This story takes place the night of 8 Halimath, 1401 SR, and will be told in six chapters.

Bilbo is not quite 111, Hamfast is 75, Frodo is not quite 33, and Sam is 21 (about 71, 48, 21 and 13 in Man years). The names for the dwarves are from The HoME, Vol VI, The Return of the Shadow.
 
 
 

Chapter 1: Sugar and Spice

Sam was busily weeding the nasturtiums beneath the kitchen window, or at least, that’s what he was supposed to be doing. What he was really doing was listening to the dwarves inside, as they moved about the kitchen preparing what Frodo had said would be a grand feast of special magnificence. Now, he wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, not really, and with all the noise they were making anyway, he hardly needed to try if he had been so inclined, which of course he wasn’t, for that would be rude and quite improper.

Sam had met them all a few days before, when they had first arrived with a cartload of party favors and whatnot, and all of Mr. Bilbo’s stories hadn’t quite prepared him for how hairy they were. That was Sam’s first impression of them, for they had a lot of hair, with long elaborate beards and long wiry curls hanging down their backs. He wondered how they could tell each other apart, with only their eyes, nose, cheeks and forehead visible. He had been quite glad when the majority of them left with the emptied cart and only three had stayed on to visit, as it made telling them apart and remembering their names much easier, but even now he could only tell which was who by the color of their hair and the tunic and cloaks they wore. Nar was the head dwarf and he always wore red against his grey hair. Then there were his sons, Hannar and Anar, who both wore light blue tunics, but Hannar’s hair was a reddish-brown, while Anar’s was just brown. During the day, Sam could usually tell the brothers apart after careful inspection, but on the few instances he’s seen them at night, he was always stumped.

They had an unusual way of speaking, with thick heavy accents that made it hard to catch their words if they spoke too fast or too low. They were speaking like that now, and so Sam, who was not eavesdropping, could only make out every other word that they spoke. This made it very difficult for him to follow along, but if he concentrated hard enough, he could usually figure out what they were saying despite their accents.

Nar’s wizened voice cut into the siblings’ argument over the seasoning they were using for the food. “Here now, your bickering is making my head pound. We’re not going to have this finished in time if you two keep fighting over the spices.”

Anar spoke up now, cutting in before his brother. “Hannar’s putting in too much spice for the hobbits' tastes, I'm certain.”

“It’s the same amount of spice I always use,” Hannar protested.

“But Bilbo’s not used to it,” Anar said.

“He’s going to have to get used to it sooner or later, and the sooner the better,” Hannar said. “Besides, Bilbo said to make it like a real Dwarven meal, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Hand me that garlic.”

Sam finished up his weeding and gathered up his basket and tools, trying to figure out what they were cooking by the spices they were handing back and forth: ginger, cumin, peppers, garlic. He could hear and smell some beef frying on the pan when he finally had to leave his perch and get back to work. Not, of course, that he hadn’t been working before.

He made his way to the other side of the smial and dumped the trimmings on the compost, then deposited the bucket back into the tool shed. He went about the rest of the day’s work with ease, every now and again walking past the kitchen to try to discern what progress the dwarves were making by use of his ears or nose, or both.

At tea time, Frodo brought out a tray loaded with teapot, cups, sugar bowl and spoons. He sat with Sam beneath the elm tree and they drank their tea in silence, Sam studying Frodo as discreetly as possible out of the corner of his eye. Though Frodo was still all cheers and smiles as he usually was, Sam couldn’t help but think that the young master was looking a bit  careworn of late. Sam couldn’t decide if it was from the commotion of the company, the planning for the party, or something else entirely. He had a feeling it was a combination of all three of those things, but as it wasn’t his place to ask, he kept his thoughts to himself.

When their tea was finished, Frodo sat back, resting his hands on the back of the bench and kicking his legs out before him, crossed at the ankles. He looked up through the branches of the elm tree and said, “Don’t you ever wish you could be a bird?”

“Why’d I want to wish that, sir?” Sam asked.

“Because then you could fly. You could go wherever you wanted, and not only would it not be considered odd to want to go places, it would be expected.” Frodo looked up at the tree thoughtfully and nodded. “Yes, I think life would be better as a bird.”

“So long as you don’t get et by a cat or fox, or shot down or trapped by a hunter,” Sam said before he could think. Somehow, he managed not to smack himself when he realized his stupidity. “Sorry, Master Frodo. It’s a right fine wish.”

“No, you’re right. It’s good to think of such things. But if I were an eagle, like the ones in Bilbo’s story… Don’t you ever want to go adventuring?”

Sam shook his head. “Not so much, sir, unless maybe it was to see some elves. I’d travel a bit for that. I’ve gone down to the Woody End a few times on off days to try to catch a glimpse of them. Tom and Robin come with me, and sometimes Jolly and Finch’ll join us, more for getting away from chores than wanting to see elves though.”

“Is that right?” Frodo said, a look of surprise in his eyes. “Well, in that case, you’ll have to come hiking with me some day. Harvests will be under way soon so now isn’t the best time, but after that, before the weather turns chill… Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

Sam smiled and nodded. “It does, sir. Mr. Bilbo won’t mind me coming along?”

Frodo’s smile faded ever so slightly. “No, he won’t be coming. It’ll be just you and me. We could hike along The Water, follow it to Rushock Bog. We could hike under the moonlight and starlight, like the Elves.”

“That would be grand, Master Frodo,” Sam agreed. He wondered why Bilbo wouldn’t be joining them, but something told him not to ask. He thought of the dwarves again, of something Hannar had said earlier, and about several other little snippets he had heard since the dwarves’ arrival. Before he could piece anything together though, he looked up at the sky himself and realized the lateness of the hour. “I best be getting back to work now.”

“Don’t you dare,” Frodo said playfully. “As I already told you, Samwise, the dwarves are cooking up a special meal for Bilbo and his household. By Dwarven custom, that would include his servants as well. You’re technically not a smial servant, but you do so much for us that they’ve included you in their plans.”

“They have?” Sam asked, feeling surprised, touched and elated all at once. He had hoped all day since Frodo first told him about the supper that he might be able to sample some of the cooking, should the dwarves decide they needed someone to give them a hobbit’s opinion, and now he was invited to dinner!

Frodo laughed. “Don’t look so surprised! Of course they have. So right now, I want you to trot off home and let your father know you’ll be supping here tonight. Take an hour off and wash up from working.”

“Really?” Sam asked, still not able to believe that they had included him in the dinner plans.

“Really,” Frodo said and ushered Sam off the bench. “Scamper off now.”

“Yes sir! Thank you sir!” Sam called as he dashed off for the garden gate and the lane. He could hardly believe his good luck, but he wasn’t about to stick around and wait for it to turn to bad either.

He ran down the lane to Bagshot Row and then up the row to Number Three. He called hello to the Gaffer, who was chatting at the fence with Daddy Twofoot next door. Hamfast just watched as he ran past and into the smial.

“What’s that about?” Daddy asked.

Hamfast shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I’m betting it ain’t good.” He excused himself and went inside to find his youngest son starting a fire in the stove. “And what might you be doing?”

Sam looked around his shoulder at him and grinned toothily. “I’m washing up,” he answered and wrestled a copper full of water onto the stove.

“Washing what up?” Hamfast asked. “Is it somewhat for Mr. Bilbo or Master Frodo?”

Sam nodded. “I’m washing myself up so I can go to dinner with them tonight. They invited me and the dwarves are cooking!”

Hamfast pursed his lips and watched as Sam bounced in front of the stove, impatient for the water to start simmering.

“Won’t you be wanting dinner here at home?” Hamfast asked. “Daisy just went down to Woodrow’s to pick up a goose for supper, knowing how much you and Goldie like goose pie. Harman’ll be here. Don’t you think you ought to get to know your future brother-in-law?”

Sam looked back at him, nibbling on his bottom lip and looking a mixture between guilty, worried and hopeful. “But, the dwarves are cooking, and I ain’t never had Dwarvish cooking afore. I reckon no hobbit has, save for Mr. Bilbo, and Master Frodo asked me special-like. He said the dwarves counted me as part of Mr. Bilbo’s household, and they’re all expecting me. If you want, I’ll save you some and bring it down for you after and I’ll stay up with you while you eat it. Please Gaffer, can’t I go?”

“Aye, you can go, since they’re expecting you and all. Just next time, don’t go accepting invites until you get my permission,” Hamfast said.

Sam beamed up at him, all hint of guilt and worry gone. “Thank you, Gaffer!” He went back to watching the water and bouncing from one foot to another.

Hamfast went back outside and found Daddy right where he had left him. He shrugged. “Seems as he’s eating at Bag End tonight.”

Daddy hummed at this. “That’ll be his third time this month,” he said casually.

“So it will,” Hamfast said and decided that a bit of late weeding would do the garden good.  

Frodo watched as Sam ran off, then gathered together the tea tray and returned it to the kitchen. Or rather, he knocked on the kitchen door and returned the tray to Nar, who answered the knock. The dwarves were refusing to let their hosts into the kitchen while they cooked and even though Frodo tried to look past him and get a peek, he could see nothing worth noting. He supposed he would just have to be surprised.

He went into the parlor then and stood just inside the doorway, looking down at Bilbo, who sat humming on the settee, surrounded by a sea of mathoms, gift tags, string and envelopes. His cousin was quite in his element with all this party planning, and though he let Frodo help with opening the reservation letters and checking off the guest list, Bilbo insisted on doing the rest by himself.

Bilbo now dipped his quill into the ink well and scribbled out another note, which he promptly sanded dry and attached to a case of silver spoons with a string. He chuckled uncontrollably to himself as he patted the note into place and put the case aside.

“Enjoying yourself then?” Frodo asked with a smirk.

Bilbo looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “I do wish I could be here when the S.-B.s get their parting gift.”

“Really Bilbo, if you want to insult Lobelia, just send her a cracked mirror,” Frodo said.

Bilbo laughed harder at that, while simultaneously trying to look disapproving. “Now Frodo, that is no way to speak of your elders, lad. You are to show a certain amount of respect.”

“Yes, but you’ve never said that the amount has to be the same for each elder, nor that the amount has to be so large as to be noticeable,” Frodo pointed out. He waded through the sea of mathoms and sank into the chair next to the settee.

“True, true, I never did say that,” Bilbo agreed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He looked about the room thoughtfully. “Do we have a cracked mirror? I would truly hate to waste a perfectly good one.”

“I wouldn’t consider that a waste,” Frodo said and helped in the search for a mirror. He spotted one on the mantelpiece, set aside for his cousin Angelica. “However, giving yet another mirror to Angelica seems quite wasteful to me.”

“No, she’s had her eye on that little mirror for years,” Bilbo said. “Well, we’ll just have to see if we can accidentally knock a mirror over. With all the moving and rearranging we’ll be doing, that’s always a concern.”

Frodo laughed now himself. One good thing about all this hectic planning was that Bilbo was in very high spirits and was agreeable to just about anything. Why, Frodo had even been able to talk Bilbo into letting the dwarves teach him a drinking game just the other night, using actual ale instead of cider. He had paid for it in the morning, but it had been a fun night.

“Oh! Before I forget!” Bilbo said suddenly and reached beneath an overcoat on the cushion next to him. He pulled out a sheet of folded parchment and handed it to Frodo. “I have my speech all written out. Read it over and tell me what you think of it. I figured I’d play my joke just afterward; that’s what the POOF! means.”

“So you’ve figured out how you’re going to go about your joke?” Frodo asked, grinning even wider now. He has been pestering Bilbo for weeks now, since he first learned that Bilbo intended to use his Party as his sending-off as well. He eagerly opened the parchment and read through it, his smile and chuckles increasing with each sentence read. “Marvelous, Bilbo! You really aren’t pulling any stops, are you? It’s everything they ever accused you of being. And then POOF! That should be enough to keep them talking for a year and a day.” Then his smile turned to a smirk. “Or at least enough to wake them up after this horridly long speech.”

“Horridly long?” Bilbo said, pretending to be hurt by that observation. “It’s just the perfect length for a speech, I’ll have you know. It’s just long enough to have them worried that I might drone on forever, and just short enough that they won’t get up and walk out on me.”

“I concede your point,” Frodo said. He folded the parchment and placed it on the tea table. “You know what would be really funny? If you stayed after, at least into the next day, when everyone shows up for their parting gifts. Just keep the ring on and hang about. You’ll miss all the scandalized reactions and commotion otherwise.”

“I can very well guess exactly what everyone will be saying and doing,” Bilbo said, going back to his tags. “That is quite enough for me. I trust that you’ll write a full report and deliver it to Gandalf. He’ll find me and give it to me, and I can read it to the dwarves while we camp that night. And speaking of being out of doors, why don’t you go visit your friends? Folco and Fatty are already here for the Party and they’ve been wanting you to stop by. Go out. Have fun.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to spend with them after,” Frodo said lightly.

“Meaning, of course, that you won’t have any time left with me,” Bilbo said. Frodo simply shrugged. “I’ll miss you too, my lad, but we’re both ready for this. I need one last adventure, and you know I wouldn’t be leaving if I didn’t think you were ready to be on your own.”

Frodo smiled. “I know.”

“You’re much more mature and level-headed than other lads your age,” Bilbo went on. “You certainly know how to take care of yourself and you’ll have your friends here, more often than you would wish, I’m certain. Once you’re on your own, they’ll find this an even more appealing resting stop than they already do. You’ll never get them out from under foot.

“Now, I can’t promise that I’ll write very often. Won’t be time or opportunity for it while I’m on the road and once I get where I’m going, there will likely not be as efficient a post messenger service as we have here,” Bilbo said. “You just keep on celebrating our Birthday each year, and I’ll do the same, no matter where I am.”

“And we’ll toast to each other’s health when the clock strikes ten,” Frodo stated.

“Precisely!” Bilbo said and dipped his quill. He scrapped his quill across a tag and frowned at the screech it made.

Frodo chuckled and gave a knowing shake of his head. “Out of ink again?”

Bilbo nodded. “Could you run and get me some more?”

Frodo made his way to the study and grabbed a new inkwell from the desk drawer. As he did so, his eyes landed on the piece of parchment laying open on the desktop – Bilbo’s will. He skimmed the will briefly, his eyes not able to settle on any one word, then glanced out the window to the gardens and the sinking sun. He wasn’t sure if he wanted these next couple of weeks to linger, or to hurry up so he could get them over with.

He stayed there until he heard Bilbo’s impatient call. Then, inkwell in hand, he turned on his heel and returned to the parlor.  

Dinner did not get off to a good start. The dwarves had, understandably, set the table in the formal dining room and put out the very finest dining set and crystal goblets, with the red satin napkins and golden dining ware. They lit all the candles in the golden wall sconces and dressed the long oak table with the silk tablecloth, embroidered to resemble a lush landscape, and smoothed out so that not a crease could been seen. The chairs, hand-painted to match the tablecloth, were dusted off and polished to a bright shine. The crystal vase at the center of the table was full of fresh flowers from the gardens. The dining room looked spectacular and Frodo and Bilbo found themselves wondering why they didn’t entertain in there more often – until Sam arrived.

Sam’s ecstatic smile faded in an instant and his complexion went deathly white when he realized where Bilbo was leading him, and he nearly knocked Frodo over when he dug in his heels and refused to enter the dining room, never mind that the dwarves were waiting to serve them.

“Sam, whatever is the matter?” Frodo said, kneeling down to the lad’s level.

“I can’t be eating in there, Master Frodo, it wouldn’t be proper,” Sam explained in a petrified whisper.

“Can’t you hang proper for just one night?” Frodo said. He realized immediately that such a form of persuasion wasn’t about to work, so he tried another tactic. “Isn’t it equally improper to have your hosts prepare such a grand meal and then not eat it?”

“But that’s the formal dining room,” Sam said. “I can’t be eating in there. It’s for gentry only; I’m just a gardener.”

“You are our guest, and tonight the dining room has been prepared for all of us.”

“Mayhap I could serve you? Or I could eat in the kitchen.”

“You will do no such thing,” Frodo said, wishing he had thought of this before the dwarves went through the trouble of setting the dining room. He couldn’t very well ask them to take everything back into the kitchen however, so he would just have to convince Sam to enter. “You will eat with us because they invited you and I knew perfectly well that you’re ‘just a gardener’ when I told you that you could join us. You will not serve because the dwarves will be doing so. Now, you could leave, but then you’d insult them and make them feel that their cooking isn’t to your liking.”

“I’d not want them to think that,” Sam said uncertainly, peering into the dining room with fear and longing.

“Then you’d best enter and have a seat,” Frodo said. “You can sit next to me if it will make you feel more comfortable, and I’ll see if they won’t mind bringing you a more common place-setting.”

Thankfully, Sam nodded to this and, gripping Frodo’s hand tightly, followed the young heir into the dining room, the first time he had ever set foot into the room. Frodo saw Sam to his seat, then quietly pulled Nar aside and explained the situation. Nar sent Anar to the kitchen to fetch a wooden plate and cup, and the tin dining ware and a plain cotton cloth for Sam, and Bilbo nodded at Frodo with approval.

Once everything was settled, the dwarves bowed to their guests and Hannar lifted the silver cover to the main dish, roasted beef, steaming deliciously and slathered in sauce and crisp vegetables. Next to that were fried potato wedges covered in cheese and spiced bacon. The next dish was the roast stew, thick and hearty, and lastly was bread, three fat loaves of rye baked fresh that morning, a dipping sauce for the bread set out between each loaf.

“Wow,” Sam said.

“I agree,” said Frodo.

“And I concur,” Bilbo finished. “A marvelous spread, if I do say so myself. If it tastes half as good as it looks, then we can consider ourselves fortunate indeed.”

Nar bowed deeply. “You speak generously, Bilbo, as always. Hannar, serve the wine to our guests.”

Hannar did as he was bid, pouring wine for Bilbo and Frodo and juice for Sam. Anar followed with the bread and the dipping sauce. Sam watched as Frodo and Bilbo cut off pieces of their loaves and dipped it mildly in the sauce. He watched as they tasted the bread, the sauce dribbling down their chins. Bilbo looked like he was reflecting on times long forgot, and Frodo simply looked amazed.

“This is delightful,” he said. “What is in the sauce? Is that roasted garlic and…” another taste “…red pepper?”

“It is indeed, young master,” Nar said with pride.

Sam had his own taste then and had to agree that it was quite delightful, though he couldn’t find the words to say so. He settled on humming happily and taking a second large bite of bread, making sure to dunk it thoroughly in the dipping sauce.

After the bread, Nar poured the stew into deep plates and set them before their guests. The stew was equally as wonderful in its own unique way. It was a bit spicier than they were accustomed to, and they broke out into a slight sweat as they ate, but the food was so delicious that they simply couldn’t stop eating.

After the stew came the roast, vegetables and potatoes. The dwarves explained their use of the spices, in combinations that a hobbit would never use, and how the spices served to bring out the flavors of the meat and vegetables. Though they were now perspiring as if it were a hot summer day rather than a mild autumn night, neither Frodo nor Sam could complain. Bilbo started talking about his Adventure halfway through the roast, telling of the long months he had spent becoming acquainted with Dwarven cooking, commenting over and over how wonderful it was to taste such fare again.

After dinner, they moved into the parlor to talk and smoke their pipes. Sam sat on the floor in front of Frodo, sipping on his juice and listening as Bilbo and the dwarves told such tales that he had never heard before. Bilbo talked about the time in between all those grand episodes of his Adventure, when it was just walking and resting and resting and walking, and how those quiet moments were some of his favorites. The dwarves told about life in the Lonely Mountain and the town of Dale, how the bones of Smaug still protruded from the water and how the elves and men had finally learned to share the land with the dwarves again. Sam watched the smoke from the pipes swirling up to the ceiling and wondered vaguely why the smoke didn’t change colors like in Bilbo’s stories. Not that the lack of the colored smoke made the night any less magical to Sam.

When the pipes were smoked, the dwarves brought out afters, a plain and simple pumpkin pie with cream, but alongside that was mulled cider, to which they had added their own seasonings and which left a sharp burning aftertaste on the tongue and the back of the throat. They lingered over the pie, knowing that the end of the evening would all too soon be upon them, and Sam, who’s head was awhirl with all that he had seen, felt a sinking feeling that he would soon be having to go home. Then the dwarves brought out their instruments, a fiddle, a flute and a drum, and they played many songs, some of which were Bilbo’s but most of which Sam had never heard before and could only describe as strangely beautiful, the kind of tunes that struck your very core and made you hum with their splendor.

It was nearly Sam’s bedtime before Frodo remembered that he had to be taking the lad home. He saw Sam bundled into his own coat, even though Sam protested that it wasn’t really all that cold outside, and they remembered just in time the plate that Sam had dutifully requested be put aside for his father. They walked in silence, enjoying the crisp night air, humming under their breaths the last song the dwarves had played. Frodo saw Sam to his door, then bade him good night.

“Sleep tight. See you in the morning,” Frodo said.

“Yes sir,” Sam said. “Thank you again for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming,” Frodo said and waved farewell.

“Wait, sir. Your coat.” Sam started to remove the padded and comfy coat but Frodo shook his head.

“Bring it up in the morning,” he said and turned to leave.

Sam called good night and went inside, finding the smial nearly dark but for a light in the kitchen; his sisters must have already turned in. He went to the kitchen and found his father sitting there waiting for him.

“That was a mighty long dinner,” Hamfast said.

“Sorry, but they started playing all sorts of songs,” Sam said and commenced describing the entire night while his father ate the small meal that Sam had brought him.

“Isn’t the food grand?” Sam asked when Hamfast finished.

Hamfast nodded. “It’s good enough, for not being made by hobbits, not meaning any insult to those as made it. A bit too many seasonings if you ask me.” He wiped his brow and went to wash the dishes so that Sam could return them to Bag End in the morning along with the coat. “Now scamper off to bed. You best be up on time tomorrow morning, or this’ll be the last late night you ever get.”

“Yes Dad,” Sam said and slipped out of the kitchen to his bedroom, humming under his breath as he went.

Hamfast finished the washing then turned in to his own bed. Sleep came hard to him these days, especially now that the weather was starting to turn cold, and it was only after much tossing and turning that he finally drifted off to sleep.
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 3/4/06