A Slight Case of Magnificence

Summary: Just before one of the turning points in his life, Merry finds himself in an unexpected situation. A Fourth Age tale.

Setting: Buckland, Late November, 1438. Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: As always, continued thanks to all loyal readers and reviewers. It means a lot to know that you have stuck with this story and continue to be interested. I’m leaving for Europe at the end of this month and won’t be able to post anything new until I get back, so I’m going to do my best to get a significant portion (if not the whole thing) completed before I go.

As for this chapter, apologies for the length, but much of it is dialogue, so hopefully it reads quickly. And I do promise much more actual drama in the next chapter with the arrival of Samwise as well as a guest appearance by another famous hobbit later on. Consider that a coming attraction, I suppose. Anyway, hope you enjoy this one as well.

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter Five: Lying and Pretending

The morning after the arrival at Brandy Hall was dreary, if at least quiet. Pippin had woken with a throbbing headache from his bump the night before and so he spent much of the day brooding in the spare room with a drippy pastry bag of ice upon his head. Merry and Estella spoke quietly in their own room and Faramir tried desperately to amuse himself in the sitting room, settling finally on a volume entitled The Life of Toby Hornblower, Hobbit. It was a very dull tome. They took their meals together, but they were oddly sober and when it became dark enough to call it "bedtime," everyone seemed relieved. The rain did not stop falling for even a moment.

The second day was much the same.

On the third day, however, they woke to sunlight. It felt like this day might somehow be a bit different.

~~~~

Merry finished breakfast in a cheerful disposition.

"Well," he said, pushing back his empty plate, "I think I shall return to my work today. If I am ever to finish that book I must keep writing."

"What are you writing a book about?" Faramir asked with interest. Pippin turned to see the response as well. He hadn’t known Merry was writing a book.

"Ah, herblore, pipeweed, that sort of thing. I think you’d find it very uninteresting."

Faramir nodded. Judging by the collection of books Merry chose to keep in his sitting room he was inclined to agree.

Then Merry hesitated, looking at Estella. "Unless you would prefer that I stay here, my love." They had spent the last few days almost solely in each other’s company, which had been marvelous, of course, and he knew his presence gave her comfort and eased her worries. "The writing will not suffer to wait another day."

"Nonsense. I will be fine alone."

"I can keep you company!" Faramir volunteered, eager not to spend any more time with The Life of Toby Hornblower, Hobbit.

"That would be nice," Estella smiled, "but perhaps your father would like to have you for himself. If he needs you, I’ll not take you from him."

Faramir’s face fell, but Pippin shook his head.

"No, no, that’s quite all right. I’ve been putting off writing to Sam and I should like to concentrate on that. It must go out with this evening’s post."

"Well then," Merry rose and gave Estella a kiss, "If that’s all settled, I think I shall be getting to work."

He left then for his study and Pippin left as well for the writing desk in the spare room. Once they had gone, Faramir turned to Estella.

"What shall we do first?"

"‘What shall we do first?’" She laughed. "I’m afraid that I’ll not be able to do all that much, being that I’m not to leave this bed, but you may stack the breakfast trays by the door if you like. It will make things easier for Dilly when she comes to clean up and it will give us a bit more room on the bed, I should think."

Faramir was grateful to have anything to do and even hummed a little as he did it, making a neat stack on the table by the door. When he came upon a slice of toast that had been left uneaten, he picked it up and made short work of it while crawling back onto the bed.

Estella smiled. "You really are all Took."

"Of course I am. My Mum and Da are both Tooks."

"Yes, but you’re also a bit of Banks and a bit of something else as well because your Mum’s mum was not a Took either, I don’t think."

"Da says Mum’s half fairy and that’s why she is so pretty."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. What’s that?"

Estella looked to where the boy was pointing. A small wheeled table had been pushed to the corner. There was a pattern of squares painted onto the top and several carved pieces stood on its smartly varnished surface.

"Oh, that is a game your Uncle Merry and I sometimes play together."

"Can we play it?"

"It’s a grown up’s game, Farry. I don’t think you would like it."

"Teach me how to play!"

And before Estella could protest, he had pushed the table over to the bedside and sat down with such an expression of eagerness that it was hard to refuse. She hesitated. It was a rather complex game and it had taken Merry ages of patient explanation before Estella had finally understood the workings. How could she possibly expect Faramir to understand? He was hardly more than a babe.

Ah, but she reasoned, even if he didn’t understand, there wasn’t really any harm in humoring him. Explaining it might even help her take her mind off other things.

"The brown army and the white army each have the same pieces…" She began. "They have a King like this one and a Queen who looks like that."

Faramir examined each piece carefully then nodded.

"They have two advisors—these funny things—as well as two castles and two knights."

"A knight? Like my Da?"

She smiled. "Yes. And like your Uncle Merry as well, don’t forget. He is a knight of Rohan."

"Oh, I know that. Da says Uncle Merry is the greatest hobbit knight there ever was."

Estella paused in her setting out of the pieces. "Does he?"

"Yes. He said that Uncle Merry has done deeds that no knight—man, hobbit, elf or dwarf—will ever match. And Mister Sam and cousin Frodo did too, but they aren’t knights."

Estella had never imagined Pippin Took as thinking anything like that. He had always seemed a bit of a self-centered hobbit to her, a spoiled lad in his younger years and a braggart in maturity. To think that he would say something so loving as that about her Merry and to his own son…

Faramir did not notice the tears that appeared in his aunt’s eyes. His attention was still on the game. Picking up several of the smallest pieces from the table, a grin bloomed on his face. "Are these hobbits?"

Inhaling deeply, Estella again contemplated how she should reply. She thought of the somber tales Merry had told her years ago about the ‘adventures’ and the ghost who had returned with him claiming to be Frodo Baggins. When Faramir turned his plaintive green eyes to her, wondering why she hadn’t yet answered, she pasted on a smile and shrugged.

"Well…generally they are called ‘pawns’ but you’re right; sometimes the pawns are hobbits."

~~~~

Merry set down his quill and looked over the drying pages. Not bad for an entire morning’s work. And he would do more before the day was out but for now, he decided, he would move around a bit and try to loosen the crick that had formed in his back.

He came into the sitting room, stretching his arms over his head and it was so quiet that he almost didn’t notice Faramir sprawled across the floor reading a book that looked to be about half the size of him.

"Well, hallo, Faragrin. What are you so engrossed in?"

Faramir lifted the book and displayed the cover.

"Ah. Would you like me to spoil the ending for you?"

Faramir appraised the great thickness of pages he had yet to read then said: "Yes, all right."

"He does absolutely nothing of any interest at all until he is seventy-two. Then he discovers the usefulness of pipeweed, becomes wealthy and famous and then he dies at one-hundred-and-three. His estate passed on to a sister in Hardbottle."

"That’s it?"

"That’s it."

"That’s not a very good story."

"No, not really. Did Estella cast you out from her bed?"

"She fell asleep."

"Ah. And where is your Da?"

"He’s still writing his letter to Mister Sam."

"All this time? It must be longer than Old Toby’s book by now."

"I guess so."

Merry put his hands in his trouser pockets and took a good look about the room. It was a terribly boring place for a young lad to be cooped up in, days on end, he thought.

"Would you like to come for a walk with me?"

"Oh yes!"

"Good. Then go ask your Da if he would like to come and we shall go."

The Life of Toby Hornblower, Hobbit was abandoned on the floor and Faramir scampered off to the spare room. He found his father sitting at the desk, quill in one hand, pipe in the other. The ink on the page looked dry but was marked with numerous cross-outs and blots.

"Da?"

"Mmm, hallo, Farry."

"Da, Uncle Merry says he’s going to take me for a walk. Just me and him."

"He and I. Through the Master’s Grove, I suppose. Sounds quite nice. And why are you telling me?"

Faramir bit his lip and was glad that his father’s back was to him. "He says I should ask you permission."

"Well you don’t need to ask me. Merry ought to know that."

"Yes."

"Wear your coat then."

"Aw, Da…"

"Farry, please do as I tell you."

"All right…I’ll wear my cloak."

"Coat. And cloak, now that you mention it. That’s a good idea."

Faramir scowled as he left the spare room. There was no doubt that he had the meanest father in all the Shire.

"Is he coming with?" Merry asked as Faramir reappeared in the parlor.

"No and he says I don’t have to wear my coat too."

Merry looked hard at the lad. Faramir carefully did not meet his eyes.

"You know, Faragrin, I can spot a lie, even in the dark."

He trembled slightly. "Can you?"

"Yes. Now go get your coat."

Faramir decided not to complain as he fetched his coat. He’d gotten away with half his lie, anyway, and that was better than none at all. And now he’d get to walk with Uncle Merry all by himself. If he had to wear his stuffy coat that seemed an agreeable trade-off.

"Ah, just a minute there." Merry stopped Faramir as they began to head out together from the cloak room. He knelt in front of the boy in order to button the coat that he’d tossed on haphazardly.

"But I don’t want it buttoned," Faramir complained, "It’s too warm."

"Yes but I need the practice so please let me."

He perked up. "Practice for the new lad-baby?"

"Yes, exactly. Though he won’t be big enough for more than two buttons on his coat for sometime, I should think." With care, he smoothed down the soft broadcloth shirt and gave the handsome embroidered weskit a good tug so that it laid flat. Then he straightened the coat, noting the delicate, warm lining of sheepskin with a smile. Eight years ago, many splendid gifts had been sent from near and far in celebration of Faramir’s birth, most notably a large flock of Ithilien sheep the Prince had sent to honor his new namesake. The wool from these sheep was unlike anything seen before in the Shire, so rich and fine. The hobbits called it "King’s wool" and paid the highest prices for it at shearing time. When he came of age, every ewe, ram and lamb from the flock (and they had multiplied abundantly, even by this point) would be in Faramir’s name alone. Even if he had not been heir to the Thain’s hoard, vast farmlands in Tookland and the pipeweed holdings in the South Farthing, those sheep meant that Faramir would never want for money. Merry fancied to himself that this was quite possibly the only independently wealthy eight-year-old he’d ever known.

And yet, to a boy itching to get out and play, it mattered not. Had he been clothed in burlap it likely would make no difference to him.

"How long will it take before the lad-baby is as old as I am so we can play together?" He asked and casually unbuttoned his coat as they walked through the Master’s private garden. Merry pretended not to see.

"Well, if you are eight now, then it should take him about eight years before he catches up to where you are."

"Eight years? That’s a long time."

"It is." Merry smiled. "A lifetime, for some."

"Well…well, then he will be eight, like I am? And we can play?"

"Yes, but you won’t be eight by then, if you think about it. You will be older."

"Oh." Faramir was slightly disappointed, "That’s right. How old will I be?"

"You’re a smart lad. Count it on your fingers if you must."

"Sixteen?"

"That’s right. You will be very old."

"Almost as old as you."

Merry caught the amused tinge to the Took’s lilt and understood that he was teasing. He laughed and ruffled Faramir’s curls.

"Yes. Almost as old as I. Though sixteen is exactly as old as I was when your Da was eight and I was exactly as old as you are now when he was born. What do you think of that?"

"Do you think that he will want to play with me?"

"Why, yes. You will be like an older brother to him. That is a nice thing to be."

"What is he going to be called?"

"Estella and I haven’t decided yet, though she fancies Aster if it is a girl."

"A girl?! But he’s a lad-baby!"

"Ah, we won’t know that for certain until the babe makes its arrival. Would you not like to have a lass-cousin?"

"I have a lass-cousin. I have many of them."

"But wouldn’t she be special to you? She’d be special to me."

"I guess so. It depends on how she is. But it would be better if she was a boy. Like how Goldie Gamgee is my friend and she’s awful fun to play with but I would like her more if she wasn’t a girl."

"Well, you might not always think that. In fact, there may just come a time when you find you’d rather be with a lass than playing games with lads."

"Like when you think she’s very pretty?"

"That’s part of it sometimes, yes. Now," Merry’s eyes sparkled with mischief, "Who would you say was very pretty?"

Faramir was quiet for a moment as he thought. "Well, Mum is pretty and Auntie Estella too and that elf-lady who came with King Strider when I was little and we went to the lake even though Da told Mum she didn’t have any hair on her feet…And Elanor. She’s pretty too."

"Elanor Gamgee? She looks a lot like Goldie, don’t you think?"
Faramir shrugged, oblivious to the bait Merry was attempting to toss.

‘A bit too young to appreciate teasing about lasses,’ Merry thought to himself, ‘I must remember to try again in a few years.’

"Why can we walk here?" Faramir asked, stopping short and nearly tripping up his cousin. "Won’t people see me?"

"Well, this is the Master’s private garden—and up there is a grove, that is also part of it—and no one ever walks here but me. Your father and I used to play here a lot when we were younger, when my father was the Master."

"There isn’t any Thain Garden." Faramir commented.

"No, but there are an awful lot of other things for the Thain to have. Do you know it used to be the Brandybucks were Thains, before they moved to Buckland and gave the title to the Tooks?"

Faramir kept walking, as though he hadn’t heard what Merry said, but then he turned around to address him and the wind picked up his hair, blowing it all into a tangle and he looked more than ever like a duplicate of his father.

"Could I be Master, then?" He asked. "Instead of Thain?"

"What is wrong with Thain? Don’t you like Great Smials?"

Faramir frowned and turned back to the path. "I like it better here."

And then it was Merry’s turn to frown. "Come here for a moment, will you, Farry?"

He came obediently and then allowed himself to be picked up. Merry brushed the hair off of his brow and thought with quite a bit of wonder that he had even more affection for the lad than he’d realized. Perhaps it had been clouded by jealousy over his existence. But then Merry pushed that all back and prepared his words for he knew the child wouldn’t willingly be held long and lectured to.

"Try not to be too angry with your father, Farry. It’s true he doesn’t think as much as he ought before he acts and says things that are sometimes rather stupid, but he is a good and valiant hobbit and he loves you very much."

Faramir did not change his solemn expression and remained stiff in Merry’s arms.

‘Stubborn Tookishness!’ Merry thought with annoyance. ‘Every single one of them!’ But then he laughed despite himself and the joy of it made even Faramir smile, although he knew not the reason for it.

"What’s funny?" He asked, as Merry set him upon the ground once more and they continued their walk into the grove of thin, gray beeches and thicker, leafier oaks.

"It’s just that…well, your father wasn’t much interested in being Thain either, at your age. In fact, he wasn’t much interested in it at all until it was upon him."

"Did he want to be Master too?"

"No indeed. When he was your age, he used to tell me all the time how when he was big he was going to sea like our twice-great Uncle Isengar did. He even tried to build a boat one summer but he really couldn’t make heads or tails of it. No one in Tookland knows how to build a proper boat, you see. And then for a while after your cousin Frodo left, he talked about returning to Gondor, living out his service there rather than here, but, well…then he met your mother and he didn’t seem so restless anymore. Oh, Faragrin, look at that!"

Faramir looked where he was told and was puzzled, yet excited by his cousin’s tone. "What, Uncle Merry, what?!"

"Why, it’s Mount Took. It’s part of your inheritance, Farry. The only mountain in Buckland. You should be proud."

"Mountain? That’s just a big hill."

"Well, when he was very young, your father informed me that this was indeed a mountain and that whoever made it to the top could claim it as his own and, do you know, he beat me to the top that day and claimed it in the name of Took."

Faramir laughed. "Can we climb it?"

Merry was caught a bit off guard as, honestly, he’d been expecting the boy to scoff. "Of course we can, I suppose. But it is quite steep."

Faramir appraised the hill from its base, hands folded seriously across his chest. "We can race it. If you get to the top first, you can have it back."

"Your father won’t be too happy if you lose his hill."

"Mountain."

"Mountain, yes."

"Please?"

Merry sighed and rolled up his shirtsleeves. "All right, then. Does the count of three please you?"

"Yes."

"Right. One. One and a quarter. Three!"

Faramir paused, confused. "That wasn’t--"

"That was still three." Merry winked and leapt past him.

"Hoi!" Faramir cried indignantly and sprinted after him.

~~~~

Pippin sat back from the small writing desk in irritation. He hated writing. Hated it with all his might.

Some hobbits were quite good at it. Frodo, for one, had been excellent, as was Merry. Even Faramir showed a love for the quill, exchanging post with that Goldilocks Gamgee on a regular basis. But not Pippin. He excelled at oration—speaking and singing he liked very much—and he had a fair grasp of grammar and adequate formal penmanship. Reading he was fond of when there was no better option but he avoided it just as often for the same reason that he avoided writing: he simply hated to sit still.

And here he had sat for hours, laboring over one simple letter—to Sam Gamgee of all people. Sam was not one to fuss over to the proper etiquette or art of a simple note, but Pippin was paranoid about it. It must be perfect. And yet, the longer he had worked on it, the more imperfect it seemed. How did one condense formal business, explanation, admittance of guilt and apology into a simple post?

In the end he decided to be brief and formal, telling Sam straight out where he was at and when he would like to meet. He would save the apology and explanation business for when they spoke. He was better at that sort of thing in person.

Carefully, he lifted his final draft and carried it into Merry’s office. There he folded it into an envelope, addressed it to the Mayor’s office and sealed it with the Master’s personal mark so that it would appear to be from Merry. He found Daffodil in the sitting room and asked her to take it with that evening’s mail but to send it by Quick Post if possible. He should hopefully have a reply from Sam within the next few days.

Then Pippin idled for a while by the window, gazing out at the rich late afternoon. He toyed with the idea of catching up with Merry and Faramir on their walk, but he decided against it. He had not been invited, after all, which he thought a bit cold, but, then Merry seemed to have lost all humor of late and was likely angry with him about something. He was himself still a bit angry with Merry about having kept such a marvelous secret as his impending fatherhood to himself. Pippin couldn’t understand it, but he wondered if it was possible to understand Merry at all these days.

That thought made him rather mournful and so, for lack of anything better to take his mind off things, he wandered into Estella’s room and hoped that she was awake. She was but she didn’t seem particularly in the mood for light conversation. In fact, she appeared as though she’d just seen a phantom.

"Are you all right, Estella?" Pippin looked at her in alarm. "Are you feeling pain?"

"No…not exactly. Just—just very…queer. I…"

"Dilly!" Pippin cried toward the open door. "Dilly, are you still out there? Please come here now."

Estella was rather shocked, despite her current discomfort, at the commanding tone of his voice. He suddenly sounded very much like the head of the largest household in the Shire. Daffodil, too, must have been caught off guard, for she stumbled in her hurry to get into the room quick enough.

"Yes sir?" She asked, wide-eyed and breathless, clinging to the doorframe to steady herself.

"Dilly, please fetch the Mistress’s healer immediately. I don’t care what else he is attending to even if it is his lunch. Hurry now, quick as you can."

"Pippin…" Estella shook her head as the girl left, "This really isn’t--"

"It really isn’t anything to be taken lightly." Pippin finished for her and folded his arms uneasily. "What can I do for you until he arrives? Would you like water or another pillow? I’m sorry I am no expert on these matters. If it is nothing after all, you have my blessing to berate me."

"Water would be nice, thank you." Estella said and closed her eyes as another wave of the strange feeling shook through her body. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it was, well, queer was the only word for it.

When she opened her eyes again, Pippin was leaning over her to place a damp cloth upon her brow. A glass of drinking water stood on her bedside table.

"I don’t know if that feels better at all." He spoke apologetically and handed her the glass.

She was surprised that it did make her feel better somehow and was just about to tell him so when they heard the sound of Daffodil and the healer just outside the main door to the apartment.

"Oh, Pippin, you have to hide!" Estella hissed, handing him back the glass without having even taken a sip, "He mustn’t see you!"

With a quick nod, Pippin jumped back from her bed and, glass still in hand, darted through the only other door in the room, closing it silently behind him just as Dilly and the healer entered from the sitting room.

His back to the door, Pippin sunk to the floor and allowed himself a few deep breaths before his thoughts returned. Soft. The floor in this room was oddly soft beneath his hands and feet. As the drapes were drawn and there were no candles lit, it took his eyes a moment to get adjusted to the dimness. When they did he looked down and realized that it was a very fine carpet he was feeling. It was unusual to see an entire room carpeted, for hobbit feet were often dirty and too tough to really appreciate a truly soft pile. If they did have carpets, they were mainly aesthetic or status pieces.

Then his eyes took in the outlines of the furnishings in the room: a rocker, a small armoire, a low table…A nursery! Pippin almost laughed as the notion hit him. But of course, it was so obvious. Even the Smials had a room like this, just off the Thain’s bedchamber, though it was a long time since it had served as anything other than a box room. Faramir had been too old when they had moved into the Smials and, goodness, Pippin realized with a start, he himself must have been the last babe to make that room a nursery.

Smiling, he burrowed his hand into the fibers and tried to remember what it was like to have feet so soft they needed such a cushion, but it was too far back. The best he could recall was Faramir’s feet when he was an infant, how frighteningly delicate they had been. He had spread sheepskin down on every floor in the Crickhollow house, all lifted from the Smial’s finest. His father had yelled at him, said he was taking their best hopes for shearing profits that year. But Paladin hadn’t really been angry, Pippin knew, he was far too pleased by his first grandson. And then the gift from Ithilien had turned up and that was that.

"Are you certain everything is all right?" The words startled Pippin out of his memory and he remembered that Estella was having a consultation with the healer just the other side of the door. He wondered vaguely how long they had been talking, how long he had been sitting here in the dark, missing old Paladin.

"Yes, yes. I’m afraid you’re going to be getting quite used to it."

"That is a relief. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I know you’re very busy."

"I am never too busy, Estella. This was fine. Anything you notice, anything that feels even the slightest bit odd, I want to be informed. We don’t want you losing this one like the others if it can be helped."

Pippin’s eyes opened wide into the dark. Others?

"Thank you, Marroc."

"Shall I go now, ma’am?"

"Yes, thank you. Dilly will see you out."

Pippin sat still on the floor of the nursery for sometime, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just been unraveled before him. Others. There had been others for Merry and Estella, other children who had never made it to being born. And Merry had never said a word about it.

After awhile he became aware of a tapping coming from the bedroom wall.

"Pippin!" Estella called from her bed. "Pippin Took, do come out already."

For a moment Pippin considered ignoring her, just staying safely in this room forever, never having to face her knowing what he now did. But that was absurd. Sheepishly, he returned to the bedroom, setting the water glass on the night table with a weak smile.

"Everything all right, then?" He asked.

"Yes. Apparently the child is ready to move around a bit more than it has been up till now."

"Getting an early start on learning the Springle-ring?"

"So it seems."

"Well, then I shall leave you to it. If you want any suggestions for a proper dance tune to hum just let me know." He began to leave but she called after him.

"Pippin?"

"Yes?"

"How…how much did you overhear?"

He smiled without emotion and did not meet her eyes. "I heard nothing."