Written for the 2007 birthday of Mews.
Post-Quest, Minas Tirith

BATTLES WON AND LOST

“Final round. Think you can handle one more, Frodo?” Merry asked, scribbling away on the paper in front of him.

Draining his tankard, Frodo concentrated mightily through the ale-induced fog that had once been his brain, and nodded. He watched Merry add things to the already long list, fascinated by the way the quill’s feather was waving around and around and...

“Here you go.” Merry held up the paper and pointed.

“Lobelia Shackville-Bagensh,” Frodo slurred.

“You’re out,” Merry pronounced, pointing to another line. “Your turn, Pip.”

Pippin took another swig of ale and stared at the words in front of him, blinking rapidly.

“Bucklebury Ferry,” he read very slowly and carefully.

“Good for you,” Merry said. “Last time we played, you didn’t get past the ninth turn.”

“Wait a minute, mine had seven shyllables, and he only had six!” Frodo protested.

“Irrelevant.” Merry waved him off and held up the paper again. “Sam, here’s your last one.”

“What is that?” Sam asked in horror.

“Our new king,” Merry explained.

“His name is Strider,” Sam informed him haughtily, in a tone he never would have taken if not drunk as a skunk.

“This is the name he’ll be known by,” Merry explained. “You can do it, Sam; I’ve only given you six syllables, the same as Pip.”

“I told you Pip only had sixth,” Frodo said, vindicated. He slid dizzily to the floor and sat there, confused. “Where did Sham go?”

“Mr. Frodo needs me,” Sam said desperately. “I can’t be playin’ this silly game anymore, Mr. Merry.”

“You don’t want Pip to win, do you?” Merry asked shrewdly.

“Don’t let him win, Sham!” Frodo yelled from under the table.

Sam took another drink and stared at the paper, willing his eyes to focus. “El, umm, Elessar Telcontar.”

“Perfect,” Merry said admiringly. “You and Pip can really hold your ale.”

Sam frowned. “But no one’s named that. Strider’s name is...” He thought hard. “Strider!” he said triumphantly. “Hah, I win.”

“No, I win,” Pippin corrected him. “I won, didn’t I, Merry?”

“You and Sam both did.”

“You shouldn’t have tried to trick Sham,” Frodo scowled up at Merry. He tried to swat his cousin on the leg, but missed. “Strider’s name is Strider. You should know that by now.”

Aragorn stepped into the kitchen and looked around. Sam, Pippin, and Merry sat at the table, huge tankards in front of each of them. Frodo was sitting on the floor, looking indignant.

“Hullo, Strider.” It took Sam three tries to stand up. “Isn’t that still your name?”

Aragorn motioned to a barrel near the table. “Is that the gift the Rohirrim sent for the Ring-bearers?”

“Yes,” Pippin said happily.

Frodo started giggling.

“This binge may have been a bit premature,” Aragorn admonished. “Frodo and Sam are barely out of bed as it is.” He strode over to Frodo, knelt, and gathered the tipsy hobbit into his arms.

“Argorn,” Frodo whispered loudly into his ear, “Pip won. Sham did too, I heard him.”

“Of course he did.”

“It’s not Merry’s fault that Cousin Lobelia has such a complistrated lash name,” Frodo continued. “Aren’t I right?”

“Of course you are,” Aragorn said soothingly. He carried Frodo to the bedroom, followed by the three other hobbits. Sam staggered to a chair, Pippin hiccuped his way to another, and Merry stood, not that steady on his feet himself, watching Aragorn seat Frodo on the bed.

Frodo pulled on Aragorn’s tunic. “Poor Merry, he only got to have one teenshy weenshy mug before his handwriting started getting fuzzy and he had to stop. But we left enough for you and Gandalf and Migli and Leglas.”

“That is very generous,” Aragorn said. “However, those ceremonial tankards are hardly ‘mugs’.”

“Aren’t they wonderful?” Pippin beamed.

“Have Frodo and Sam had anything to eat?” Aragorn asked.

“’Course,” Pippin said. “Drinking without eating is... well...” He looked confused. “Who would do that?”

“Good.”

“Mr. Frodo, I can’t see my lips,” Sam said worriedly.

“I can, Sham,” Frodo said encouragingly. He pointed in Sam’s general direction. “They’re right there.”

“Frodo, opening that barrel might have waited a few more days,” Aragorn tried again. He drew Frodo’s ale-splashed shirt over his head, and gently lay his small friend down. “Your stomach, and Sam’s, are hardly used to such ill treatment after so long with little food or drink.”

“Ale is food and drink,” Merry declared.

“That’s right,” Sam nodded vehemently. “Lots of barley and... and other things in there.”

“You win,” Aragorn sighed.

“Pip and Sham won,” Frodo insisted. He yawned hugely and closed his eyes.

Aragorn smiled in defeat.

“Of course they did.”