In true hobbit fashion, I celebrate my birthday by writing people stories, according to prompts that they give out.  The total this year was less than in previous years, and honestly, I'm grateful--it's been a good while since I've been able to write, so having a "manageable" number was helpful.  I've been through a lot in the past year, and have not been able to write as much as I'd have liked.  This has been enough to prime the pump, and I'm hoping to dedicate the rest of my time this year to pumping out more of A White Shell.  Kira has been extremely cross with me for leaving her in the middle of her twenty-eighth birthday party for about a year.

Given this hiatus, if my voice sounds a little 'off,' it's because I'm rusty, and I apologize for that.

“Official business,” Frodo had called it, but everyone had known that Thain Ferumbras was dying, even if only the closest family was allowed to be with him in his final moments.  At any rate—especially after Lalia’s passing—his reputation was strong enough for him not to count as a “vulture,” and everyone knew how much Pippin and he had corresponded over the past few years.  It was funny how he had rather become the go-to for tweens, first Merry and now—

Ah.  There was Pippin.  He wasn’t smiling.

“Has he passed, then?” said Frodo.

Pippin nodded.  “The burial’s tomorrow, and Father’s reading the will in a week’s time.  You’re invited to that, of course.”

“Of course,” said Frodo.  “How are you holding up?”

“I think I need to be sadder, but—well, it’s not as if we were close!  I mean—I still remember being scared of him, for heavens’ sake!”

“And—the succession?”

Pippin shrugged.  “I’m sure it’ll all hit me later, but I knew it would happen.  So did Father.  I’ll have to deal with it one way or another—eventually.  There wasn’t too much Father had to do, and it’s not as if he’s planning on going anywhere soon…”

“It’s all right to feel sad, Pippin.”

“I know,” said Pippin.  “I’m sure I will—later.  Just, not now.  There’s too much going on, and I can’t feel much of anything.”

Frodo nodded.  “I understand.  You’ll feel it later, though.”

“I know I will.  But I don’t like that part.”

“Well,” said Frodo, clapping Pippin on the back, “you’ve been through a lot the past couple of days.  Why don’t I get you a half at the Toad and we’ll see if we can get through it together?”

“I’d like that,” said Pippin.

“Here, this is for you,” Frodo said.  “Picked it up in the market while I was waiting for news.  Not much, I know, but I thought it’d be a good memory of simpler times.”

Pippin looked at the object in his hand.  It was a cheap slide whistle, like the one Merry had given him when he was twenty and had vowed to master the flute for a week (he hadn’t been able to get one note out of it).  He smiled in spite of himself, and played a long note, high to low to high.  “For Ferumbras?”

“For Ferumbras.  Now come on, let’s go get you that drink.”

Dear Mr. Bilbo,

I’d thought, as Mr. Frodo had, as you’d be here by now, with the other folk from Rivendell.  There’s all sorts of things I’d had my heart set on telling you, but seeing as you aren’t here right now, I thought I’d write it down instead.

Your Frodo is safe, as I promised I’d keep him, but I couldn’t quite keep him sound.  Too much for anybody to promise, I know that now, but I didn’t at the time and so I wanted to say I was sorry.

He’s doing better now, I’ll have you know—I was right afeared for him in Mordor, and for myself, too.  And it’s probably nothing that more time and rest won’t cure, but I still worry sometimes.

It makes me feel better somehow, knowing that you were worrying, too.  And Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, of course, I can’t forget about them, but—

Well, it just does me right to think back to lessons with you and Mr. Frodo, and anyone with eyes could see what you meant to each other.

So, yes, I’m sorry, but I’ll do my best to keep getting him better and so will you.  It’d do him good, seeing you again.  Mind you, it’d do me good, too.

I keep on thinking about that—Gollum.  We traveled a long way with him, I’ll have you know.  Mr. Frodo pitied him, and he needed a guide, and he was treacherous as a snake, but—

I wanted to kill him.  He meant to murder me, and Mr. Frodo, all for the sake of his Precious, but I couldn’t.  Mr. Frodo says it’s because I pitied him, and since he ended up saving Mr. Frodo in the end (through no fault of his own, I’ll have you know!) we ought to forgive him.

Mr. Frodo certainly has.  I don’t understand it.  I don’t understand him half the time—never could, really, only now it’s worse.  It’s just—

I can’t forgive him, Mr. Bilbo.  Not after what he tried to do—not after what he did—to my master.  He was a wretch, and sure, he was made worse by the Ring, and it twists you, so it would have twisted him, but—well, you’ll see when you see Mr. Frodo.  And I know as you couldn’t kill him neither, but you’ll see him, and—maybe you could understand?  And help?

Because I know Mr. Frodo’s right, and I should, but I can’t forgive him.  Not yet.

Yr. Humble Servant,

S. Gamgee

Fourth Age 1500

“The elves must have done it,” said the ranger.  “Does it not seem like something they would do?”

“Yet they left this land—thousands of years ago, I had thought!”

The ranger chuckled.  “There is plenty of debate on that point, as you know.”  He pointed a dark hand at the crest of the trees.  “See, if they had grown together, the bark should have melded.  Can’t you imagine an elf, singing to them, coaxing them to grow nearer?”

“Why?”

“Eh?”

“Why would he do that?”

“Why did elves do anything?  They liked trees?  They thought it would be pretty?”

“They thought to leave us mortals a pretty puzzle when we happened upon it, years later?”

“Pity, really.  They probably would have started growing together if they’d lived any longer.  Look how tightly they’re wrapped.”

His companion laughed.  “That’s probably just an illusion.  I suppose you could go and find out, but I doubt you’d want to climb that high on a couple of dead trees.”

“If I could even sink my pitons into them without their wood splintering?  No, you’re right—the boughs would give out.”  He peered a little more closely at them.  “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen this kind of oak so far south.”

“Well, if the elves did everything the way you seem to think, maybe they planted it, too.”

“Not like them, but perhaps they did.”

“I’ll bet the animals love them, though.  Think we could tease out a few squirrels for supper tonight?”

“Probably.  But I don’t want to.  Somehow it seems wrong.”

A chuckle.  “Superstitious, the lot of you.  Have it your way, but don’t go bellyaching tonight if we don’t get enough meat.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They walked onward and left the trees to rot in each other’s branches.

“Don’t!” Faramir hissed.  It was nigh on Loëndë, and they should have both been abed, but no, Boromir had insisted on doing something fearful, and Faramir had to stop him.  Even back then, he had known that the younger brother should not have had more sense.

Boromir was already on the ledge.  “I’ll lend you a hand—you, at least, cannot see our City if you stay on the ground.  How beautiful ‘tis!”  He turned around to look at Faramir.  “You should come.”

“You should go,” said Faramir.  “You’ll fall!”

“Not if I stay on this side of the rampart.  I’ll fall in, not out.”

“Brother, please—”

Boromir crouched down, and began sliding himself towards the edge, sticking his toes off the other end, and leaving them for a full five seconds before returning.

“’Tis danger, I think, that makes us feel most alive.  If we are to be soldiers, we had best learn to stare it in the face now.”

Faramir nodded, slowly.  “Yet there’s danger enough in the world without courting it.”

Boromir nodded briefly.  “I don’t wish to court—only to understand.  Again he stood up, facing Faramir, and grinned.  “Come, Faramir.  I won’t fall.  And I won’t let you either.”

Faramir longed to climb up and join him, but the sheer folly of the drop and the deep pit in his stomach stayed him.

They were caught shortly after, of course, and Faramir got in almost as much trouble as Boromir for coming with him and not finding a guard immediately.

Yet all these years later, the image was still blazoned in his mind: Boromir, limned in the red of the sun’s last rays, smiling as if all the Black Land’s forces had been wiped out forever by the sheer force of her glory and Gondor’s combined.

And Faramir had honestly believed, for a single, brilliant moment, that what his brother had said was true.

“Pippin, this is a terrible idea.”

“You say that about all my ideas.”

“That’s because they’re all terrible!  You do realize that this is a poison-ingesting position and not an advisory one?”

“Well, it should be an advisory position.”

“I don’t contest the point, but it’s also for Strider’s safety.”

“Yes—his safety from bad food!  The cooks of Gondor are all style and no substance.  If King Strider wants someone to taste all his food, it ought to be someone qualified to criticise it properly.”

“What will he do when we return home, then?”

“Depends—how well do you think ‘Official Food Taster’ pays?”

“Pippin, your mother will set every marriageable lass on me if she learns I let you stay here eating and drinking Gondor’s finest for the rest of your very short life.”

“Hmm… you know, I don’t think I’d need them to pay me, if I just get the food…”

“Fine!  You’re right, it’s an excellent idea.”

“And furthermore—wait, really?”

“Clearly our more subtle tongues will be able to detect poison better than a man’s.  And, maybe then you’ll get hit with a stunning poison and will stop coming up with these hare-brained schemes of yours.”

“You’re absolutely no fun, Merry.”

“And you are getting stir-crazy.”

*  *  *

“Meriadoc of the Shire.”  Aragorn pursed his lips.  “And, of late, sworn to Rohan.  Pippin, I can understand, but why would Merry write a letter asking to be the taster?”

“He has always seemed astute enough to understand the idea of ‘conflict of interest,’” said Faramir.  “And this despite the long-standing alliance between Rohan and Gondor.  It is fitting that only one of Gondor be chosen.”

“Perhaps his stomach has gotten the better of him, then?”

“Or he jests.”

“Half a minute.”  Aragorn picked up the letter and examined it more closely.  “This is not his hand.”

Faramir peered around his shoulder to look at it.  “He’s also using the familiar.  Yet I know that Merry and I discussed the differences in pronouns while we were in the Houses.”

“Pippin…”  

Every bone in Pippin’s body exhibited a certain mode of defensiveness.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aragorn gazed at him sternly.  “Of course you do.”

Pippin took a step back.  “All right, Strider, now I can’t tell whether you’re joking or not.”

“Joking, of course.  I have such rare opportunities to show a Ranger’s humor these days.  Were you joking?”

“Of course I was.  What are you talking about, again?”

Faramir supplied, “Meriadoc’s application to become the King’s taster.”

“But he can’t do that!  He’s of Rohan!”

“We are well aware.  That is not the question.  The question is why his hand looks so different.”

“His arm’s still recovering, don’t you remember?”

“And yet,” said Aragorn, “it looks so much like yours.”

“You haven’t seen my hand-writing.”

“Except when you stopped your tour of the White Tower to copy down one of the cook’s receipts…”

Pippin scratched his head.  “Oh, all right, I guess there is that…”

“Had you been able to mimic his hand perfectly,” added Faramir, “we still should have noticed a discrepancy.  You used the familiar.”

“Faugh!  Not again!”

“So you did write the note, then?” said Aragorn.

“Yes, yes, I did.”

“You are aware of the difference in the second-person pronoun, are you not?” said Faramir.

“Of course I am!  Frodo corrected me—loudly, I might add—the first time he caught me using the wrong one.”  He paused.  “Say, it isn’t terrible that I’m not ‘theeing’ and ‘thouing’ every time I have to talk to you, is it?  I don’t want to make things more difficult for you…”

“Peregrin, I believe that the people of Gondor are—albeit slowly—learning that using the familiar is the way of your people.”

“And as for me,” said Aragorn, “you may use whatever pronoun you wish to address me, especially out of court.”

“Hmm… I should see if anyone can think up a good hobbit-dialect-pronoun for ‘hoy, you stupid clod.’”

“I am fairly certain,” said Aragorn, “that if you had one, I should have been called it many times over while I was in Bree.”

“Strider, just because we both know you’re right doesn’t mean you have to rub it in my face all the time!”

“No, I do not have to.”

Pippin sighed and walked off in a huff.

Faramir turned to Aragorn.  “I am often astonished at the frank and easy manner you have with the pheriannath—all the pheriannath.”

“That is because of what we all suffered together.  If you wish such camaraderie, you need only spend more time with them.”

“Perhaps I shall, the next time I have an evening free.  There is, however, one thing you utterly neglected.”

“What would that be?”

“Why on earth Pippin forged a letter of application for Merry in the first place!”

Faramir knew which pub the hobbits frequented, so it was easy to learn which kind of ale they preferred, and to buy a firkin.  Pippin was on duty that night, but that served his purposes well enough.

“I was curious,” he said, when a rather hearty meal had been cleared away and half the firkin drunk, “what your thoughts were concerning the King’s Taster.”

Master Samwise looked about to say something, but didn’t.  Faramir decided not to press him just yet.

“Pippin wants to apply for it,” said Merry.

“For the food?” said Frodo.

“Presumably.  I tried to explain how patently ridiculous it was, unless he means to stay in Gondor for the rest of his life, but I know he’s still up to something.”

“Indeed.  You’d be surprised at how many have written—many for need, many for ambition.”  He slid a note across the table to Merry.

“Shouldn’t I not be reading that?”

Frodo lifted up the corner of it.  “Faramir is a man of tact.  I suspect he would not have given it to you if it mattered.”

“Quite,” said Faramir.

Merry turned the letter over, and Sam and Frodo crowded around behind.

“Say, Mr. Merry!  That isn’t your writing!”

“No,” said Merry.  “It’s Pippin’s.”

“Yes, and he’s using the familiar.”

“I thought you might have some insight in the matter,” said Faramir.

“Well,” said Merry, “as delicious as Gondor’s food can be, I’m not interested, so I think Pippin’s joking.”

“Or perhaps—perhaps,” added Frodo, “he’s included Merry so that his own application will look less ludicrous by comparison.  Has he, in fact, written to the King?”

“Yes—three other, equally badly written letters from other hobbit names I haven’t even heard of.  I admit, I have not heard of the custom of stringing two family names together.”  Faramir handed the other letters over as well.

“Lawks!” said Merry.  “Can you imagine Lotho Pimple tasting food for the King?  In livery?”

“He’d look ghastly!” said Frodo.

“Already looks ghastly,” added Sam.

“Poor fellow.”

“I take it these are all people you know, then?” said Faramir.  “Then I am doubly glad I showed them to you.  I have wished to learn more of your people.”

“Lotho Sackville-Baggins is hardly the best example for that,” said Merry, “but we’ll be happy to oblige.”

The ale was fully depleted by the time Faramir asked the question he had truly wanted to ask, as he fingered Pippin’s final letter—this one with his own name—under his surcoat.  “So, if he were to apply—do you think Pippin truly wants the job?”

Frodo snorted.  “Of course he doesn’t—he wants to go home, same as the rest of us.  But, we’ve all noticed that running a kingdom of Men is a considerably dour business—certainly dourer than a clan of hobbits.  I understand wanting to protect the King, and that poison is a danger, but—”

“That don’t mean the King can go about hurting his own people, does it?” said Sam.  “Once Strider announced it, I said to Mr. Frodo, that don’t seem right, but then nothing’s the same here.”

“Ah,” said Faramir.  “And do you think Pippin would have had the same objection?”

Merry shrugged.  “You can never tell with him.  Half the times his plans are overly convoluted in search of some point he thinks is painfully obvious; the other half the time he doesn’t have a plan at all.”

“And yet,” Frodo added, “they seem to work out more often than they should…”

“Well, yes,” said Merry.  “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

“Perish the thought,” said Faramir.  “Your objection is a just one, though I know not whether—or how—one could discontinue the practice entirely.  Still, I believe you three have helped me with something.”

“Oh?” said Frodo.  “And what is that?”

“My recommendation for the position of King’s Taster.”

“It’s not me, I hope?” said Merry.

“Of course not.  You’re sworn to Rohan.  Speak to Éomer if you are interested in such a position.”

“That,” said Merry, “entirely depends on the quality of his cooks when Saruman’s orcs haven’t been trampling half the countryside.”

“You have been called here,” said Aragorn, “because we have finally come to a decision as to who should hold the position of King’s Taster.”

Frodo looked round.  There had been many applicants, far and wide, he knew, and yet the only people who had been called to this rather informal setting were part of the Company that had set forth from Rivendell.  Surely Aragorn had not chosen Pippin—or Merry?

“The Lord Steward and I have read many letters of interest, including some by those ineligible to serve—whether because they are sworn to another King or because they reside over a thousand leagues from here.”

To his credit, Pippin only flinched a little at the glare directed his way.

“This has led us to reconsider the matter of the King’s Taster entirely.  It is clear that we must have someone we trust for the job, and, more importantly, one who has not stooped to petty tricks to get to this position.  Accordingly, we have chosen someone who did not apply for the position in the first place.”

Frodo could see Pippin biting his lip.  He was so glad his cousin had learned enough of court etiquette not to talk out of turn, but he could practically see the words: They weren’t petty tricks!

Aragorn smiled.  “Be at peace, Pippin.  If I were truly angry with you, we would be having this conversation in the throne room.”

“Then,” said Pippin, “who have you chosen?”

“It occurred to us,” said Aragorn, “that a good king does not risk his men’s lives for the sake of himself, but rather for the sake of his people.  Thus, the King’s Taster should also be less likely to fall ill or die from an attempt on my life.”

Frodo’s gaze immediately flicked over to Gandalf.  Somehow he doubted the wizard could be harmed by a normal poison…

“Yes, Gimli, Glóin’s son, a trusted ally, and friend, with the iron stomach of his kind.  It has long been known that dwarves are hardier of heart, and of stomach, than Men, even one of the Dúnedain.”

“Given the little I have experienced of the fare at Erebor,” Legolas remarked from the corner, “I can well believe it.”

Gimli rose, perhaps a little too gruffly, as he jostled Legolas along the way.  “And why should I accept this honor?”

“That is an excellent question,” said Aragorn.  “Aside from ‘you are less likely to die than many I know,’ you are surely aware that it will strengthen the ties between your people and the Reunited Kingdoms.  Have no fear, though—you need not stay with me wherever I go.  The lords Elladan and Elrohir have agreed to remain here for some time, and I plan—and indeed, had planned, from the start—to rely on them if the official taster was not available.  The King’s Taster is, happily, less a required position for me than for other men, but, since it has existed for a long time, and has held an important purpose in Gondor’s politics, I saw no reason to discontinue its use.”

“Huh,” Frodo heard Pippin say.  “I guess you could have gone for it after all, Merry.”

The notion that Dwarves are especially resistant to poison is lifted wholesale out of Dungeons and Dragons mythology.  Such cherrypicking seemed ripe for this sort of diversion.

”How is he?”  Celebrian tucked her riding gloves into a pouch at her side.

“Healing,” said her husband.  “We very nearly lost him this time.”

She sighed.  Frodo had recovered from his ordeals far more quickly than she had from hers, but he aged like a man in the joys of the land where mortals were never meant to go.  Twenty years ago, she had first caught him gazing eastward, longing for his servant to arrive so he could finally die in peace.

“There would be no shame in his dying,” she said.

“I know,” said Elrond.  “I once heard Olórin tell him as much.  Yet—he is very stubborn.  He did not wish for Sam to regret his choice to sail—if, indeed, he does.”

“So,” said Celebrian, “How long shall he sleep?”

“As long as is needed.”

Celebrian flashed him a look.

“—By which I mean to say—Celebrian, his heart failed him for a moment.  I do not think he shall live longer than a month, if we do not do something.”

“And your ‘something’ is to let him sleep?”

“I dare not put him to sleep again.  He shall live as long as he needs to, and then we shall wake him.”

“And if Samwise has already died?”

“Then we wake him, and tell him.  He will understand.”

“You have not thought this through, and you know it.”

“There was little time.”

“I know, my love.  But he is mortal, and you would stretch his life for ten years without his knowledge?”

“Aragorn did much the same, once, to save his life.”

“Not for this long.  You are doing this to indulge his absurd little goal of lasting this long, and you did not even ask him!”

“Then I am sure he shall be glad you advocated for him, after the fact.  Unless you would wake him yourself?”

Celebrian shook her head.  “No, he may be even more upset if he learns this was his one opportunity to live so long.  I do understand.”

“Nevertheless,” said Elrond, “I fear he shall be most irate when he wakes up and finds so much time has gone by.”

It had rained entirely too much that spring, and Daffodil Burrows’ mother had had to do twice as much laundry, all thanks to her brother—and Tom.  She and Kira couldn’t take half a step outside before getting pelted with mudballs, having mud smeared in their hair, on their skin, on their dresses—it was enough to make one cry, and in fact, they had cried, quite often, for it.

“Whatever will we do?” said Kira one day in June.

“We must get back at them somehow!” Daffy replied.  “But how?”

Kira was clearly mulling things over, so Daffodil decided not to say anything until she did.  “I think I have an idea,” Kira said.  “If lads enjoy having things that smell nasty, they must hate things that smell nice!”

“Roly doesn’t hate the smell of food!”

“I mean, flowers, Daffy!  How do we get them smelling like flowers?”

“Kira, you’re sharp!  We can use rosewater!”

“What’s that?”

“My great aunt uses it on her dresses.  If we could get some, we could get Roly and Tom to smell terribly nice!”

“How do we get some?”

“I don’t know.”  Daffy frowned.  “If Mum and Dad find out, I don’t care to think of what will happen.  They won’t buy it for us, and they say we’re not old enough for pocket-money yet.”

“Could we make it?”

“Yes, but—where would we get the roses?  The only place I can think of is the gardens outside Town Hole.  Kira!  If you could just sit and look at them for a while, talk to the gardener, I’m sure I could nick some.”

“Daffy, you know I can’t walk to town without Mum!”

“Oh, right,” said Daffodil.  She’d almost forgotten about the time she and Roly had pushed Kira too far on a walk, and they’d had to spend half an hour recovering.  “Well, then—I’ll ask the gardener if I can get the roses for you, since you can’t see them yourself.”

And she did, in a week’s time, and she thought it a shame to pluck and tear the petals after all the love the gardener had shown it, but Kira didn’t seem to mind at all.  Daffy was able to fill her tea set with hot water when Mum wasn’t looking, and stuffed the petals inside.

At the end of the day, there was precious little rosewater, and it was a frightful and not-at-all-familiar shade of pink, but it smelled like roses and hopefully it wouldn’t go mouldy before they had a chance to use it.

Kira and she had been so eager to get the project completed that they hadn’t thought of that part.   Eventually, they decided it would be best for them to stick the rosewater in a bottle and wait until the next birthday party rolled around—Kira’s.

Since the waters were still high, a number of dry ditches had been filled to a foot or so, and they had a grand time splashing around in them before Kira protested tiredness and went back to the shore to sun herself.  Daffodil kept an eye on her as she carefully retrieved the bottle of rosewater and then dabbed it all over Tom’s and Roly’s shirts… and waited.

Daffy was spanked afterwards, but seeing Tom and Roly wail like babies was worth it.  And Tom’s mother had both her and Kira for tea later, and thanked them privately—while the pink stains had been no fun, she said Tom hadn’t smelt so good since he was born.

“No!” Adamanta said.  “No wizards!”  Isengrim was nearly six months old, but somehow, Gerontius’ wife had as much say over the baby’s welfare as when he was still in her womb.

“Adamanta, love, he’ll be fine!  Why, Gandalf’s almost family!”

“To you, maybe.  You grew up with him!  And you can go on and visit him as much as you like—doesn’t seem to have done you much harm—but in no wise will I let him do anything to our son!”

“He won’t do anything to him, love.  No more than any of our other kin already have.  Even a wizard, I am sure, likes to coddle a baby.”

“That’s not what wizards were put here for, and you know it.  They’re made for nothing but mischief.”

Gerontius grinned.  “I happen to be rather fond of mischief, you know.  And a little mischief never did anyone any harm—in fact, I rather remember it leading me to you!”  He kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Yes, and while your bum sticking out of a briar bush was a lovely first sight of you, it still isn’t a future I’d like to inspire our children with.”

“Very well—but you must not forget, Adamanta my love—we are all Tooks here, and you cannot deny a Took his Tookishness.”

“I should never dream of it,” said Adamanta.  “And indeed, all of our children have my blessing on Tookishness.  I only draw the line at wizards.”

Gerontius harrumphed, and let her be.  Gandalf was only planning on staying for a night, but as far as he was concerned, wizards were a perfectly natural expression of Tookishness—and if they were not now, he was determined to make them so in the future.

He returned to Gandalf and told him, regrettably, that his lady wife did not give him permission to show him their son, but—if he did not mind being woken up in the middle of the night—he would have a surprise for him.

And, once he was certain Adamanta was asleep, he crept out of bed, slipped young Isengrim from his cradle, and went to the guest room where they had set two mattresses on the floor for Gandalf.

Nudging the wizard awake with his toe, he carefully set Isengrim in Gandalf’s enormous hand.  “I don’t suppose you get to see babies terribly often?” he said.

“Oftener than you would think,” said Gandalf.  “There are enough nobles in the South who take enough stock in me that they believe my blessing will allow their children some greater favor in the court when they grow up.”

Gerontius raised both his eyebrows.

“I make it a point to bless none of them.  As for your son—I think the blessing that comes of being a Took is enough, although I certainly wish him the best.”

“That’s quite good,” said Gerontius.  “Adamanta didn’t want you to do anything to Isengrim.”

“I try my best not to do things to people.  I can only speak—if you choose to listen, that is entirely up to you.”

“Can babes listen, then?”

Gandalf sighed.  “I am very fortunate to have met you, Master Gerontius—you teach me the meaning of the word ‘forbearance’ anew.  Have no fear—Isengrim is in no danger.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Babes must listen, or they would never learn anything.  The true question is when they can begin to understand.”

Gerontius knew he would not get anything else out of Gandalf, so he simply nodded.  “Don’t worry.  Adamanta will come round in time—she always does.  But—even if she becomes fond of you—don’t expect her to show it.”  He set out to remove Isengrim from Gandalf, but found his son had entangled himself quite thoroughly in Gandalf’s beard.

As he tried to extract his son—gently—Isengrim woke up fully and began to cry.

“Hush,” Gerontius murmured, but it was too late.  His son was wailing, and it was only a matter of time before—

“Gerontius!  What was it I said about Isengrim and wizards?”

Gerontius turned around, gazed at his wife, and tried not to think of how attractive she was when she was this upset with him.

When he’s off to Michel Delving, Sam’s started humming old Mr. Bilbo’s walking song, about the road going on and on and on.  Rose doesn’t think he’s aware that she’s noticed.

But she puzzled out the words to it herself, in his book, and the bit from poor old Mr. Frodo about how the same road could take you to the Mountains or the Sea.

Now, Rosie can’t call herself unseasoned no more—they’ve been to Annuminas a number of times, and Gondor herself, once—so she knows the appeal.  And she knows, deeply and firmly in her heart, that Sam will never leave her.

But if he’s just going to Michel Delving, why does he remind himself of where the road goes, if he were to keep going?

When they were making their way south, she and Sam and Elanor went on a good many roads, long, wide, paved for horses and shoes.  And ever so often, she’d spot a track leading off from the side, a bit of trodden grass, some softer dirt, that led to a village or a homestead, and she found herself wondering more where those places went than the grand roads that the maps told you about.  Who lived behind the doors of the houses?  Did they bake their bread in an oven or a hearth?  Did they wash their clothes in a stoop or a basin?  What was the farthest they had been from home?

The road ended, Sam told her, in the Havens, little side streets branching off until the last of it became a dock, empty, deserted.  She didn’t know why anyone would go that far, just to see what was there, without someone waiting for you.

As she’s waiting for him now.  Rosie frets when Sam’s away, even though she knows he can take care of himself, that he’ll come back.  But he was on an adventure, a long time ago, and it’s easy to think of the roads without reminding yourself of the places—the homes—to the right and to the left.

The lanes are just as important as the roads.