Frodo, my lad?”

Frodo stopped what he was doing. This did not sound particularly pleasant. “Yes, Uncle?” he said, as casually as he could manage.

“Would you care to come into my study and explain the meaning of this?”

Frodo emended his observation. It sounded downright unpleasant. “I’m coming,” he said.

When he stepped inside the study Bilbo had in his hand a number of papers. Frodo recognised them as his latest essay and swallowed nervously.

“I do not recall ‘Translations and ancient myths are dull and I wish I could go down to the Water right now’ as part of the Tale of the Darkening of Valinor.”

“You’re right, Uncle. They aren’t. But it’s true.”

“You know, you simply could have told me if you disliked your lessons.”

“Would that have kept you from giving them?”

“Of course not! Uncle, I was missing a few lines, and I wanted the essay to be done with, so—”

“Well, if you thought I wasn’t going to read the thing you were quite wrong.”

“Well, I suppose I wasn’t thinking much, then. But I did want to go down to the Water.”

“And so you did.”

“An hour after the fact!”

“And that, my lad, is because you rarely get to do what you’d like until after all the hard work is done. And sometimes not even then.”

Frodo harrumphed.

“Now, what particularly about this myth is dull, may I ask? I for one found it to be one of the more fascinating ones.”

“Well, let’s see—there are some trees people care about, and a spider comes and kills them, and no one fights back and some people whose names begin with ‘F’ die and everyone mourns. No quests, no exciting journeys, not even a battle; just a lot of weeping.”

“Not ‘some people.’ One person. Which one?”

“I don’t know! Their names all start with F!”

“Finwë, High King of the Noldor. And the spider’s name?”

“Something very nasty-sounding.”

“Ungoliant.”

“Why does it even matter?”

“Because without that, so the elves say, we wouldn’t have the sun and moon. And without the theft of the Silmarils the Noldor would never have come to Middle-earth and had all sorts of adventures. It started all the rest of the tales.”

“About things which happened very long ago and have little to no effect on hobbits of the Shire.”

“Now, that, my lad, is not true! We owe a lot to those same elves, and their descendants.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Well, they did teach us how to build, and then there’s the matter of their beautiful tongues—”

“Yes, they are quite beautiful, but they’re also terribly confusing, and no one speaks them anymore!”

“No one?”

“Well, except for the elves themselves, I suppose, but when no one ever sees them that hardly matters.”

“Ah,” said Bilbo.

“What?”

“I do believe we’ve come to the heart of the matter. If I were to show you some native speakers of the elven tongues, might I then entice you to pay a little more attention during your lessons?”

“Really? You’d take me to see the elves?”

“I can’t promise anything, since they do not stay in one place in our land, but I can at least start taking you along the paths they use. But you must start showing a little more dedication in your lessons.”

“I suppose I might,” said Frodo. “I don’t mean to be rude but you do a terrible job with accents and I can’t help but wonder what the language really sounds like.”

Bilbo sighed. “No offence taken; you’re quite right, my lad. Now, you will have to rewrite this essay, but if you get it done before tea we’ll see about a nice long walk tonight, shall we?”

But after that night Frodo never returned to the Tale of the Darkening of Valinor again, and the spider’s name never stuck in his head until it was too late.

“Hail, Legolas son of Thranduil and Gimli son of Glóin, last of the Nine Walkers, the Company of the Ring.” The being that greeted them on the Lonely Isle was unlike anything Gimli had ever seen before, although he was somehow reminded of Gandalf during his moments of glory.

“And to whom,” said Legolas, far too smoothly for Gimli’s tastes, “do we owe this grand welcome?”

“I am Eönwë, herald of Manwë, and since you were especial friends of his servant Olórin, who secured passage for Gimli in particular, I was asked to greet you in a fashion fitting your deeds in Middle-earth.”

Gimli took one brief look at the elves who lined the docks. “I almost dread to think how Frodo’s arrival must have looked, both for him and the company he bore.”

“You may hear enough of that tale from others. For now, enter and be refreshed. There are many who are most desirous of making your acquaintance.”

And indeed there were. Once Gimli realised that the “Olórin” continually referred to was yet another of Gandalf’s names, he decided that he was far too easily surprised for his age.

Worst and best of all, though, was when they were both summoned to the council of all the Powers, who it turned out were actually very interested in all that happened on Middle-earth. Yavanna inquired after her forests and the small dwellers of the Shire, and Varda asked after the reunited realms and the reign of their first King and Queen. Oromë was most desirous of news from the East which Legolas was willing to give. It was all getting a little too Elvish for Gimli, although he knew that was to be expected as soon as he decided to accompany his friend West.

At last one on the thrones asked to speak with Gimli in private. “Come with me,” he said in a booming voice, and Gimli followed him out a door. Through a maze of tunnels he found himself at a forge: the most beautiful, well-equipped, well-stocked forge he had ever seen.

“I had taken,” said the Vala, “thought to provide for you as soon as I learned of your arrival. It has long been a desire of my heart to see one of my creation in the flesh, and I would not have you overwhelmed by a land not your own.”

Gimli looked into his eyes; they were burning with the same fire that burnt in every Dwarf’s. “Mahal?” he said.

Aulë gave one solemn nod.

Gimli bowed low before him.

“As soon as you choose your dwellings, I will have my people come and give you a forge unlike any you have used before, for what time remains to you. If you ever lack for company, I know that many of the Noldor in Tirion will be interested in your acquaintance. They could use the insight a Dwarf brings to give them new ideas on their projects.”

“This is a gracious gift indeed, my lord,” said Gimli, bowing again.

“Conduct yourself in a manner worthy of it, as you have all your life,” replied Aulë, “and you will have paid for it in gold.”

Kira was not ashamed to slip out of the luncheon for her cousin Delphinium’s wedding. After all, she had never liked her that much and the tables were getting cleared out for dancing, and there were books to be found.

She still remembered the way into the library from her quarantine there years ago, but once she was within she could not for the life of her remember where specifically the books were. When at last she found the shelf that had had the Hall’s copy of the Red Book on it, she found that the book was not there at all. Walking around to one of the desks nearby, she was not terribly surprised to see a familiar curly head bending over it.

“Is The Downfall on loan in the Hall?” she said.

Kerry Brandybuck looked up from his work. “Actually it’s being copied at the moment.” He smiled. “Are you running away from the feast, too?”

“I was near a library so I thought it’d be a shame to waste the opportunity. Have you been doing any rearranging, or is my memory faulty?”

“We’re trying to reorganise. Some of our oldest and rarest specimens are back in private holding.”

“What, restricting books from leaving wasn’t private enough for you?”

“Well, we allowed you in here, didn’t we? However, as a family friend I suppose if you’d like to take a look at them…”

“What are they?”

“Come and see.” Kerry took out of his pocket a ring of keys and got up.

A few hallways over Kerry placed a key in the lock of a rather grand-looking door, turned it, and opened it.

“This must be your father’s study!” said Kira, looking at the items within. There was a banner of green with a white horse hanging on one wall, and the horn that Meriadoc had borne back with him from Rohan was displayed beneath it. “Is there a sword, too?”

Kerry stepped inside and pointed at the wall behind him. “Only one left that hasn’t been peace-tied.”

Kira followed him and looked.

“Of course, this is the one our great-sire had made after he lost his Barrow-blade, but it still works quite well.”

“You speak as if you’ve used it!”

“I assure you, the log was a real threat to the Hall at the time.”

Kira laughed. “All right, so where are these rare books?”

“On the bookshelf.” Kerry walked over to it and pulled one out, opening it to its title page.

“A Brief History of the Realm of Arnor and the People Who Lived Therein, as written by Meriadoc Brandybuck and supplemented by his heirs. Is that his handwriting?”

“Not the title page, but the first half or so of the text is.” Kira flipped forward in the book to see lines and lines of history written in a round, running hand.

“We’ve also got a chapter in his wife’s, and then a few more in his son’s, and his grandson’s, and—”

Kira flipped to the last page. “Kerry! You’ve been working on this and you never let me know?”

“We’re almost done, now. Just have to take care of the events in the War, and then we’ll rebind the whole thing.”

“Where did you get the material for this? You haven’t gone off on an adventure to Rivendell without letting me know, have you?”

“Ah, that’s the best part!” Kerry moved over and unlocked a small cabinet. “No need to when Rivendell’s been brought to you!” He took out a large, heavy tome as well as a thick stack of paper covered in notes.

“This is Meriadoc’s outline and notes for what he wished to be included, including eyewitness accounts. And this,” he hefted the volume onto the table, “is our source material.”

Kira opened it. “That’s—that’s in Elvish, isn’t it?”

Kerry grinned. “Sandra’s been helping me on the translations.” He lowered his voice. “And you know what the best part of all is?”

“What?”

“This is a private collection. Which means that the owners of it can do whatever they wish with it, including lending certain volumes out to interested and trusted parties.”

“Kerry! Whatever will your father say?”

“I’ll tell him that I need it for a private project, which I do—your education.”

“I’m not taking anything that there’s only one copy of, Kerry. And I’d rather not take originals.”

“Good thing I mixed some of the copies up with the originals when I was pulling volumes from the library, then, isn’t it? I’m afraid you can’t have the Arnor one, but we’re still working on it anyway. However, if you would prefer the realm of Rohan…” He took a smart green volume from the cabinet. “I believe this will pique your interest.”

Kira flipped through the book. It was also written by Merry Brandybuck. “Quite a scholar, wasn’t he?” she said.

“I believe it runs in the family.”

“I—I don’t know how to thank you,” said Kira.

“Then don’t. Read it, take good care of it, and return it by post when you’re done with it.”

“Well, thank you anyhow. I’ll certainly try.”

And no one could quite say how Kira received some small volumes by post from time to time, but most people thought it better not to ask.

Legolas remembers the first time he saw Gimli again after they had parted to return to their respective homes. His beard was unkempt, matted—even, dared he say, thinner. When he tried to ask Gimli about it Gimli brushed the whole matter off, and Legolas did not bother again—he knew that dwarves held some secrets so closely that no one, not even a Dwarf-friend, would ever learn of them. And he was not the fool he had been earlier to try and learn.

Now Gimli’s beard is almost all white, and has grown to a most prodigious length. And Legolas follows him from the funeral because he has not been told to leave. Gimli knows he will follow and will tell him not to if he does not wish it. But when at last they reach a quiet alcove Gimli stops abruptly, takes the beads and clips from his beard, and pulls at it, letting out a strange, unearthly wail. Legolas cannot move.

When at last all is over Gimli turns around, and the grief in his eyes is so great that Legolas cannot help but weep for himself. If Gimli acted thus at Gandalf’s passing he never noticed it.

Legolas knows that dwarves do not take well to embraces, so he does all that can. He drops to one knee, and clasps his friend’s arm in his own, then deliberately plucks one of his hairs by the root and lets it fall by the wayside. Gimli nods once and together they leave.

“Congratulations,” said Meriadoc son of Saradoc, walking over to him as soon as the coronation feast was dismissed.

“There are a good many things for which I may be congratulated,” said Faramir, “thanks to the King’s good graces.” If Halflings began their conversations without preamble, he would follow suit. “For which in particular were you wishing me well, or was the sentiment intended to be general only?”

“Oh, it was most certainly particular,” replied Merry, “and it was for the only thing that actually matters.”

Faramir thought a moment. “Have you heard already, then?”

“Heavens! You were kissing her in full daylight in the gardens, and you think news hasn’t gotten around?”

“I try,” said Faramir mildly, “to have faith in the decorum of the people of Minas Tirith.”

Merry chuckled. “It must be faith, for it isn’t placed on any reason that I can see. But I am happy, Lord Faramir, genuinely happy, that you have managed to win the Lady Éowyn to your heart.” He sighed. “She needed someone, so very badly, for all that I could see from my height. It does me good to know that you have done that.”

“Then I am glad,” said Faramir, “to know that the match meets with your approval.”

“It had better, considering the part I had in it! However, I should warn you: if you ever do anything to her that makes her regret her choice to marry you, I shall take it upon myself to exact justice. Lord Faramir, if you ever break her heart, so help me, I shall break your neck.”

Faramir had to think a moment before deciding how to respond to this. Eventually he bowed gravely before the hobbit. “And I should justly deserve it,” he said. “However, I must warn you that in such a situation you would be third in line to do me harm, after the White Lady herself and the King of Rohan.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” said Merry. “I just wanted to have that matter settled. Enjoy the rest of the revelries!” And with that, Meriadoc of the Shire bowed before him and left, and in all their conversations afterwards never brought up the matter again. Faramir was rather relieved that they never had need to.

In hindsight, Rosie was never sure how it was that she got through that eternal morning. She supposed that’s what mum’s and friends were for on your wedding day, to do all your thinking and all your preparing for you because your mind was always on him.

She still teased Sam that he’d gone and made them put it off for two years, but she didn’t mean much harm by it anymore. On that day it only made the waiting worse.

She couldn’t even remember what she had had for breakfast, except that there were eggs involved because she was continually reminded to keep eating them.

She did remember the dress, because she had seen it so many times before and so many times afterwards. The undergarments were special, and separate—the bodice to support and lift up the chest; the bustle to round out the rest of the figure, and the petticoats for the full skirt. For a brief breathtaking moment as she looked at her reflection in the glass she thought of how pretty she looked, but that quickly changed into how Sam’s eyes would light up when he saw her.

And they did. Her memories of the ceremony itself were blurred into Sam, how happy he looked and how her skin pricked when he took her hand in his, how warm his embrace felt and how smoothly he led her in the first dance.

But it wasn’t until they were alone that he kissed her, fully and deeply, as if he’d been afraid to betray his emotions and all propriety until then. She started crying right then, only it didn’t matter because he was crying too, because she was brushing tears from his eyes as she kissed him back.

Peregrin Took had few memories of Bilbo Baggins before he left the Shire, but the ones that he had stood out very well through time.

The clearest was one of Yule, just before the Farewell Party, when his family and the Bagginses were both over at the Great Smials, and some sort of grownup business was going on that meant his mum and dad were away talking. His sisters were all off playing with dolls and he was not particularly in the mood for them, so when his ancient and eccentric cousin offered to take him on an adventure he readily accepted.

“Come on, my lad,” said Bilbo, “let me show you something very special.” They walked dangerously close to the apartments of the Thain and those of his mother, but they did not go inside them. Rather, there was a door that was very old-looking, and bigger than the rest, and he opened it.

Together they stepped inside, and Bilbo closed the door behind them both.

Pippin sneezed. The air weighed down on him heavily.

“Now, Pippin, how old would you say that I am?”

“I don’t know,” said Pippin. “At least sixty-five.”

Bilbo laughed. “No, my lad, I’m much older than that, though I don’t look it. I am,” he paused for effect, “eleventy years old.”

“That’s very old,” said Pippin.

“I know. Much as I don’t like admitting it, sometimes I feel old. And when I need to feel young again, all I do is step inside this room.”

The canopy bed that took up one corner of the room was tattered, though it looked as if it had once been fine. And there was a desk at one corner that leaned to one side, and a good many moldering books in an old bookshelf.

“How well do you know your relations, Pippin?”

“Well enough,” said Pippin. “You’re my first cousin twice removed.”

“Quite. And this room was my grandfather’s, old Gerontius Took.”

“The Old Took?”

“Yes. And the furnishings and everything else are the same from the day that he died. He never liked having things changed, so in memory of that this room has been left nearly untouched since that day many years ago. The maids, of course, come in and keep most of the dust out and cobwebs, but they’ve been told that there’s to be no cleaning apart from that.” He sat unsteadily in one of the armchairs. “It’s a good place to sit and think.”

“Thank you. Is that why this place is so special?”

“Yes. And I thought you might like to see it because you’re a Took, and I’m half-Took, and you might end up being Thain one day, and everyone needs a good thinking place.”

“Would I be able to use these rooms? They’re very grand, for all they’re old.”

“You could do whatever you wished, provided you were willing to deal with the consequences.”

“The what?”

“The results of what you did. Old Gerontius probably wouldn’t mind seeing these apartments lived in once more, but he’d be very upset if the arrangement was changed.”

“Hmm,” said Pippin. “I’ll let you know how I decide.”

“Oh, no; even if I outlive the Old Took himself I’ll be long gone before then. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

And years later, even though he knew it was idle fancy telling him Bilbo might still be alive over in the West, when at last he was in a position to do anything about it Pippin wrote a note detailing the respectful restoration of the apartment and placed it in the hands of one of the Elves at the Havens.

“Mother,” said Pearl, “we have a Situation.”

Eglantine looked up from her cup of tea. “Oh, really? And what sort of situation may that be?”

“It’s Pippin. He’s begun—”

“If you were going to finish your sentence with ‘to notice the lasses,’ let me assure you the situation is wholly under control. He’s had a good many talks with his father, and his older cousins on the matter, and it’s nothing to be concerned over.”

“It’s not the noticing I’m concerned about, Mother. It’s more of the flirting, and the fretting at the fact that he’s not actually allowed to do anything—especially since he knows lasses can court a full three years before lads can.”

“Hum,” said Eglantine. She knew full well the effects of a young Took lad’s charm. If Pippin was using it with abandon the consequences could be devastating. “Thank you for alerting me, Pearl.”

The next day she managed to contrive a private meeting between herself and her youngest child and only son.

“So,” she began, “how have you been doing, Pippin?”

Pippin immediately shot her a look of distrust, mingled with hurt. “If this is going to be another one of those long blushing talks, I’d rather not have it, especially not now.”

“Well, if we don’t want to have a nice chat I suppose we don’t have to. I was only going to ask you if there was anything you wanted to ask me about in private.”

Pippin mumbled something.

“Yes?”

Pippin looked up. “I’m sorry, Mum. It’s nothing that bears repeating.”

“I’d like to hear it anyway, if you please.”

“I said,” he said with a sigh, “that I thought there was nothing more embarrassing than talking about such things with your father.”

“I know,” said Eglantine. “That’s why I just thought I’d let you know that if there was anything you wanted to ask me—”

“There isn’t.”

“Well, good, then. Off you go.”

“Except—well—” He looked behind him, checking that the door was closed. “How is it for lasses? I guess I’d thought before that things would be more or less the same, but now…”

“I suppose you could say they’re the same, at least eventually, but it takes time to get there and lads and lasses take different paths. You’ve noticed,” she said, “the way a lass’s dress is cut, especially when she’s come out in the full bodice.”

Pippin blushed.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. But most lasses don’t notice that sort of things in lads. It’s something smaller—the look in his eyes, the crook of his smile, the way he talks about certain things. Pippin, I must warn you: if you ever talk to a lass kindly and take a deep interest in her feelings, she might take that as a sign of interest in her. And I’m not so certain that you’re ready for that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“Tell me, Pippin, what do you think is the greatest expression of love between a lad and a lass?”

Pippin looked down at his toes. “I’d imagine—I imagine… well, it’s something I’d rather not talk to you about.”

Eglantine nodded. “That is a very great, and a very beautiful expression of love. But it’s not the greatest. Pippin, the greatest form of love is starting a new family with someone, creating new life and then raising it in a loving home. It takes lasses a little shorter time to realise that than lads, which is why they’re allowed to court before lads are. You shouldn’t start seeking any young lady’s affection until you’re willing to pursue it to its natural end.”

“That far?” Pippin grimaced.

“It’s all right,” said Eglantine. “You have plenty of time before you’re even allowed to do anything. Just remember that to a lass a casual smile could mean the world—especially coming from a dashing young hobbit such as yourself. I don’t want to have to deal with any cases of heartbreak because of you.”

“But… but no one’s even looked at me twice yet.”

“And that’s because you’re seeking their attention in entirely the wrong way. Lasses prefer someone who acts a little more grown-up than you currently do, Pippin. I know it’s all a little too much for you to take in at the moment, but it’ll all come in time.”

“Hmph,” said Pippin. “That’s what everyone’s been saying. I’m sick of waiting.”

“If you’d like to get a look ahead, I’m sure any number of mothers would let you mind their babies for them.”

“All right! All right! I see your point!”

Eglantine smiled. “Good lad. I’m not asking you to deny nature; just think a little bit over how things are for the lasses and I guarantee you’ll be five steps ahead of the rest when the time comes. Were there any other questions you had for me?”

“Yes, actually. What exactly are those rags used for?”

Eglantine raised her brows. Well, they weren’t called blushing talks for nothing, she supposed.

Pippin had a very strange day. Granted, he had a number of strange days, in which things that never happened to anyone else happened to him, but there was something more to this one and he knew it, and he knew he’d figure it out eventually but not for a good time yet.

He was out playing in the reeds of the Honeybourne, which was by far the nicest and sweetest river that ever ran through Tookland, when out of nowhere a Big Person walked up to him and started playing with him. There was nothing particularly wrong with that, for she was very kind, but she was also big and that frightened him a little because grown-ups were big and she was bigger than they were.

She spoke very kindly to him, and asked him his name, and made a boat for him out of the reeds and they cast it off together. But when he asked her what she was doing here, what with her being Big and all, all she said was that she was passing through the countryside and she would not stay long enough to trouble anyone.

After about an hour she said she had to leave, but first she wanted to ask him one more question: had he learned his letters yet?

Pippin was very proud to say that he had. She held out a sheet of parchment for him, only it was very thin and white as a cloud—like nothing he had ever seen before—and a piece of charcoal, and asked him if he could write his name.

He did.

The Big Lady smiled, and folded up the parchment, and thanked him. He was a little distraught that she kept the parchment, because he had signed his name on it and it was such a strange color, but before he knew it she’d said goodbye. Curious, he crept after her to see where she was going.

“Yes,” she was saying to a tall Big Person in a great coat. “I’ve got all four of them now. They really are nice fellows but I know it isn’t right to stay.”

“Quite right,” said the Man. “Wouldn’t want to alter the timestream, now, would we?”

“Thank you,” she said. “I needed a bit of a holiday.”

“Well, after what you’d been through last time I figured you deserved it, just a bit.”

He heard a door open and close—that’s odd, he thought, there weren’t any holes or houses around here.

He peeked forward just a little more. Behind a tree there was a great big blue box quite unlike anything he had seen before. Pippin very nearly ran after it, but just then with a great shriek the light on top of it started flashing and the box flickered before his very eyes!

Then Pippin ran, but by the time he reached the place where the box had stood, it was gone, and it never came back.

It was very strange indeed, and he knew if he worked at it, eventually he’d be able to figure it all out. But he didn’t have all the pieces he needed just yet, so he put it into the back of his mind to be puzzled out later.

Frodo woke up feeling remarkably refreshed. He was outside on a bed of soft grass on top of a hill. It was a credit to the Undying Lands that no roots had jabbed at his neck nor cold winds afflicted him while he slumbered. Standing up, he looked about him, but he saw no one there.

That was odd… why should there have been anyone there? He thought back to the jumble of feelings that had run through him before he slept. There had been a voice in that rain, and power—softer, but deeper than anything he had felt yet. Whoever it was, she had wept with him, and her sorrow was much greater than his.

Walking back to the house that he and Bilbo shared for the time being, he found himself going through his old lessons—lessons in mythology as he had thought them at the time. And as he ran through the lists, one name struck him and he stopped.

She had left her halls? And for him? Impossible!

He shook his head as he resumed his journey, but the idea stayed with him in such an uncanny fashion…

“Oh!” said Bilbo when he came back in. “And where have you been, my lad? Doing something productive, I hope?”

“Actually, I believe that I have,” said Frodo, rubbing absently at the gap on his right hand. “The first step out of many. Have you seen Gandalf around lately?”

“No. You know him, always off and about on his business, even here…”

“Very well,” said Frodo. “I’ll write him a note.”

And he did, a brief one that he hoped was to the point.

Please to send the Lady Nienna my regards, compliments, and sincerest gratitude. Let her know that I am ever at her service and that of her household.

Yours,

F.B.

I don’t know what’s wrong. I ought to have been afraid. That’s how they died, you know. But I wasn’t afraid, and I’m still not afraid, and that frightens me.

I don’t know how asleep I was, but I must have been very asleep not to think about it. I was lying down in a boat, just my size, so that I could feel the sides with my head and feet. But I knew where I was going without sitting up: I was travelling down the river, and it all looked very beautiful.

There weren’t any clouds above me in the sky, and the river was brown but clear, and all the trees were green and all the flowers were in bloom. The boat was about half full with water. It soaked my clothing and my hair and it made the heels of my feet all pruny, and it was rather cool, but I couldn’t get up to get out of it. I was trapped but I wasn’t afraid.

The sun rose and set and the stars turned above me, but I still drifted downriver. I should have hit rocks or something along the way, or at least spun along my path, but it was clear and the river widened as streams and creeks joined it.

More water eased in the farther along I got, until it tickled at my nose and ran over my mouth when I wasn’t thinking. I remember waving my fingers through the water, sticking out my stomach to make an island in the water.

Then I heard a great roaring from a distance, and did not know what it was until I saw it: the Sea.

My boat put out to it, and sank beneath the waves, and though I could not breathe I did not mind. It felt like going to sleep.

But I don’t know what it means. I don’t want to sink into the ocean. Drowning scares me. I miss Mummy and Daddy terribly, but I don’t want anything like that.

But in my dream the water wrapped itself around me and held me close, and I was not afraid.

“Penny for your thoughts, cousin,” said Merry. Frodo was lying flat on his stomach on the ground, his head turned to one side and his eyes staring out unfocused.

“Shh,” said Frodo. “Don’t break it.”

“Break what?”

“I’m seeing something, and it’s very, very interesting. Shouldn’t take half a minute longer… There.” He looked and sat up.

“You’re a very strange hobbit, you know that?” said Merry.

“I aim to please,” said Frodo with a small bow.

“You were really seeing something? Below?”

Frodo nodded once. “And I have no idea what to make of it, but I know it’s important or I wouldn’t have gotten it.”

“Do you think these things will ever leave you alone?”

He laughed. “If I want them to. I’m still too interested in the mundane happenings of Middle-earth for that to be the case just yet, though.”

“So what did you see this time?”

“Something most peculiar. An old room in Brandy Hall, a child sitting in a bed in the middle of the day—”

“Steady on! What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“It’s gone. Keep talking.”

“And another hobbit, sitting on a stool next to her with an old primer—”

“There! However do you do it, Frodo?”

“Do what?”

“Look!”

Merry gestured out in front of him, where a small scene had coalesced in front of his eyes.

“Heavens! That’s never happened before!”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know—I’d say it’s another elven gift—the ability to make song appear right before you.”

“Only this isn’t song,” said Merry. “It’s a story, a brief vision.” He looked closer. “I can’t see it very well. Do you think you could refine it?”

Frodo began talking again.

“That’s astounding,” said Merry. “Whatever do you suppose it could mean?”

Frodo looked at the vision more closely. “Well, I’d warrant that the fellow on the stool is one of yours. Look at that—teaching someone to read, though she’s much older than I’d have expected.”

“Wait—she’s one of mine, too!”

“What? She looks nothing like you!”

“But she is! Lagro’s child.”

“Oh, him? I only met him briefly; I suppose you could see a bit of a resemblance.”

“Doesn’t that just take the cake? Lagro’s child, learning how to read, and—oh, look! They’ve got your book, now.”

“Maybe we should tell him. Think he’d like that?”

“No, not yet—let’s keep looking. There’s got to be some reason you saw this.”

Frodo found himself smiling in spite of himself. “I think there is. That’s my old room!”

“What?”

“It’s my old room; look—those odd shutters with the wider slats than normal.”

“That was never your room!”

“I ought to know that it was. I lived there.”

“When?”

“Before you were born.”

Merry paused. “Oh.”

“After my parents passed but before you were born. I used to find my escape reading books in bed—and how much will you wager that she will, too?”

Merry grinned. “I like her already. Keep an eye on her for me, will you?”

“I’ll keep you apprised. There has to be more to this story than we’re currently seeing.”