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When the King Comes Back ( Brandy Hall )  by Dreamflower

Before he headed in to tea with his parents, Merry stopped by his room to retrieve a parcel he had stowed beneath his bed.

Saradoc and Esmeralda were already waiting in their sitting room when he arrived. He perched himself on the arm of his mother’s chair and gave her a hug. “Hullo, Mum,” he bent his head to hers. It was a lot further than it used to be and his mother seemed so small. For a brief instant, he felt a twinge of regret for the Ent-draughts.

He slid down and moved to his own chair, so that Esmeralda could pour the tea. “Well, Da, did you read those messages?”

“Yes, I did. After dinner come by my study and you can read them yourself.”

“Thank you, Da.” Merry began to untie the parcel on his lap. “You know that we missed my birthday this year. I don’t even remember what day it was, as it was sometime while we were in Lothlórien, where time runs very strangely. Anyway, I decided that *whenever* I got home, I would be the byrding*, whatever the day might be.” Grinning, he handed his father a tooled leather case.

Saradoc opened the case, and his eyes widened as he took out a finely wrought spyglass, crafted of some dark, finely grained wood, and polished to a gleaming, glassy finish.

Merry’s grin widened. “I told you I’d replace it for you one day! I guess you thought I’d forgot!”

Saradoc shook his head in amazement, as he recalled a long ago day, when Merry was fourteen and Pippin was six, and a mishap had put an end to his cherished spyglass. It had truly been an accident, so he had tried not to be too harsh with the lads, but he could not hide how sorry he had been to lose it. He recalled now Merry promising through his tears to get him a new one. He noticed the inscription: “To my father and friend. M.B.” and felt tears coming on himself. He blinked them away and smiled as he watched Merry hand a small carved box to his mother.

She opened it, and drew out a pendant necklace, the chain of tiny silver flowers were joined by square links of gold. From the center hung a beautifully cut emerald in a silver setting.

Esmeralda gasped. “Merry!” There was just the tiniest hint of rebuke in her tone, and Merry blushed.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Mum--but it was for *you*. You *do* like it, don’t you?”

“Son, it’s wonderful, but it must have been very dear.”

Merry laughed. “Yes, both your gifts were dear, and I’m glad they were. They were very nearly free!”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked his father.

“It seemed wherever we Hobbits went in Minas Tirith, people wanted to give us things. It was embarrassing. Nobody would ever let us *pay* for anything. When Pip and I decided to shop for presents, Legolas and Gimli came with us. At the jeweler‘s, we could find nothing that would have fit for a Hobbitess. You could have worn most of the necklaces as a belt, Mum. So Legolas helped us explain what we wanted to have made, and drew the designs--wait till you see the bracelet he helped Pip design for Aunt Tina--so that we could have them made. Gimli selected your emerald, Mum, and said it was first rate. He also helped me choose your spyglass, Da. He said this one had the best lenses of any, and he carved the inscription for me. But the funny part was when we went to get them, and tried to pay for them. It was the opposite of haggling. The merchants tried to *give* them to us. We explained that they were gifts and we really *wanted* to pay for them. So Gimli suggested a price--what he thought that they were worth, and the merchant came back with a token price. It was so funny! After we finally got what seemed like a real price, and paid for everything, Gimli grumbled for days. He was rather offended at having to ‘haggle backwards’, as he put it. We’ve never been sure since that we actually paid enough.” He laughed again at the memory.

His parents laughed with him, and Saradoc told his son of the time *he* had haggled with a Dwarf, and had felt lucky to come away with his skin.

___________________________________________

*byrding--Shiretalk for person having a birthday (Letters #214)





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