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

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

The Prince of Mirkwood could feel Glóin’s son - his only spectator - watching him from behind, and wished the annoying creature had not stumbled upon the archery field during his wanderings. It took considerable effort to ignore the prickly feeling elicited by such close proximity with the dwarf.

But not effort enough. His final arrow missed the target by an inch. Irritated, he lowered his bow, turned, and arched an imperious eyebrow at his unwelcome visitor.

The dwarf leaned against the wooden fence and idly fingered his walking axe as his brown orbs studied the rounded target fifty yards away. “Nine out of ten times you have struck, Master Elf. A poor score, considering that you are not slow to boast to every dwarf within earshot of the superior vision and reflexes enjoyed by your kind. I hope this is not a taste of your skill in battle, or the Quest may be lost ere it begins.”

Legolas willed himself not to collect one of his arrows from the target, nock his bow, and send it soaring into the back of the arrogant naugrim’s throat. Elrond would not take kindly to it.

“Boast? I do not boast. I merely state the facts as they are: elven vision and reflexes are superior. As for the Quest, take comfort that, Valar willing, it will rely more on stealth than combat,“ he responded coolly. “Yet as poor as you claim nine strikes from ten may be, it is still far superior to the combined strikes fifty of your kind might achieve with the same weapon, and thus more than sufficient to slay more foes than your crude dwarvish axe.”

His companion’s hairy lip curled in offence at the slight as he clutched his axe protectively. Legolas tried not to feel better.

“There is naught crude in the mighty song of the axe as it parts orcish head from neck, elf! ’Tis a thing of beauty - something you will learn soon enough on our travels. But the issue here is not my weapon; it is yours. You claim fifty dwarves together could not equal your score. So I say to you this: I could equal it and more with but one arrow,” growled the dwarf in challenge, thumping his chest with a meaty thumb.

Legolas made no attempt to quash his burst of tinkling laughter. “A bold claim indeed, son of Glóin,” he retorted between gasps. “I shall fetch you the arrow myself! And if you can strike that target with it ten times from ten, then I will beg your pardon for any offence I have given you this day. Furthermore, I shall do so before all who dwell in Imladris.”

Instead of the expected glower, Legolas received an unexpected flash of gleaming white teeth as the dwarf beamed in something strangely akin to satisfaction. At first, the reaction unnerved him, but he shook the feeling off as he recovered the promised arrow and handed both it and his bow to his grinning challenger. What had he to fear? All the dwarves in Arda combined could never hope to best the archery skills of a single wood elf!

This thought buoyed him as he stepped aside and waved his right arm in a mocking arc towards the distant target.

“The field is yours, son of Glóin,” said Legolas smugly. “Go forth and impress! I shall endeavour not to laugh if you miss.”

The dwarf scowled at the last remark, but refrained from comment. He leaned his axe carefully against the fence, throwing Legolas a sidled glance as he did: a silent warning not to touch his axe. Legolas rolled his eyes. He would sooner coddle an orc than handle such a crude weapon.

“Prepare to be impressed, elf; and also to whet your tongue. It will need the practice for your public apology.”

With that, the hairy cave-lover stomped past Legolas, the elven arrow looking absurdly out of place in his meaty fist. Legolas’ eyes tracked him as he approached the mark to shoot, and as much as the thought of his beloved bow in the hands of an unwieldy novice pained him, it was countered by amusement as the graceful weapon towered over Imladris’ newest archer.

But his amusement turned to confusion as the dwarf passed the mark and continued down the emerald field, the elven bow slapping against his calf as he sought to keep it from dragging on the grass. Confusion then turned to disbelief as he arrived at the target, lifted the arrow, and struck.

Nine times the elf counted his strokes, before the dwarf turned his head, raised the arrow once more, and pointedly struck the target a tenth time. By the time he returned, Legolas’ face was set in a stony expression.

“Ten times, Master Elf. As promised. I shall expect your apology in the Hall of Fire this very evening,” said the dwarf, offering up arrow and bow, and looking smugger than anyone had the right to.

Legolas snatched his weapons back rather ungraciously. “Then you shall wait an eternity, Master Dwarf. The challenge has been rendered void, for you did not fire the arrow from its bow.”

His opponent only smiled all the wider. “The challenge was not to fire arrow from bow, but merely to strike target with arrow. This I did - and more oft than you, I may add.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it came, and Legolas found himself facing the dwarven glower he had become familiar with of late. “Furthermore, you shall apologise for your slight, elf. For if you do not, I shall make it known to our host that you are as faithless a guest as ever entered his realm.”

Legolas paled. Technically speaking, the naugrim had a point: he had not mentioned firing the arrow from the bow. So amused had he been by the dwarf’s claim, and so confident that he would fail spectacularly, that it had not occurred to him to set conditions. And why should it? Who in Arda used an arrow without its mate?

Snatching his axe from its perch at the fence, the dwarf glared up at him expectantly, his threat of informing Elrond of Legolas’ refusal to keep his word hanging between them. Legolas swallowed hard: the Lord of Imladris could out-glower any dwarf in Middle Earth, and his tongue was near as sharp as the King of Mirkwood’s - and that was before one considered his skill with the sword. If he thought for a second that one of his guests had slighted another under his roof, then refused to make the appropriate reparation …

Suppressing the urge to strangle the dwarf with his over-braided beard, Legolas forced his head into a stilted nod.

“Well done, lad. I knew you would see reason and make amends as you aught,” said the dwarf, beaming once more, before offering a parting shot. “And I shall endeavour not to crow while you do so.”

With walking axe in hand, he stomped off the field, leaving a fuming elf in his hairy wake.

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net.

Swordthain of the Shire

"I received you for your safe-keeping… None of my Riders can bear you as a burden …"

The words spoken by Théoden not seconds before burned in his mind as Merry bowed and departed from his lord. His eyes lingered on the nearest company of men who were busy tightening girths and looking to saddles in preparation for departure to Gondor, and the hobbit envied them their deadly duty of war.

Coming to a stop by the gates leading into Edoras, Merry watched the companies part to allow the king and higher nobles to ride to the fore, where Théoden himself would lead them into battle. A light wind teased brown curls from the unhappy hobbit's face while he deliberated the aged monarch's words.

Why had he even been allowed to accompany Frodo if he was ever to be thrust upon others for his own safe-keeping? First Treebeard, now Théoden. His keeping would be none too safe if the battle in Gondor went ill and Sauron's forces marched ever westward like a dark tide of malice, destroying all they encountered. Could Théoden not see this? Did he not know of what Merry had already survived? The Balrog of Moria? Abduction at Parth Galen and three days of dreadful captivity at the hands of orcs and uruk-hai? The flight into Fangorn? The battle of Isengard? He had already fought as much as any tall soldier of Rohan, and would do so again if he had but the chance!

The Riders began to turn, assembling themselves behind the king in preparation for departure. The hobbit's head fell forward in dejection.

Why had this benevolent king - whom he had served, if but for a short time, and who had found some cheer when Merry imparted tales of his beloved Shire, or what little he was able to during the ride to Dunharrow - why would he name him a burden now? He whom Merry loved; who had moved him enough with his bravery and nobility that the hobbit had sworn to him his fealty; and who Merry would have gladly named as father?

He who now thought him naught but a hindrance to be disposed of; of no more use in battle than an eager child, and just as dangerous for the distraction he might cause others as they endeavoured to protect him from harm.

But Merry needed no protection! He was willing to fight as hard and long for what he believed in as any twice tall Rider of the Mark! He had his sword, and his shield, and a heart as stout and true as even the greatest knight in green and white! Small he might be, and short might fall the reach of his sword, but he was neither child nor burden!

Despair pulled at Merry's heart as the Riders filed past him. How was he to bear being left behind with the women and children of Rohan while others fought for him and them? If the battle of Gondor was lost, he would have to fight anyway, to save those he could, so why not let him do so where the need would be greatest? It was what his friends were doing, each in their own way. Pippin and Gandalf were already in Minas Tirith, and both would know the same battle which the Rohirrim raced to join. Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas were embarking on a dangerous journey to the Haunted Mountain in the hope of summoning a deadly army to Gondor's aid. And Frodo …

Merry swallowed. His dear cousin and Frodo's faithful gardener were in the midst of the most dangerous battle of all as they attempted to reach Mount Doom in secret and destroy the One Ring.

As for Merry? He was commissioned to wait with those others who had not been deemed fit for battle, whether because of age, sex or infirmity. Doomed to wander the halls of the king, fretting with the women and children of Rohan, looking ever east through the darkness, hoping for the best, fearing the worst. How was he to bear that, knowing that others fought while he waited like an anxious wife or mother for news of loved ones? If Gondor fell … well, Sauron's armies would crush all that breathed regardless of size when they swept West and North, so what would Merry's height really matter in the end?

Then again, what if the West was victorious? What if Strider successfully called the oath-breakers to his service and annihilated the Corsairs at Pelargir? If the Rohirrim defeated the Dark Lord's army in Gondor while Gandalf and Pippin helped in their own way, defending Minas Tirith from the inside? If Frodo destroyed his evil charge, and he and Sam managed to return from Mordor unscathed after their dreadful journey? After hurts were healed the hobbits would all wish to go home; but whereas the other three could return with their heads held high, knowing they had done their part to protect it, he, Merry, would be consumed with the shame of his forced inaction.

His cousins and Sam would never think less of him, of course; but Merry would think less of himself. How could he ever aspire to take up the mantle of Master of Buckland knowing that he had not done his utmost to protect his beloved Shire when he had had the chance?

Merry raised his chin and followed the long line of Riders with glittering eyes.

He would have his chance still! He would! And if that meant defying the king himself, so be it. He was a Brandybuck after all, and Brandybucks did not shirk their responsibilities. If Théoden would not let Merry fulfil his duty as the king's swordthain, then Merry would fulfil his duty as the heir of Brandy Hall. If Théoden would not let Merry fight for Rohan and Gondor, then Merry would fight for the Shire! Théoden could not stop him - not when he had released him from his service.

And Merry would fight! He would not let his friends down. He would not spend the rest of his life - however long or short that may prove to be - ashamed to look at himself because he did not pick up arms for his people. He had the right to fight; to stand up for what he believed in, to protect those he loved and that which he cherished. And, well-meaning or not, no lordly man could say otherwise.

"I will fight by myself if I have to," he promised himself. "I will take my pony and follow them in secret. I will keep from all sight until the last and - even if I am discovered - it will then be too late for any to do aught but acknowledge my claim to slay or be slain as I see fit. I will not allow kindly strangers to dictate my fate! I will do this for me, and for Frodo, and for the Shire!"

"Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say," said a voice in Merry's ear, and it startled him so that he jumped. He had not been aware that his words were overheard. Looking up, the hobbit saw the same Rider whom he had noticed in the morning, slighter in height and girth than most men of Rohan, and with the memorable clear grey eyes that had earlier lacked all hope. Yet something burned in those eyes now; a depth and conviction that stirred the hobbit's spirit, and he recognised it for the same determination that burned in his own. The Rider gazed down at him steadily. "You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes: I see it in your face."

"I do," responded Merry, as hope sprung in his chest.

"Then you shall go with me," said the Rider. "I will bear you before me, under my cloak until we are far afield, and this darkness is yet darker. Such good will should not be denied. Say no more to any man, but come!"

"Thank you indeed!" cried Merry softly. "Thank you, sir, though I do not know your name."

"Do you not?" asked the Rider with equal softness. There was a brief glint of humour in his eyes, but Merry was too relieved at the chance to prove his worth to question it. "Then call me Dernhelm."

"Then I thank you, Dernhelm of Rohan, for allowing me to fight for those I love. Yes, even for the king who would name me a burden, for I love him too and would gladly lay down my life to protect him. I thank you for allowing me to prove that I am worthy to be his swordthain, even if he would not have me for it now."

"You are swordthain still, Master Holbytla, though perhaps now to Mistress, not Master. Yes, for your Shire is your liege now, and you may do her service in war if you wish. And why should you not? Why should not any who possess the will and strength not fight if they wish? For if all goes ill in the East, we shall all have to fight sooner or later, and better that we face our doom with conviction than have it thrust upon us when there are none left to see to our aid."

Dernhelm's words gave Merry pause, and he looked briefly over his shoulder at the crowd of women, children and the aged as they gazed solemnly at their mail-adorned menfolk. A shaft of something akin to shame shot through him as he realised he was willing to abandon them to their fate, be it good or ill.

But he was not abandoning them; at least not intentionally. He wanted to fight for them, to give them hope for a future where they need never have to wait and worry for the safe return of kin and loved ones from battle; where they need never fear the loss of their children to the hungry stroke of an orcish blade.

"Then I will fight for them also," Merry said in determination. He turned to look up at his new friend. "I will fight that they need never fear the thrust of a dark doom upon them. I will be their aid, whether or not I am with them when I deliver it! And I thank you for giving me the chance to prove it, Dernhelm. I swear I shall be no burden to you."

The man smiled, but it was more grim than joyous. "True heart and courage are never a burden, Master Holbytla, no matter the size or shape. At least not to Dernhelm of Rohan. Come, let us ride to war, you and I, and together we shall prove what those who might be left behind may be worthy of!"

So it was that when the horn finally sounded heralding the departure of the Rohirrim to war, the great grey steed Windfola carried Meriadoc the hobbit and Dernhelm the warrior both on his sturdy back through the deepening shadow towards war.

And no burden to him were either.

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Author's Note: Some text and dialogue lifted from The Lord of The Rings, The Return of The King, Book Five, Chapter 3: The Muster of Rohan.

Yep, another intended drabble. Disgraceful, eh? From one hundred words to over eighteen hundred. Tut, tut, tut.

One of these days, I'll reign in my enthusiasm and nail that blooming drabble. One of these days …

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Celebrian’s melodic voice posed the obvious question as Elrond sat on the edge of her bed cradling his newborn daughter for the first time. His heart swelled with fierce, protective love as he touched the babe’s dark hair, then traced a long finger over the petal-softness of her rounded cheek. Perfect rosebud lips parted in a soft sigh of contentment, and he gasped in wonder when her deep silvery orbs locked onto his own.

And young as she was, those beautiful eyes seemed to soothe his father’s heart with one simple promise.

Elrond’s voice was heavy with emotion as he recalled the daughter he had lost, and treasured the one who blessed him now with her presence.

“Let her be called Aralassë,” he said softly, bending low to bestow a kiss upon her brow. He tilted his head to whisper a solemn oath in her delicate ear “And neither Sea nor death itself shall ever sunder me from she who has renewed my joy.”

Author’s Note: Aargh! Almost 100 words (well, nearer it than the last two drabble attempts …).

I actually wanted to call Elrond’s new daughter ‘joy renewed’ or some combination to that effect, but I couldn’t find an elvish word meaning ‘renewed’, so I’m afraid she’s stuck with Aralassë (royal joy, or something like that). Either way, it seemed only fair to give Elrond and Celebrian a new daughter - not to replace Arwen, but to give them some comfort during their lives in the Undying Lands.

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

“I’ll wager you a week’s worth of desserts that you can’t make Aragorn laugh within the next minute,” said Merry confidently. He had just spied the man storming out of the Hall of Kings after another trying day at Court.

“A whole week’s worth of desserts?” queried Pippin, dropping an apple core into the lunch basket his cousin had brought to share with him during the break in his duties. He eyed the grim-faced king speculatively. “Very well.”

He sauntered casually across the courtyard, intercepting his tall friend just before he thundered past the White Tree. Pippin offered Aragorn a smart bow.

“A-rello-bello-ballo-tamba-kombanda-tar-a-la-nokandu-lallo-lello-randu-barolla-farolla-mandu-harra-herra-harra-lombu-manna-kommana-falala-lala-landu-biggy-baggy-boggy-bandu.”

Slowly, Aragorn’s lips tilted upwards; within seconds, he was laughing heartily. Pippin threw a victorious grin at his crestfallen cousin.

Author’s Note: Ohmigosh - a drabble-and-a-half! Am I getting there, or what?

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

“He was lying not one mile away on the Road,” said the tall elf sadly, carefully offering his burden to the lord of the realm. “He has passed beyond the bounds of Arda.”

The explanation was unnecessary. Glazed eyes, slack mouth, bloody temple: it was plain to see that the aged figure had fled his mortal coil.

“I cannot say for certain, but I believe he may have suffered a seizure of the heart and struck his head on a rock as he fell from his mount.”

Cirdan clasped the small form to his chest and mourned the passing of the last Ring-bearer.

Still, that’s what I get for bumping off Sam minutes before he takes the boat to Valinor (and therefore Frodo) …

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

“He was lying not one mile away on the Road,” said the tall elf sadly, carefully offering his burden to the lord of the realm. “He almost passed beyond the bounds of Arda.”

The explanation was unnecessary. Glazed eyes, slack mouth, bloody temple: it looked as though the aged figure had fled his mortal coil.

“I cannot say for certain, but I believe he may have suffered a seizure of the heart and struck his head on a rock as he fell from his mount.”

Cirdan clasped Sam to his chest before successfully administering first aid to the last Ring-bearer.

Author’s Note: After reading cookiefleck’s clever review (and laughing my head off at her delightful cheek), I absolutely had to post her version. There's no need to review this chapter, just take it as an apology for those of you who are gutted that I killed off Sam (sniggers)! Any congratulations for hitting the drabble-mark (or reviving Sam) go solely to cookiefleck. Hope you don’t mind my audacity, m’dear!

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net.

An Apple a Day Learns You Your Letters

"Can I have an apple?" enquired Pippin of Sam as the stout hobbit loaded the last pack onto Bill's sturdy back. The remaining members of the Fellowship were busying themselves removing all traces of their campsite and Pippin wanted a final treat to strengthen his walking legs for the journey ahead.

"I'm right certain that you can, Mr Pippin," responded Sam distractedly.

Pippin beamed in delight, anticipating his first bite of the sweet, crunchy fruit. The Fellowship's most recent paltry meal of bread and cheese might be enough to sate the appetite of a man or an elf, but hobbits needed much more in the way of sustenance. If his mother knew what he'd been surviving on of late, she would be enraged - and enraging Eglantine Took was never a wise idea.

Good old Sam! He could always be relied on to feed a hungry Took!

But second passed after second, and it soon became clear that no treat was forthcoming. Pippin's stomach growled in protest and the youth cleared his throat impatiently.

"Where's my apple?"

"What apple?" asked Sam, securing the pack with a final tug before turning to face his companion. Pippin sighed in annoyance.

"The one I asked for, of course! You haven't gone and stored it underneath everything else, have you?"

"Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't," replied the gardener, wrinkling his forehead, "though I don't see as how that could matter. You never actually asked me for an apple in the first place."

A blank stare of disbelief, then a huff of irritation. "Yes I did!"

"Begging your pardon, but you didn't."

"I did! I asked if I could have an apple and you said yes!" accused Pippin, feeling very hard done by.

Sam folded his arms and gazed at him evenly. "Exactly!" he said firmly.

"Well if you agree with me, where's my apple?"

"Don't recall saying as I would give you an apple, just that you were able to have one."

Clearly confused, the younger hobbit thrust his hands on his hips and glared at the gardener, who was standing firmly in the way of his road to gastronomic utopia. "What in all the Shire does that mean?" he demanded, feeling very irked.

"You asked 'Can I have an apple?' - not 'May I have an apple'," elaborated Sam, matching Pippin's stare, and placing himself firmly between the hungry Took and the limited supplies.

Pippin snorted. "What's the difference?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "There's a deal of difference, Mr Pippin, and you should know that even at your age. 'Can' means 'am I able to?', and 'may' means 'am I allowed to?'; or so Mr Bilbo told me when he learned me my letters - and he ought to know what he's talking about, learned gentle-hobbit that he is. So as I see it, there's as much difference between being able to do something and being allowed to as there is between a hill and a mountain."

"A hill and a …?" spluttered the young Took, momentarily flummoxed by the comparison. "What nonsense! The only difference there is height! Either way you have to climb both."

"Begging your pardon but that's not true. You climb a hill, but you scale a mountain, it being that much bigger and all," said Sam. His forehead suddenly creased in thought. "Though, now that I think on it, I wouldn't go near either of them if I had the choice of it."

Pippin huffed again. "Now you're just being contrary. Besides, you don't have much of a choice now, do you? We might very well be going up that lot there whether you like it or not."

He jerked a thumb (rather viciously) behind him and Sam followed its path with his eyes, where they landed on the forbidding prospect of the Misty Mountains. The gardener shuddered.

"So now can I have my apple?" demanded Pippin, feeling that his point had been made.

"I am sure you can, if you can find one lying about here in the dead of winter." Sam grabbed Bill's rope and scratched the pony's nose encouragingly before leading him towards the others.

"But there's plenty in the packs!" protested Pippin, charging after him. He was more than a little chagrined at Sam's unwillingness to feed him. It was so very un-Sammish!

"But you haven't asked if you might have one from the packs yet, have you?"

From somewhere ahead, Pippin heard the unmistakeable sound of a snigger; he glared hot coals into Merry's back in response. Sometimes he resented the fact that hobbits had such excellent hearing! He transferred the glare back to Sam.

"All right, then," he hissed, trying to even out his breathing and remain polite. If Sam thought he was being petulant, he'd send him on his way without so much as a crumb. Pippin would starve to death!

Well, perhaps not starve to death. But he would definitely faint from hunger!

"All right, then: may I have an apple?" he asked pointedly, trying hard to smile through his ire. For good measure, he added; "From the packs? Please?"

To his utter astonishment, Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr Pippin, but I'm afraid you mayn't."

Pippin could hardly believe his ears - in fact, he stuck his fingers into each of them and wriggled them about quite violently in an effort to clear them. Surely, after all that, Sam hadn't gone and said no? But the gardener's expression was eerily Gandalf-esque in its severity: he had said no! The youth was livid.

"But how is a hungry hobbit supposed to fill up the corners?" he asked petulantly.

"You know as well as I do that we're living on rations, Mr Pippin," retorted Sam crisply. "That apple you want to fill your corners with now could be the difference between life and death later on."

Indignation swept through Pippin. "If you were going to refuse me all along, why didn't you just do so in the first place?" he growled.

"For two very good reasons," said Frodo, falling into step beside them. "One: why should you have a larger share of the supplies than any of the rest of us?"

"It's only one apple!" exclaimed Pippin in annoyance. "And it will be mine eventually, anyway!"

Frodo frowned at his youngest cousin. "Then you may have it at the same time as the rest of us. If Sam allows you to have it now, he'll have to unload Bill just to find the right pack, and that will mean a delay in our journey. Besides, I know you, Pippin: you would eat your apple instantly, then persuade someone else out of their own later on."

"He would have had little success in parting mine from me," said Boromir gruffly, giving the young hobbit an amused wink as he passed them to take his position at the rear of the Fellowship.

Pippin began to protest, but Frodo cut him off with a wave of his hand. "If you deny it, I'll ask Sam to give yours to Bill the next time we stop to rest."

Pippin glowered unhappily. "That's not fair. Bill eats grass. Why should he have my apple too?"

"If you're as hungry as you say you are, you could always bend down and rip up a few blades of grass for yourself. That would even the score between Bill and you right nicely," muttered Sam. The pony whinnied suddenly, as if in agreement, and Pippin flushed when he caught Frodo trying to hold back a grin.

"And secondly," resumed Frodo after composing his features, "you needed a lesson in grammar."

The Ring-bearer received a blank stare in response.

"What he means is that Sam was teaching you your letters, in a manner of speaking," interjected Merry helpfully; the Brandybuck had fallen back to join their conversation. "Or rather he was reminding you of your lessons. Think how ashamed cousin Bilbo would be if his Tookish relations couldn't tell the difference between being able to do something and being allowed to. You're the future Thain of the Shire, you know; a very respected position. It's your duty to know what you're talking about, or how else are you supposed to rule with any degree of authority? Why, if hobbits think you can't tell your cans from your mays, they may very well walk all over you - and whenever they can at that."

Pippin was fairly certain that Merry's statement was rather grammatically incorrect in and of itself, but he was too stunned to try and decipher it. As it was, it was now apparent that he was outnumbered three to one, so he decided not to mention it anyway (a fortunate decision, given that he was currently speechless with indignation).

The fact that his cousins and Sam were all having a rather good chuckle at his expense was completely beside the point.

Completely.

Feeling very much put-upon, Pippin's only response was to glower at the insufferable trio for several long seconds. But then rescue came to him in an unlikely form. A meaty hand descended on his shoulder and Pippin glanced back to find Gimli regarding him with kindly brown eyes.

"Come, lad. If these young rascals cannot appreciate your inestimable company, you may walk with me."

The dwarf's choice of words made the curly-haired youth wince; if he heard 'can' or 'may' - or any permutation thereof - just one more time, he might very well scream.

Blissfully ignorant of his distress, Gimli soldiered on with his magnanimous offer. "I care not for the precision of your grammar as much as I do the quality and content of your conversation, Master Took, and there I have always found you to excel! If your current companions fail to appreciate that, then allow me to benefit from your company instead. Come, we shall walk behind Aragorn for a while, you and I!" The dwarf leaned down slightly and lowered his voice. "And if you are very fortunate, I may well find something with which to sate your gnawing hunger."

Brightening instantly, Pippin gave Sam, Frodo and Merry a triumphant look. Frodo and his gardener were staring at the dwarf in mild disapproval for indulging him so, whereas Merry bore a distinctly crestfallen expression at the prospect of Pippin eating when he could not.

Hah! That would teach them to tease him so unmercifully! Pippin beamed at Gimli in gratitude.

"Really?" he asked, feeling a warm burst of affection for his hairy friend.

"Aye, lad," affirmed the dwarf, his brown eyes twinkling mischievously. "For I have spotted a grassy knoll not one hundred yards ahead of our current position. Furthermore, if we hurry, you may feast well enough upon it now to make up for any apple yonder pony may deprive you of later."

The other three hobbits broke into renewed laughter, only this time it was joined by the hearty guffaws of a traitor dwarf. Completely disgusted by his heartless companions, Pippin stomped away to seek the infinitely more sympathetic and tolerant company of a very grumpy wizard.

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Drabble Drop-outs by Kara's Aunty