Written for Grey_Wonderer because she wanted a story for when she got home from the LOTR Symphony in Cleveland.
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They had asked him to do it. He felt unsure, it had been long time. But they had cheered and clapped and generally insisted he meet their demand.

His hands had clung to the rocks of Caradhras and the rocks of Moria.

They had touched the mallorns of Lorien.

His hands had been bound.

They had touched an Ent.

They had touched a palantir.

They had held out his sword in service to a lord of men.

His hands had comforted Merry when he was gravely wounded.

They held a sword and shield as he marched off to battle.

His hands had held the sword that killed a troll.

They had wielded that same sword against the ruffians that had defiled the Shire.

Pippin sighed. He looked at his hands. Could his hands still do this?

He didn’t know how it had got from Great Smials to Hobbiton, but it had.
He took the fiddle from it’s case. He tuned the strings. He tightened and rosined the bow.
He ran a gentle hand over the worn wood.
He tucked his fiddle ‘neath his chin, hugging his old friend.

A bit halting at first, a bit scratchily, the notes sounded. Then the notes flowed. A year and more of homesickness and his hobbit heart’s love of the Shire echoed in every tone. Pippin’s music filled the heart of every hobbit in the Green Dragon on the old inn’s first night back in business.