In true hobbit fashion, I celebrate my birthday by writing people stories, according to prompts that they give out.  The total this year was twenty: nineteen prompts, plus one to grow on, and again, with only an hour or so to spare, I got them done in time...

“Rosie says I shouldn’t have said ‘yes,’” said Marigold, folding her arms.  It was just after tea on Second Yule, and she and Tom—her betrothed, how wonderful the word sounded!—had finally gotten half a minute to themselves.

Well, mostly to themselves, because apparently betrothed couples were subject to even more scrutiny than courting ones, even if they could get away with more…

Marigold wondered whether she could get away with carrying a bit of dried mistletoe around in her pocket, or if that stopped working sometime after Yule.

“Pah!” said Tom.  “She’s just being a stick-in-the-mud.  Anyhow, things worked out for her well enough, didn’t they?”

“Things won’t be ‘well enough’ for Rosie till she’s married to Sam and pregnant by Sam, and you know it.”

Tom winced.  “Mari!  I know we’re all grown now, but she’s still my little sister!”

“Yes, and Sam is being quite level-headed considering I’m his little sister and I’m one step closer to that than she is.  Anyhow, Rosie said that she and Sam were talking, afore you asked me, so things would’ve worked out sooner if you’d put it off and asked me proper.”

“I was asking you proper!”

“To remind Sam what he was missing out on!”

“Fine,” sniffed Tom.  “If that’s how you want it, I didn’t want to marry you anyway!”

Marigold giggled and poked him on the nose.  “You’re a terrible liar, Tom.”

He caught her hand before she could pull it away.  “You’re not that worried, are you, Mari?” he said at last, his face serious.

“Not really, no, as long as you weren’t just saying it for them.”

Tom laughed.  “No.  I may have cooked up that plan thinking of Sam, but when I spoke, it was only you as was on my mind.”

“Good,” said Marigold.  “That’s settled then.”  She smiled.  “Rose is a dear, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make her jealous…”

Tom took something out of his pocket.  “Care to make her a little jealouser, then?”

It was mistletoe.

“More tea?” the old pherian said.

Boromir shook his head.  He was beginning to become accustomed to the prodigious appetites of Halflings, but it was a fresher shock seeing one so aged consume for “tea” more than he did at the day-meal.

“How did your people come by this?” he asked.  “Tisanes are popular among some of the nobility in Gondor, but the colour and flavour of this is more like to coffee than it is to those.”

Bilbo—Boromir had not yet learned his father’s name—shrugged.  “We buy it that way.  This is imported from far to the east, and of course it can’t be brought in fresh.  Either you don’t have tea plants in Gondor, or whatever it is that dries them changes their flavour so.”  He frowned.  “That is odd, I thought a land such as yours would trade robustly.”

“We did, once,” said Boromir.  “But so much of our gold now goes to fight the Enemy, and those we traded with long years ago side openly with him.  Let not the splendour of bygone days deceive you, Master Pherian.”

“You’re still a sight wealthier than the line of Isildur,” Bilbo remarked.  He patted the slender volumes that lay next to him again.  “You really don’t care to read history?”

Boromir eyed him sharply.  “I do not care to read for leisure, no.  You are treating those books as if they are a duty.”

“Oh, are they?” Bilbo said innocently.

Boromir leaned forward.  “I may dislike intrigue,” he said coldly, “but I am, in fact, the Steward’s son, and I should be dead now if I did not recognize it when I saw it.  Speak plainly what you mean by these attempts to ‘educate’ me, as you say, about the barren wastes of the North.”

Bilbo did not look particularly intimidated.  “Oh,” he said.  “If you mean that I am testing your character, why, yes, of course I am!  You are to be traveling with my beloved nephew, the son of my dear gardener, the son of Glóin of the Quest for Erebor, Gandalf, and of course the Dúnadan.  Now, all of them can take care of themselves perfectly well, but I am old, and I worry.  And besides, you are frightfully ignorant of the North, and it’s better to get over these prickly issues in comfort and peace, rather than on the road, don’t you think?”

Boromir opened his mouth, and then closed it.  Bilbo was far, far shrewder than he looked.  “Forgive me,” he said.  “In my land, most intrigues are ill-willed.  For your part, you must know that I agreed to dine with you, in part, because I must know see for myself whether an object like—like that—is truly safe in the hands of a Halfling.”

“Not in his hands, perhaps,” said Bilbo, “but in his pockets, certainly.  Especially Frodo’s.  So: you wish to be educated about hobbits—and your first lesson is that you must start calling us that, we don’t go about calling you Doublings, you know—and I wish to educate you about hobbits, and I wish to test your mettle.  Dear me, this might take longer than one meal!  Would you care for tea tomorrow?”

“No,” said Boromir, whose appetite for supper was probably already overwhelmed.  “But my father always said that you could learn much of a people by the games that they play.  Tell me, do they play chess in your homeland?”

“We play draughts,” said Bilbo, “but I learned chess once, long ago.  Haven’t had much opportunity to play it, though, because the Elves seem to think they have all the time in the world to make up their minds…”

“That is just as well,” said Boromir.  “I play it poorly, and my brother is always telling me to improve my craft.”

“Excellent!  Chess tomorrow, then?”

“Chess tomorrow,” said Boromir.  Faramir would be proud of him, on more than one account.  He only hoped he could learn as much from the encounter as Faramir would.

Taste the air coming in, feel it going out through the nose, and the sun, and the wind, and every last tickle of grass on back of the neck, and…

Listen to your uncle massacre the fairest of tongues.

…ar i pitya huo cénala sit’alassë landë…

“Stop a minute.  Alassë should be accusative, if it was what he saw, only I cannot tell if that is your speech—”

“—Or my grammar.  Fortunately for you, I am here to tell you, once more, that the Quenya accusative died out in Middle-earth long ago, and if you’d just keep current with the times, my lord Finrod…”

Frodo suppressed a sigh.  They’d been going on like this for hours, and if Finrod would just up and tell his uncle that he was wrong—

“No, you see, Westron possesses no such vowels, so we have to approximate—”

“—Or just become very, very good listeners,” Frodo said loudly.  “Which is far, far too easy with the two of you.”  He opened his eyes and sat up.  “A, á, e, é, i, í, o, ó, u, ú, ai, au, oi, ui, eu, iu, and don’t aspirate the voiceless plosives.  Those are the Valinorean variants, are they not?”

Bilbo looked incredibly put out.  Finrod nodded.

“There,” said Frodo.  “So, you see, it can be done.”

“My dear Frodo,” said Finrod—good heavens, he had been around Bilbo too long!—“I fear you are rather ruining the fun of our conversation.”

“On the contrary,” said Frodo.  “Here I am, in the most peaceful places in all of Arda, and I can’t even think the way you two go on with your pedantry.  Good day!”

Bilbo stared at him, stunned, and then Frodo, realizing how worked up he’d gotten, smiled, and then he laughed merrily as a child and ran down the hill.

Oh, it was far better to feel prickly than to feel nothing!

*  *  *

“Well,” said Bilbo, “that was unexpected.”

“He is feeling more himself, then?” said Finrod.

“I hope so,” said Bilbo.  He grinned a devilish grin.  “You know, if you couldn’t tell from that petulant display, my nephew has a remarkable talent for accents and foreign sounds in general, and he’s far better traveled than ever I was…”

Yes, Bilbo would.

Sam missed the days that the study was full.  He’d been determined that all his children learn their letters, of course, and though he didn’t ask much more, Elanor kept right up with her studies, and most of the others wanted to keep up with her.

Most of them—Ham was particularly stubborn.

Today, though, there were only two in the study, and Robin didn’t really need to be there.

“All right, now, Tom, what’s this letter again?”

“M!”

“So it makes what sound?”

“Mm—”

“That’s right.  And the next one?”

“A, ah.”

“And after that?”

“T.”

“Now, put them together…”

“Mmaat?  Mat!”

“Very good, Tom.  Now, do you recall the other words in this line?”

“The, fat, cat, on, the, mat.”

Sam nodded encouragingly.

“The fat cat on the mat?”

“Yes, that’s it, my lad!”

“The fat cat on the mat!  Rob, I did it!”

Robin had already thrown his book down, though, and his arms around Tom.  “I knew you could do it!  I just knew you could!”

“And I did do it!”

“We’ll have Mum make us whatever you want for dinner, right, Tom?” said Sam.

Tom nodded eagerly.

“Come on,” said Robin, “let’s tell her and the others.”

As they left the study laughing, a tear came to Sam’s eye.  He’d never felt this proud before in his life—proud of himself, a little, but mostly to his son.  He immediately went to the upright desk and began to dash out letters, even though he was now weeping openly—first to Elanor, then Rosie-lass, Merry-lad, Pippin-lad, and Goldilocks.  Rosie found him before long, though, and they held each other a good long while, listening to the hoots of joy going up around the rest of the smial.

At the tender age of twenty-five, Tom Gamgee was finally learning to read.

“What are you doing?” said Pippin, peering over Merry’s shoulder far too dramatically.

“I’m making a map,” said Merry.  “And an itinerary.”

“That’s—that’s The Horse and Rider, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you making a map of all the inns and alehouses in Minas Tirith?”

“No,” said Merry.  “I’m talking to you.  You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Fine,” said Pippin.  “I didn’t want to know anyway.”

Merry smiled.

*  *  *

“Strider?” said Merry.

“Yes?”

“Is there any way you can give me your schedule for… a week from now?  And the schedules of your higher ranking officials?”

“For what purpose?”

“A very good one,” said Merry.  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

*  *  *

“Strider wouldn’t budge,” said Merry.  “So do you think you could find out?”

“Mr. Merry…”

“You’re a very good conspirator, as long as wizards aren’t involved, and I’m not involving him till I send out the invitations.  All you have to do is learn where he’ll be at 5:00 in the afternoon on a given day.”

“Didn’t you ever reckon that the reason I was a good conspirator was that I looked as I belonged in the hedges?”

“You—you’re Frodo’s esquire, now, for all that most of Minas Tirith knows.  You should be able to make some discreet inquiries.”

“Who’s footing the bill?”

“Eh?”

“At the inn!  I hope as I’m not”

“Oh,” said Merry.  “Well, the whole money thing just seems to happen when you’re famous.  But I won’t involve you in the bill, thank you, in return for your help.  We can’t tip our hand till we’ve already sprung our attack.”

*  *  *

“And you are asking me to put this aside for a night, and act as if it were not there?”

“No,” said Merry, “I’m asking you to give up this little charade, Éomer King, for at least one night, because every Rider I’ve talked to has said you already approve of him because you haven’t gutted him yet.”

“I think Aragorn would not be glad if I did that,” said Éomer.

“Oh, he wouldn’t,” said Merry, “and then there’s the fact that betting on either one of you at a sparring match is about even odds.  Still, if all you’ve done is glare at him?”

“I have not only glared at him.  We have also had words.”

“Well, then, have words with him this night, and make them friendlier!”

“You do not seem to understand fealty, Holdwine.  And why is this needed, again?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

*  *  *

Frodo read through the invitation that Merry had just pressed into his hand.  “A bachelor party?  Is there something I’m not aware of, Merry?”

“No,” said Merry.  “Only that we’re not likely to be about when they actually do get married, so—why not?”

“How many pages of notes have you written, planning this?”

“More than you have, writing your book!”

Frodo picked up a stack of (filled) paper and hit Merry on the head with it.

“It’ll be good research into our characters,” said Merry, unfazed.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going!”

“I didn’t say you had a choice!”

*  *  *

At five o’clock on that Thursday, Faramir was startled by a knocks on his door, loud as thunder.  He made no response, but shifted closer to the door until he could hear Halfling voices.  Then he opened it, and was startled to see the crowd gathered there.

“You,” said Merry, “are being kidnapped.”

Faramir took a step back.  “What is the occasion for this?”

“Your making Éowyn happier than I’ve ever seen her?  Call it an early bachelor party, if you wish.”

“And whither am I to be kidnapped?  And how long?”

“Well,” said Merry, “we’ll start at the establishment of your choice, and then, if you want, we can move on.  Oh, and you won’t be released till the inns close for the night.”

Seeing Aragorn there, Faramir caught his eye.

“The Court can wait for your merriment for one evening,” said the King.

“Well, then,” said Faramir, casting a not-so-wistful look down at the papers upon his desk, “I do not have much of a choice in the matter, do I?”

The foaling lasted long into the night, and by the time it’s over, they’re both dirty, sweaty, and exhausted.  Faramir’s glad he married a woman of Rohan, for he can’t think of a single lady in all of Gondor who would work this hard, side by side with her husband, on a task so messy.  Éowyn insisted, though, and anyone left in his household who might otherwise object recalled that horse-breeding was a trait of her homeland.

A blessed trait, then, for so many women expected to do nothing more than sigh and gaze in their lovers’ eyes, and if that was all to love, then love was meagre indeed!

“I tire,” says Éowyn, “and I stink, and I need a bath ere I sleep this night.”

Faramir turns to her, and though her judgment is sound, she still looks fair to his eyes.

“Alone.”

Faramir nods, and merely squeezes her hand before she retires for the night, for though he’d love to watch, he would rather not distress her.

Strange, this, how when he was younger he always thought he’d need time alone, even once he was married.  Now that he is, he’s shocked to find she needs it more than he.

And who better to understand the needs of solitude than Faramir, Denethor’s son?

Yawning, he makes his way into the moonlit night, where a stream runs by their home, and makes his ablutions as best as he can, then settles his back against the bole of an oak to doze.  It has been a long time since he has greeted the day thus, and he doubts he could get much sleep this night, even abed.

When the birds begin to sing, he wakes, and opens his eyes to a lightening sky.  As the sun rises, she joins him from the house, already dressed for the day, and takes his hand in hers.

They watch the world stir together, in silence, and for Faramir, that is more than enough.

“You’re humming that song again!”

“Would you prefer if I whistle?”

“No, that’s worse, coming out of you.”

“Quite an earworm, isn’t it?”

“I rather thought that was the point.  I also rather thought that was reserved for the brydlop.”

“The what?”  Aragorn had been working in the Houses of Healing all day.  Merry and Pippin had apparently jumped at the chance to dine with him when he was not under any Social Obligations to Kingliness, as Pippin had put it, and up till this point he’d been content to let their mostly mindless banter wash around him.

“Birdlop,” said Pippin.

“Brydlop,” said Merry.  “The end part of the wedding, where the bride and groom retire for the night to many sly winks and nods.”

“And, if the rest of us are lucky, to the most magnificent song ever written!”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows.

Pippin only grinned.  “If the sun goes down and they’re still here, we get to tease them about it.”

A look of realization crept across Merry’s face.  “Oh.  That’s why you’ve got it in your head, isn’t it?”

Pippin practically bounced where he was sitting.

“Sam is getting married?” Aragorn hazarded.

“Well—no, not necessarily, not yet, but we didn’t even know he had a lass back home till yesterday, and surely he’ll have to marry her eventually, and when he does…”

“Pippin,” said Merry, “you don’t even know her!  What if she says ‘no’?”

“Sam didn’t seem to think she would.”

“He’s also clearly head over feet for her, and if Frodo didn’t know Sam had a sweetheart till now, how do we know how far along it really is?”

Aragorn frowned, as his mind filled in the gaps in the hobbits’ conversation.  He recalled Sam’s pleasure at seeing the greenery here in the Houses, and how tenderly the gardener had cupped one of the roses in his hand.  In that instant, Aragorn beheld that same brown hand cupping a blushing bride’s face—but he had said naught, for Sam’s secrets were his own to keep.  “What is her name?” said Aragorn.

“Rose Cotton,” said Merry.  “One of Sam’s more distant cousins, from what I could tell.”

“Rose, then?  I think you’ll find that she will wed him, eventually.”

“Excellent!  Wait, how do you know?”

“A King makes sure to look out for all his subjects.”

“So that means you’ll look out for us and help come up with ways to keep them at the party too late?”

“That depends.  What precisely is this song?”

Ossë hated it when she was coy like this.  Her hair was spread through the deeps of the Sea, but it was so tangled in things that it gave him no clues, just the merest scents and the softest brushes on his soul.  He had asked creatures of all kinds, from the minnows to the whales, where she was, but they were on her side today, and none of them would yield so much as a word.

One of the dolphins laughed—laughed!—and he very nearly punched it in the nose.

Uinen wanted him to work for this, and the worst thing of all was that he had no choice.  Finding an end to one delicate sea-green strand, he took it, and followed it, through the heights and the depths of the sea, until at last he found her, floating in the sea-foam, utterly beautiful and utterly happy.

“Uinen,” he whispered, reaching out a hand to brush her cheek, but she, giggling, disappeared into the foam.

Growling, he snatched at her, until he held onto something—a hand?  a foot?—and swore that he would not let go till she answered to this insult.

She twisted in his grasp, and her voice came from all around him.  “Are we feeling wroth today, beloved?”

“Very.”

“Be still, then,” she said, and this time she was naught more than a whisper in his ear.  As if he could possibly be still when she was tantalizing him like this!

“Never,” he said, and he caught the whisper and kissed it.  The whisper kissed him back, and suddenly she was there again, clad only in her hair, and ah! if she disappeared from him again, he would destroy an entire island in his pursuit.

Fortunately, Uinen was the type that liked to be caught—

—eventually.

There were storms on the sea that night.

Galadriel knew that her eldest brother had been reborn.  She knew that she had been forgiven by the Valar, and unless things had changed very much in the past two Ages, she knew that her parents would trust their judgment well enough to believe that she deserved it.

Galadriel did not, in fact, deserve this rest, but in Middle-earth, she had begun to fade with Nenya.  She needed Valinor, more than she had ever needed to leave it.

She could also reason many things that she did not know.  So many had sailed in the past ages that she would not need to explain the events of the Second and Third Ages first-hand (although many, no doubt, would want her opinion).  Tírion would be more familiar with her than she would be familiar with Tírion.  Then, there was the matter of Mandos—Angrod could well have come back, and Orodreth’s only sins were stupidity and cowardice, both of which were (if her perception of them were not over-colored by her youth, then) easily cured.  She did not know if she would see Aegnor, but if he tarried, he tarried of his own will.

The unexpected, she could not expect, so it needed neither time nor thought from her.

No, there was one question that she could not have answered until she saw it with her own eyes.

And so, Noldo that she was, Galadriel turned from the known and the reasoned, to face the unknown and tame it to knowledge.  Passing other faces over, she looked only for a flash of silver hair and bright blue eyes—her beloved daughter, made whole.

She left the ship last, so that she could watch Celebrían’s reunion with her husband, both happy to tears.  Then, stepping from the ramp onto soil that felt like home, she let familiar hands and smiles guide her far away.

1.

Celeborn remembered how merry Elrond had been in his youth.  His losses seemed to teach him the value of joy, rather than embitter him, and that was when Celeborn had first realized that, if the Powers willed it, he would grow into one of the Wise.

Elrond was harder now, though, and sharper, too, like a Nandorin clay knife.  Such tools needed no sharpening over the years, but they were brittle, and if used the wrong way, they could snap.  Was it loss that made him such, or time, or the mortal blood in him?

Or was it his burden?

Celeborn had feared most for Elrond at Celebrían’s passing.  For years afterwards, when he knew Elrond recalled her, he often saw him glance down to the ring on his finger.  What went through his mind then?  Was he grieved to learn that not even the best arts of the Noldor could stop pain?

When Elrond told him, five years later, that he would never take stock in such things again, Celeborn remedied his opinion of his son-by-love.  He was one of the Wise now.

Did Vilya hasten that growth, or delay it?

2.

He left Lothlórien for a year after she refused to take it off at night.  It was not that he did not understand her counsel, or even that he disagreed with it on some level: the Necromancer, whoever he may be, was growing in might, and if his spies did not rest, why should Galadriel?

Yet it still hurt.  When they shared dreams, the woman he met was a pale shadow of her true self, for not all of her could dream.  And if she could no longer share all of herself with him, what was Celeborn to do?

In a dark moment, he wondered whether the Necromancer was his rival, or Celebrimbor.  In a moment darker still, he wondered which answer was worse.

And so he left, but only for a year, and when at last they were reunited and alone, they wept in each other’s arms.

With Nenya, the Lady of Lórien needed nothing to hold winter and shadow alike at bay.

Yet it seemed that Galadriel needed Celeborn even more.

It was hard to trust in a thing like water.  It moved not with the steady, near-silent rhythms of stone, which sung Dwarven babes to sleep at night, but with swift strokes, restless as a delver dreaming of the lode just under his fingertips…

How was it that the Elder folk loved it?  Would not something that changed so only remind them further of their fate, to linger after all else had passed?

He had asked Legolas that once, but he hadn’t known the answer, and Legolas did not like much talk of death these days.  Strange, how ready they had been for it those years ago, and now how it stole upon their loved ones, each after another, and Gimli knew who was next…

He was still getting accustomed to the idea.

Water was a fickle thing, but Gimli trusted to it out of love, and because he had no choice.  He was growing weary, of grief more than of age, though his bones creaked.  He had taken to the boat because Legolas would be more aggrieved if he did not come, and because he hoped that it truly would lead to a land better than the one he now left.

It was a hard journey for him.  He could not sleep, he could hardly eat, and what he could eat he rarely kept down.  Legolas worried about him, but he worried still more about finding the Straight Road, and being turned away, even if dreams had already told him otherwise.

Gimli did not see the Bent World fall from beneath him, for he was ill.

Afterwards, time seemed to shift, and the water shifted more.  It was living here, pulling them in.  Gimli thought at first that it would ease his passage, but it only made things worse.

Then, Legolas having no need to steer, they spent long hours together in silence.  If Gimli showed worry, Legolas steadied him, and said, “Courage, my friend, for we are going to our reward.”

And when the ship pulled in at the dock, Gimli knew it was so.

He stepped onto the dock, and from there, to the land.  The rock was sturdier under his feet, and Gimli knew it was not solely from long days at sea.

Mum had made it for him after his feet stopped growing, figuring that height could not be far behind.  Oh, she could have hired a tailor easily, but she was, above all, his mother, and she’d insisted that she make his first nice waistcoat as a grown hobbit.

She’d made it to last, too, and small wonder, the fabric was so fine.  It was a bright, coppery, silky thing, and he didn’t know how many other families could even afford it if it was imported from the South the way the traders had said.  Merry had informed him had blinded him on at least one occasion (Pippin didn’t believe him).  The buttons shone like newly-minted pennies, and while Mum had informed him that this might make it harder to match, Pippin hadn’t really cared.

There weren’t a lot of occasions to wear it—weddings and Yule, mostly—but that made it more special.  Unlike several hobbits of his acquaintance, Pippin understood that part of the importance of dressing up was having a proper occasion for it.  He’d had too much of sisters to believe that fine clothing was anything but an excuse for ladies—and Gondor, he later emended—to exert more control over their husbands, sons, and little brothers.  Still, sometimes (and he was very careful never to admit this to Merry) you could have something that made all of the starch worth it.  He’d had an unusually high number of feminine whispers follow him whenever he wore the waistcoat at parties.

They’d kept it, of course, partly in hope for his return, and partly because no one else could take it.  Pippin ran his hand over the fabric, rubbed a thumb over each button, then felt for the straps in the back that were supposed to let it out as he put on more weight with age.

He sighed.  He’d wanted it to last, and up till now he’d secretly hoped that all the growth had been in his legs.

Wasn’t meant to be, though—there was a full inch of white shirt going the waistcoat didn’t cover anymore.

Was he too large for it, or was it too small for him?

It grows each morning, shrinks each night,

Light as air, yet makes no flight.

It will not budge, though it be hollow;

Move its maker, and it will follow.

Within the Mountains are they born,

But Mountains aren’t their home.

Though fed on only water,

Without a rest they roam.

They ever seek each other,

But each in each is lost

Till reaching home, they gather,

And then give up their ghost.

Sam was halfway to the Cottons’ when he saw Mr. Peregrin Took walking alongside the Water.  He tried to ignore him, but the moon was bright and he was caught.

“Hoy!” Pippin called out.  “Sam Gamgee!”

Sam turned, pretending to notice him for the first time.  “Hullo, Mr. Pippin,” he said.  “What are you doing out this late?”  Mr. Pippin was staying with Mr. Frodo, who did not keep particularly late hours these days, for a week.

“I wanted a walk,” said Mr. Pippin.  “And to see the stars, and to hear the Water, and—here I am!”  He put an arm around Sam’s shoulder.

Sam stiffened.  “Mr. Pippin,” he said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you—”

“Drunk?”  Mr. Pippin laughed.  “No,” he said, “just feeling remarkably Tookish at the moment.”

“Then,” said Sam, “might I suggest as you stop acting like you are drunk?”

“You made me work with manure when I was eleven, Sam.  I think that means we can be at least a little familiar with each other.”

At Sam’s look, though, Pippin removed his arm.  “Sorry,” he said.  “You’re quite sour today, Sam.  Is there anything the matter?”

“No,” said Sam, “I’m just busy, is all.”

“At midnight?”

Sam kept his mouth shut.

“Is Frodo being close about something?  I thought you’d have let us know if your fellow Conspirators needed to be called together again!”

Sam blushed furiously.  “No,” he said, “it’s nothing like that.  I—well, it’s my own affairs and not yours, if you take my meaning.”

“All right,” said Pippin slowly.  “Sorry I asked.”  He paused.  “I guess you might have need of the stars, too.”

Sam thought a while before saying anything.  It wasn’t that Mr. Pippin was wrong, it was just that a gardener who looked up at the stars wasn’t exactly a good gardener.  At the very least, he was an idle one, and only the gentry could afford to be idle.  “I do,” he said, finally, “much as it drives my Gaffer to grief.”

“Well, then,” said Pippin, “walk beneath the stars with me, talking or silent, as you wish, and whatever it is that has you so busy, you’ll feel better for it after.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pippin,” said Sam, “but—”  Well, things didn’t work that way, the way you got less busy was by doing more work.  Still, the blossom in his pocket was fresh, and Rosie wouldn’t wake to find it till dawn.  “But thank you,” he finally said, and they strolled under the summer sky together.

Mrs. Maggot wouldn’t like it, he knew, for all he’d told her before they left was that he was dropping the hobbits off at the Ferry.  But after he’d turned away, Maggot doubled back.  He couldn’t be wholly sure, but he reckoned this was the exact sort of thing Bombadil would want to know about.

Well, it wasn’t like he was going to pop down for a visit—it was terribly late, after all.  No, just drop off a message where Old Tom would be sure to pick it up, just as he’d been told to long years before.  The last time he’d done it, he’d politely informed Tom of his impending wedding, but for all the years that had gone by since, Maggot still remembered how it went.  He stopped the cart at the ferry, then looked at the river in dismay.  The boat was on the other side, for of course his guests had crossed it earlier!

The lamps on the other side were lit, though, and maybe someone else was fool enough to tarry this late at night.

“Ferry ahoy!” cried Maggot.

“Hoy!” came a faint cry back, and within a few minutes, the ferry docked at the landing.  Maggot thanked the hobbit who’d brought it over and tipped him generously.

“You’re in luck,” he said.  “I was about to retire for the night!”

“Well, I can bring myself back across the river,” said Maggot, “though I shouldn’t be an hour.”

“Got to have a word with your friends on the other side, eh, Maggot?  Why don’t you just move to Buckland and be done with it, already?”

“I like Bamfurlong,” said Maggot.

“Ay, and so do the lads of Brandy Hall!”  They both laughed, and the ferryhobbit promised him he’d stay out anyhow, though he might be dozing when Maggot got back.

From there, it was a short walk to the edge of the Old Forest, even though Maggot was avoiding Brandy Hall this time around.

Under the eaves that hung over the High Hay, he looked up and saw an owl, who was giving him his best “you are not welcome here” look.  Maggot stuck his chin out and spoke—he was not particularly good at poetry when Old Tom wasn’t around, but the birds seemed to remember poetry better.

“Hear me, tawny owl, carry out this message!

Tall men cloaked in black through the Shire take passage!
They’ve come knockabout, asking after Baggins,
I just drove him to Buckland in my waggon.
Baggins seems to know that the riders want him,
Fear he may do aught dangerous if they daunt him.
Keep an eye on him, He with Boots of Yellow,
If you should see of him—he’s a decent fellow!”

The owl clicked his beak at Maggot.  “And yes,” he said, “I am a friend of Bombadil’s, and if he finds out you’ve been withholding a message he’ll roast you on a willow-spit.  So you’d best hurry!”

The owl clicked his beak again, and flew into the forest.  Satisfied, Maggot made his way back.

*  *  *

Tom was wakened by a tap on the windowpane, and was slightly concerned when he saw Tawny Owl perched there.  Carefully, so as not to disturb his wife, he crept out of bed, opened it, and whispered:

“Hey now, Tawny Owl, why are you a-tapping?
It’s so dark at night, decent folk are napping!”

The owl relayed Maggot’s message, and as he listened to it, Tom felt his age.

“Go, now,” he said, “and glut yourself on mice.  You have more than done your duty this night.”

They were exhausted after the night’s march, but the lightening sky, and the knowledge that the beasts were stirring with the dawn, heartened all the Company.  There was a salt lick that Strider knew was along their route, and after all the hobbits’ spirits had been raised by the prospect of easy game, Gandalf had promised a halt once they reached the spot.  As luck would have it, they arrived at just the right time.  Gimli, Gandalf, Boromir, and the hobbits quietly pitched their camp upwind of the lick, while Aragorn and Legolas lay in wait.

“Ever had venison before, Sam?” whispered Pippin, as if talking a quarter-mile away from the lick would frighten the deer away.

Sam shook his head.

“Shame,” said Pippin.  “It’s better than most game.  We have it quite often in Tookland.”

“Unfortunately,” Frodo said drily, “the deer were chased out of Bywater along with the forest.  It was a special treat even in Buckland, I think.”

Merry nodded.  “No one in his right mind would eat any of the creatures out of the Old Forest.”

“Well, then,” said Pippin, “since I seem to be the only one here who knows how to fix venison properly, I guess I’ll be doing the cooking tonight.  Now, if we could just find some juniper…”

Gimli coughed.

“What?” said Pippin.  “No…”

“Dwarves do not live on cram alone,” said Gimli.  “Give me a proper fire, and I’ll give you a roast the likes of which you haven’t seen in—”

“We haven’t a proper fire,” said Gandalf.  “In fact, it is only with the greatest misgiving that I am letting you have a fire at all.”

“Because our morale is very, very low, and we are very, very hungry,” said Pippin.

“Do they have venison in Gondor, Boromir?” said Merry.

“Indeed we do,” said Boromir, “and the men of Ithilien often smoke and dry it, so that it will keep on long days of travel.”

All four hobbits grimaced.  “Can’t imagine why more dried meat would sound unappealing,” said Frodo.

“It’s not fresh meat as I’m after,” said Sam, “it’s fruit!”

“Good luck getting that this time of the year,” Pippin said morosely.

They heard Legolas step deliberately on a twig.

“Hullo, Legolas!” said Pippin.  “Do you cook venison in Mirkwood?”

“When we can find it,” said Legolas.  “Most of the deer have fled the Shadow, but ere it came to the Greenwood they were plentiful.”  He blinked.  “I hope you were not looking forward to deer.”

“No!  No, not at all,” said Pippin, clearly crestfallen.  “I thought you and Strider would have been able to get one, is all.”

“I shall not spoil the surprise, then,” said Legolas.  “Gimli, Boromir, we have need of more stout arms to bring our find to the camp.”

They left the hobbits to discuss eagerly what Legolas and Aragorn could possibly have felled, and Gandalf to listen bemusedly to their speculations.

Meanwhile, Aragorn stared at his catch.  He’d never killed one of these in the wild before, though Master Elrond had once told him of his sons deliberately seeking one out for Mettarë when they were on patrol with the Rangers.

How exactly did one go about cooking wild boar on the road, anyhow?

Ham Gamgee was always careful not to speak ill of Mr. Bilbo, but my! did he have some queer practices!  Giving those as helped him a nice meal each year, that was a kindness, almost expected of the gentry except that one weren’t to have no expectations of them.  Giving them a fancy meal, that was a little daft.  Inviting them in, to dine at his table?  That—

Well, it was only once a year, but still!  What was the Shire coming to?

He’d started young Sam on the garden this year, showing him what was what far better than he could in their little kitchen garden at Number Three, and for whatever reason Mr. Bilbo had taken a right shine to him and now Sam was invited, too, never mind that he was only eight.  (Of course!  Why crack only halfway?)  Ham had had to impress upon his youngest lad the importance of deference twice over before they arrived, lest he start thinking that sitting at a gentlehobbit’s table give him any right over anything else.  Sam agreed so quick to it all that Ham weren’t entirely sure he’d heard half a word out of his mouth, but there was no helping it now.

Sam sat sandwiched between Ham and his wife, while Daisy and May were making so merry with Mr. Bilbo that Ham exchanged a look with Bell, knowing they’d both have to have words with their daughters, they were spending such time minding their son.  Hal was home minding Marigold, for not even Mr. Bilbo could argue that she was old enough for supper at Bag End, and Hamson…

Ham sighed.  He still missed his eldest.

Sam was behaving hisself as perfect as he could, though, tucking into his chop with the utmost relish.  Mr. Bilbo turned his eye on him.  “Now, young Sam,” he said, “are you enjoying your supper?”

Sam nodded eagerly.  “Very much, Mr. Bilbo, sir,” he said around a mouthful of chop.  Ham poked him in the rib to remind him to swallow first and speak later.

After Sam had swallowed, he opened his mouth again.  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Bilbo, sir,” he piped, “but what is it?”

Ham raised his eyebrows at this, but Mr. Bilbo took it all in stride.  “Haven’t you had lamb before, my boy?”  Then he blinked, muttered to himself, “No, perhaps not, how silly of me.”

Sam had dropped his fork, and was looking at his mum.  Bell was returning his look with some alarm, before she recovered herself and said, “Eat it, Sam, it’s all right.”

That should have been the end of it, but Sam seemed intent on doing his best, no matter how wrong it was.  He pushed his plate away and said, “Begging your pardon, Mr. Bilbo, sir, but I don’t think as I’m hungry anymore.”

Ham shot him a look at that, but Sam wasn’t looking at him.  He was looking at Mr. Bilbo, who looked as confused as Ham had ever seen him.

“Not even for dessert, Sam-lad?” said Mr. Bilbo in mock horror.

Now Sam looked at his gaffer, seeing what a mess he’d got into on his own.  Ham was shocked to see tears in his eyes.

“If you won’t have no more lamb,” said Ham, “there’s still taters, and greens, and all sorts of other things you can eat.”

Sam nodded fervently, and Bell pushed his plate back.  Immediately Sam began eating again, though he was careful not to touch the lamb.

After the supper was over, Ham made sure to stop by and have a word with Mr. Bilbo.  “I’d like to apologise,” he began—

“About Sam?  No need!  It was just a bit of a shock, is all.”

“You see,” Ham went on, “his mam made him a soft lamb when he was just a babe, for him to play with, and I’m afraid—”

“It’s quite all right, Master Gamgee,” said Mr. Bilbo.  “I couldn’t have known that, and you couldn’t have known I was serving lamb, and there was plenty else to eat besides.  No harm done.”

“If you say so,” said Ham.

That night, though, when they had tucked Sam into bed next his brother, Ham asked Bell, “You don’t reckon as he’s too old for a soft toy, now, do you?”

Bell shook her head.  “You know right well I’d coddle him till he turned eighteen, but no, bless you.  He’ll learn the difference soon enough, now we have a reason to teach him.”

“I hope so,” said Ham.

Bell snorted.  “Lamb, really!  Of all the luxuries!”

“Are you all right, Frodo?” Pippin said for the third time that afternoon.

“I’m perfectly fine,” said Frodo.  “You, on the other hand, don’t appear to be.”

“I’m not,” said Pippin.  “I have a baker’s dozen of questions for you that I’ve been holding off on, but you haven’t been opening up to anyone and now I’m worried.”

“Terribly curious, more like,” said Frodo.  “I don’t have to tell you everything, Pippin.  Least of all those things.”

“No, but you should tell someone.  Sam, at least.”

“I don’t need to tell Sam.  He already knows.”

“Frodo…”

“All right,” said Frodo, sighing.  “Ask away, but bear in mind you won’t like the answers.”

Pippin looked down at his toes.  “What—what was it like at the Fire?”

Frodo nodded.  He’d expected that.  He looked out far onto the Pelennor below, and hoped he’d be able to tap into those shadowed memories and express this well.  “Picture yourself coming face to face with all the worst parts of you, all the bad things that you’ve thought about but haven’t done, and you’re doing them all at once, and you know it’s you, but you can’t do a thing about it, and you don’t know if you particularly care to try.”

“Oh,” said Pippin.  “You—you know it wasn’t really you, Frodo.  Right?”

A corner of Frodo’s mouth quirked up.  “Wasn’t it?”

“No!  It was that horrid thing, making you—”

Frodo smiled thinly.  “Yes, your horrid curiosity, making you drop that stone into the well—”

Pippin’s jaw dropped, and he took a step back.

“I told you you wouldn’t like it.”

“No, that’s not what it’s like at all!  And anyhow it all worked out in the end!”

“Should you have done it, then, because it all worked out?”

“No, but—”

“Neither should I have, then.”

“It wasn’t your fault!” Pippin blurted out.

“I never said it was.”

“Now you’re contradicting yourself.”

“No,” said Frodo sadly.  “No, I’m not—at least, not in my own mind.  I just lack the words.  Maybe they don’t exist.  But you needn’t worry about me, really, Pippin.”

“I do so!  You’ve just proved yourself horridly scarred by all this—really, bringing up the stone in the well?  That was cruel!  You’d never have done that before, Frodo!”

“It was cruel,” said Frodo.  “And I shouldn’t have said it.  I’m sorry, Pippin, but I don’t quite understand it myself.  Which is why I work it out, safely, on my own, with no dear cousins in the way for me to frighten.  And I’m not wallowing in it, I’m working through it, and there’s something wonderful about that.”

Pippin snorted.  “Really?  What’s that, then?”

Frodo smiled, a genuine smile that melted Pippin’s heart.  “In working things through, I’ve come to realize I’m missing something about all of this.  There’s something I haven’t figured out yet, and it’s something marvelous, and I don’t know what it is, but I intend to find out.”

“How do you know that, if you haven’t figured it out?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

The Khazâd were truly a marvel.  Stone and metal did not sing to them, the way that it did to the Eldar.  They felt it, in their very bones, and delved from there.  There was no need for long hours of study of structure, or of waking them with song and then—patiently—listening back.  What had taken Finrod so much of his life to learn, ever Khuzd was born knowing.  They were indeed the children of Aulë.

Fortunately, they were as willing to trade—in knowledge as much as in goods—as he.  The Sindar were skilled craftsmen, true, but they had not had the same resources as the Noldor, and what he had been happily taught, many of them had learned on their own.  It was this sort of exchange that made him heady, and to now be partnered with another race entirely, to delve into the bones of the earth together…

Practicalities came first, though.  Nargothrond was to be a fortress as well as a home, and the question he had was one that only one born of earth could answer.  “How, Námin,” he said, “if you do not mind my asking, do your kind eat when you live underground for so long?”  Menegroth took tithes, but he had not Melian’s glamours for his protection.  There would have to be other ways.

“Our longfathers hunted,” said the Khuzd, “and dried the meats, and ate them.  Now, we trade.”

“And if you could not venture forth to hunt?”

“There are bats,” said Námin, “and other creatures that dwell near the surface.  They will do when all else fails.”

Finrod frowned.  “Do you think there would be a way to re-create the sun underground?”

“I am not a gem-crofter, Felagund,” said Námin.  “But sun alone will not suffice.  You will need all the things that make soil, rock, and water, and dead things.”

Finrod clapped his hands.  “The sanitation, of course!”  Námin would think him a madman for asking this, if not turn his back on him for asking such personal questions, but—“Námin, how do you dispose of—”

This was why he had left Valinor for Middle-earth.

It was also, in all likelihood, why Amarië had not come with him.

“Roly?” said Tom.  They’d had two beers already in the Oak Barrel, and this wasn’t getting any easier.

“Yes?” said Roly.

Tom could feel himself going red.  “I think I’m in love with Kira,” he said, and he immediately took a long pull of ale.

“You only think so?” said Roly.  “If it’s such an awful thing, why don’t you think yourself out of it?”

“All right!  I know I am, but I don’t know what to do about it!”

Roly sighed.  “Traditionally, you court her, and if you’re not yet thirty, which you aren’t, you let her know you’re interested in other ways.”

Tom’s blush went deeper.  “What if I already have?”

“Well, then, good for you—oh.  You meant, you already have and not in a good way?”

Tom nodded.  “I got drunk at the Tree Party, and I might have told her she had a fabulous bosom, because she does, only then I realized I’d told her that so I had to say I was sorry, but she didn’t remember me telling her that and so that got her to thinking, and somehow she puzzled it out and asked me if I fancied her and I said I didn’t, because I couldn’t just tell her that I do, and now she’s even more suspicious and I don’t know what to do!”

Roly took another drink.  “And you’re asking for help now?”

Tom nodded.

“Do you know when you should have asked for help first?”

“When?...”

“‘Say, Roly!  Do you think we should get another round?’”

“Yes!” said Tom.  “It’s a capital idea!”

“Not now…”

Tom buried his head on the bar.  “What am I supposed to do?”

Roly clapped his hand on his back.  “What normal, grown hobbits do when they realize they’ve messed up—come clean.”

“Roly, I can’t do that!  Kira hates me!”

“Has she ever told you that herself?”

“No…”

“Then trust that she doesn’t.”

“Roly, what if I can’t?”

“Then, Tolman, you’re an idiot.”

And Tom probably was, because the next time he talked to her he lost his nerve entirely.