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

S.R. 29 Thrimidge 1235

On his third birthday, Isengrim Took woke early, both eyes at once. In truth, he couldn’t help it; the wailing of the new babe was a sound reminder why he had been exiled from his Mama and Papa’s room. But his nurse, Marigold Rumble, was there, and Mari made everything better; she picked up her little master and hugged him to her breast. “Master Isen! You arethree today! You know what that means,” she said cheerfully, so as to distract him, and Isengrim brightened.

“I’s a faunt, Mari!” he chirped, and Mari nodded. “Yes, you are, my lamb! Suppose I get you ready so you can pick out a nice present for your Mama and Papa.” But there was no need to tell Isengrim; he was already tumbling out of bed and trying to snatch up fresh clothes.

Mari laughed and dressed him properly; it wouldn’t do for the grandson of the Thain to go out with his shirt inside-out! But Isengrim was a big lad, in more ways than one; he was rather tall already for a lad of his age, and not likely to squirm as she dressed him. He even correctly identified the clothes she wanted, and handed them over.

Dressed, feet and hair neatly combed, and face washed, the faunt trotted beside his nurse down the garden path, one hand curled firmly into hers. Suddenly he let out a rather undignified squeal, and pulled free. “Mari! Mari!” He reached for a clump of daisies.

“Gentle, Isengrim! Show me gentle,” she cautioned, and Isengrim stopped, considering the flowers before carefully plucking three and trotting back to her. He held the flowers out.

“For you, Mari!”

“Thank you, my lamb,” Marigold replied, accepting the small posy. She followed Isengrim as something else caught his fancy; an oddly shaped stone, half-covered in dirt. Mari helped Isengrim brush it off, and her eyes widened at the golden sparkles it held. “That is a lovely stone,” she told the lad. He nodded.

“Granda’s,” he said.

Marigold nodded; she saw no reason why the Thain wouldn’t accept that from his grandson. Isengrim’s next find was a snail-shell, which he proclaimed was for his Granny. Mari supposed the Lady wouldn’t find it too distasteful. Lady Sapphire loved nature.

“What about your Mama and Papa, Isen?” she prompted. A shadow crossed Isengrim’s face, and he looked at the ground.

“They not want me.”

Marigold hugged Isengrim tightly, understanding the source of her charge’s doubt. “Of course they do, Isengrim! They have a new little brother for you to love, but that does not mean they love you any less! In fact, since he was born the day before your birthday, he is like a present just for you.” She smiled. “You will be able to play with him by the time he is a faunt, and to teach him things. Isn’t that nice?” she asked the son of her heart.

Isengrim thought it over carefully, and nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“So let’s find them a nice present, to say thank you,” Mari prompted. Isengrim hunted carefully, intent on his task, and Marigold followed dutifully. They ended up in the stables, where Goldenrod, the barn cat, was looking after her litter. The kittens were just old enough to leave their mother, and Isengrim beamed.

“Kitties for Mama an’ Papa!”

The stablemaster overheard Isengrim’s cheer, and laughed. “Is that the way of it, small master? All right, then.” He fetched a basket, lined it with a soft blanket, and nodded. “Take your pick.”

The faunt considered the half-dozen kittens, and selected two; a golden one, like the mother, and a grey one with white and black patches. He put them in the basket, and Mari helped him carry it, as the two made their way triumphantly back to the Thain’s family apartments.

Sunshine and Storm became permanent, welcome residents, much to the lad’s delight.

On his sixth birthday, Isengrim Took woke early, both eyes at once. In truth, he couldn’t help it; the keening of his parents and grandparents was a sound reminder why he had been kept to his nursery. But his nurse, Marigold Rumble, was there, his constant presence; still, Mari couldn’t fix everything. No one could. Even Sunshine and Storm, wandering the suite, had made themselves scarce. Marigold held him tightly, and they looked soberly at each other. “Master Isen, I am so deeply sorry,” she whispered. “Poor lamb.”

“Hildi didn’t even get to be a faunt,” the little lad whispered. He stared at the empty cot next to his bed; Hildigard had been just about old enough to move to Isengrim’s bed. They would have shared; they would have been best friends and he would have been a proper brother. He had been looking forward to that day for a long time, the day he would take his little brother out to gather the first gifts. With Mari’s supervision, of course! He and Hildi had been told they had another brother or sister coming, and Hildi would never meet him – or her, Isengrim supposed – now. Hildi’s birthday had been ruined, and so was his.

It would have been yesterday, the Birthday, he thought miserably. Dreams of Hildigard trotting out by his side, hand in hand, vanished into nothingness. The spotted fever had laid Hildi low just five days ago, and on the night of the twenty-seventh – or perhaps the morn of the twenty-eighth, it was so close that none could truly say – they had lost him.

“I know, Master Isen,” Mari said softly. She raked her fingers through his soft curls, and let him cry. Tears of her own sparkled on her cheeks; how much more did her little lad have the right to mourn for what was, and what would never be?

“Mari?” Isengrim said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. After a moment, she nodded.

“I won’t be leaving until you’re bigger, my lamb,” Mari promised, and he flung his arms around her neck, shuddering in relief. Marigold held Isengrim, too, reassured that at least one of her babes was safe – and soon to be joined by another, ere the year was out.

She hoped that Lady Adamanta – not the Lady, not yet, but still – would have a healthy birth. She deserved, needed more children, and it was to be hoped she would never lose another. It would not heal the heartache Hildigard’s loss had left, but it might help lessen the grief, to a point.

And Isengrim needed other playfellows besides herself! His Chubb cousins were too far away!

Realising the sound of mourning had lessened, and Isengrim’s sobs had stilled, she looked at him. Isengrim had cried himself into an uneasy sleep. Marigold settled him on his bed and tucked him back in. “Sleep a bit more, lamb,” she whispered. “I shan’t leave you – today of all days.”

“Isen!” A sharp tug to the older lad’s curls had Isengrim sitting up with a yelp.

“What?” Isengrim rubbed his head, looking down into the mischievous green eyes of the newfaunt beside him. “Isum! Mama and Mari say no pulling!” Isumbras’ face fell.

“Isen an’ Mama mad with Isum?” The younger lad’s remorse was obvious; Isengrim hugged his brother tight.

This time, Isengrim helped Marigold dress and tidy his brother, wrapping him against the chill; he was old enough to aid little Isumbras now, not like he had been when Hildigard had nearedfaunthood. The thought made the lad pause, and he stroked his cheek, thinking of Hildi’s touch.

Isengrim shook himself a little and turned his attention back to his surviving brother. “Yes, Isum! I’m sorry, I was just thinking.” He straightened Isumbras’ cap. “There, Isum! All ready.”

“Quite ready, my lambkins,” Mari agreed. “Shall we go?” The lads nodded.

So the two brothers set off on their quest. Heedless of the snow, Storm padded at the lads’ heels, while Sunshine trailed Marigold. Isumbras found pretty trinkets here and there to give to those he loved. Isengrim’s favourite was the bunch of holly twigs Isumbras picked (with Marigold’s help) to give to Papa. But as they walked through the snowy gardens, they stopped to pay respects at the small barrow in the centre of Adamanta’s memorial garden, covered over with flowers.

Isumbras removed one twig from the holly bunch, bright with berries, and lay it on the mound. “For Hildi.”

“For Hildi,” Isengrim echoed, and set down the bucket of Yule-snow Isum had gathered (for Adamanta) to hug his brother.

Gerontius swung Hildigrim into his arms. “My big lad! You are a faunt today!” He saw Isumbras shake his head out of the corner of his eye, and turned to his second – third son. “What is it, son?” he asked, and the little one looked at him, worried.

“Papa, they say Hilly hasn’t got a real birthday! He can’t be a real faunt this year!”

“Who says such things, Isumbras?” Gerontius asked. He was taking the lads out, since Isengrim was at lessons – he was too young yet to spend all the Lithedays at the Fair – and Isumbras trotted obediently at his side as Gerontius carried Hildigrim from the nursery.

“Ponto!” Isumbras scowled. The Baggins lad – for lad he was, a tween yet – had come to Great Smials for tutoring, and occasionally played with Isumbras, despite the large difference in age. “He teased Hilly, said his birthday’s not for true.”

“Did he, now?” Gerontius gave Hildigrim a thoughtful look as he set his youngest down in the walled garden. The Remembrance Garden, he and Adamanta called it, and now always the First Gifts were gathered here. “Because Overlithe isn’t every year, is that it?”

“Well, Ponto Baggins isn’t a close connexion by any means, Hildigrim! You haven’t got to give him a gift,” Gerontius calmed his distraught lad. “Just pick something nice for your Grandfather and Grandmother, and for Mama and your brothers.”

“And Papa and Mari,” Hildigrim reminded Gerontius. The Thain’s heir smiled a little and nodded. “Of course.” He watched as Hilly darted to and fro, and ere long he found himself the owner of a shiny, round stone – bright green, of all things! A beryl, perhaps. He had never seen its like. “That is a wonderful gift, Hildigrim! I shall love it always.”

Isembold – called “Ducky” by his mother’s family – had been born at the Chubbs’ smial; Gerontius and Adamanta had visited them with the children for Adamanta’s last few months of pregnancy. Every year after that, they visited in Astron to mark the occasion, and this one was the most important birthday the little one had yet experienced!

Of course, it meant that Isembold could not choose a cutting from the Memorial Garden to lay upon Hildi’s barrow. As they went out to gather gifts in the light rain, Isembold wrapped up against the weather, his Grandmum Peony reassured him.

“Never you mind, Ducky my lad! It may not be Hildi’s own barrow, but we, too, have a marker for the little one.” Adamanta’s mother showed her youngest grandson the smooth, damp patch of ground, shaded from the drizzle, and the circle of stones. “You may place your gift here, and even choose another for Hildi’s real barrow when you get home, if you like.”

Isembold nodded, thoughtfully picking this gift and that for his parents, grandparents, and brothers. He paused now and then to splash in a puddle, quite at home in the rain. At last, he selected a piece of white bark fallen from one of the shade trees to place in the centre of the circle. “Hildi like that.”

“I think Hildi will like that very much, Ducky!” Peony smiled, cradling the white flower Isembold had given her. “I certainly like your gift.”

“Welcome, Granmum!” And with a beaming smile, after passing out the other gifts, Isembold darted away to splash in the puddles again, startling a wood-duck and her babies from a corner of the garden. He giggled, then approached the duck. “Lo, ducky! I Ducky, too!”

Isembold imitated the sound, and soon began making friends with the bird while Peony Chubb, nee Brandybuck, and her daughter watched. Their boy took to the birds as...well, as a duck to water! Ducky, indeed!

“I keep duckies, Mama?” Isembold called. As Adamanta wondered what Lady Sapphire would make of avian additions to the Great Smials, her laughter, and her sons’, filled the garden.

“Why not, dearlove?” It would be a fine joke. And so, when they returned to the Tooklands, the ducks came with them!

“Just where are you off to this time, Gosling?” Isengrim put his book aside and trotted after his littlest brother. Isengrim had just helped him hand out his first gifts – including, to his great amusement, a goose egg to Grandmother Sapphire. But oh, if it wasn’t exasperating chasing after Hildifons! He had begun to run almost ere he crawled, the most mobile of all Isen’s siblings. Still, his run had an oddly charming waddle to it; like a baby goose! Hence the nickname – for no one would call him “Hildi”. Maybe “Trotter” would do as well, Isengrim thought idly, but “Gosling” had stuck.

“Off t’ find my pwesents!” Hildifons chirped, for he knew he was the byrding and would be receiving gifts, too.

“Not until after second breakfast, Gosling my lad!” Isengrim wasn’t that much older than Hildifons – only eighteen years old, he was still a child himself – but with so many brothers already, he felt practically grown up, and his imitation of their Papa was rather striking. “You know what Papa and Mama said!”

Hildifons turned to him with a pout and puppyish eyes that would sway nearly anyone. “Pwease, Isen?”

“No! You sit right down here,” Isengrim said firmly, “Mama and Mari put me in charge of you; and you’re not to go running about, you know Grandfather needs rest and quiet.”

Hildifons sobered a little, and Isengrim thought he’d gotten through to the faunt; but the moment he turned to speak to Isum about lessons, their little Gosling was off like a shot. Isen and Isum exchanged glances, and groaned in tandem. Thank goodness Mari still had Hilly and Ducky under control! Together, the brothers set off after their wayward sibling...

They caught up with him outside in the gardens, just in time to see him run smack into...a Big Person! Gasping, the lads backed up a step or two. He was a most intimidating personage, twice as tall as Grandfather, with eyebrows that stuck out alarmingly from below the brim of his hat, and a sweeping grey beard which Gosling was trying to use as a rope-ladder! The Big Person had a pipe between his teeth and took a couple of puffs on it before saying anything, looking down at the lads sternly.

“So! You must be Gerontius’ lads,” he said finally. “Good morning! And this must be the youngest, Hildifons is it?”

“Yes sir,” Isengrim said nervously, “I am Isengrim Took and this is my brother Isumbras; and that is Hildifons, who has become a faunt today. We are the sons of Gerontius and grandsons of Thain Fortinbras, at your service, sir.”

“Well, I shall certainly ask for your service if and when I need it, my lads,” the Big Person replied. “As it happens, I do; I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me! Do me a kindness and remove your brother from my beard, then please let your father know I have arrived!”

Isengrim quickly extracted Hildifons, while Isumbras ran to fetch Gerontius. Their grandfather was ailing, and Gerontius now rarely left his father’s bedside; but he would surely leave it for Gandalf!

Isembard had known from the cradle that he was special. A seventh son (even if one brother had not lived long), Took superstition held that a seventh son was nearly magical, and so he had praise lavished upon him, was rarely corrected or scolded; his parents and other relations were quite lenient with him, for what if his powers should choose to suddenly surface in a fit of wrath? They did say faerie blood ran through Tookish veins, after all...

Isembold, the family’s other “Isem” – called “Duck” even by the Tooks now so as to distinguish him from the new brother – was especially fond of him, interloper though he might be with the naming convention. To soothe any insult, he called the lad “Bard”, and it stuck among the children at least. Duck was eight years older than his little brother, and now eleven, he was old enough to help watch over the new faunt. So he trotted at their big brothers’ heels, hand in hand with Bard, as they hunted for suitable First Gifts.

These would be important First Gifts; they would be the first ever presented by one of Gerontius’ children to him at the High Table, rather than outside, or in the small private parlour where the Thain’s Heir had previously breakfasted with his family. For, just months after Bard’s birth, Thain Fortinbras had passed away, and Gerontius himself was Thain.

Isengrim, mindful of the new position given him, kept a close eye on Duck and Bard, as Bard pointed to potential gifts for Grandmother Sapphire, the Lady; for the visiting Chubbs, Grandda Hugo, and Grammum Peony, for Papa – Father, the other lads had begun to say, but Bard was still little – and Mama, Mother. After choosing most of his gifts under Isengrim’s approving eye, Bard joyfully picked up a mud-soaked toad and held it out. “For Papa!”

The Thain’s Heir winced inwardly. It was not proper for the Thain to be given a toad, much less a mud-covered one. Still, this was Bard, and he could hardly naysay such a special child. His instincts warred within him, and he sighed, knowing he was caught between a goblin axe and a troll-stone, as the old saying went; what could he do? He resigned himself to punishment, and nodded. “It’s a fine toad, Bard. Father will like it.”

Well...he would have, three years ago. It was Father, the Thain that didn’t like muddy toads...not Papa.

Surrounded by his elder brothers’ approval, after placing a pretty shell on Hildi’s barrow, Bard made his triumphant way back to the Great Hall.

At least Father had waited until they were alone to punish him...but cleaning out the pigsties?It had only been a bit of mud, and it wasn’t even his!

“These are troubling times indeed, my friend.” Gandalf sat closeted with the Thain, puffing seriously on his pipe. His smoke-rings did not go this way or that as was their usual wont; they merely floated up and dissipated, as smoke-rings usually would. Gerontius eyed Gandalf warily.

“What is it you are about, Gandalf? I take it from your sudden visit it has naught to do with my new daughter, or with my youngest son’s faunthood; or even with my Hildifons, fond though you are of him.” The lads in question, in fact, sat nearby. Hildibrand was playing on the floor, and Hildifons working at a small table by his father’s desk. Hearing his name, the eight-year-old gifted the adults with a sunny smile. He was studying his letters, and piped, “Gandalf! I learned all the letters already! I can say them for you!”

“That’s just fine, lad!” Gandalf forced a smile. “And so you shall; but hold a bit, for I still have quite serious business to discuss with your father. Perhaps you might try your numbers next?” Hildifons nodded, and bent his head over his paper. “As I was saying, Gerontius, the situation away South has grown quite serious indeed. The White Tree, the tree of the Kings, has perished!”

Gerontius’ eyes opened wide. He knew somewhat of Gondor, for Gandalf had told him many tales, and he knew, too, what the Tree had meant to the southern Kings of old. “Oh, Gandalf! That sounds quite serious!”

“Tree died?” Hildibrand looked at Gandalf anxiously. “Can plant new one?”

“I am afraid not, Brand my lad,” Gerontius said gravely; he didn’t believe in shielding his sons from truth. “That is a very special tree indeed, the southern Kings will need it. It cannot be easily replaced. But it is not your worry, little one.”

Not, of course, that there has been a King in a while, Gandalf thought, but he saw no need to confuse young Brand. Hildifons was already looking at him, puzzled, and he thought the older lad at least might recall his tales of the Ruling Stewards. But if the King is ever to return...

Hildibrand considered his father's answer, and he pulled an acorn out of his pocket. He had picked it up that morning while hunting for his First Gifts, and forgotten about it. “Here!” he said brightly, holding it out to Gandalf. “Plant tree for Kings!”

Gandalf accepted the acorn with a grave nod. “Thank you, lad; I do believe I shall,” he said. “It will at least afford Gondor some beauty in her time of trouble.”

“Beauty is indeed precious, old friend,” Gerontius agreed, thinking of his new daughter. Just a few rooms away, the infant Belladonna slept in her cradle, heedless of the events being wrought in the Outside World, and what her very existence would mean for the lands of Men in days to come.

It was a warm day in late summer, and the eight children of Gerontius Took found themselves drawn out to the Memorial Garden, each after their own pursuits. Isengrim, the Thain's Heir, was twenty-three now, and the tween had chosen his favourite garden bench to study. The Family Tutor was his father's elder sister Opal Took, and though many lads would scorn to take advanced lessons from a maiden aunt, Isengrim knew better. Aunt Opal was a formidable hobbit matron, keeping order even amongst the most unruly of pupils. He wouldnot cross her!

He glanced at the empty space on the bench beside him, where he imagined Hildigard might have sat with him, a lad just entering the first months of tweenhood, posing a question or two about the new, harder lessons he’d been set. A wistful smile ghosted over his face, as it so often did when he thought of his lost, first brother. His eyes were drawn to the belladonna plant their little sister had planted on Hildigard’s mound, and he sighed softly.

“Oh Hildi, you would have loved her,” Isen said, and his gaze found Belladonna across the garden. She was trotting after Bard and Brand, the two youngest lads, still too young yet for lessons. Soon enough, Bard would begin scratching out his letters on a slate, but Brand had some time to go yet. They tried to run ahead of her, but Bella kept up gamely, and Isengrim chuckled at the trio’s antics. “Up!” Bella crowed as she broke away from the little lads. She bolted toward Isumbras, and Isum yelped as she collided with his legs. “Isum, me up!” she demanded again, and Isumbras raised his eyebrows at his little sister’s demands.

Hilly, Ducky and Gosling stopped their game of catch-me to fix disbelieving eyes on their baby sister. “Bella,” Ducky – Isembold – said incredulously. “You don’t talk like that. Be nice, remember? You’re a big lass, a faunt now, and you can use your manners.”

“Have to,” Gosling – Hildifons – corrected absently. “And yes, he has to be well mannered.”Or he should have to be. The sixth son of Thain Gerontius frowned at his next-younger brother, and Isembard favoured him with a cheeky smile. Not for the first, or the last, time, the five eldest lads mentally rolled their eyes at their seventh brother’s antics.

“Well, in here he has to,” Isengrim interjected quietly. “Because this is Hildigard’s special place, and I’m the Thain’s Heir, and I say so.” Isembard shot his eldest brother a jaundiced look, but he couldn’t deny any of it, and scowled.

“Please,” Belladonna said politely, and squealed as Isumbras swung her up into his arms. “I flying!”

Unable to resist the temptation, Isengrim put his books away and took Bella from Isumbras to swing her around in his turn. “You are a Bella-bird now, little flower!”

“I be Bella-bird! I fly!” Belladonna giggled. “Isen! Someday I fly over the Sea!”

“Like Elwing?” Isengrim asked, for Gandalf had told the lads somewhat of her story.

“Who Elwing?” Bella inquired, and Isengrim stopped spinning her, settling Bella on his hip.

“Elwing was a princess who lived a long, long time ago. Her grandfather was an Elven king, and her grandmother, some say, was of fairy kind…” And so he launched into the tale.

"Bard not special," Donnamira announced at second breakfast on her Third Birthday. Isembard had demanded to know why he'd gotten a stick for his Gift, and had heatedly told her that he was special and should have got the best gift (a shiny stone which Donna had solemnly presented to her father, the Thain.)

"Am too special!" Bard replied heatedly, Isum, presiding over the children's table while his eldest brother sat with their parents, gave his squabbling siblings a withering look. "Isembard, stop," the young tween said firmly. Bard showed no inclination to listen, and pitched a handful of chopped apple in Donna's face, which was met by a howl of protest and an equally vehement fistful of honeyed nuts. The sticky mess landed in Bard's curls, and he let out a wail that had the eyes of the entire Hall on him.

"Isumbras Took!" Aunt Opal swept down from her seat at the High Table to glare at her nephew. "What is this nonsense?"

"Bard not special, Auntie Opal!" Donnamira put in before the sputtering tween could be hauled off by the ear. "He throwed at me first! Isum good! Promise!"

"Oh? Well, let's have it, lass, since you're so very vocal today. And don't you look a fright, on your Birthday of all days!" Opal set to scrubbing her youngest niece's face. "What happened here?" she asked when she was done, surprised - but pleased - that Donna hadn't tried to wriggle away. Donna liked being bathed.

"I gived Bard stick," Donna replied calmly. "He want Papa's gift 'cos he say he special and get the best." Donna scowled at her elder brother. "Bard naughty. Should get stick, like Father Winter say."

"We'll let Father Winter decide that in a few days, now shall we?" Opal said tartly. "'Tis not Yule yet, my lass, neither First nor Second. So, you gave your brother a stick, and he..."

"Throwed apples, Auntie," Donnamira said with the air she heard grown-ups reserve for silly children. "You just got off me."

"Hmph, so I did," Opal huffed, fixing her gaze on Isembard briefly. "And so then what did you do?"

"Throwed nuts at Bard," Donnamira replied calmly. "They all over him. Bard should have bath now too." This set off another howl from Bard - he hated bathtime.

"Well, Donna, it wasn't kind of you to throw nuts at your brother, any more than it was kind of Bard to throw apples at you. I think you've both had enough second breakfast, now," she said briskly, and Donnamira sighed, though she didn't argue.

"Off to the nursery with you now, my lass," Opal said, swinging Donna up onto her hip. The child was exceedingly well mannered for a faunt - most of the time - and truthful to a fault, almost alarmingly so at times. But she was yet a faunt, and she couldn't be expected to walk that far. "And Isembard, it's the bath for you, my lad. Come, before those nuts dry in your hair and we have to cut the curls off." This got Isembard moving fairly quickly, though sullenly, and Opal swept off to the nursery.

She made short work of putting Donnamira back in her bed and commanding her to stay, and then led her nephew to the bath. It was filled by a young lass who bobbed a curtsey to Opal and hastened from the room. Opal could have left bathing the lad to a servant, she reflected, but as she stripped Isembard and popped him in the tub, she set to with a good will. Those nuts would come out. Or else.

Much splashing, soaping, scrubbing and struggling ensued, though Isembard left off yelling after the first mouthful of soapy water got in. He settled for glaring as the bath brush made brisk work of cleaning him off, and Opal washed the lad's curls four times before she was satisfied that he had no nuts or honey left. (In truth, it had only taken three washings, but Opal surmised her nephew would not perish from extra bathing.) When Isembard was rinsed off, Opal dried him, dressed him in a long nightshirt, and put him to bed with Donna. "You'll be taking elevenses in the nursery with your sister, my lad. And you'd best not cause a fuss."

Defeated, Bard simply nodded, and curled up with his sister. Differences aside, he really had no problem sharing a bed with a sibling, even Donna. He'd shared a bed since he was tiny, after all. Soon both were fast asleep.

"Mummy!" The howl from Adamanta's youngest daughter brought the Thain's Lady running - she was glad her baby son was being watched over by his nurse. No more, Adamanta thought. An even dozen, if she counted her lost son, was quite enough. And with her second-youngest putting up this fuss...

"What is it, Mira?" Adamanta asked, trying to appear calm in front of her latest faunt. "Did something go amiss with the Gifts? I thought the posy of flowers you left Hildi was especially nice, you know, Mira, and the feathers you gave me are lovely." The words seemed to cheer Mirabella a little, but didn't entirely mollify her.

"Mummy, is all Bard fault," she said, and Adamanta turned to look at her nearly sixteen-year-old son. The lad was just half-grown now, though he fancied himself quite grown up. "Isembard, what happened?"

"It's Mira's fault, Mother," Isembard replied, eliciting a shriek from the new faunt. "She needs to…know her place."

"Oh, really?" Adamanta's mood had soured considerably. Perhaps Opal was right, perhaps we shouldn't have spoiled Bard so, she thought reluctantly. Only the fact that Bard's tone had made it a question rather than a statement of fact gave Adamanta hope for her third-youngest lad.

"She does," Isembard said, sounding more confident. "Because she's only little, and only a lass, and--ow!" Mirabella had kicked Isembard hard in the ankle. Adamanta swept Mirabella up into her arms and held the child tightly. "There will be none of that, Mirabella Took," she told her daughter quite firmly. Sniffling, Mirabella curled into her shoulder. Adamanta frowned at Isembard.

"Eldric Clayhanger," Isembard said, rather reluctantly. The lad lived down in Tuckborough with his father Cado, and he was one of Bard's favourite playmates despite being some three years older. Adamanta had suspected it, and sighed.

"Eldric is a fool to speak so of lasses; your father and I consider our daughters as worthy and lovable as our sons, including you. And after all, I am a lass too, am I not?" Adamanta asked.

Isembard hadn't thought of that. Eldric had no mother. "Oh," he said, blushing rosily.

"Just because you are our seventh-born does not give you the right to be naughty, Isembard," Adamanta said quietly. "You're quite old enough to understand that by now. Perhaps we've been more lenient with your behaviour than we ought to have been, but your Grandmother Sapphire was a very superstitious hobbitess, and she insisted we raise you how she instructed. Now she's gone, and I'm sorry for it as I loved her well, but you're going to have to understand now that you are just the same as the rest of our lads, and lasses. Loved well...and not to grow up speaking ill of others."

Adamanta set Mirabella down, and raised Isembard's chin, giving the lad a gentle smile. "It's been some time since you called me Mama, my little love. I've missed hearing it, so I'll let that go in private. But you'll be saying sorry to Mira now, you hear me?"

"Sorry, Mira," Bard said quietly. "I won't be mean anymore. I mean, I'll try not to be."

"Sorry I kick, Bard," Mirabella said, unprompted. Isembard looked at her for a few moments, nodded, and hugged his little sister.

Adamanta exhaled slowly, relieved. Sapphire Took had left a heavy load to bear as Thain's Lady, but this obstacle seemed to be conquered now, at least.

No rest for the weary, she thought a moment later, as Isengar's wail called her from the room. He would be their last faunt, she swore to herself. Twelve, even with one departed so long, was quite enough.

Isengar trotted along between Ducky and Gosling, a hand clasped in Ducky's. The day was unusually clear for late Winterfilth; but a nippy breeze had sprung up, and so all three lads were wrapped up against the cold. They walked toward the duck pond; there were a few ducks floating on the chilled surface, some diving for fish and shaking off fallen leaves. Isengar let go of Isembold's hand and ran forward a few steps, picking up a fallen feather and running back to his big brother. "For Ducky!" he crowed, and Isembold took it with a solemn nod.

"Thank you, chicklet," he replied, the nursery nickname that had been bestowed on the lad. Isengar giggled. "Welcome! Oh! Goosey!" He found a goose feather, and presented it to Hildifons, who laughed.

"You are a silly lad," Hildifons said affectionately. "Much more of a silly goose than me!"

"Hmm," Isembold said thoughtfully, studying his younger brothers. "How about 'Cygnet' for you, little one? A cygnet is rather like a gosling, you know. Just a swan, instead of a goose." There was a swansdown lining to the faunt's cloak, after all.

"Mm...kay," Isengar accepted the name. "Now I be like you an' Ducky!" he told Hildifons proudly.

"Yes, you are," Hildifons replied. "A big lad, our Cygnet." He ruffled Isengar's curls, and watched fondly as the little faunt darted here and there, picking out gifts. The leaves must not be too wet, he cautioned Isengar, and helped him find suitable foliage to gift the others. Isengrim, as it turned out, rated an apple, one of the last of the harvest.

When Gerontius and Adamanta had been given their gifts of flowers, Isembold and Hildifons turned over faunt-minding duty to Isengrim entirely, and the eldest and youngest of the Thain's heirs went out for a walk into Tuckborough. "Isen?"

"Are you, then? Well, that's fine, our Cygnet. A good nickname for you, our big lad." He laughed and listened to Isengar chatter on about his new name, all the while wondering what it might portend. Swans were the most faithful of birds, it was said, for they only ever took one mate. But they also ranged far and wide, and who was to say where Isengar's journey would take him?

The Old Took's Faunts by Kaylee Arafinwiel