As my (extremely unforgivably late) birthday mathom from me to all of you, I thought a little discussion of hobbits ages was in order. And it just tickles me that Pippin is the same age as me and he’s still considered a kid. Maybe that’s why I still feel like a kid myself so much of the time.

Thanks to Dreamflower for supplying me with the bare-bones outline for the story.

“I will not hide from you Master Peregrin,” said Beregond, “that to us you look almost as one of our children, a lad of nine summers or so… But I see that it is not so and you must pardon my foolishness.”  

“I do,” said Pippin. “Though you are not far from the truth. I am still little more than a boy in the reckoning of my own people, and it will be four years before I ‘come of age’, as we say in the Shire.” ~ ROTK, Minas Tirith  

“It seems clear that the Eldar in Middle-Earth, who had, as Samwise remarked, more time at their disposal, reckoned in long periods, and the Quenya word yén, often translated ‘year’, really means 144 of our years.” ~ ROTK, Appendix D

Chapter 4: Be Tween You and Me

Erestor, Lindir and Boromir were walking down the main corridor of the Last Homely House, the cream-colored marble walls glowing a pale yellow in the soft autumn sunlight. Lindir was headed toward the Hall of Fire to meet Bilbo, to help the hobbit with his latest composition. Bilbo wished to have a song more Elf-like for the next feast, and Lindir had promised to lend a hand, being a musician and songwriter himself.

On his way there he had met Erestor and Boromir, who were on their way to Elrond’s private chambers. They were to meet with Elrond and Gandalf to discuss the progress the younger hobbits were making in their training. Eleven days had passed since their sessions began and already signs could be seen of the hobbits slowly gaining the upper hand over their drill master. Last Highday, as the hobbits reckoned the days, they had tricked Boromir into an impromptu foot judging contest. This morning, again on Highday, they had wheedled an extended second breakfast picnic out of the Man of Gondor and had spent the time explaining at length to him the merits of stone throwing as opposed to sword fighting. Elrond and Gandalf wanted to ensure that Frodo and Sam would be ready for the Quest once the day of departure arrived, and that the man wasn’t simply indulging the hobbits because he did not know how to tell them no. 

As they maneuvered down the corridor, Erestor began a preliminary interview with the man, for he was interested in knowing what plans Boromir had for the training of the hobbits and he would not be able to remain in Elrond’s chambers to hear the full report. He was to venture out beyond Rivendell with a small band of elves to seek for news of the scouts and he would be gone for two days.

“How goes the training of the hobbits?” Erestor asked.

“I understand that the training with the dummies is going well. Tomorrow you plan to have the hobbits begin fighting each other,” Lindir supplied. Not being familiar with mortals, despite his long friendships with Bilbo and Elessar, he was curious to find out as much as he could about the man’s methods and the hobbits’ more rustic abilities while they remained in Rivendell.

“Not quite,” Boromir said. “That will be held back until the day after tomorrow. I have decided that a field test of the hobbits’ current skills are in order before we advance to the next level of their training. I will speak of that with Elrond today and see if it would be advisable to take the hobbits beyond the walls of the house, though I am certain there is no risk to the hobbits within his realm.”

“Field test?” Lindir prompted. “You will observe the hobbits in an environment similar to where they might find themselves in battle.”

“Yes, and no,” Boromir said and went on to explain. “They enjoy games, particularly the one they call hide-and-go-seek. My plan is take them into the woods just beyond the falls and let them hide separately. I will seek them and as I come upon them, they will attack me – if I do not seize them first. It will be up to them where to hide and to come up with what they believe is the best strategy to overcome me.

“The exercise will accomplish many things. It will tell me, by how they choose to attack, where they believe their strengths to be. They will not choose a form of attack with which they are uncomfortable. Once I know their strengths, I will be better able to determine the areas in which they still need more instruction and practice. This will allow me to design the training sessions to the benefit of each hobbit, and since they will soon be pairing against each other, now is the perfect time to do so.”

“An intriguing strategy,” Erestor commented. “It has been a long while since we have had to train any new warriors but we too have similar contests. Is this strategy used often by the Gondorian army?”

“It is but one of many,” Boromir affirmed. “I find the results to be most useful. Indeed I—”

He trailed off mid-sentence and came to an abrupt stop as they entered the Hall of Fire through the western passage, which was slightly hidden from the hall by a curve in the wall. There they found Bilbo, but the old hobbit was not alone.

During the day, the Hall of Fire was normally empty but there was upon occasion a resident or guest enjoying the peace and quiet to read or paint or sleep or just sit and bathe in the cool autumn sunlight trickling down through the opened ceiling. At night the light of the large fire filled every crevice of the circular room with glimmering hues of red and orange, the smoke rising through the opening in the ceiling to fill the night air with the crisp, sharp taste of pine. During the day, the hall looked altogether different. There were long shadows along the walls and the cool light pooled near the open vent. The hall echoed with every footstep, if the walker was not quiet, and even a ruffle of paper and the scratch of a quill sounded loud to ears accustomed to absolute silence. At night a place for merriment and delight, by day it was a place of reverence and serenity.

As it was mid-day, the hall was empty but for two figures halfway between the eastern and northern passages, on the opposite side of the hall from where the elves and man stood. Slumped in a chair beneath the mural of the first meeting of Beren and Luthien sat Bilbo, his grey head sagging to his chest. On his lap was a piece of curled parchment and in his hand was a fountain pen. Both were forgotten in the elderly hobbit’s slumber, and the pen was staining the parchment with an ever-increasing blotch of blue ink.

Standing in front of the sleeping hobbit, leaning over and peering at him critically, was the youngest halfling Pippin. As they watched, trying to determine what the youngster was doing, Pippin leaned to one side and then the other, tilting his head this way and that, as though he were attempting to look at Bilbo’s face from every conceivable angle. After doing this for many moments (and who is to say how long he had been doing this before their arrival) Pippin lifted his right hand and gradually extended a finger closer and closer toward the old hobbit’s wrinkled face. When Pippin was just about to make contact, Bilbo, without moving a single muscle, said, “Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to, Peregrin Took.”

Pippin jumped back as one caught with his finger in the cake frosting. His offending hand dropped to his side like a dead weight. Bilbo stirred and looked up at the younger hobbit. Pippin smiled sheepishly.

“What are you getting up to, Pippin? More of your tween foolishness?” Bilbo asked.

“I thought you knew what I was doing,” Pippin pointed out.

Lindir approached the hobbits, deliberately walking with heavy steps to announce his presence as he rounded the fire pit towards the hobbits. Erestor continued on his way and Boromir followed despite being rather curious himself about what the young hobbit had been doing. However, before they could get more than a few steps into the hall, Bilbo straightened completely and with a glance and a nod in their direction, requested them to remain. So instead of hastening to Elrond’s office (they really were early anyway), they followed Lindir and greeted the hobbits. Pippin was unperturbed by their appearance and continued to look expectantly at Bilbo, waiting to hear the old hobbit’s guess of what he had been doing.

Bilbo shifted position in his chair, moving his weight from his left hip, which had gone numb, to his right hip. He cleared his throat, his frown deepening as he noticed the blotch on his parchment, which the elves and man could now see had writing at the top, thankfully safely away from the stained area.

“Did you know what I was doing, Bilbo?” Pippin asked, impatient.

“I knew you were doing something mischievous and that was enough,” Bilbo said. “You could have been a dear while you were at it, though, and put my pen away for me.”

“You shouldn’t fall asleep with a pen in hand, Cousin Bilbo,” Pippin informed unhelpfully. “You could have stained your breeches and that’s the worst sort of stain, or so Sam says. I actually find blueberry preserve to be a rather pesky stain myself, especially when you are trying to remove it from the lace trimming that your sister is planning to use for the dress she is making before she can get home and catch you at it.”

“You have a sister?” Boromir asked.

“Three: Pearl, Pimpernel and Pervinca, but Vinca’s the worst of the lot,” Pippin answered. “Catch me she did, but I was lucky to a point. She had just spent the better part of the day with Everard –” and here he scrunched up his face like he was smelling something foul “– and she was in very good spirits. So instead of slapping me upside the head or punching my arm or twisting my ear, she grabbed me by the collar, tossed me into the hall and slammed the door on my face. And what does Da do about it? He makes me sew all that lace, once it was properly cleaned, onto her dress. Then she gets all upset because I didn’t do it right, but that’s her fault for going along with it. I’m not a sempstress after all, I don’t care how much she says my hands are small like a lass.

“They aren’t, are they Bilbo? Ev has big hands and so do all the other lads, but they’re never teased about them, or teased at all. Mum said that hand size isn’t important, but I think she only said that to make me feel better about mine being so small.”

“Hand size?” asked Erestor. He had not heard of this postulation before, but then Bilbo would have no need to bother with it.

Pippin nodded and held up his hands for the others to see. “There’s something about a lad’s hand size that tells a lass how good of a husband he’ll be, but Vinca’s never explained it to me, and Pearl and Pimmie just say that it isn’t true and not to worry about it. You’re an elf. You’ve been around forever. Do you know what it is?”

Erestor and Lindir both shook their heads. They had a guess but if the youngster didn’t know what it was, they weren’t going to share their speculations and risk shocking the poor lad. Boromir looked down at his own hands with great approval.

Pippin turned to Bilbo. “Do you know, Bilbo?” he asked, then looked at Bilbo’s hands. “Is that why you were a bachelor all those years? How big are your hands? Frodo’s hands have been described as dainty, now that I think about it. Yet Great Uncle Dinodas and Great Uncle Dodinas have regular sized hands, and they’re both bachelors too.”

“Really, Pippin,” Bilbo admonished. “That’s nothing more than tom-foolery. Your other sisters are right. You should not be concerning yourself with such nonsense. Now let us speak of more civilized things, shall we. Pervinca is betrothed to Everard Took?”

“Yes,” Pippin replied, his dissatisfaction showing on his face once again. “They started courting in Astron, and by the time we left they were planning their wedding for next summer. I still think she went to the witch in Waymeet and poisoned him, I don’t care how much he says he’s not under any spell.”

Bilbo and the others paused at this. While the others were trying to make sense of this statement, Bilbo thought hard back to the Birthday Party. “I thought Everard would be courting Melilot Brandybuck,” he stated, for they had shared several dances at the party.

“I wish. Then I wouldn’t have to gag every time I saw him and Vinca practically sitting in each other’s laps and kissing, or holding hands and making moon eyes at each other,” Pippin said, close to gagging just thinking about it.

“Moon eyes?” asked Boromir. He had never heard the expression before, but he had seen many young lovers together so he thought he knew what Pippin was talking about.

Pippin nodded. “Yes, moon eyes.” He then proceeded to mimic a star-struck lad swooning at his lass, and somehow managed to still look disgusted by it all.

Erestor and Lindir smiled kindly, Boromir nodded in understanding, and Bilbo laughed uncontrollably. He was soon grabbing at a stitch in his side and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Not until he noticed Pippin glaring at him with hands on his hips was he able to gain control of himself again.

“I do not find this particularly funny,” Pippin said. “Ev is a good friend of mine, and he has no idea what he is doing, stepping out with Vinca like he is.”

“Now I know it might feel disturbing to a young tween like yourself,” Bilbo started, “but once you find your own lass, you’ll be making moon eyes of your own. I remember Everard to be a very capable and intelligent young lad. I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. What I don’t know is what you were doing just a while ago. You’ve sidetracked from the issue long enough, Pippin. You distracted these fine fellows from their work and I believe they are owed an explanation.”

Instead of explaining his earlier actions, Pippin said defensively, “I am not all that young. I'm plenty old enough to start courting. I am twenty-eight after all.”

“Twenty-eight?” Boromir asked, amazed at this revelation. He had always thought that Pippin was but a child. He admitted so now.

“I am a child,” Pippin said. At Boromir’s puzzled look, he elaborated, “Hobbits don’t come of age until they are thirty-three.”

“Thirty-three?” Boromir said, believing even less than before. The elves remained quiet. They had heard all this before and after all, to them, their guests were all children. “How does that work? And what is a tween?”

“I am a tween,” Pippin said. “The tween years are your twenties, between childhood and your coming of age. It’s a wonderful age to be. You’re almost expected to cause trouble and be mischievous, and folk aren’t quite as hard on you as they would be otherwise. Though they can still get rather testy, and about the most silly things. Like this one time, at the Harvest—”

“You are evading the topic at hand yet again, Peregrin,” Bilbo said, though not without a note of humor in his voice. “What were you doing here by yourself, watching me sleep?”

In the time that Boromir had known the hobbits, he had come to expect anything of them. While he still thought them to be largely innocent, the nature of their innocence has changed. The hobbits might not be worldly wise, but they were wily and cheeky and would stop at nothing to get whatever they truly wanted. Pippin in particular was capable of such feats as to leave the man boggling for hours afterwards, and the young hobbit never passed an opportunity to ask questions or tell you exactly what was on his mind. If the man had thought he was finished being surprised by the youngster, he now found he was wrong. For the first time since meeting him, Pippin was overcome with shyness and was utterly speechless. The lad suddenly found it difficult to meet Bilbo’s keen gaze, and he switched between looking furtively at Bilbo and staring down at his own feet; his mouth was clamped tightly shut.

“Pippin,” Bilbo encouraged. “Whatever it was, lad, you can tell me.”

Still Pippin hesitated. He snuck skittish peeks at Erestor, Lindir and Boromir, as though he was hoping one of them might say something and rescue him from his awkward predicament. When they remained silent, Pippin shuffled his feet and fidgeted with the seam of his breeches as two red spots flushed hot on his cheeks. At length, he spoke.

“Merry, Frodo and Sam were talking last night,” Pippin began. Many of Pippin’s explanations began in this manner, and Boromir had a fleeting thought that his friends should really refrain from speaking while in Pippin’s presence. “They said you sleep a lot and that you have more wrinkles than you did before and that you looked older and all that, more like a gaffer should look. I couldn’t really remember – what you looked like before, I mean. I don’t really remember you all that well, truth be told. I know all of your adventure and all the stories that folk say about you, and what Frodo and Merry and Sam tell me about you, but I don’t really remember you for myself. We got here that one night and we were so worried for Frodo, and Sam was nearly beside himself. Then we saw you, and Merry and Sam were so relieved, calling your name like it was a song. Not that I needed that to tell me who you were. I knew you were you when I saw you but that was only because you couldn’t have been anyone else as you were the only one to have left the Shire before us. I do have some memories of you, but only a few and so I couldn’t really remember like they did. So I was just standing here right now trying to remember and to see the differences that they saw.”

He stopped as suddenly as he started, then looked up at Bilbo hesitantly.

“Well, I am glad that you are too curious for your own good then,” said Bilbo. If he was shocked by anything Pippin had just revealed, he hid it well and only reached out to pat Pippin on the hand. “You and I shall have to spend more time together while you are here then. You might not remember me but I certainly remember the little faunt who thought he’d rescue the goose stuffed into my feather pillow. You even tried to glue the feathers back together to resemble a goose.”

Pippin’s mouth quirked upward at that. “I did that?” he asked.

“Indeed you did, and many other such wonderful things,” Bilbo said. “I would also enjoy more gossip of your parents and sisters. I have missed so much, I do not feel I will ever get caught up again.”

Pippin beamed cheerfully. “I shall like that, and I don’t care what Frodo and Merry say. I think you still look very well-preserved for 128.”

“You’re 128?” Boromir asked before he could stop himself. He was beginning to catch the hobbits’ tendency to blurt things out before thinking them through. His father would be appalled at such behavior. Faramir, on the other hand, would find it humorous. Boromir attempted to make amends. “I do not mean offense, Master Bilbo, but I would never have thought you to be so advanced in your years.”

“Advanced,” repeated Bilbo, testing the word on his tongue. “That’s a very fancy way of saying I’m ancient.”

“He wasn’t calling you ancient, Bilbo,” Pippin said. “He was calling you old.”

“Untruths both,” said Erestor, now with a teasing grin. “For you are neither ancient nor old but as young as a new day just before the dawn.”

“Then that’s why my joints are always so stiff and sore,” joked Bilbo, “for dawn is often quite cold here.”

“That they are,” came Merry’s voice from the east passage, which led outside to the corral and the stables.

After Merry had finished his afternoon sword practice session, he had gone in search of Frodo and Sam. He had found them in the paddock walking Bill and had helped them to feed and coddle the pony, who was looking much improved for his time spent here. If the pony had been intimidated by the gallant and majestic horses when they first arrived, he no longer was and he talked to them eagerly as Sam led him back to his stall. Now Frodo and Sam trailed behind Merry, and Frodo was looking at Bilbo with concern.

“Are you not feeling well these mornings, Bilbo?” he asked.

Bilbo waved a hand dismissively. “I was only having a joke with my friends and your master-in-arms. He did not believe I was 128, nor that Pip is twenty-eight.”

“How old did you think they were?” Merry asked as he, Frodo and Sam stood next to Pippin. All the hobbits waited with curiosity for an answer.

“Among the elves, Bilbo is only considered to be mere months,” said Lindir, “and you younger halflings would be only days or weeks.”

“If only that were so,” Frodo said with a wistful smile. “I would give anything to be so unaware again.”

“So how old do you think we are, Boromir?” Pippin asked.

Boromir considered them each in turn, both in stature, appearance and demeanor. Over the last couple of weeks he has become quite familiar with his pupils, and he felt, up until a few minutes ago, that he had well guessed their ages. Now he was far from certain, but there was nothing for it but to answer the question honestly. “Pippin I thought to be no more than eleven for that is the age that boys begin training in arms among my people. Bilbo I thought to be in his sixties. You others I figured could be no older than sixteen or seventeen, though I admit that has more to do with your manner than your appearance.”

Bilbo’s opinion of the man greatly improved in that moment. Imagine, he was but only sixty or so to him. The younger hobbits, on the other hand, were far from pleased, though if Merry was offended it was only on behalf of his friends.

“Eleven?” said Pippin, clearly insulted. He did not act like an eleven-year old! He remembered how he acted at eleven, due in large part to his family constantly reminding him, and he did not act like that anymore! He didn’t!

“Seventeen?” said Frodo. His expression and tone were such that his thoughts on being considered a mere child could not be determined by any of them, except perhaps Bilbo.

“How old are you then?” Merry asked the man. His tone was casual enough, and his expression would have been innocent if not for the glint of humor, and not a mild amount of retribution, in his eyes. “If I had to guess, based on the grey hairs at your temples that you try to hide by combing your hair like you do, and the grey in your beard and the small wrinkles on your forehead – an unusual place for wrinkles I might add – then I’d say that you’re past middle age and are nearing seventy.”

Pippin couldn’t be sure, for the man had become impossibly still at this declaration, but he was almost positive that he saw the man’s left eye twitch.

“Seventy?” Boromir asked at length in a measured voice. “I look seventy to you?”

“Well certainly no younger than sixty,” continued Merry with a wink at Bilbo. If Bilbo had been flattered at the man’s guess of his age, then Boromir was far from pleased. Rather than risk the wrath of the man’s bruised ego, Merry turned the heat off himself by saying, “What do you think Sam?”

Everyone turned expectantly to Sam, who very much resembled a startled deer ready to bolt. The looks of amusement on the three eldest did not help. Erestor, Lindir and Bilbo were very much enjoying this exchange, though for different reasons. The elves saw little difference between such minute numbers and Bilbo always enjoyed being witness to the cleverness of his younger cousins and of Sam. Though the years had changed them all, they were all still quintessentially the same, sharp as nails and quick as lightning.

Sam stepped back instinctively and partially shielded himself behind Frodo. He didn’t like the way Boromir was looking at him, as though his next words very well could be his last if spoken unwisely. “Well, Mr. Merry, I reckon if Master Boromir thought as we were so much younger than we are, then he can’t himself be as old as all that. I’m thirty-eight myself.”

“And I am fifty,” supplied Frodo with a bemused look at his cousin for having put Sam on the spot. When he saw Boromir's expression change from rage to amazement once again, he elaborated. “Yes, fifty, though I look much as I did when I came of age, and came into my inheritance.”

“The Ring,” Bilbo elaborated at Boromir’s inquisitive look. “Which is why I still look rather ‘well-preserved’ as Pippin puts it. Merry I believe is thirty-six.”

Now they turned toward Boromir, who was quickly processing this information. In years, Sam was closest to his own age, being but two years younger, and Merry was a year Faramir’s senior. Yet both hobbits were only a few years past their coming of age and would be considered young adults among their own kind. While he and Faramir were far from their majority – an age many soldiers never lived to see – they were far from being thought young. Among his fellow Men, they were considered approaching the middle years, and it said something of hobbit constitution that for them middle age was reached between sixty and seventy years. But he did not have wrinkles, not visible ones at any rate, and he had only a few grey hairs which could be easily pulled when they grew long enough to become noticeable. Really, Merry was exaggerating by a fair amount.

He caught himself musing overly-long, absently stroking his beard, while the hobbits waited patiently. Merry looked rather smug. Boromir pulled his hand away from his face and smiled kindly at the others. “I am forty this year,” he stated, and he did not overlook Frodo’s and Merry’s quickly-masked shock. Sam and Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, Sam clearly relieved to be let off the hook. Pippin tilted his head, and his mouth worked in the way it did before he was going to ask a question or ten. Boromir, now familiar with the warning signs, braced himself with a slow intake of breath.

Pippin’s questions were not for him however. He turned instead to the elves and asked, “How old are you then? Do you even keep count after so many years have passed? And what years do you count? Earth years, as determined by the passing of the seasons, or your own Elven years, because Bilbo told us that your years are longer than ours. Or do you count both years, so that you have two different ages? I think I would count by Elven years rather than seasonal years because numbers just rather fall out of my head when they get any higher than 150 or so. I couldn’t imagine having to count to upward of 10,000. Do you have birthday parties? Do you have cake at your parties? The dwarves make this fabulous rum cake—”

“Pippin,” Merry interjected, his tone trying. He was sick of hearing about that blasted rum cake. If he never heard of rum cake again it would be far too soon, and he was beginning to dislike the dwarves for ever having made it. Whatever had begun the long strife between dwarves and elves all those ages ago, he was certain that rum cake had something to do with it.

Boromir smiled inwardly and waited to see how the always-calm elves would respond to this sudden barrage. As could be expected, Erestor smiled kindly and jovially, and did not appear the least bit ruffled. Lindir, on the other hand, was not entirely unaffected.

“10,000,” he mumbled to himself, so softly only Erestor could hear. “No elf is that old. Arda isn’t even that old. 10,000.”

“That is quite a list,” Erestor said, sparing a sympathetic smile for his friend. “We count by our own years, though we can, at need, reckon our age in your years as well. For me, I am approaching the end of my forty-second year, or nearly 6,045 of your years, and Lindir is but twenty-five, or 3,600.”

“Twenty-five? So I’m older than you,” Pippin beamed at Lindir. “We can be tweens together. Since I’m older, I’ll have to show you the ropes of the business. There’s all sorts of things we can do. We can hang streamers in the dining hall, that will be delightful and very pretty. Or we could put whipped cream in water skins and hide them under the cushions of Elrond’s seat so when he sits down the cream flies all over the place. Oh! And the next time Gandalf falls asleep, we can put some honey in his palm and then tickle his nose with a feather. He’ll slap at his face in his sleep and the honey will get all in his beard.”

“I cannot believe you would consider doing such a thing to Gandalf,” Merry said and didn’t have to add the ‘without me’ that itched to jump off his tongue for everyone there to understand his meaning.

Pippin winked conspiratorially. “We’ll need a look-out, and who better than you? We’ll also need someone to sneak the honey from the kitchens. Sam can do that. They’ll never suspect he’ll want it for trickery.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Sam said. “Don’t you go getting me in the middle of any more of your conspiracies.”

“But this one will be fun,” Pippin prompted and turned back to Lindir. “It’s all very simple really, but it’s quite thrilling all the same. There’s always the risk of getting caught, and that adds to the thrill all the more.”

“Tooks speaking of thrills. How the earth does tremble,” came the very voice of whom they were just speaking.

Having missed Boromir and Erestor for their meeting, Gandalf and Elrond had come in search of them to find out what was delaying them so. They were not surprised to find Boromir surrounded by jesting hobbits, looking both bewildered and on the brink of laughter. Even Erestor was ready to laugh gleefully, and Lindir looked to be considering something very carefully. At the sound of the wizard’s voice, every one of them suddenly became quite serious and unassuming.

“Elrond,” said Erestor, rising gracefully to his feet. Lindir and Boromir rose beside him. “We were on our way to you when we were rather distracted. I do apologize for our tardiness.”

The hobbits smiled up innocently at Elrond and Gandalf.

“And of what thrills were our young companions speaking that held you so enthralled?” asked Gandalf.

“Oh, nothing of any great concern,” said Erestor. He and Boromir said farewell to their friends and followed their lord to his chamber.

Once all the big folk were gone, Merry turned to Pippin and said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Pippin nodded eagerly.

“Do you feel that?” Frodo said, teasing. “The earth just trembled.”  

Merry and Pippin squatted behind the fern, completely hidden from view of the courtyard garden. Lindir did his best to crouch to their level. He did not look very certain about all this, but he had to admit he was rather interested to see if it would work. Pippin whispered near silently, but loud enough for the elf to hear without any problems. Merry peeked through a gap in the ferns, keeping vigil on their target.

“Now, remember, just spread enough of the honey onto the palm to coat it,” Pippin said. “You don’t want it pouring all over the place after all. Then use the feather to just lightly graze the face. You don’t want to be too obvious about it, or you’ll wake him.”

Beside him, Merry nodded. “He’s asleep. He sleeps with his eyes open, so don’t worry about that,” he whispered to Lindir, who nodded.

“Very well,” said Lindir. “I shall return shortly.”

“Good luck,” said the hobbits.

They gathered at the gap and watched as the elf diligently crossed the courtyard, making not a single sound. Lindir paused just short of the bench where Gandalf lay asleep and looked about for witnesses. Seeing none, other than the two he knew to be hiding behind him, he leaned over and carried out the instructions to perfection. At the first attempt with the feather, Gandalf twitched his nose and mumbled incoherently. At the second attempt, Gandalf used his un-sabotaged hand to bat away the offending feather.

“Here it comes,” said Pippin, still whispering.

“Third time pays for all,” Merry agreed as Lindir flicked the feather over Gandalf’s nose a last time. Gandalf woke suddenly and wiped his honey-covered hand in the elf’s face. Merry and Pippin, safe behind the fern on the other side of the garden, howled with laughter.

“You fell for it!” said Pippin gleefully. “He fell for it, Merry!”

“See? I told you having a younger cousin is fun,” Merry said, and the two hobbits jumped up and dashed away before either the elf or Gandalf could think of coming after them.

Lindir stood in front of Gandalf, honey dripping from his eyelashes, down his cheek to his chin and onto his dress robe, astonished that the hobbits had been fooling him and not the wizard the whole time. He felt rather foolish indeed for having ‘fell for it’ as they said.

Gandalf just chuckled and handed the elf a handkerchief. “Never trust a Took or a Brandybuck,” the wizard advised and left the elf to find a basin in which to wash his hands before the dinner bell. As he passed by the open window of Elrond’s chambers, he spotted several elves cleaning cream from the walls and floors, and Elrond scowling at his chair. Gandalf chuckled anew. Rivendell would never be the same.

GF 9/2/06

In “Tea With Hobbits” Boromir refers to a time he was punished and had to polish all the swords in the Citadel armory by himself. That story can be found in my GamgeeFest Keepsakes, chapter 16, A Valiant Deed.