A Moment of Connection

            “Where are you going, you daft Elf?” demanded Gimli.

            Legolas gave a quick glance over his shoulder at the Dwarf seated behind him on Arod’s back, but gave no more answer than an enigmatic shake of his head.  Aragorn, who was checking the girth of Roheryn’s saddle, glanced over at his companions curiously, then nodded as if he appreciated the Elf’s purpose as Legolas turned his horse back toward the site of their recent victory.  Gimli noted that Gandalf gave them no attention at all, his own concerns apparently focused on the still forms of Frodo and Sam on their litters.

            Arod snorted a slight protest as the Elf guided him around the root of the mountains toward the battlefield.  Still, the horse proved obedient in spite of its obvious disapproval of its rider’s goal.  Carefully it picked its way amidst the rubble.  A few hardy soldiers, cloths tied over their faces, worked amidst the remaining evidence of carnage, still separating bodies of those who’d fought among the forces of the Army of the West from those of its foes, gathering weapons and armor, piling the bodies of trolls and orcs here, laying those of Easterlings there, those of Southrons there, those of Men of other lands elsewhere, now and then finding one who yet lived and calling for a wagon to bear the wounded Man off of the field. 

            Legolas appeared to be ignoring them all.  He rode on until they reached a point where he could look through the gap where the Black Gate had stood.  In the distance they could see the smokes that marked the ruins of Mount Doom, and the nearer pile of rubble that was all that was left of the Black Tower of Barad-dûr.  Here Arod finally halted.  Gimli could tell that the horse was uncomfortable by the tension he felt in the muscles of Arod’s back, but at a soothing word and touch from Legolas the horse calmed, although its ears still swiveled as if listening for the approach of an enemy.

            They sat so for some minutes, the Elf looking thoughtfully into the former land of Mordor.  At last he sat straighter, and at a slight shift in his body coaxed Arod to turn slowly.  Now he looked behind the site where the battle had raged, toward the distant shimmer of reflected light that indicated where the Dead Marshes lay.  Absently he rubbed the horse’s neck as he considered the area.  At last he spoke, his melodious voice soft.  “That is where the bodies of the dead were buried before, when my father and grandfather fought here.  Elves, Men, Orcs—I think perhaps even a few Dwarves fought at times here as well, mostly those who’d come as messengers from the upper vales of the Anduin who’d stayed to slake the thirst of their axes with the black blood of the Enemy’s forces, or who had nothing to which they might return.  Ten years of frustration and loss, constant siege, separation from families and loved ones, repeated assaults by the Enemy’s orcs and allies.  So many who marched forth from the Greenwood failed to return home again, and if any of my people ever see them again it will not be here, within Middle-earth.”

            He went quiet once more, his eyes still fixed on the place where so many lay.  Aragorn had spoken of his own sojourn there last evening when he’d come away from his labours amongst the wounded to take a brief rest, describing the appearance of ghostly bodies seeming to lie in the fetid pools.  At last Legolas sighed.  “It is over at last,” he murmured, “all the watch we have kept so long on the Black Land.  Yea, it is over, and at least, this time, no Elves or Dwarves died here, within or in sight of Mordor.  We may have died elsewhere in defense of our own lands, but we did not die here as happened before.”

            Arod, sensing that they would be leaving this dread place soon, pranced impatiently as again his rider straightened.  “Sleep well, Oropher, Ereinion Gil-galad, and so many, many others,” the Elf called out.  “Your sacrifice was not in vain, you will find.  And when the time is right, I look to behold you again within Aman, and to greet you with the word that your enemy is indeed cast down, and this time will not rise again.”  He gave a surprisingly deep bow toward the marshes, and Arod, his head raised proudly, again began picking his way through the rubble toward the way south toward the camp, the muscles under Gimli rippling as the horse and its riders put the battlefield and the dead behind them.

Anticipation

            Fabric had been brought to the camp in Ithilien, including some work from Belestor’s own tailor shop in the First Circle.  As he remembered and had instructed the messengers, all that was found in his second workroom had been brought to him, and that included the clothing he had been working on for his own son and his two nephews, shirts and trews, small clothes and surcoats, intended for the three youths to take with them when they left the city in the following fall to visit for a year with their grandsire in Dol Amroth.

            His brother had laughed when told that Belestor had already begun sewing garments for that time.  “As fast as they grow, they will be beyond such clothing ere they leave Minas Tirith!” he’d exclaimed.

            Belestor had snorted in reply.  “Do not think I take no care for that,” he’d answered.  “I know the ways of growing boys well enough!”

            But then had come the word that the Enemy was on the march, and the boys were sent off even as winter gave over to spring, with sufficient fabric and money that hopefully their grandfather could see them properly clothed as needed when the time came.  There had been no time to finish aught he’d been working upon.

            But now it was no longer work for naught, he reflected as he lifted two completed sleeves and considered as to whether or not they would be long enough.  He brought out his knotted string and the measurements he’d made, and compared them to the notes, his brow furrowed in thought.  Then his frown smoothed and he smiled.  They would do!

            He found his thread and three steel needles in their bone case, needles long treasured by his own grandfather, from whom he’d learned his trade.  “’Tis said that they came from the Elves who lived betimes in Edhellond,” the old Man had told him.  “They are said to have come perhaps from the Blessed Realm itself, the work of a Noldor smith.  Surely my own father and his before him treasured them, for they told me that all that was sewn with them proved true and comely, becoming well those who wore them.  They will be yours one day, if you truly intend to follow our family craft.”

            And his they were, brought by him when he followed the Lady Finduilas to the White City.  Long had he sewn garments for the use of her sons and husband from the comfort of his workrooms in the First Circle.  And her shroud, he thought, sobering once more as he began piecing together the tunic to which the sleeves belonged.  He had grieved so when she’d left the Bounds of Arda, and prayed she watched over her still living son, there in the Houses of Healing.

            Her sons were far too tall for such garments as these, he knew, but now they would serve a nobler purpose than had been intended.  Carefully he sewed, keeping his stitches properly fine and even for the needs of the ones for whom they were now intended.  Others from the camp of the Men of the City began to gather, watching with interest and pride as Belestor carefully prepared these for the use of the Ringbearers, for the day on which they would, hopefully, awaken again to receive the honor of the Army of the West.

The Mystery of the Brown Ghost

            “There!  Do you hear it?” Eldarion asked his friend Elboron.

            The son of the Prince of Ithilien peered out of the shallow cupboard in which the two of them crouched and shook his head.  They were in one of the suites of rooms in the upper level above the offices at the front of the citadel, a suite that by tradition had been inhabited by the heirs to the lordship of Gondor, first by the King’s Heir and later by that of the Ruling Steward in the millennia after the disappearance of Eärnur, before the Return of the King.  “I hear nothing!” he whispered to his companion.

            But then both went still, for definitely something had gone “Bump!” quite near their hiding place, a bump that was followed quickly by another sound that neither could identify.  There was a whirring noise, a whirring noise that was accompanied by a series of lesser bumps! in quick succession.  That was followed by a decided whine of some sort that caused the hair of both boys to rise on the backs of their respective necks.  Both were frozen to immobility until at last all again went still.

            At last Elboron stirred.  “I like it not!” he murmured in the ear of his friend.

            Eldarion almost nodded his agreement, but stopped himself.  “But we should learn what causes it,” he breathed softly.

            Elboron shrugged as if he weren’t anywhere as certain of that plan as was the King’s son, but his shoulders straightened as he put his hand on the hilt of the long knife he wore at his waist, a gift to him last Mettarë.  He took a long breath and held it, and at last, the two of them in accord, they pushed open the cupboard and slipped out into the room.

            But although they went through the seven rooms within the suite most thoroughly, they found nothing but some feathers upon the floor under the clerestory window that lit the room ordinarily used as a bedroom or office or private study by whoever inhabited the set of chambers.

            “A great owl’s feathers,” Elboron noted as they examined this find.  “Whoever lived here last must have spent some time within Ithilien.”

            Disappointed to find nothing else out of the ordinary, the two of them slipped out of the suite and closed the door behind them, just in time to hear the bells summoning those residing within the Citadel to their dinners.

            “And where have the two of you been all afternoon?” inquired Prince Faramir as the two boys arrived to join their families at the high table in the greater dining hall.  “Your tutors have reported you have been nowhere to be found much of the day.”

            The two boys exchanged looks that were cut short when the King and his wife entered together.  The Lord Elessar and Lady Arwen said nothing as they took their place at the center of the high table, although their looks at the boys still managed to repeat the question wordlessly.  But it was not until after the Standing Silence was complete that either of them could answer.

            “There has been a strange apparition in the upper levels of the Citadel,” Eldarion explained, nodding to the page who came forward to proffer a basin of water in which to lave his hands.  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the towel offered and then returning it to the youth’s arm.  “We went to investigate it.  One of the younger maids who cleans was unnerved by the noises, and told me of them the other day.  I went to the room and found nothing, and today Elboron went with me.”

            “And again you found nothing?” the King asked.

            “Naught but some owl feathers,” Elboron answered.

            King and Steward exchanged glances, and the two boys could see that Elboron’s father had a mysterious smile on his face.  “Do you know what could have caused the noise, my lord?” asked Eldarion.

            “Ah, but it appears that the Brown Ghost may have returned to the Prince’s Chambers,” Faramir said.  The Queen and the Princess of Ithilien exchanged inquiring looks before returning their attention to their menfolk.

            “A Brown Ghost dwells at times in the Prince’s Chambers?” asked the Lord Elessar.

            Faramir nodded.  “Such was true when my brother and I were young.  Many of the maids would refuse to go into those rooms for fear of it, uncertain as they were of the apparent moans and thumps and other odd sounds such as were often heard there.  Although there were those who would take those rooms at times and who swore they heard no such things.  It appears that the Brown Ghost is not a constant inhabitant there.”

            He paused as the servers arrived with the first course of the meal.  Once all had served themselves and he had himself eaten some of his soup and bread, he continued.  “Boromir was certain that there was some great mystery here, so he determined to spend the night within the bedchamber, and I, not being willing to be denied a night in his company, declared myself his companion, and nothing would turn me from my decision.  Our father merely smiled indulgently and ordered Boromir’s governor and my nurse to allow us our way.”  He swallowed several more spoons of soup before continuing.

            “The bed used by the last one to inhabit those chambers was still there, and all disapproving, Boromir’s governor accompanied us there with proper linens and blankets, and saw the bed made up for our use, once Boromir had pulled the white dust sheet from it with his own hands.  Then my brother sent him away most imperiously—and, I fear, quite cheekily for a youth of a mere twelve summers, and we went to the bathing chamber and prepared ourselves for our night of watching.

            “I had brought several books with me, for we were quite determined to remain awake throughout the whole night.  At first I read aloud to Boromir, although I doubt he enjoyed the story I read half as much as he did simply listening to my voice. 

            “But I was but a small boy of seven, and soon tired.  In the end, Boromir took the last of the pile of books I’d brought and began reading it to me.  I refused to lie down, but sat up, leaning more and more against his side as the evening progressed, and at last I fell asleep.  He told me later I had my thumb in my mouth when I did so, a detail I denied but must admit might well have been true at the time.  He laid me down more comfortably, and set himself to watch.  But he, too, was beginning to nod when he felt a shadow fall upon him, briefly obscuring the light from the clerestory window in the room; but when he looked upwards the light of the moon shone down upon us once more.  He heard nothing more for quite a while, and at last he drowsed for a time, until he heard shrill cries over us as the light again was darkened.  Something dropped upon the bed between us, and he was so terrified he grabbed me and dragged me from it, fleeing the room as swiftly as he could induce me to go with him.  Afterwards he berated himself for a craven coward, but our father merely shook his head and told him a wise captain knows when to retreat until he has more knowledge.”

            “And did you never find out the true history of the Brown Ghost?” the King asked him.

            “In time we did.  We were much older when we did so, my brother and I.  But we learned by watching from outside the Citadel.  The Brown Ghost remained in residence for the rest of the summer after we slept in the room, but did not return for several years.  Then when I was fourteen summers the maids again spoke of fearful noises within the Prince’s Chambers, and Boromir and I again slipped into the rooms to search for clues—but in the daylight this time.  What I found gave me an idea as to the nature of the apparition, and I suggested to my brother that we could most likely confirm my theory by watching the clerestory window that allowed the moonlight to fall upon the bed below from the outside of the Citadel on the night of the next full moon.  Boromir thought at first I was as afraid as he’d been at twelve, but agreed afterwards with me that we saw far better from our vantage point below the branches of the White Tree than we would have seen from inside the room.  Father was most impressed at the time.”

            “And what is the truth of the Brown Ghost?” demanded Eldarion.

            But the Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor merely smiled mysteriously.  “And where is the challenge in telling you what you will best learn on your own?” he asked.  “You and my son are wise and brave beyond your years.  Let you find your own way to understanding the nature and aims of the Brown Ghost much as my father allowed us to do when Boromir and I were young.”

            The moon was full the night that Elboron and Eldarion chose to spend the night keeping watch on the windows of the Prince’s Chambers from the Court of Gathering before the Citadel.  The King and his Steward gave orders that no further guard needed to be kept on the two youths beyond those who kept the watch on the White Tree and those who stood guard before the doors of the Citadel itself, but as the hour of midnight neared the two Men and a single bodyguard slipped out to take cover under the White Tree where they could keep an eye on their two sons, who had unrolled bedrolls under the light of the moon itself.

            “You have not told me the true nature of the Brown Ghost,” breathed Lord Aragorn Elessar in his friend’s ear.

            Faramir again smiled mysteriously as he replied softly, “And shall I deny you the right to learn as do your son and mine, as did Boromir and I?”

            The King shrugged, and settled down. Pulling his grey-green cloak about himself, he willed himself to stillness.  So the two former Rangers kept watch on the two boys as the two boys watched the window.

            There was a soft murmur between the two youths that at last went quiet.  It appeared the two of them would fall asleep and leave the mystery unsolved, when suddenly there was a dark winged shape that threw a shadow upon the two bedrolls.  No, they were not asleep after all, as both boys immediately rose to their feet and peered toward the dark gap that marked where the clerestory window to the Prince’s Chambers stood open to allow air to move freely into the upper levels of the Citadel.

            “What is it?” demanded Elboron.

            But Eldarion was smiling broadly.  “I saw it!” he said.  “If we go in now, we can perhaps see more clearly!”  He leaned down to scoop up the blankets and rug he’d rested upon and headed swiftly toward the Citadel, and Elboron was left to hurry after him, wrapping the loose ends of fabric from his own bedroll about his arms to keep them from dragging the ground to trip him up as he did his best to follow his friend as swiftly as he might.  And without making any noise, the three men followed after the boys.

            The door guards kept the doors open for the fathers and their guard, and soon the men were climbing the stairs to the upper story at the front of the Citadel.  Elboron and Eldarion had left the door to the Prince’s Chambers open, and Faramir grabbed up an oil lamp that stood in a niche to take with them.  Within they could hear a series of shrill cries, and they found their way to the door to the main bedchamber.

            Not far inside the room stood the two boys, peering upwards intently.  Above them, over the place where the bedstead should lie, they could see the light falling upon the floor from the clerestory window, and opposite it in the dormer in which it had been placed was a ledge.  The boys did not appear surprised to be joined by their fathers.  Now the four of them crowded to a vantage point where they could see the ledge clearly.  And looking down at them round yellow eyes----

            “An owl!” whispered Elboron.

            “A family of owls!” amended Eldarion as the parent turned its head to regard the shrilly crying young who were demanding their share of whatever delicacy it had brought.  A second shadow followed the first, and a second large owl landed beside its mate, clearly bearing a mouse in its beak, the mouse’s tail trembling as the parent shook its head.

            “Had Boromir considered the sheet that covered the bed on the night we slept here,” Faramir commented as they peered upwards together, “he would have realized that birds nested up there.”

            “And that is the source of the owl feathers we found,” Elboron said softly.  “How wonderful!  We have peregrine falcons that nest on window ledges outside, and owls who nest here, in the Prince’s own chambers!”

            Eldarion’s wide smile continued.  “And I’ll be glad enough to share with them, when these rooms are my own,” he declared.

            His father placed his arm about his son’s shoulders as one of the young owlets clattered its beak and shook its wings, thumping softly against the wall as it took the mouse from its parent.  With a soft hoot the two parents turned and ghosted out the window once more….

The Reluctant Spring

            Carefully looking both ways to see that none of Lotho’s Big Men were about, Robin Smallburrow turned off the Road and slipped across the south pasture toward the low house lying at the center of his family’s farm, staying close to the hedge that bounded the lane.  Not, he knew, that anyone would easily see him, as lowering as the brown clouds were.  The days were dull and sullen and the nights miserably dark, and had been for the past month or so.  It might be nearing midday, but it might as well be twilight.

            Reaching the door, he gave the agreed upon signal to let his old mum know that it was him—two quick raps and three slow ones, followed by a scratch of a horny fingernail across the wood.  He heard the chair his mum kept under the battered knob scrape as she pulled it away, and the door slowly opened.  It was dark inside the place, and he could see his mother only as a slightly darker shadow against the already dark entryway.  “That you, lad?” she whispered.  “Thought as you’d be here afore dawn.”

            He slipped past her and closed the door behind her, then pushed the chair back under the knob once more, making certain it was firmly wedged.  “Couldn’t make it—got called to Bag End along with my mates.”

            “Bag End?  And what new mischief does Pimple plan for us now?” she demanded, drawing him down the passage to the kitchen.  A single candle sat on a saucer on the table—for some reason the last time the Gatherers and Sharers had been through they’d taken all the lamps and lamp oil, as well as the three brass candlesticks his family had owned.

            He shook his head as he dropped his pack onto a chair, then doffed the now hated feathered cap he had to wear to identify himself as a Shiriff and tossed it onto the table.  “He’s got a bunch of new lads—says as we need more Shiriffs, so’s we can make sure as folks don’t break the new Rules.  We’re to be put into troops----”

            “Troops?”  Her voice rose in outrage.  “Since when does the Shire need troops of Shiriffs?  Just how many do we need to find a strayed lamb or walk a drunk Hobbit home from the inn?”

            “What inn?” he asked bitterly.  “Ain’t no inns open nowhere about here in the Westfarthing no more.  Mr. Lotho, him don’t hold with inns, or so he says.”

            She gave a sniff.  “I member well enough when his old dad was a regular at the Ivy Bush when I worked there, back afore your dad’n me was married.  And Pimple himself certainly spent a good deal of time there, up till a year or so ago.  Was drinkin’ there the day his daddy was buried, if’n I member rightly.  Showed up to the funeral drunk, if’n Sam Gamgee’s to be believed.”

            Sam had accompanied Frodo Baggins to Otho Sackville-Baggins’s funeral, and had helped fill in the grave while Mr. Baggins, as the Baggins family head and almost the only mourner besides that awful Mistress Lobelia, had ended up directing matters in the absence of Lotho.  It had been rather a scandal, in spite of the fact that Lotho was known to spend hardly any time at all at home with his mother or taking care of family business.  Robin remembered Sam sitting here at their table, telling of it that night.

            “They got you goin’ around counting logs in woodpiles now?” she asked.

            “Not yet, but I expect as it’s comin’.  We’re to make certain as there’s but one bucket for each well, and no more than one boiler for laundry for each house.  And we’re to inspect washin’ lines and make certain there’s not extra sheets bein’ washed, since no one’s to be visitin’ from other parts of the Shire no more.”

            His mother was shocked.  “What?  And what about folks like the Delvers?  You know how it is with old Blotho, all stuck in bed since that brainstorm a year ago.  They have to change his beddin’ at least once a day.  It’s not like he can help it, after all!”  She shook her head in dismay.  “And with Will Whitfoot gone, all locked up in those old storage tunnels Michel Delving way, there’s not a soul as can put a stop to it all!  I’ll tell you what—that Frodo Baggins comes back and I’ll have a word to put in his ear!  Sellin’ Bag End to those uppity Sackville-Bagginses and lettin’ Pimple’s head swell up like that!  Much less draggin’ that Sam off into the wild the way he did!”  She turned angrily toward their larder and began to pull out enough to fix him some elevenses, and he started unpacking what he’d brought in the pack.  It wasn’t a great deal, but it was about enough to help offset what she’d not been able to get for herself due to the Gatherers and Sharers depleting the stores of the merchants she used to buy from in the village.  ’Twasn’t the best of quality, perhaps, but it was filling, at least.  As he worked, he pondered what he needed to tell her.  At last he felt he’d waited long enough.

            “Mum,” he began slowly, “I don’t know as I’ll be able to come by as often as I do now, come next month.”

            She stopped in the process of slicing the half loaf of bread she’d brought from the larder, gripping the bread knife more tightly so as to whiten her knuckles.  “Why not?”

            He took a deep breath before explaining, “Like I said, Pimple’s organizing us into troops, and I’m to be part of the troop workin’ out of Frogmorton.”

            She stared at him, disbelieving.  “Frogmorton?  But why?  Why, that’s a day’s walk away from here!”

            “I know.  But he wants Shiriffs in force along the Road.”

            She set down the knife rather deliberately on the worktable, and just looked at him, her arms akimbo, her balled fists against her ample hips.  She was shaking her head.  “This ain’t right—not right at all!  You know what, son—it’s time you gave over bein’ a Shiriff, when you are sent a day’s journey from your home, and when you’re made to spy on decent folk who never did wrong to anyone.”

            “I can’t quit.”

            “But why not?”

            “Member Chico Bottomly, there from Overhill?”

            “The one who got away with my prize turnips back when you was teens?”

            “Yes.  You know as he went for a Shiriff same time as me.”

            “Yes, I know.”

            “Well, last week he went up to Bag End to tell Pimple as he was quitting being a Shiriff as it just wasn’t right what we was expected to do, and we’ve not seen him since.”

            Her face went white.  “They drug him off to the Lockholes, you think?” she whispered.

            “We don’t know for certain, but I expect as that’s what happened.”

            “If’n they didn’t kill him,” she murmured, looking down at the bread and knife lying before her on the worktable.

            “Lotho wouldn’t let them kill nobody—or at least I don’t think as he would.”  But even Robin heard the uncertainty in his own voice.

            “Who’s to say as what Pimple would do?” she muttered, picking up her knife and savagely finishing her slicing.  “Always was a lout, and he’s just gettin’ worse the older he gets.”

            He nodded.

            Elevenses were rather sparse, but at least he wouldn’t faint with hunger as he returned to his rounds.  He hitched his now lighter pack up on his shoulders, gave a careful look about to make certain no one was watching his mum’s house, and headed back toward the Road.  The day was no lighter—in fact it seemed even more bitterly dark than it had been, and there was a distinct feeling of anger and malice in the air.  “You’d never figger as today’s the twenty-fifth of March already,” he muttered as he reached the Road and looked carefully each way to make certain no one else was in sight.  “Will spring never come?”

            Usually by now the crocuses would be in full bloom and the daffodils would just be beginning to show their golden crowns.  But there were no spiked leaves from bulbs to be seen, and no blossoms of any kind.  The willow shrubs hadn’t yet produced their catkins, nor had the aspens begun to bud.  Trees were still bare, and even the plants of the hedges were still sporting leaves spotted with last fall’s signs rather than showing any indications they were still wick.  There’d not even been any snowdrops, and those were always the first plants to waken with the brightening of the year.

            He felt clammy, in spite of the closeness of the atmosphere, and he drew his cloak tighter about himself.  He felt reluctant to leave the concealment of the hedge, as if were he to step out upon the Road he’d make himself conspicuous to the eye of some fell enemy.  He wiped his forehead with his jacket’s sleeve while peering left and right.  Somewhere, he suddenly realized, something was decidedly wrong!  What it was he could not say and would not guess; but there was a decided feeling of impending doom hovering over him, and he knew somehow it was best he remain still and draw no attention to himself!

            The day suddenly went completely still.  There’d been no smaller birds to be seen throughout the Shire for all the weeks of the darkness that had come from the south and east, although there were plenty of crows of scruffy appearance to be found.  Even they, however, had seemed either unnaturally subdued for their kind, or would be particularly raucous in their calls, as if in defiance of the unnatural silence to be found throughout the Shire.  Now, however, even they were quiet!  The wind had died, and all seemed to wait for some great, killing stroke to fall upon the land!  Robin Smallburrow felt as if he were stifling, and clawed at the top button to his shirt!

            And then, when he felt he must go mad from the tension of the moment, at last he felt some great balance shift!  A wind sprang up, bending the hedge eastward, and suddenly he could breathe again, even if it was labored in the face of the gale!  He turned west and watched as the great pall of brown murk began to tear apart, as the blue of the sky at last could be seen and as light began tearing away at the remnants of the reek!  The crows rose from where they’d huddled in the tallest of the trees, crying aloud to herald the end of the darkness, seeming just as glad as Robin himself to see the end of the shadow that had hung for so long over the whole world, or so it had seemed to the Hobbit!

            Far to the west clouds were beginning to gather, but they were natural clouds, clouds from proper weather rather than darkness, and he knew that soon rain would begin to fall, washing away the brown ash that he could see darkened the leaves and stifled the very earth.

            “Yes!” he said in a soft exclamation as he saw a great flock of small birds at last soaring over the Westfarthing, each chirping loudly.

            Honk, honk!  Honk, honk, honk!  Honk!  From the south came a great V of geese, followed by a second flank, all crying aloud the gladsome news—somehow, in some strange way, the land itself was awakening, and all hurried to see to it that spring caught up with the calendar.  The true clouds of the west swept eastward, dropping their burden of moisture upon the land, and Robin stood there in awe, watching them roil overhead in rolls of white, purple, indigo, silver and darkest grey, lit here and there with rosy pink and even crimson.  A silver curtain of rain arced toward him, and he let it come, rejoiced to feel the honest touch of it upon his face, saw it scouring away the darkness.

            A flock of ducks struggled to keep together as they flew by toward Bywater and the Pool there.  A hawk suddenly appeared, tilting first this way and then that as the wind buffeted its wings, glad apparently merely to be aloft no matter how heavy the winds might be!

            Then the clouds were past, chasing the brown gloom further eastward and south, and sunlight followed the rain, showing sparkling jewels here and there across the land as it glinted from drops that clung to the bare stems and stubborn, brittle leaves of the hedge by which Robin stood and as they stood upon grass that at last seemed tinged with green.

            Cheer up!  Cheer up!  He turned to find a tiny goldcrest had lit on the hedge near his hand, and was clinging onto a sturdy stalk determinedly as it turned its head to examine him.  Cheer up!  Cheer up! it advised him before suddenly letting go and allowing the wind to carry it away.

            Robin Smallburrow stood there for some time, his cloak now steaming, and the feather in his cap shedding its burden of dampness and taking again its proper shape.  He suddenly shivered, and then laughed aloud.

            “Don’t know as what’s just happened,” he said aloud to himself, “but it does appear as spring’s finally come.  And about time it is!”

            He now stepped boldly upon the Road and turned east.  He might be forced to stay in Frogmorton and he might remain for a time at the beck and call of the likes of Lotho Pimple, but he knew now he could bear with it, and would survive the storm.  The sun had come again past all hope when it seemed the brown must overshadow the world forever; and he knew now there would come an end to the tyranny of Lotho and his Big Men.  He’d be like the goldcrests, and would cling on until the winds of the heavens at last washed them away!

            “Cheer up!  Cheer up!” he sang aloud, mimicking the call of the birds as he turned toward the future—and through it to the good he knew was headed their way at last!  And he whistled one of the songs old Mad Baggins had used to sing as he headed toward Frogmorton.

Shared Intelligence

            He cracked the door to Faramir’s office and peered within.  Here his newly accepted Steward and Frodo Baggins both worked, Frodo doing research on how historically those crippled or slain in the defense of the realm had been treated while Faramir looked into the records of his father’s purchases of grain and other staples intended to support the city of Minas Tirith during any siege by Mordor.  There was, after all, a need for foodstuffs within the city, considering the desolation of the fields and farms that had supported the White City’s needs, there upon what had become the battlefield of the Pelennor.  As for Frodo’s research—well, it would be far easier to convince the Council of the need to offer aid to those disabled in the final battles with Mordor and the families of the slain if precedents could be found, the more the better.

            Usually when he looked within the room, Aragorn saw two dark heads each bowed closely over bound volumes of statutes or stacks of documents, one high up with dark hair long and straight, leaning over the surface of the Steward’s massive desk; the other with curly dark locks with glints of silver, particularly near the temples, obscuring in part the delicate leaf-like tips of the ears, intent on whatever lay upon the top of the low table he’d been given to work upon.  Today, however, Faramir held a document upright and between himself and his fellow, whose head rose but slightly above the height of the desk.  Frodo was leaning forward, indicating with an ink-stained, outstretched finger some point he felt was important; Faramir’s face was shining with pleasure at the shared knowledge.  It was plain that whatever Frodo was indicating gave the Man a good deal of satisfaction as well.

            “They will come to me soon to share this with me,” the King murmured to himself.  “Let them know this moment of fellowship uninterrupted.”

            And with a feeling of anticipation, he retreated to his own office, and thought how he would mimic surprise when the two of them surged together into his presence to share whatever it was they had found.

The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. Theseus, scene I, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Fences and Dreams

“Hey, rol-a-derry-o, ah the weather’s mellow!

Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are….”

But he stopped in the midst of his song, listening intently to the murmur of the trees about him.  “And what is it?” he asked aloud.  “Someone comes?  Ah, no—two someones, one you’ve met before, and one who has been but a rumor to you, eh?  Then perhaps it’s time for your Tom to be off home.

“For Goldberry waits us there, with honey-mead and water,

There my heart is turned, toward the River-woman’s daughter!”

And, singing and capering, Tom Bombadil hurried down the path that followed the course of the Withywindle, waterlilies in hand carried in tribute to his beloved.

 *******

            Arien was dropping in her course westward almost behind the trees when they came at last to Tom’s door.  All was in readiness for them, of course—the house spotless and festooned with flowers, sprays of greenery, and candles ready to be lit, the table already set with fresh-baked bread, golden butter, honey, strawberries plucked from the wooded hillsides, and sweet cream to pour over them.

            “And what have we here?” asked Tom of the two who approached his door.  “It’s been time and time, even as I have known it, since last you visited with us, son of Arathorn and Elrond.  And what does the High King of the West seek from those who dwell within the Old Forest?”  Not giving him a chance to answer, though, he turned his attention to the King of Men’s companion.  “And you, my Lady—I will say this:

“From morning’s Queen you come, and from Silver also, and Wisdom’s seat.

Had Ulmo not giv’n one mete to me, my heart might also lie at your feet.”

            The Lady Arwen laughed, her dark hair thrown back and her shining eyes bright with delight.  But Goldberry had come forward, reaching to embrace them.  “Welcome, sweet guests,” she was saying, “and pay this one no mind, for his eye is easily caught in the net of wonder.  Come—all is prepared for you!  Will you stay with us this night?  For, lo!  Thy bed lies ready under the eaves, the blankets soft upon it, ready to ease the cares of those who rule.”

            So it was they were led to the table and sat down to eat Tom’s simple yet filling fare, and all was filled with the beauty of the Queen’s voice as she joined Goldberry in song, and in time the men-folk joined in as well, filling the house with music and merriment.

            At last all were sated, and when Goldberry rose to clear away, Arwen would not be deterred from aiding her, the two of them making short work of plates and cups, bowls and pitchers.  Tom poured out a goblet of golden mead for each of them.  Slippers, soft and restful, were provided for the feet of all, and Goldberry settled into her seat in the midst of her waterlilies, their white and golden beauty reflecting her own.  Tom had seen the candles lit.  No fire was needed, for the night was warm with summer.  Arwen breathed the scented air and murmured, “A pleasant dream this seems, our most beloved host and hostess.  But it was with a serious purpose we sought you out.”

            “And where did you leave those who ordinarily guard you?” asked Tom.  “I cannot think they know peace in their hearts with the two of you out of their sight.”

            The King, unlit pipe in hand, smiled.  “No, I don’t suppose they are happy with us.  But as we entered your realm this day, they have had to agree to allow you to guard us in their stead, and they wait in Bree, from whence they will come to join us tomorrow.  Not,” he added, his hand raised to forestall any further speech for the moment from Tom, “not here, but on the borders of Tyrn Gorthad.”

            Tom cocked his head, fixing Aragorn Elessar with his bright eye.  “And what would you do there?” he asked.  “The residents of that place do not take kindly to visits from the living, and they might seek again to take you prisoner, and to use you to their own purposes.”

            Aragorn, however was shaking his head, his hand upon the green stone he wore on his breast.  “They cannot hurt us,” he said simply.  “But we came primarily to ask you if you would mind to lose them as neighbors.  I know that they can do no harm to you, no more so than can they do now to us; and I know that their presence has helped to ensure the peace the two of you know here.  The Hobbits of the Shire respect your borders and have managed a truce with Old Man Willow’s sentries this side of the High Hay.  But I worry somewhat that if we banish them as we’d like to do, that wanderers from the Breelands and elsewhere might seek to enter the Old Forest and despoil it, thinking the land uninhabited and thus free for the taking.”

            “It’s thoughtful, the King, he is,” Tom sighed, taking a sip from the goblet he held.  “Old wights can’t touch us, and we won’t fear them.  They know I’m Master here and won’t allow their mischief free rein.”  He looked thoughtfully into his cup.  “But,” he murmured, “they grow tired.  Aulendil is gone, his golden soul-trap with him.  The Ringbearer is gone also, may his troubled soul know rest now.”

            Aragorn smiled at him.  “I’m certain he does now.”

            Again Tom eyed him, a smile touching his eyes.  “Ah—then I’m not the only one trees might confide in, then.  Good!  Good!”

            He downed his drink, and setting the goblet down by him, rose to his feet.  “So, you think to banish the wights, eh?  But where would you send them?  And will they be pleased at the prospect?”

            “Probably not,” admitted the King.  “Not that I care that much for their thoughts on the subject.  But too many decent folk have been bedeviled by them, and some lost who’ve been sorely missed.  And we would honor those who were laid there so long ago as they deserve.”

            “Few enough of those are still aware of the place, I suspect.”  Tom shrugged.  He raised his arms and began to sing.

“Long have the wights ruled there, and fair souls care not for them.

Far past Arda’s bounds they’ve gone, Light and Love now hold them.”

            “And we rejoice that this is true.  But the question still stands—do you wish to keep them as neighbors to protect your borders?  It has been said, after all, that good fences make good neighbors.”

            “True enough,” Tom admitted.  He gave the brooch the King wore a long look.  “Hmm,” he said.  “Perhaps that trinket you wear might serve all.”  He looked up to meet the King’s eyes.  “Elessar Envinyatar you are now, the Elfstone, the Renewer?  Well, instead of banishing those who’ve taken Tyrn Gorthad, why not renew them?”  And he turned in his place, chanting, “The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.  Why not allow yourself to sleep on the problem, and see what thoughts you find when the morning light embraces us once more?”

            So saying he set to blowing out most of the candles in the room.  Goldberry took one that still twinkled brightly and bade them soothing dreams, advising them to fear no nightly noises, and went to her own chamber.  Tom gave one of the last two into the Lady’s hands, and taking the other, led them to a room under the eaves where a great soft bed, apt even to Aragorn’s long frame, lay awaiting them, even as Goldberry had described it.  Fine night robes lay there, and after bidding them good night, Tom shut the door behind himself and hied himself off to his wife’s embrace.

*******

            First they heard the running of water through a sandy bed.  Frodo was hunkered down, his hands upon his knees, looking into the depths of a stream.  On hearing Lord and Lady approach, he looked up, his smile of greeting radiant. “Oh, Aragorn, come and see!”  So saying, he indicated the water that ran by his toes, a few droplets escaping its flow and shining happily in the hair that clad his feet.

            They came opposite him and looked where he pointed.  There, crawling along the bottom was what appeared to be a tube made of sand and strands of dried grass stalks cemented together, out of which feet emerged at the forward end.  The creature in its ungainly house was making for the stalk of a great cattail that rose up high above the surface of the stream, and as it traveled Frodo sang it on its way.  They watched as it finally reached its goal, and as, once its feet grasped the stalk of the plant, the larva of a caddis fly began laboriously shedding its protective shell and, at last free of its former home, started its climb toward the air above.  Frodo, enthralled, watched its progress, his eyes growing brighter by the moment.

            “The pupa will form around its body,” he told them, “and within it, it will change.  Oh, Aragorn, how it will change!”

            But the dream was beginning to fade away, and they found themselves slipping backwards, away from Frodo, a mist of silver-white forming between him and themselves.

 *

            Aragorn awoke and rolled to affirm that his wife lay by him, and saw that in her hand she now held the stem of a cattail, to which was affixed a brown shell that even now was hardening about what had been a vulnerable larva’s body….

 *

            They paused in sight of the standing stone that marked the boundary to the ancient royal cemetery for Arnor.  “I was little better than a boy when I came this way before,” Aragorn said quietly, “filled with the bravado of youth, certain that no danger could touch me—that I could command those that dwell within.  That I survived is not due to what little caution I showed at the time, I fear.”

            She laughed, laying her slender hand on his arm.  “Oh, I am sure that they found within themselves a certain reluctance to force you to plumb to the depths of your ability to command them, my beloved.  And you mastered them.”

            He shook his head ruefully.  “I fear it was more of a draw in the end, and it was decided only when our host of last night came to see what riot I was inciting.  Iarwain Ben-adar has brooked no nonsense from them since Angmar first drew them here, intending to use them to sow fear and distress among those who must hold the line against him in this region.  Bombadil taught me that day that you cannot fear them, for to do so gives them their weapon to use against you.”

            He held out his arm for her to take, but before they could even take a step they were halted anew by calls from the direction of the Road.  “Hoy—Strider—hold up for a moment!”

            Neither was surprised to realize that the Mayor of the Shire, the Thain, and the Master of Buckland were hurrying to join them.

            “It appears we were just in time,” announced Pippin.  “One minute more and you’d have gone in there!”

            “We will not be deterred,” warned Aragorn Elessar.

            “No one,” Merry said, “said anything about stopping you.  We’ll be going with you, is all.”

            “And why?” the King asked, standing straight and regally, his eyes demanding justification for their inclusion in the party to face the wights that haunted Tyrn Gorthad.

            Sam exchanged glances with his fellow Hobbits, then returned the Man’s gaze as directly as he was looking at them.  “Well,” he said, “we was as good as told to do so.”

            “By whom?”

            “Frodo.”

            The four of them stood, defiantly looking at one another, until the Queen laughed.  “I believe, holder of my heart and Light, that Lord Irmo has been relaying messages to more than just to us.”

            Merry was nodding his head.  “We’d slept the night just inside the gate, in the Brandybuck pavilion, waiting for your visit today.  And we all awoke at the same time, with the same dream in our minds.”

            “Frodo, a stream, and those water worms he used to collect,” Sam agreed.

            “And he told us that you needed us by your side today, and to find you by the standing stone,” said Pippin.  “Which we did,” he added, indicating the one before which they stood.

            Rubbing his chin, Aragorn examined them.  “They will seek to rouse fear in you, and by that fear will seek to take you,” he warned them.

            Sam gave a snort.  “Think as we’ll be that frightened again by the likes of these?” he asked, waving his hand at the barrows beyond the standing stone.

            The eyes facing him were as steady as his own.  Merry had survived the Black Breath; Pippin had managed to keep the secret of Frodo carrying the Ring into Mordor itself from Sauron when their minds connected through the Palantiri; and Sam had faced the terrors of Shelob and Mordor and won through against them, had even worn the Ring, and had stood in the Sammath Naur itself under the very Eye.  No, these were not the callow, rather foolish but determined would-be adventurers who had stumbled into these precincts before.  They were proven warriors against evil now, as he knew full well.  And they bore arms, he noted.  He looked at the sword Merry wore—not that given him by the Lady Éowyn, but the one Sam had worn during their journeys in the Fellowship, while Sam wore Sting.  Noting the focus of their Lord King’s attention, Sam explained, “I brought both of them, that one and Sting.  Thought as Frodo-lad might practice with it, once we get to Annúminas with you.  But, once we knew as we’d be comin’ here, I thought as maybe that would be the better one to carry.  Made to oppose the evil from the north, wasn’t it, after all?  And you never know—we may need to cut off another wight’s hand like Frodo did.”

            Aragorn laughed.  “I am convinced!  Well, gentlemen, shall we face them, then?”

            Arwen laced her arm through his, and as she began to sing, they moved forward, Pippin taking the point, Merry alongside them to the Queen’s left, and Sam guarding the backs of their sovereigns.

            The song wasn’t one he’d heard more than once, Aragorn thought—and then he recognized it.  It was the song Frodo had been singing in the dream as they’d watched the larva on its laborious journey toward the cattail.  He smiled as he passed the stone, and joined her in the song.  The temperature had seemed to plummet as they entered the Barrow-downs, but as Sam began to sing, too, the air seemed to warm slightly.  Then Merry joined in, and at last Pippin, his voice sweet and confident. 

It was a song of change, of transformation, of metamorphosis.

            And the wights heard, boiling out of the ancient tombs that they’d taken for their habitations, howling and moaning in their fury and fear.

            Yes, they were in terror!

            How the table had been turned, Aragorn thought fleetingly.

            The song at last ended, and the five of them stood facing the wights, wary but not fearful.

            “What do you want with us?” demanded the wights.

            “I am the King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar!” proclaimed Aragorn.  “Do you wish to be freed from the bindings that brought and hold you here?”

            The response was almost a shriek of derision and rage.  “You are mere mortals!” one of the wights challenged.  “You have no authority over us!”

            “Perhaps so, or perhaps you are wrong.  I ask again—would you be freed from what binds you here?”

            “Free to do what?”

            “Perhaps free to be as you were intended?” suggested the King.  “I have examined the spells set about this place, spells intended to protect those who pass by the barrows.  Those spells were not designed to hold any against their wills, not as long as they did not display a will to harm any outside of this place.  If you are willing to lay aside evil intentions, you may go where you please.”

            A lesser wight pushed past the one who’d taken the role of spokesman.  “Do you mean that we can perhaps leave the bounds of Arda?” it whined.  Was there a hint of hope in that question?

            “Do you wish to return to the Timeless Halls?  I cannot say for certain what awaits you once you leave the Barrow-downs, but certainly it cannot be worse than what you’ve known for the past two thousand years, can it?  Are you willing to lay aside your will to evil?”  He focused his attention solely on the smaller spirit.

            There was an incomprehensible rumble about them.  It appeared that the wights were debating amongst themselves as to what they ought to do.

            The five mortals watched about themselves warily, but with growing confidence.  Sometimes they could clearly see shapes forming here or there, but then those shapes would as quickly dissolve again into swirling mist.  At first they oft saw slavering fangs and burning eyes; but as the debate continued the shapes became more generally similar to the bodies of the Children of Ilúvatar, and the distortions began to diminish.

            At one point the howling became piercing in its intensity, and again the air grew cold, almost as if winter were ready to take hold of the land about them in spite of the fact they were approaching the summer solstice.  Pippin raised Trollsbane, his guard intensified.  Another voice answered the howl, calmer but still powerful, and in time the general cacophony began to reflect that voice’s tone.

            At last all began to go still.  Again forms became visible around them, no longer visions out of nightmares, but instead shapes that were more similar to the forms of Elves, Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits, some with a ruined beauty, some laughably ugly, but all of them—tired.

            “We would indeed be freed from our bonds,” one of the wights told them.

            “Including the bonds of anger and hatred?” asked the Lord Elessar.

            For a moment there was quiet, but then, from all sides they could hear the word echoed, “Yes.”  It was not a shout, but instead sounded almost like exhausted acceptance.  The eyes they could discern were watchful, but in many of them they saw an almost desperate hope growing.

            “If you mean it,” Aragorn said.

            He gathered to himself the power of the Elessar stone upon his breast, and began again to sing the song Frodo had been singing in the dream.  He envisioned in his heart the image of the Army of the Dead, the Oathbreakers, as they’d stood before him at Pelargir, their mission accomplished, their oaths at last fulfilled, and he sang similar Freedom for these.  Pippin joined the song, then Merry, followed by Sam; and at last Arwen’s descant rose above the other voices.  It was a symphony of Hope Returned, of Victory, of Change.

            Then a new voice was heard as a wight stepped forward and joined the singing, its voice growing increasingly pleasant as it sang.  Its shape began to change again, and it lost the darkness that had been discernible in it a moment before.  It grew brighter, brighter and more beautiful—and then it rose up, glorious and joyful, turned at an angle away from everything, and----

            ----And it was gone!

            The tiredness fell away from a few others, and now they stepped forward as had the first.  They joined the singing, and the same transformation could be seen in them.  More began to follow.  Some followed the first out of Arda; others merely grew brighter and then appeared to fade from sight.

            More and more joined the singing, until at last all had been changed—or so it seemed to the five mortals.

            No—there remained at least a few dark spirits there, although not much more than a single handful.  But surrounding them could be sensed a large number of bright entities who appeared intent on herding the dark ones into the furthest reaches of the ancient cemetery.

            One of these bright ones made itself nearly visible.  Not all of us will leave this place, they heard in their hearts, not as long as those refuse to give over the anger that our ancient Master taught them.  But we thank you!  We had forgotten how to hear the Song, and you have taught us to hear It once more and to join in It again.  And we thank you for that!

            They felt as if hands had been laid on each of them in blessing, and then they were alone.

 *******

            From the top of the Tor Iarwain watched, a smile on his lips.  “It’s done,” he exulted.  “And the old barrows are not all deserted, but no longer all given over to dark spirits!  And it seems that a few will remain, not dark but bright, to keep the fences….”

            And then, putting that out of his mind, Tom began singing, dancing his way across the hilltop, heading to the heart of his land, back to the company of his lady once more.

 *******

            And the pupa split unnoticed, and a caddis fly spread its shining wings to dry.

Tribute

            The Queen’s recognized unofficial handmaiden hurried up through the various levels of the city, easily making her way through the bustle of those who worked as servants who were heading for the homes where they worked, smiled after by Guardsmen who recognized her easily enough, eager to bring her newest acquisition to her Lady.  How lucky she’d been to find it!  She’d just turned that one last corner, and there it had been, obviously fresh off one of the ships lying out on the Harlond, quite the largest and most inviting of its kind she’d ever seen.  And she’d just managed to get it—the perfect thing for her Lady, who after all was kindling.

            How large it was—how fresh—how filled with nutrition!  How pleased her Lady should be!  A scramble through a shortcut, and an evasion of some child who’d even imagine that she would surrender her prize.  No, only her beloved Lady would receive this!

            At last—the ramp up to the highest level of the White City.  Nearly there!  How pleased her Lady would be!  A swift whisk through the Court of Gathering and past the Memorial to those precious little ones her Lady honored so, under the boughs of the White Tree, and around the Citadel toward the back.  Not for her the trouble of convincing the Guards at the front to open the doors for her this early in the morning.  No, they’d only pretend not to see her, after all, or would tease her.

            “Oh, look!  Did you see?”

            “My, what a huge one!  She must have spent hours searching for it!”

            “Oh, no—I know we’ll hear about this one!”

            “You’d think of taking that to her, would you?”

            She ignored them all.  Around through the gardens—that was the ticket!  And down this way—best ignore the guards at this door, too.  Annoying, they were.

            “Oh, dear—I’m not certain that’s the best thing this early in the morning.  I don’t believe she’s even up yet.”

            Well, of course her Lady wouldn’t be up yet.  She didn’t want for her Lady to be up when she brought this one.  She wanted it to be such a surprise!

            Ah—at last—her entrance!  Not for her such foolishness as doors and Guards.  Up on the sill and over.  Her acquisition wriggled in her grip, hoping she’d lose hold of it and allow it away.  Oh, no, it wouldn’t!  It was for her Lady, and that was that!  It had best realize just how fortunate it was to find itself laid—just there—right where her Lady would see it, as soon as she opened her eyes.  One last shake, and it was ready, ready for her Lady to see.  And she settled, so pleased, just waiting….

            The King was at his toilet when he heard----

            “Yawp!”

            He was so startled he dropped his comb with a clatter and rushed to see what was the matter with his beloved.  She was half-risen, leaning on one arm, her head over the side of the bed, scrabbling for the chamber pot in apparent desperation.  He hurried to her side and removed the lid for her, held it for her with one hand while holding her beautiful hair out of the way with the other while she found herself seeking to empty an already largely empty stomach.

            When she was done, he sat by her and held her to him.  “I’ve not seen you become so ill in the morning before, vanimelda,” he murmured as he stroked her forehead.  “Is the child making you uncomfortable this morning?”

            She pulled herself from him, shaking her head.  “Don’t blame this on the child,” she said.  “Blame her!”  And she turned to cast a regal glare at Kitling, supposedly his cat, who now lay on his abandoned pillow, a most satisfied expression on her face as she purred loudly and kneaded at the fabric of the pillow slip as if she were most pleased with herself.  Arwen brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.  “Ever since we conceived this child she has barely left me alone, almost as if she feels responsible for me and the baby within.  But I don’t know how much more of this I can take!”

            She moved slightly, and suddenly he could see.  Lying between the pillows, its head on that his wife slept upon in such a manner she must have awakened nose to nose with it, lay the largest, fattest, healthiest looking, and sleekest ship’s rat he’d ever seen, obviously just killed only moments before.  He swallowed.  “Sweet Valar!” he whispered in awe.  “It’s as big as she is, if not bigger!  And she brought it to you?”

            She nodded, obviously trying to keep from retching anew.  “I am so glad she is pleased that I am with child,” she said, “but why does she insist on trying to bring me breakfast in bed?”

            He dissolved into laughter as he rose, and taking the poor creature by the tail between his fingertips he bore it out of the room.

A Frodo Returns to Bag End

            They’d intended to name their firstborn Frodo, of course.  Who better than his friend, patron, and brother-of-the-heart to name a child after, after all?  But then the child had been born a lass instead, and had been named by Frodo as Elanor, after the golden starflowers of Lothlórien.  As Sam Gamgee hurried home from his overnight trip to Michel Delving on business, he wondered if this one would be that longed-for son.  Another two weeks, and it should be born.  He’d not leave Rosie’s side again until the babe was come, that he vowed to himself.

            One of the Twofoot clan was at the stable as he approached The Green Dragon, and smiled brilliantly at him as he dashed off in the direction of Hobbiton.  Had his Rose set a neighbor to alert her that he was on his way home?

            The hostler accepted Bill’s reins.  “You’d best be getting’ home as fast as you can get there,” Sam was advised.  “Big things happenin’ there in Bag End!”

            And as he approached the hole, it was Marigold who opened the green door for him.  He was a bit surprised to see the Gaffer here, sitting in the Master’s chair, dandling little Elanorellë on his knee.  “Took yer sweet time a-comin’ home, didn’t you, lad?  Almost too late!”

            Alarmed, Samwise tore off his cloak and threw it in the direction of the pegs on the wall, and hurried off down the passageway toward the master bedroom.

            He heard the shrill cry as he approached the door.  “Oh, now if this isn’t the most cunning little fellow!” murmured the midwife.  “As beautiful a child as one could hope for!  Here, Rose Gamgee—your son!”

            He burst into the room, his face flushed, his eyes alight with surprise and hope.  “A son?  It’s a lad this time?”

            The bundle Rosie was accepting was as red a child as was ever born in the whole of the Shire, and protesting his rude awakening to the outside world with all the considerable strength of his nature, apparently.  And there was no question, as she turned it to lay it in the blanket held out by her mother, that this was indeed a fine lad.  He looked into her exhausted eyes, and saw that pride he’d seen there a few years earlier when it was Elanor she’d presented to the world.  “Well, and there you are!” she whispered.  “About time as you got here, don’t you think?  Come and meet your son!”

            The midwife was carrying out the pan with the afterbirth as Sam settled his hip carefully on the edge of the bed, reaching to eagerly take the babe into his own arms.  He barely noted anything else as he opened the blanket and looked at his son’s sturdy little body, saw that there were five fingers on each tiny hand, five toes on each little foot, that he had a good tongue in the small mouth, and a soft down of dark-colored fuzz on his head.  “He’ll be as fair as his namefather,” Rosie said softly, reaching out a finger to stroke the child’s outstretched palm.

            Lily looked up from her work of removing the thick toweling from beneath her daughter’s hips.  “His hair will lighten up, though, just as yours did, lass.  He’ll not be anywhere as dark haired as Mr. Frodo was.”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Sam said, pulling his son closer to his breast, feeling the infant’s breath on his own throat as the child’s cries settled and as it turned its head to seek for sustenance.  “Doesn’t matter a whit.  Its only right and proper that a Frodo dwell here in Bag End, what was his home for so long and where he loved it so.”

            And later in the evening, after the bairn had been bathed and had suckled, after Rosie was bathed also and settled down to rest after her labor, and the Gaffer had been helped back down to Number Three by Marigold, and Lily was singing Elanor to sleep in the nursery, Sam settled down in the Master’s chair in the parlor, his sleepy son in his arms.  He was singing softly under his breath the old song about the Moon coming down to the merry old inn to partake of the brown ale, and he watched as his tiny son stretched and turned his head, seeking a more comfortable position.  He went still at last, and Sam smiled down at the little lad.  “Welcome, Frodo,” he whispered.  “Welcome to life and to your proper place here in Bag End.”  He looked up and caught amused eyes meeting his own.  “Isn’t he a fine one, Mr. Frodo?” he asked.

            “That he is,” his Master said, and smiled as he returned to his new life so far away.

            And Sam settled into a doze, glad that a Frodo was living once more in Bag End.

Birthday Gifts

            Little Tolman Gamgee-Gardner brought his mother a beautiful bouquet for his first gift as a faunt, far lovelier and less crushed than such offerings usually were.  Frodo smiled approvingly at his little brother’s present to their mum.  “I guess there is no question that he’s the son of the most famous gardener in the entire Shire,” he murmured into his older sister’s ear.  Elanor nodded, her heart twisting slightly.

            For his father, Tolman produced a fine linen bag that Elanor had sewed for him, one that he’d filled with as many seeds of all kinds as he could find.  Samwise laughed and picked him up to hold him in his arms.  “How did you know the perfect thing for me?” he asked.

            “But you likes pantin’ things,” the youngest of Sam and Rosie’s children told him.  “Seeds is t’pant, right?”

            Sam examined the contents of the bag and saw that it contained its fair share of thistle fluff as well as celery seed and the small black peppering of poppy seeds taken from the rattling pods on the Hill.  “I know the perfect place to plant these,” he assured his son, and smiled as little Tolman’s face glowed with pride and pleasure.

            The child had been allowed to pick a single apple for each of his brothers and sisters, although he also gave each one either a flower or a leaf; and for their special guests who’d come all of the way from the King’s own court he had equally special gifts—a green stone with an interesting shape that he presented to Legolas, and a small seedling ash tree for Gimli.  When Elf and Dwarf looked questioningly at the child’s father, Sam merely shrugged—who could foretell how so small a child’s gifts might end up being bestowed, after all?

            The luncheon was sumptuous, and as all were engaged in filling up the corners Gimli passed out the small gifts sent by King and Queen intended for the family as well as the byrthing, for in Gondor this day was celebrated as Ring-day, a special day to honor two other Hobbits who shared the same birthday as did Tolman.  And for the byrthing himself there was a picture book prepared for him by the King’s own daughter Melian.

            “Ooh!” he said.  He held it out to the Dwarf, asking him, “Wead it, peese!”

            So it was that Gimli found himself sitting on the bench where Frodo Baggins had once sat reading aloud to his friend Sam, little Tolman on his lap, starting with, “It did happen, one day safely long ago, that the esteemed Burglar Bilbo Baggins decided it was time for him to retire far away from the Shire, and left all his possessions (except for some things intended as gifts to his friends and relatives) to his beloved younger cousin Frodo, whom he’d adopted as his heir.”

            The page held colorful paintings of Hobbits of all sizes smiling as they examined their gifts—except for three who were frowning as they each held up a pair of spoons.  Uncle Merry, who was looking over Gimli’s shoulder as he read, laughed aloud at that one.  But the one Hobbit in the picture whose hair was as dark as the King’s own held up a small gold ring, and although he had a smile, somehow he also looked somewhat worried.  And watching over them all was the tall grey shape of the Wizard Gandalf.

            And so the story unfolded of the four friends who’d left the Shire to keep it safe, taking with them the simple gold Ring that Bilbo had given to Frodo, and that Frodo in the end took on to Mordor to destroy It, accompanied ever by his friend and gardener.  The story was far from complete, of course; certainly the grave injuries each of the Hobbits had suffered were rather glossed over.  But there was no question that the younger fry were enthralled by the tale.

            “And so it is that in Gondor and Arnor September the twenty-second is celebrated as Ring-day, and all rejoice to know that this is the birthday shared by the Ring-finder and the Ring-bearer and the youngest child of Samwise Gamgee, the beloved friend and companion of Frodo Baggins, without whose help, love, and support Frodo could not have come to the Sammath Naur to the destruction of Sauron and all of his works,” Gimli finished up, and turned the book so all could see the children of Minas Tirith dancing around the Memorial to the four Hobbits without whose aid the world would surely have fallen into darkness.

            Robin, who sat beside Gimli, reached up and gently touched the painting of the statue of the Ringbearer.  “That’s Uncle Frodo, isn’t it?”

            “Oh, yes,” Gimli said, his voice perhaps a bit rougher than it usually was.  “A fine person he was, too—among the very best anywhere.  And there’s your dad, and there are your Uncle Pippin and Uncle Merry.”

            But Tolman wanted to turn back to the picture of his father and Frodo climbing the sides of Mount Doom.  He looked at it for a time, then asked, “Did Unca Fodo go back there, Da?”

            “Go back?  Oh, little Tom, I don’t think that until he agreed to go over the Sea as he ever really left there.  It cost him a lot, you see.  But him’s free of it now, and happy, and gladder than glad as you share his birthday, his and old Mr. Bilbo’s.”  Sam’s eyes were just a bit too bright, perhaps.  “Well, it’s time to put this away for now and perhaps have some of that cake as your Gammer Lily made you for your birthday.”

            As they were all enjoying the cake, Frodo-lad leaned over his little brother and asked quietly, “Tommy, why did you give the tree to Uncle Gimli and the stone to Uncle Legolas?”

            Tolman looked up at him with that expression Frodo had become familiar with in his younger brothers and sisters, who all seemed to look up the same way when they felt the answer to a question was far too obvious to need answering, but they would answer it at least just this once to have it over with.  “Well, Unca Leg’las is a wood-Elf, right?  So him has lots and lots of trees.  And Unca Gimli don’t need more stones, does he?”

            Frodo had to laugh as he lifted his baby brother into his arms and hugged him close.  “Oh, you are so right!”

            And as he laughed, he seemed to hear another silvery laugh beside him, and saw his Sam-dad turning his head to catch the eyes of his beloved friend.

Send Sam?

            Eglantine Took eyed the platter that lay on the table before her, empty now save for a few crumbs, with distaste.  Intent on filling that one last corner, she’d intended to have that one last walnut pastry.  However, that had been snatched up by Odo Proudfoot as he walked by, and even now he was biting into it with gusto.

            She turned to her left, where Pippin was still sitting turned away from her, listening to the talk between Will Whitfoot, Saradoc Brandybuck, her Paladin, and Samwise Gamgee.  Where Frodo was she couldn’t begin to guess, for he’d disappeared earlier immediately after the speeches given by those running for Mayor, and he hadn’t bothered to come to the tea offered the Family Heads and their immediate families.  She tapped her son on the arm—really, his shoulder was absurdly high since he’d returned from his travels, and he immediately turned to her attentively.  “Yes, Mum?”

            “I was wondering if there were any more of the walnut pastries left on any of the other tables,” she said. 

            He half rose as he looked around, and smiled.  “Oh, yes—over at the table where the Smallfoots were seated.  Would you like one?”

            “Oh, yes, dearling!”

            “I’ll go fetch the platter over,” he said, straightening to his (rather alarming) full height. 

            She, however, grabbed his wrist and indicated he should sit again.  “You don’t have to go fetch it yourself.  You are the Thain’s son, after all.  Just send Sam to bring it.”

            Pippin, however, was shaking his head.  “Send Sam?  Oh, I don’t dare do any such thing—he’s busy talking with the Thain, the Master, and the Mayor.  Frodo would have my head.  He didn’t even allow me to order Sam about before we left the Shire, you know.”

            “And why would he do any such thing?  Sam is Frodo’s gardener, after all, and you are, as I pointed out, the Thain’s son.”

            Pippin gave a snort.  “The Thain’s son, am I?  Well, perhaps I am, as well as being a Captain of the Guard of the Citadel and a Knight of Gondor.  But Sam is now the Lord Perhael of all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and that outranks me by a long shot.  In fact,” he added as he again rose to his feet, “considering who named him that, I suspect he may well outrank the King himself.  If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back with those pastries….”

Announcing One’s Love

            Having left his pony at the Green Dragon, Pippin paused in his walk up the lane to Bag End to take a moment beneath the mallorn tree in the Party Field.  He set his hand to the silver bark and murmured, “I hope your birthday is joyful, Frodo.  I wanted to let you know—I’m in love!  In love with Diamond of the North-Tooks, there in Long Cleeve.  Do you remember her at all?  She was always such a mischievous little thing, with no time at all for lads.  Although she always hung on your stories.  But then we all did!

            “Anyway, although I fear she didn’t take to me at all at first, by the time I was finished with my visit to Long Cleeve on Lord Strider’s business I knew she was the one for me, and she was actually smiling at me.  She gave me this flute for her birthday!  Listen!”

            He brought out the worn flute from the bag on his shoulder.  He warmed it between his hands, and began playing one of Bilbo’s songs on it.

            Far away, on the Lonely Isle, Frodo raised his head as if listening.  “What is it?” asked Gandalf.

            “Pippin—it’s Pippin.  Oh, Gandalf, isn’t it wonderful?  He’s in love!  Our little Pippin—he’s truly in love at last!”

            And Frodo turned back to the picture he was drawing, singing along to Pippin’s tune played on Diamond’s flute, while sparkles of light filtered through the foliage of the White Tree across the parchment on which he sketched the nearly forgotten face of Diamond North-Took.

End Game Strategies

            “Do you believe that he will send his forces our way?  For word is that the orcs and trolls of the northern Misty Mountains mass about the Ford of the Bruinen, ready to fall upon Elrond’s borders should he regain his Ring and so the wards about Imladris fail; and it has ever been thus about the boundaries of the Golden Wood and Thranduil’s realm!”

            “It is not just Elves he threatens, as you well know, Galdor.  Nay—Sauron wishes sway over all—all or nothing.”

            “So you believe we, too, will be besieged.”

            Círdan gave his famous smile, the smile of one who had lived through too many assaults and sieges in his long life, from the shadowed Hunter of the days before Days to Melkor’s vast armies of twisted Maiar, Eldar, and Edain; from assaults by the Kinslayers to Sauron’s goblins and wolfriders.  “We have ever known little but siege, my friend.  There is nothing new in that.  But we will continue preparing our ships even as we sharpen our blades, and we shall twist as many bowstrings as lines.  I fear we shall need to set both arrows and sails free to be borne by the winds of Manwë Súlimo ere the current conflict is decided.”

Farewell to Family and Friends

             Aragorn looked about the table in the Royal Quarters where he sat one final time at dinner with his personal household, at his son and daughters and their spouses, his grandchildren, at Legolas and Gimli, and at Faramir Took, who like his father had chosen to live out his final years in the King’s household in Minas Tirith.  “I cannot look to spend much longer in any case.  Instead I would have you all remember me as I was, and so I wish all a bright future under the rule of my so capable son.”

            Eldarion’s eyes held bright tears.

Giving Honor Due

            Old Gaffer Gamgee sat in the public room at the Green Dragon, a mug of their finest ale in between his hands as if it were warming them.  Opposite him sat one of his great nephews from Tighfield, sent to Michel Delving to file sales agreements on a good deal of rope from Andy’s ropewalk.  Before he returned to the Northfarthing he’d stopped by the Cotton farm in Bywater ostensibly to visit kin there and to carry greetings, but in reality he’d wanted to hear firsthand what actually had happened back in November when cousin Sam and his Master and Frodo Baggins’s kin returned from wherever it was they’d gone.

            “And they were really gone for over a year?” he asked yet again.

            “Haven’t I told ye so at least four times?” asked the Gaffer.  “Oh, it’s gone they were, and more’n one was thinkin’ them all dead.  Did ye have them Big Men there in Tighfield, too?”

            “We had two as visited the village a fair amount, but they couldn’t do a good deal to us.  It was them Gatherers and Sharers as give us all fits.  They was stealin’ ever’thin’ as they could get their greedy hands on, and the early winter was hard on many.  We did all we could to see as no one starved, ye must understand, until the wagons arrived from Scary with provisions.  I’ll tell ye this, no one was expectin’ Yule to be anywheres near merry until them wagons arrived.”

            Hamfast nodded.  “Them Gatherers and Sharers took almost all as we had.  Me and Marigold, them emptied the hole, and moved us into that awful pile o’ bricks them called a house over the other side o’ the village.  Awful place it was!  And them dug out the old hole and ruined my taters!”  The offense of the act of destroying his garden still stung.  “But the Travellers—them is havin’ the hole redug, them is, and I should be movin’ home in a week or two, them tells me.”  He shook his head.  “No Hobbit should ever find hisself havin’ t’move out of a sound hole into a drafty house as is more drafts than house, ye unnerstand.”

            His great nephew indicated his appreciation for the sentiment.  “So you’s been stayin’ with the Cottons?” he asked.

            “What?” asked the Gaffer.  “Cain’t ye speak up none?  Young folks today just keep mumblin’,” he commented to the world at large.

            The question was asked again, more slowly and distinctly, and the old Hobbit answered, “Yessir, we’s been stayin’ with Cousin Tom and Lily, me’n Marigold and Sam, and his Master, and Mr. Fredegar Bolger’n his sister as well.  Can’t rightly say why, but even though Bag End wasn’t dug out whole as was Bagshot Row, still it’s takin’ far longer t’set it at rights than one’d think necessary.  Them Big Men took mauls t’the stonework and threw knives’n axes at the walls, my Sam tells me.  There was terrible damage inside, them all says.  Mr. Frodo, just mention it t’the gentlehobbit and him goes all quiet’n pale, him does.  Good thing as him’s doin’ ol’ Flour Dumplin’s job or him’d fret hisself to death, I’m thinkin’.”

            “And it’s true as that Lotho Pimple’s dead?  Really dead, murdered by the Big Men?”

            The Gaffer’s face grew grim once he understood the question.  “Oh, that him is.  That Sharkey, curse his ugly face and worse disposition, him had Mr. Lotho killed.  Bragged about it, him did!  Them hasn’t found the body yet, neither.  That Sharkey was hintin’ as his Worm-fellow might of et him.  Oh, yes,” he added with relish at the sight of the younger Hobbit’s fascinated revulsion, “all tells me as him said so right out loud, there on the doorstep t’Bag End!  And then, if’n ye can believe it, that Sharkey tried t’kill Mr. Frodo right then and there, right in front of ever’one!  Ye should hear Mr. Ned Boffin and Mr. Griffo talkin’ of it.  Them was there t’see the whole thing, and them still can’t believe what them saw.  If’n Mr. Frodo’d not been a-wearin’ old Mr.  Bilbo’s mail shirt as him brought back ages ago, him’d of been dead an’ gone, too!”

            “An’ did the Hobbits do in that Sharkey?”

            “No, twasn’t Hobbits as did him in—twas that Worm-fellow, it was.  Sharkey was provokin’ him somethin’ terrible, my Sam tells me, and that Worm-fellow, him just snapped and killed Sharkey.  An’ that’s when Mr. Ned Boffin and two o’ the Tooks as had their bows ready let go!  That poor Worm-fellow fell dead on the steps, him did.  Mr. Frodo, gentle soul as him is, still grieves.  Says as the Worm didn’t need t’die, as him was terrible provoked and didn’t do no harm t’nobody as was there.  Only if’n him did kill Mr. Lotho, I figgers as him had it comin’.”

            “One thing as I just don’t unnerstand,” the nephew said, “was why folks round heres didn’t stand up to ol’ Pimple t’begin with.  It all could have been stopped from the beginnin’ had those Hobbits round these parts just told him No! right aways!”

            “You try tellin’ someone No! when him’s got a passle of Big Men with knives and clubs a-loomin’ over you,” the Gaffer growled.  He took a mouthful of ale, grimaced, and spat to one side.  “You’d be talkin’ out of the other side of yer mouth had you been here with all of the Chief’s Big Men all round you, beatin’ on those as tried sayin’ no an’ threatenin’ yer family,” he muttered, shivering slightly.  “My Daisy an’ my May, them was plum terrified fer me an’ Marigold, an’ begged us not t’ even try sayin’ no.  The Mayor tried sayin’ no, an’ look at where it led him!  An’ I seen Cap’n Freddy Bolger when them brought him out of the Lockholes, member.”

            The door to the Dragon opened, and a cold breeze blew through the common room.  All turned to see who’d come in.  There were a number of Hobbits, including Sam Gamgee, two of the Cotton lads, old Tom and his Lily, and a few Hobbits the nephew didn’t recognize at all.  One was taller than most Hobbits, and was far, far too thin for his build.  There was a feeling to him as if he’d lost a good deal of substance, the Hobbit from Tighfield decided.  By his side was a lass, one whose hair was shamefully short.

            Then he realized that everyone in the common room was rising to his feet, including the Gaffer.  Realizing his great nephew wasn’t rising to the occasion, Hamfast leaned over and cuffed him on the shoulder.  “Stand up!” he hissed.  “That’s Cap’n Freddy hisself, that is.  Him’s a hero—led those as sought to take back what was ours fer months, him did!  Spent months in the Lockholes fer it, too.  We rise to honor him—many’s the hole as would be empty now hadn’t him an’ others not raided the Big Men’s stores to get food fer them whose homes was emptied of ever’thin’ as keeps body and soul together!  Stand up, lad—ye’ll not see many heroes here in the Shire, but yer seein’ one today!”

            And as those who’d accompanied Fredegar Bolger took their seats at a large table in the corner, someone began singing the lay of Captain Freddy, and how he’d popped the Pimple!

The Elf’s Perspctive

            Legolas sat on the chair between the two beds where lay Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, watching the play of light and shadow on their faces as sunlight filtered through the leaves of the beech trees overhead.  He found his fingers combing through Frodo’s dark curls, seeing the silver strands already growing in amidst the dark brown that had been previously his.  When found, Frodo’s hair had been as dry as his skin, and had felt almost like straw to the touch, but already it was softening once more.

            “What you have seen, mellon nín,” he whispered softly.  “No one, mortal or of Elf-kind, should have been forced to see and do what the two of you have done, and particularly not you, Frodo.”

            He knew it had not been necessary for this Hobbit, as innocent as he’d been when they first met in Imladris, to suffer so.  He could have taken the Ring himself, of course.

            “And it would have destroyed me,” he admitted.  “It would have focused on my suspicions and resentment toward Gimli and other Dwarves, and would have not let that go.  Indeed, during the first portion of the quest, was It not doing just that?  Did we not almost drive the rest of you to distraction with our mutual suspicions and constant bickering?  Not until we were under the influence of the Lady did that truly change, and I realized how great and beautiful had been the ruined realm of Moria, and how true to all Gimli had proved himself, and how I’d honored his grief for his fallen kinsmen.”

            He remembered the imaginings he’d found himself entertaining—of himself returning to his father’s halls as the conquering hero, the Ring upon his hand, Sauron no more than a blithering memory of malice, the Dwarves subjugated as servants to the Firstborn.

The Cat

            “Please, Dad, can’t we keep him?”

            The Gaffer sighed, and looked none too kindly on the animal Marigold held in her arms.  This was no kitten, but a rangy and ragged tom, his ear battered and with a large lump on the inside of his right foreleg that told of battles with other toms and that was undoubtedly filled with infection.  By rights he ought to tell the children no….

            But it wasn’t that long since their mum died, and he knew full well that there was no way he could say no to that look in his daughter’s eyes!

Arming the King

            Faramir looked at his older cousin Húrin, who had returned from the morning briefing of the Captains, as it was formally called, in the tents of the northern Dúnedain down upon the Pelennor.  Although the word that ran through the streets of Minas Tirith was that the King had come again, still Aragorn son of Arathorn refused to accept that title as yet, citing the fact that the war against Mordor and its allies was not yet won, and that Sauron was not yet defeated.

            “Yet it will be he who will lead our army to the Black Gate,” the Warden of the Keys stated, “and he will need proper armor.  He has a mail shirt given him in Rohan that is serviceable enough, I suppose, but otherwise he could be any mercenary from among the Lost who’d ever sold his sword to Gondor’s lords.  And few among the lords of Gondor will take note of his authority in those riding leathers he wears, so worn and stained are they.  If we would have him taken seriously, he must be armed as befits the King I deem he is.”

            “They are in such bad condition?” asked Faramir.

            Húrin gave a wry shrug.  “I am certain that at one time they were in keeping with his station as the Lord of the northern Dúnedain.  But now—he has worn them for so long that they cannot be adequately cleaned any more.  The Master of the Guild of Leather Workers shuddered to look at them, and I have seen more than one of those who take part in the morning briefings turn up his nose at the sight of them.”  He leaned forward confidingly and murmured in a lower voice, “I am willing to wager that they are the same he had with him when he served our grandfather ere you were born.”

            Faramir’s eyebrows rose in interest before he continued, “What of his boots?  His clothing?  His weapons?”

            “All of those are adequate at this time.  The Master of Leather Workers took his boots the other day and had them cleaned, the soles checked and the heels replaced, and was highly impressed by their quality.  He says they were obviously new when his company began their journey.  The sheath for his sword is very new and is a thing of great beauty and worth.  His bow, quiver, daggers, boot knife, and sword are in excellent condition, and have all been well maintained.  He sports new clothing that he says were mostly gifts received from various of his hosts along the way, and some of which were brought to him by those he speaks of as his Elven brothers.”

            “Can he ride?  How is he mounted?”

            “He rides very well indeed, and he came riding his own horse brought from the northern lands by those who came to join him in Rohan.  It is well suited to him, and is obviously of good bloodlines.  The tack is excellent, although perhaps plain to our eyes.”

            “He will require a standard under which he might fight.”

            Húrin shook his head.  “You need not worry for that.  Did no one tell you that the first sign we had that the ships we saw arriving did not bear the Corsairs of Umbar was when the Standard of Elendil was unfurled upon the flagship of the fleet that the south wind sped up the river to the Harlond?  His close kinsman was his standard bearer, I am told, and took his deathblow upon the battlefield from an Easterling intent on bringing it low.  And Lord Aragorn wore what must be the Elendilmir upon his brow as he led his men in their charge upon the foe.  Elendil’s diadem, sword, and banner—no one doubted that day that it was Elendil’s heir who had come to succor the city.”

            “Then he simply needs armor proper to his station,” Faramir summarized.

            “Proper to his station and to his stature,” his older cousin agreed.  “We will have to search hard for armor that will fit him, for he is the tallest Man I have ever seen—near to seven feet, I am certain.”

            “I wonder what became of the armor that must have been made for him when he served Gondor as Thorongil?” Faramir asked.

            Húrin shrugged.  “I know not.  He did not return to Minas Tirith after the victory in Umbar, having become separated from his men save for his aide.  We were told he was sorely wounded, so it is likely that the armor was discarded that he might be properly treated.”

            “Not that my father would have sought to see it preserved for him had it been found,” Faramir sighed.  “His envy of the respect granted Captain Thorongil was always obvious to me, remembering his expression any time anyone mentioned Thorongil’s name when I was a boy.”  He shook his head.  “Well, go and search the armories and the mail shed.  I suspect that among the armor crafted for past Stewards and Kings you will find at least one set that will fit him.”

 *******

            It was some hours later that a knock at his door alerted Faramir to the return of his older cousin.  The current Steward of Gondor had been able to spend much of the day seated in a chair within his room in the Houses of Healing, and he had only just been helped back into his bed once more, where he’d thought to sleep at least briefly until his supper should be brought to him.  “Enter, Húrin,” he called.

            The expression on the older Man’s face was uncertain, and Faramir was afraid that it might signal lack of success in his task.  However, the Warden of the Keys forestalled Faramir’s disappointment with the comment, “I have managed to find one set of armor that might do, Cousin.  However, your father would be most upset should I seek to array his old rival within it.”

            “And what Steward was as tall as our new King is?” asked Faramir.

            But Húrin was already shaking his head.  “Oh, no Steward of Gondor ever wore this set of armor, or at least not in sight of anyone else.  No, it was the set of armor said to have been worn by Meneldil when he was crowned sole King of Gondor by his Uncle Isildur.”

            Faramir straightened in surprise.  “Meneldil’s armor?  But it is said in the annals of the city that he wore that set of armor but the one time, and that it has not been worn since that day!  Would not the leather be withered by now?”

            “I have checked it.  Those who care for the armor oil the leather twice a year, but they say that the leather has always been supple and remained whole, save for that of the gauntlet for the right hand.  They suggest that rather than the gauntlets a pair of battle gloves be worn instead, along with vambraces to protect the wrists.  They do not know by what means the leather used in most of the armor was processed, but that used in the right gauntlet was not done in the same manner, leading them to believe that the right gauntlet was damaged at one point, perhaps exposed to a fire at some time, and thus the leather needed to be replaced, and that utilised at that time was not of the quality of the original leather used.  The leather padding inside the helmet also perished, and was replaced some twelve years ago on your father’s orders.”

            Faramir thought on this for some minutes.  “It is interesting to know that the armor remains usable to this day,” he commented.  “You have the right of it, for indeed my father would not have approved of this armor being worn by anyone, and particularly not by the one he always felt had supplanted him in his own father’s heart.  However, he is not now Steward of Gondor—I am.  And there is a nicety to the thing to think that the first sole King of Gondor’s armor should be worn now by he who will reunite the two realms under one rule.  See to it that it is delivered to Lord Aragorn’s tent as soon as possible so that he might see to any adjustments necessary before the army sets off.”

           *******

             Aragorn, Halbarad’s two brothers, and the sons of Elrond examined the armor that Lord Húrin had caused to be carried down to Aragorn’s tent.  “This is what they would have you wear?” asked Halladan.  “It is certainly royal enough in appearance!”

            “I know,” said Aragorn.  “Denethor would be twisting in his grave in distress should he be aware that his nephew and son had chosen to send this to me to wear in the coming campaign.”

            “And why?” Elladan asked.  “If they have armor at hand that will fit your height and that is appropriate to your rank as the heir to Isildur, then why should he have denied it to you?”

            Aragorn sighed.  “To see me wearing the armor in which it is said that Meneldil was invested as King of Gondor by his uncle would have been seen as too great an honor by Denethor.”  He examined the arm guards.  “So, the gauntlets are seen as unusable, are they?  I would prefer to wear gloves in any case—they are less restrictive, in my experience.”

            “Let us see it upon you,” Hardorn directed.  “I would be assured that it even fits you halfway well before we send words of thanks to the Steward.”

            Gandalf arrived by the time they were strapping the grieves onto Aragorn’s legs.  “And what is this?” he asked.

            “Húrin chose this armor for me to wear as I lead the army to Mordor to engage Sauron’s attention,” Aragorn said.  “I almost fit it, I find.  Although it must have been that Meneldil was taller than his statues had led me to believe, for this was made for someone taller even than I.”

            “And why did he not send down the armor made for you to wear when you served here?” demanded Halladan.

            Hardorn gave a snort of derision.  “I sincerely doubt that said armor survived more than a few days after word came that Captain Thorongil was giving over his commission,” he said wryly from where he knelt behind his cousin.  “You left it where?  In the small house you kept in the Fourth Circle?”

            “I knew that it should get in my way in the campaign on the harbor of Umbar,” Aragorn agreed.  “Can you imagine what would have happened had I tried escaping as I did by diving into the water while wearing that?  Can that strap be lowered some, Hardorn?  And if this one could be let out perhaps a bit….”  He fumbled at his left shoulder.

            Hardorn adjusted the strap for the grieve as desired.  “Better?  Good.”  As he rose to his feet he continued to his brother, “If you believe that Denethor would have allowed Captain Thorongil’s armor to be kept against a possible return of said worthy to Gondor’s service, you are much mistaken.  It would quickly have been reduced to its component pieces and said pieces would have been relegated to the armories as swiftly as possible.  He would do nothing to make your possible return any the easier, my Lord Cousin,” he added to Aragorn.

            Gandalf blew out a breath of frustration.  “Alas that this is true,” he admitted.  “But there is nothing to be done at this time that can make things right between Aragorn and Denethor.  Perhaps in Mandos Denethor will learn better.”

            Aragorn looked down at the image of the White Tree on the breastplate he wore.  “It is to be hoped,” he murmured sadly.  “I had hoped that this time we might speak civilly and put the memories of rivalry behind us.”  He raised his head and straightened.  “And how does it look upon me?” he asked as Elrohir stepped away from adjusting the shoulder piece.

            Gandalf gave a slow but fully satisfied smile.  “You look every inch the King you were born to be, my friend.”

            “It reminds me somewhat of Ada’s armor,” Elladan said.

            “Not that he has worn it all that often during our lifetime,” Elrohir added.

            “It is surprisingly comfortable,” Aragorn said, lifting an arm.  He suddenly drew his sword and took a stance, then smiled as he sheathed Andúril once more.  “There is no impedance to my movements,” he reported with satisfaction, twisting first to one side and then the other.  “Whoever the armorer was who crafted this, he was truly a master.”

            Gandalf’s expression was distant for a moment, and then it changed, appearing rather amused.  “You will have to tell him that one day,” he said.

            “When we meet one another in Námo’s halls?” Aragorn hazarded, checking to see whether he could easily reach his dagger.

            “And where are Legolas and Gimli Gloin’s son?” Elladan asked.

            “They are with Merry and Pippin in the gardens of the Houses of Healing,” Gandalf told them.  “Merry appears to be recovering swiftly enough, but still finds the memory of the Black Breath lingering at times.  He will be lonely when we leave the city.”

            Elrohir had gone behind the partition screening his mortal brother’s cot, and returned with a formal mantle of dark grey bordered by silver.  “Let us see this arrayed about your shoulders, Estel,” he said.  Once it was properly fastened and its folds arranged, all smiled.  “Yes.  With the Elendilmir upon your brow, you will find none will question your lineage or your right to lead the army.”

            “I shall wear Boromir’s vambraces,” Aragorn said.  “I promised him that I should lead our people to victory, and I would have his own love for Gondor represented before all.”

            Gandalf nodded.  “Most appropriate, and I am certain that he approves, my friend.  But now we must rest, for the morrow will be very busy as all prepare for the march the day after.”

            Aragorn nodded, and reached for the clasp that fastened the breastplate over the underlying silvered mail shirt he wore.

 *******

            Faramir stood before the hurdle set up in the gap where the gates to the White City no longer stood, watching the approach of the procession that brought Aragorn son of Arathorn to claim the Crown of Gondor.  How he had dreamed of this moment when he was a child and a youth—the return of the King, the Crown restored to the lineage of Elendil, the rule of the Sea Kings of old renewed within Middle Earth.  “Oh, Father,” he whispered, “if you could only have seen this day, and how all rejoice.  I suspect even you would have been moved to rejoice also, in spite of all.”

            How tall the coming King was as he strode forward, a full head taller than all save for the three Elves who accompanied him.  As for his companions----

            Even the four Hobbits appeared veritable princes, he thought.  Accompanied by the young new King of Rohan, by a Dwarvish lord and an Elven prince, the regal sons of Elrond Peredhel, the proud figures of his kinsmen from the north, and the shining form of Gandalf the White, Aragorn still was the one who caught the attention of all, whose face was marked with experience, wisdom, and authority.  The White Tree shone upon his breast, beneath the green fire of the Elessar stone he also wore.  The image he wore showed white blossoms, and suddenly Faramir knew that one day the living tree before the Citadel should do so as well.

            Then the King lifted one hand briefly, and Faramir found himself looking upon the vambraces that encircled the Man’s wrists, saw them and recognized them.  “Boromir!” he murmured.  “Those were Boromir’s!”  Tears of relief sprang to Faramir’s eyes.  “Yes, you knew him—traveled with him—prepared his body for his last journey, even.  I rejoice that you bring this much of him back home this day!”

            “He’s a fine one, you will find, little brother,” he seemed to hear murmured privately.  “Oh, we’ve had our differences from time to time, but he is a sword brother I was proud to fight alongside.  You will truly like him, Faramir.  And he will guard our people and our land well.  I am glad to be able to commend you to his friendship.”

            Yes, a guardian worthy of the realm of Gondor, of Gondor and more!  Clad in ancient armor, proven to be willing to spend himself for the safety of all, open to worthy counsel, ready to renew more than just this land….

            Faramir smiled tremulously and signaled for those who carried the ancient chest of lebethron to step forward.  Yes, he was ready to give his loyalty and his worship to the King Returned.

"Dark for dark business. There are many hours before dawn."

Dark for Dark Business

            Hamfast Gamgee sat at one of the tables near the stack of ale barrels, a large mug recently filled from one of them in his hand, watching the festivities about him with eyes somewhat brightened by the ample food and drink he’d enjoyed.  In all of his seventy-five years he didn’t think he’d seen any party quite like this one!  Ah, but it had been quite the day, he had to admit to himself.  Old Mr. Bilbo was eleventy-one now.  Just imagine—eleventy-one years old, not that he looked a day past sixty in the Gaffer’s eyes.  Hard to imagine that his Master had come of age before Hamfast himself had gotten out of nappies, not even considered a proper faunt yet!

           Somehow the thought of that fact gave the old fellow pause.  Gaffer Gamgee gave a shiver and took an ample swallow from his mug.  Perhaps it would be better to put that observation behind him—well behind him!

           Well, today young Master Frodo came of age himself, and that was a good thing.  Hamfast’s own son would serve a good Master, one who was thoughtful, considerate, and perhaps one of the most responsible of Hobbits the Gaffer had seen in a month of Sundays.  Sam would certainly never have to even consider working for those awful Sackville-Bagginses, thank the stars!  No one should ever have to consider doing that!  And tonight his Sam was sitting in the family pavilion, seeing to the serving of the meal and keeping an eye on things.  The family Steward, old Mr. Bilbo had called him.  Something mighty important, to be the Steward, or so the Gaffer understood it to be.  An honor, a great honor.  And his Sam had it all written down, what to do, when to do it.  He’d be telling other Hobbits what to do and how to do it so that the Masters’ family was all fed and kept happy.  Hamfast shook his head at the thought of it.  If only his Bell could have been there to see their Sam all dressed up almost as fine as the Young Master himself, ordering others in the serving of the family supper.

           And tonight the Gamgees didn’t have to serve nobody themselves—they were honored guests, they were, just as much so as old Flourdumpling himself, or any Brandybuck or Took!  He smiled up at the Boffin lass who came by with a pitcher of ale and topped up his drink, and accepted another pheasant pasty from Mags Broadbelt from the Ivy Bush.  Nobody in the Shire made a better pheasant pasty than Missus Mags, and that was certain!

           He sipped at the ale, and thought of trying some of the wine as well.  He’d never been much for wine, that being considered more proper for them of the gentry, after all.  But tonight he felt almost like one of the gentry himself, and he just might try some on principle.  Certainly both old Mr. Bilbo and young Master Frodo appeared to enjoy it well enough.  Might it make him try something unusual, something like quoting poetry as those two tended to do?  He laughed to himself at the thought of it.  But it would be acceptable to try wine tonight of all nights, on this day when he was the guest rather than the employee.  He took a bite of his pasty and waved a hand at the young fellow who walked about with a pitcher of wine and a tray of goblets.  “Let me try some o’ that,” he said.

           Ah, he wasn’t certain about the taste, although he figured he could, given time, grow accustomed to it.  Still, the wine made him feel particularly warm inside, warm and expansive.  Yes, he could come to appreciate wine as much as a good beer or fine ale!  The warmth offered by the wine reminded him, somehow, of the fireworks he’d seen earlier in the evening.

           Now, those fireworks—they were truly something!  They were something to remember for years, something to tell his grandchildren about.  True, his Hamson’s two children had seen them, too, although they weren’t more than a faunt and a bairn in arms; but so far there were no others, and he was certain Half, Daisy, May, Sam, and Goldy would all have quite the passle of little ones amongst them one day, and he would be able describe those glorious fireworks for them at length.  He imagined just how wide their eyes would be when he described how that dragon firework had burst into sparkles over the Water with such a flash and a bang----

           Flash!  Bang!

           Everyone in the Party Field jumped, their eyes swiveling to the pavilion where Bilbo and Frodo’s chosen relatives had gathered for the family feast, all aware that that final flash and bang had happened there within the tent, apparently right under the boughs of the great oak that grew there.  From within the tent they heard a growing babble of voices in an increasing tide of dismay and shock.  There were cries of fear and of outrage to be heard, and strident demands for explanations.

           The tent flaps at one of the side entrances blew outward, apparently driven by the winds of anger that had begun to blow within the canvas walls.  The Gaffer’s fascinated eyes were fixed upon it with astonishment, wondering just what kind of trick his Master might have played on his kindred.  From the sounds of it, most of them didn’t find it particularly funny, although it must have been eminently diverting.

           “Ah, Hamfast, my good fellow—there you are!”

           Old Mr. Bilbo’s voice could be heard beside him, although how the old Hobbit might have managed to get behind him and creep upon him unseen Hamfast Gamgee couldn’t begin to imagine.

           Bilbo’s voice continued, “Well, that’s given them all something to remember me by if anything could.  Well, as the Dwarves said so long ago, Dark for dark business. There are many hours before dawn.  I must away and quickly, for I intend to be halfway to Buckland before the Sun comes up!”

           The Gaffer looked over, hoping to catch his Master’s eyes, but realized that he could see no one there.  Was this what wine did—make one seem to hear the voices of those who weren’t really there after all?  He seemed to feel a pat on his shoulder such as Mr. Bilbo had been wont to give him from time to time, and then there was nothing there at all, no more feeling of the presence of Bilbo Baggins.

           Almost immediately the main flaps of the family tent parted as the first guests came stomping out led by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and Hamfast could see her stowing some of the pewter forks and spoons used at the dinner into her reticule as she complained shrilly to her husband and lout of a son as to the insult given them all by Bilbo Baggins that night.  She was followed closely by some of the more snooty of the Sackvilles and Bracegirdles, and then the Thain and his party.  Probably a good thing that Missus Lalia hadn’t come with her son that evening, the Gaffer thought wryly.  Whatever his Master had done, it had them right upset!  He looked up toward the door of Bag End and could see that Wizard Gandalf opening it and going inside while the wicket gate at the bottom of the stairs to the gardens surrounding Bag End swung shut with a decided bang of its own.

           Hamfast sat, nursing that glass of wine and nibbling at the last of his pasty and some bread and cheese for quite some time until the bulk of the guests from the family feast came out calling for their carriages or ponies.  At last Sam appeared looking tired and annoyed.

           “What happened in there?” the Gaffer asked.

           “You don’t really want to know, Dad,” Sam assured him.  “Old Mr. Bilbo, he’s really gone and done it this time, and I doubt as his family will forgive him ever for it, not that he cares none.  He’s had his joke and is gone now, and they’re still tryin’ t’ demand explanations from my Mister Frodo, who ain’t got none as they want to hear.”  The younger Gamgee looked about the party grounds.  “Dark for dark business, I suppose, as Mr. Bilbo used to say.  I’d say as it’s time t’ put them barrows as was hired into service, considerin’ as how many Hobbits I see here and there under the tables, sleepin’ it off.  Well, I’d best be to it, then.  It’s part of what stewards is supposed to see to, after all.  Night, Dad.”

           Gaffer Gamgee set his glass and plate neatly on the table where he’d been sitting, and stretched the stiffness out of his joints as best he could before making his way across to the base of the Hill and his own yellow door to Number Three.

           There was a cart now at the upper lane near the low place in the hedge at the back of the gardens to Bag End.  It was the cart them Dwarves had come in.  Must be getting ready to leave now—they’d said as they’d not be lingering beyond the Party, after all.  Hamfast hoped that his Master had said goodbye to them.  Apparently Dwarves didn’t mind traveling after dark much more than Mr. Bilbo himself.

           As he closed the gate to his small front garden behind him, Hamfast stopped briefly to rub at his back.  It was time, he decided, to retire and give the gardens of Bag End over completely—or almost completely—to his Sam.  Sam was the true gardener in the family, after all, the one as truly loved flowers as much as the Gaffer himself loved taters and other root vegetables.  Yes, let Sam take over the gardens, with his old dad to oversee things as needed. 

           Eleventy-one years!  And still didn’t look a day past sixty!  If only he, Hamfast Gamgee, felt half as spry as appeared Mr. Bilbo Baggins, Esquire!