A/N: Pippin is 7, Merry is 15, Frodo is 29 and Bilbo is 107.

The Northern Lights

Pippin had been asleep for just two hours when Frodo gently shook him awake.

“Frodo?” he said groggily. “Is it time for breakfast?”

“Not quite,” Frodo laughed. “But I think you and Merry will like this just as much.”

“Bilbo too?” Pippin asked as he was bundled in his blanket and lifted up.

“Yes, Bilbo too,” came a chuckling voice near the door. Rubbing his eyes, Pippin looked over Frodo’s shoulder and saw Bilbo standing there with Merry. Both were wearing their cloaks, as was Frodo, and Merry was just as tousled and bleary-eyed as Pippin. Smiling sleepily, Pippin rested his head on Frodo’s shoulder and dozed as he was carried outside.

The cold night air woke him again. Pippin shivered, burying his face in Frodo’s shoulder for warmth, but at Merry’s awed cry he lifted his head.

They stood beneath the great tree atop Bag End, facing the north. High above the sky was an inky black lit with tiny stars, but all along the horizon it glowed a dark shade of red.

“Is it a fire?” Merry wondered, shifting closer to his cousins. Pippin clung tightly to Frodo.

“No,” Frodo quickly replied. He held Pippin close and wrapped an arm around Merry’s shoulder, trying to soothe them.

“They are the Northern Lights,” explained Bilbo. “It’s quite a rare occurrence to see them in Hobbiton; they are far more common in the Northfarthing. Look, my lads!” he added with a grin. “The colors are changing.”

The cousins watched in wonder as the lights turned first into a deep purple and then a vibrant blue, one shade blending into the next. At times the lights faded and then grew brighter, and long into the night they stood looking upon the horizon, watching with delight as the sky flickered and glowed.