For Dreamflower, who suggested that a discussion of gift-giving customs would be fun. This chapter isn't a barrel of laughs, I'm afraid, but I did my best.

“Giving gifts was a personal matter, not limited to kinship. It was a form of ‘thanksgiving’, and taken as a recognition of services, benefits, and friendship shown, especially in the past year.” ~ Letter #214 
 
  

Chapter 7: A Gift for the Byrding

The skies hung grey overhead as leaves of amber and scarlet rained down from the trees to cover the lawns of the courtyards. The wind blew crisp and cold, carrying the sharp scent of fires burning in the hearths throughout the Last Homely House. Elves sat inside, in the library, studies and parlors, or on benches lining the balconies where they could look out at the chill mid-autumn day and still be warm themselves. They read or painted or sang or talked quietly with each other as they so wished, enjoying the restful quiet of Rivendell, while outside a group of four hobbits, one man, a dwarf and a wizard stood around many emptied barrels of cider.

Boromir and Gloin placed various tall objects of wood atop the barrels: cups, bookends, blocks, sculptures of simple design. The hobbits bent to the ground, gathering small pebbles and stones, and Gandalf stood to the side, watching them all with a twinkling in his cunning eyes. All of them wore cloaks, scarves and caps against the cold, and their cheeks and noses were pink from the wind.

“You better hope none of those objects can be broken,” Gandalf said, his breath misting before him. “Those bookends you chose are over a thousand years old.”

“Lindir said we were free to use them,” Merry said.

“Did you explain the purpose for which you would be using them?” Gandalf asked.

“Sure we did. We told him we would be demonstrating our targeting skills,” Merry said. “He doesn’t mind if they get a bit scuffed up. They’re only bookends after all and they’re plain enough.”

“Still, maybe we should find something that isn’t quite so ancient,” Frodo said, wearily eyeing the simple pinewood bookends with an oblong base and crescent-shaped back. The bookends had no decoration but for their design and when they were placed back to back, the crescents came together to form a perfect circle with a hollowed oblong center that mirrored the base.

“Where are we going to find something less ancient here?” Merry pointed out.

“He’s got a point Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. “Still, maybe we should just use the wood blocks.”

“Those are too easy to hit,” Merry said.

“We do not have to hit them with rocks,” Bilbo pointed out. “We could use mud balls. It’ll be messy but mud is easier to clean than scratches are to buff.”

“Good idea Bilbo!” Frodo exclaimed.

“It’d be much safer too,” Boromir noted and everyone laughed.

The rocks were quickly abandoned and Merry dashed off to get a pitcher of water from the kitchens while Sam and Frodo trotted down to the stables to gather some dirt from the corral. In the meantime, the others continued to set up the targets, spacing them out from the targeting line in such a way as to maximize the degree of difficulty for each shot. When Frodo, Sam and Merry returned, they dumped the dirt on the tile floor of the hallway and slowly poured the water into it until the mud was the consistency they were looking for, moist enough to form into balls but hard enough that they wouldn’t fall apart in midair.

“That’s going to take some cleaning,” Sam said.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m sure there’s a mop and a broom around here somewhere,” Frodo said. “In fact, I know there are, after that prank Merry and Pippin talked Lindir into playing on Elrond.”

“Where is Pippin?” Bilbo asked now. “It’s odd for him to miss this.”

“I looked for him in the kitchens but he wasn’t there,” Merry said with a shrug. “He’s probably off having fun of his own somewhere.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to leave that lad on his own?” Gloin asked. He had a feeling that the young hobbit would be better off being supervised than dashing about the halls alone, getting into all sorts of mischief.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Merry advised. “However much trouble he can get into on his own is nothing compared to how much he can get into when I’m helping him.”

“Is that supposed to be reassurance then?” Gandalf said with a chuckle. “Perhaps it is you who needs to the supervision, if that’s the case.”

“You think so? Well in that case, supervise this,” Merry said and let a mud ball fly. It sailed through the air and hit a wood block that stood on the middle barrel in the first of four rows. The block tipped over and fell, taking a couple of the other blocks with it.

“Very good Merry,” Frodo commented, an idea forming in his mind. “This could be a new form of draughts, if we lined up the targets correctly and they were shaped like pins.”

“Only instead of rolling a ball at them, we’re throwing one,” Merry nodded. “That could be harder than actual draughts. That game is a terrible bore.”

“If we’re starting the contest, I suggest everyone get behind the line,” Bilbo said, shaking his head at Merry for beginning when their friends were still standing on the target field. The last thing they needed was another accident, though admittedly not much harm could happen with mud. But then, one might have said the same about pinecones until last week.

Boromir, Gloin and Gandalf repositioned themselves behind the line. Boromir stooped and made a few of his own mud balls, and Gloin and Gandalf got ready to keep score on pieces of parchment. Gloin scratched three lines next to Merry’s name. “Merry goes first then. Who’s second? Remember, you can aim for any item on any barrel, not just the ones closest to you. The further away, the higher the score.”

“The barrels in the front row count as one point per item,” Gandalf reminded. “The items in the second row are two points per item, and so on to the fourth row.”

“We won’t be able to be knocking over those bookends with mud balls,” Sam points out.

“The points will count toward the first person to hit them, but if anyone hits them after that, they’ll get equal points deducted from their score,” Merry suggest.

“Hazards,” Boromir said. “That should make things interesting.”

The others agreed to this condition heartily, each one feeling more competitive now that the game was starting. Merry especially had a gleam in his eyes.

“I’ll go next,” Frodo said. He rolled his mud ball between his hands, perfecting the sphere as he eyed the targets and calculated the best throw. The bookends were both in the third row and impossible to get to right now, unfortunately. He let his ball fly and knocked over two objects on a barrel in the second row instead.

“Four points for Frodo,” Gandalf said, and scratched four lines next to Frodo’s name.

“Show off,” Merry muttered, and Frodo smiled innocently as Sam prepared to go next.

The game was well under way by the time Gimli entered the second-floor hallway leading toward the courtyard and the spiraling staircase that would take him down to it. He could hear the sounds of the merry competition taking place, both the laughter and the encouragement, as well as the exclamations of success when a difficult shot was executed. He hurried his feet toward the staircase and in his haste he almost missed the small figure sitting against the bole of a tree that grew through the middle of the hallway floor. He looked back and blinked in surprise to see Pippin sitting there, his eyes closed as he listened to the contest below.

“Master Pippin,” Gimli said. “What are you doing up here, laddie? I figured you’d be right in the thick of things.”

Pippin opened his eyes and looked up at the dwarf. He shrugged and not a hint of his usual cheer could be detected. “I’m not much in the mood for playing right now.”

“Why ever not?” Gimli asked, curious to discover what could make a cheerful hobbit so glum.

“It’s my da’s birthday today,” Pippin said and sighed heavily. In his hands was a folded piece of rumpled parchment that he now twirled between his fingers. “He’s 85 now.”

“Is that a year of special significance to hobbits?” asked Gimli.

“No, he’s just 85,” answered Pippin.

Gimli abandoned all thought of getting to the competition and sat next to Pippin against the tree. He didn’t say anything at first and simply offered the comfort of his company until the third time Pippin sighed in the space of a minute. Clearly, the lad wished to speak about whatever was ailing him. Gimli cleared his throat and glanced sideways at the youngest hobbit. “Feeling a might homesick are you?”

Pippin nodded. “I was going to make my father some arrows for his bow,” he said glumly. “And this would be the year he gave me my own pipe.” He sighed again and drew his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees. “I wonder what they’re doing right now. Probably getting ready for the party tonight. Everyone in Tookland will be invited, and Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda will come. They would have brought Merry with them, and we would have had fun helping with the decorations and trying to sneak cupcakes and such.”

“That sounds like a wonderful time indeed,” Gimli agreed.

“I hope Sam’s not right, about them thinking we’re dead because we went into the Old Forest,” Pippin said. “I know Merry left his folks a letter. I was going to leave my parents one but then I found this at the bottom of my pack when we got here.”

He handed the parchment to Gimli. The dwarf took it and noticed on closer inspection that the parchment was quite wrinkled and battered. There was even a water stain where a corner had fallen off, leaving a jagged edge in its absence. When Pippin nodded, Gimli opened the letter and read the large, rounded script.

Dear Mum and Da,  

I had to go away with Merry and Frodo and Sam. I’ll be back shortly. Well, maybe not shortly but I’ll be back when I get home.  

Love,
Pippin.

Gimli grunted to hide his chuckle, then folded the letter and handed it back to Pippin. “I reckon Merry’s folks would share his letter with your parents,” he assured, and silently thought that Merry’s letter would be far more informative and helpful at any rate.

“I know, but I wanted them to hear it from me, so they wouldn’t think it was all Merry’s idea and I just went along with him like I always do,” Pippin said. “I didn’t want them to worry.”

“They’d have worried anyway, lad. That’s what parents do,” Gimli said.

“But that’s just it! It’s my da’s birthday and he’s at home thinking we’re dead, and we left the Shire just four days before my mum’s birthday and she didn’t have this to tell her I was all right,” Pippin said, his face crumpling as tears ran hot down his cheeks. He choked back a sob only to fling his arms around Gimli’s neck and hide his face in the startled dwarf’s tunic.

Gimli quickly shook his shocked panic aside. He lifted a hand to Pippin’s shoulder and gave it a couple of tentative pats. “There, there, laddie,” he muttered but couldn’t think of anything else to say. He hoped desperately that Pippin's cousins would notice him missing soon and come to find him. He had a feeling Pippin would be much better off telling all this to Merry than to himself.

Only his cousins never came. The competition continued undeterred downstairs in the courtyard, and slowly Pippin’s sobs ceased into hiccups. “There, there,” he repeated and patted Pippin’s shoulder a few more times. “If you’re missing your home and family that much, I’m sure Elrond could still find you escorts back to the Shire.”

Pippin straightened at that and looked at Gimli in horror, ignoring for the moment the tears and grime on his blotched face. “And leave Frodo? I could never do that,” he insisted. “I promised to stick by him to the end and I meant it, even if that means marching into Mordor myself. The only way I’m going home is in a sack. I just wish there was some way we could get letters back home to let everyone know we’re all right.” Then he pulled a handkerchief from his breeches pocket and wiped his face dry and blew his nose.

“Letters will be no easier to transport than a hobbit in a sack,” Gimli said lightly in his grumbling manner. “Elrond won’t send his people on such a journey to deliver a post.” They sat in silence for a while then, listening to the competition below. Merry was roaring with glee.

“I hit the hazard first!” he exclaimed and Pippin grinned to imagine the dance of triumph his cousin was likely performing.

“You only hit one of them Merry,” Frodo said coolly and a moment later he and Sam were cheering.

“Good shot, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said as Bilbo exclaimed, “That’s my lad!”

A few more minutes passed during which Gimli and Pippin listened to the contest. Pippin was smiling now but he looked no closer to getting up than he had before, and Gimli couldn't very well leave him there in such a mood. Then Gimli had a sudden thought and hastened to share it.

“You know, young master, Elrond might not send his people West just for the sake of a letter, but they are still going West to the Grey Havens. From talking to Sam, they often take a road through your country to get there. I don’t know when such an expedition will be heading out next. It might not be until all of this is over and you’re already back home.” He paused to make sure that Pippin understood this point before continuing. “However, should an expedition happen to set off before the Quest is ended, they might be able to carry a few letters to your home then.”

Pippin brightened immediately as hope returned to him. “You think so?” he asked. “Oh, I hope they send someone soon then. Do you think it’s likely? Do you think Elrond would agree to it? Elves don’t care much about the troubles of other folk. Even Gildor didn’t want to travel with us long, having his own business to take care of, and running away from Black Riders is much more important business than delivering a few letters.”

“I’d have that young Baggins ask, if I were you,” Gimli hinted with a wink. “No one seems able to tell that lad no.”

“That’s true,” Pippin agreed. “Even in the Shire, the only ones who ever told him no were the S-Bs, until he offered to sell them Bag End that is. Then they couldn’t say yes fast enough. I’ll bring it up to Frodo tonight. It’s a long shot to be sure, but it’s better than no shot. And speaking of shots…”

They stood up and went down to the courtyard, where the game was nearing an end. The others didn’t notice their presence until Bilbo knocked over the last block and Gloin and Gandalf were busy tallying their scores. Merry approached them, cheer in his face but there was also a hint of worry in his eyes as he took in his cousin’s rumpled appearance.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, throwing an arm around Pippin’s shoulder. “Thank you for rounding him up, Gimli. I’ve often said this lad needs his own shirriff to keep him from wandering astray. It seems like we finally found you one, and just in time too. Gandalf and Gloin are about to announce me as the winner.”

“You’re overly confident, cousin,” Frodo laughed. “I believe they will soon be announcing me as the winner.”

“And I believe that I’m in need of a short nap,” Bilbo announced, happily but tiredly. The game had been enjoyable but it had worn him out sooner than he would have thought.

“Maybe we could play again, now that I’m here,” Pippin said and the others eagerly agreed.

“You can take my place then, lad,” Bilbo said against a yawn.

Just then, Gandalf cleared his throat and looked at the hobbits, dwarves and Boromir from under his bushy eyebrows. “We’ve counted the scores and the winner is… Boromir.”

A shocked pause was followed by a whoop from Boromir and more shocked silence from the hobbits. “What?!” Merry finally exclaimed. “Boromir? Did you count correctly?”

“I’ve been around for over three thousand years, Meriadoc. I believe I have learned to count in that amount of time,” Gandalf chuckled.

“That’s not fair!” Merry argued. “He’s taller than us. He could hit the items in the back while we were still working on the ones in the front!”

“So it appears that hobbits don’t always have the advantage after all,” Boromir laughed, and everyone but Merry laughed with him.

Merry glowered and finally Frodo clapped him supportively on the back. “Come now, Merry-mine. Do we need to talk again about you being too competitive?” he began.

“This is a game, Frodo. You’re supposed to be competitive during a game,” Merry interjected. “Since Pippin wants to play, we’ll have another round, but to make it fair I think we should be allowed to stand on crates so we’re all at equal height. Then we’ll see who wins the next match.”

“In that case, it’s only right to have a representative for the dwarves,” Frodo said. “Gimli can take my place, if he wishes.” Frodo went to Bilbo's side and helped the old hobbit keep on his feet. “I’m going to take Bilbo back to his room and see him settled. I’ll be back.”

“Very good, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said and helped the others reset the targets.  

That night at dinner, as Merry celebrated his (narrow) victory over Boromir, the subject of birthdays came up yet again but for an entirely different reason.

Merry was sulking. He did not feel his victory over Boromir was as great as it could have been and he would have insisted on another rematch if his friends had let him. They were teasing him still as they passed the dinner rolls across the table for seconds.

“Is young Master Merry always so competitive?” asked Gimli with a sideways glance at the bristling Brandybuck. He noted that Merry was merely tolerating his friends’ teasing, and just barely at that, so Gimli assumed that Merry was not used to losing, or least losing gracefully.

The hobbits (except Merry) laughed heartily. “You have no idea,” Frodo said.

Even Boromir nodded. “From the way he approaches his lessons, and from all the stories I’ve heard over the last month, I’d say that Merry is quite the perfectionist, and perfectionists do tend to be quite competitive.”

“I just like things to be done a certain way,” Merry said with what dignity he could still muster.

“That he does,” Pippin agreed, a twinkle in his eyes. “Take that time at Vinca’s twenty-eighth birthday party for example. He absolutely insisted that the only way to rob Gordi of his breeches was to run up behind him and pull them down around his ankles, and that could only be done as soon as Gordi arrived and not a moment later or a moment sooner because that would be the only time that everyone would be looking at him. We succeeded, but can you believe Merry lectured me for nearly half-an-hour afterwards because I dallied and waited until after Gordi was done saying his hellos? I thought it would be better if Gordi at least be allowed to greet Estella first before we publicly humiliated him, but Merry didn’t agree.”

“The whole point of getting Gordi just as he walked in the door was that he would then have to greet everyone after being humiliated and he would have been too flustered to remember Estella’s name,” Merry said, ignoring everyone else’s laughter.

“Merry, they’ve known each other from faunthood,” Frodo chuckled. “I doubt very much Gordi would have forgotten her name.”

“Well, we’ll never know now, will we?” Merry said.

“Did you end up having to wash dishes that night?” Boromir asked.

“Yes, and Vinca made sure that all the plates were as dirty as possible,” Pippin said. “She even smeared a piece of the birthday cake all over a stack of clean plates.”

“Your exchange of presents must have been interesting that night,” Gimli stated, to which the hobbits only looked at him questioningly.

“Exchange?” Boromir said.

“We don’t exchange presents,” Sam said.

“But Master Pippin said earlier…” Gimli began.

“No, I just wasn’t clear,” Pippin interjected and hastily continued before his cousins could ask any further questions. He didn't exactly want them to know the reason he had been late to the competition. They had enough on their minds without adding his woes to them. “We don’t exchange gifts. The byrding, that is the hobbit whose birthday is being celebrated, does receive gifts but those are given by the day before the birthday, or at the latest by noon of the Day. The byrding then gives gifts on the Day and at the party to his guests.”

“And that’s not an exchange?” Boromir asked.

“No,” Pippin said.

“Interesting,” Boromir said. “Among my people, the birthday person only receives gifts, he doesn’t give them.”

“Not even at his birthday party?” the hobbits asked.

“The party is given by his family or closest friends. The birthday person need only show up and eat and enjoy the good company,” Boromir clarified. “The guests bring their gifts to the birthday person at the party and… What?”

Bormoir broke off immediately for the hobbits were looking at him with expressions of horror and shock. He wasn’t sure what he had said to upset them so but he had a feeling that it was going to be something complicated.

“The guests bring their gifts to the party?” Merry asked, as if he couldn't believe he had heard correctly. “They’re not opened at the party, are they?”

“Well, usually they are,” Boromir said, “unless there are a great many presents, then only the ones given by the immediate family are opened.”

For the first time since Boromir had met them, the hobbits forgot all about their food as they continued to stare aghast at the man.

Finally, Pippin gathered his wits and asked, “But what if someone can’t afford as good a gift as the others? He’ll be humiliated to have everybody see it.”

“Yet having his breeches pulled down around his knees is not humiliating?” Gimli asked with a short laugh. He would never understand the logic of hobbits.

“That’s just a prank,” Sam said. “It’s not a nice thing to do, but it’s nothing that he can help. What he chooses to give to the byrding though, that’s personal and if it’s not as good as what others could afford, it would be displayed and made known to everyone if it were opened at the party.”

“Why wouldn’t it be equal to the other presents?” Boromir asked.

“Well, a servant can hardly afford to give the same as a house-owner could,” Frodo answered.

“A servant wouldn’t be a guest though. He would be working if he's there at all,” Boromir said and didn’t realize his error until the hobbits’ expressions changed from horrified to mildly insulted. All except for Sam, who was unbothered by the comment, for it was as true to most hobbits as it was to men. Boromir amended his statement, “Or at least, that is the way of things in Gondor.”  

“Do you never give your servants anything?” Frodo asked out of curiosity.

“Honestly, I don’t even know most of our servants’ names, much less their birthdays,” Boromir admitted a bit shame-faced. “They are given extra stipends at the winter solstice.”

“Well that’s something,” Pippin commented politely. “Still, I can’t imagine taking a present to a party. That’s just beyond rude. The only thing worse than that would be taking a gift to a wedding. It’s considered grand-standing. You’re pretty much telling the byrding, or the newlywed couple, that you are more important than they are, not to mention that bringing the gift then leads to the unwrapping of the present in front of everyone, which also tells all the other guests that you think you’re more important than all of them and that your present is by far the best one to be given.”

“It’s incredibly presumptuous,” Frodo said. “Not even the S-Bs would dare to be so uncouth. Giving and opening gifts at the party is just not done.”

“Yet Pippin said that the byrding gives gifts to his guests,” Gimli pointed out.

“That’s different. The byrding is the one who throws the party, and handing out party gifts is part of that. No host worth his mushrooms would be caught at the door without a gift in hand,” Merry replied. “Those gifts are opened upon receipt, so as not to insult the byrding, and they are usually something that the byrding made or grew in his garden, or it could be a mathom.”

“Mathom?” Boromir and Gimli asked together.

“A mathom is somewhat you've no immediate use for but don’t want to be tossing away,” Sam explained. “Tossing things away is just wasteful really and it’s never done. Everything can be used for something. But as for mathoms, if you’ve room in your house, the mathoms are kept in their own room so as not to clutter up the rest of the house, or you could keep them up at the Mathom-house in Michel Delving; it's a sort of museum. Mostly, you just hold onto the mathom for a couple of years and then pass it on, and hopefully not to the same person as gave it to you!”

“What sorts of things do you consider to be mathoms then?” Boromir asked

“Just about anything can be a mathom. Swords and the like are the most common,” Merry said. “Those wouldn’t be given as gifts though; rather they would be heirlooms and they would be displayed in the home over the hearth or in the study.”

“Those are also the most usual display in the Mathom-house. Bilbo kept Sting there for years before he left the Shire,” Frodo added.

“A mathom you would give as a gift would be jewelry, clothing or other accessories, timepieces, small furniture such as tables or lamps, crockery, books or stationery. You'd give them to whoever would like them most or where they could do the most good,” Merry finished.

Boromir was again struck by the vast difference between hobbits and men. Men would never consider a sword to be an object of no use. The idea of giving away keepsakes and small treasures was also foreign to him. Even if someone had no use for their keepsakes and whatnots, they were often reluctant to let them go. The only time one might consider doing such a thing was when a child moved out and needed help decorating their own apartments. He didn't doubt that the same would be true for hobbits.

“So then what exactly are your gift-giving customs?” Gimli asked. “Among the dwarves, the birthday person gives the party – hires the help, prepares the food and entertainment – but as with men, he receives presents rather than gives them. Only friends and family are invited to the party, though servants can certainly be friends. Gifts are not expected from friends, though usually some small token of hand-craft is given. If the gift-giver is a clan-leader, the gift is expected to be more extravagant. If the gift-giver is a parent, grandparent or sibling, the gift is to contain a small gem.”

“Our customs are a bit more complex than that,” Frodo said. “As mentioned already, the byrding does receive gifts, but that can only be expected from relatives within six degrees of relation – your second cousins or closer kin. Because so many of the clans have long ago moved away from their folklands, an additional rule to this has been added, so that now you are only required to give a gift if you are of the necessary relation and live under twelve miles from the byrding. This is because gifts are to be given in private at the byrding’s home, which allows the giver to give a present that is both within their means and equal to their affection. Since they must offer the gift in person, this can only properly be done prior to the Day.”

“Frodo breathed a sigh of relief when the S-Bs moved to Southfarthing,” Pippin added with a laugh. “They’re what we call twelve-mile cousins. If they live even twelve miles and an inch from the byrding, they won’t visit to give a gift.”

“Which is why everyone tries to be twelve miles and two inches away from them when their birthdays approach, just to be safe,” Merry supplied.

“Also because they lived so far away, I was no longer required to invite them to my parties,” Frodo said with much relief. “They may not have meant it to be, but their moving away was truly the best present they ever gave me. But as I was saying, to be properly received, gifts must be given by the day before the byrding’s birthday. When a gift is given on the Day – and again, before noon at the latest – then it is usually given by a relative who had to travel further than twelve miles to attend the party.”

“But the gifts are never given at the party because that is disrespectful to the host,” Boromir supplied.

“Precisely, and the gifts are never displayed for that would defeat the purpose of giving them in private,” Frodo continued.

“Were these gifts also made or handed down, as the party gifts are?” Gimli asked, finding all this discussion of gift-giving to be quite mind-boggling. So far, he liked Boromir’s method of gift-giving best, next to his own of course.

“That’s the rule,” Merry said. “The only one who was in the habit of giving gifts that weren’t made, grown or handed-down was Bilbo. He didn’t earn the name Mad Baggins for nothing!”

“Do friends ever give gifts to the bryding or is it just relatives?” Boromir asked, as equally mind-boggled as Gimli. The hobbits had more rules for gift-giving than men did for engaging in warfare.

“If they want to they can, but it’s not expected,” Frodo said. “Servants are likewise not expected to give a gift, though they might cook their master’s favorite breakfast foods on the morning.” He grinned appreciatively at Sam, who blushed and fiddled with the crumbs on his plate.

“As for giving gifts, that depends on the hobbit’s age and station,” Merry continued. “Faunts and other young children give a gift of wildflowers to their parents. Juniors and inmates, those being older children or servants who live in the master’s home and so have no property of their own, are not required to give gifts, though they usually do anyway according to their means and affections. Again, such gifts were usually made or grown. Farmers and the like almost always give samples of their produce as gifts.

“The only hobbits who are expected to give gifts – and birthday parties – are the master and mistress of a house or hole. They must give presents to everyone under their roof or in their service, as well as nearby neighbors and their friends. Also, if anyone has done them a special service in the last year, they too are to be given a gift. 

“The party is a different matter, as we already stated. The byrding hosts the party, so he supplies all the food and entertainment. Party gifts are given to all those who are invited to attend. Most brydings choose to combine their birthday gift and the party gift into one present when they can. Should anyone be unable to attend the party, they are sent a token invitation with a gift of food or drink that is to be a sample of the party-fare.”

“Is that all?” Boromir asked after Merry stopped talking and none of the other hobbits ventured to add anything else.

“That pretty much explains everything,” Pippin said. “There are certain other traditions that come with certain milestone birthdays. A hobbit’s coming of age is of course a rather extravagant event. Other regions have their own traditions, right Merry?”

“Frodo and Sam swear that in Hobbiton, it’s a tradition that on a hobbit’s twenty-fifth birthday, his friends get him drunk and dress him in a frock,” Merry said.

“It is,” Frodo said simply.

“You never did that to Pippin,” Merry argued.

“But he already knew about it, sir,” Sam pointed out.

“Besides, Pippin was twenty-six before he could drink and there is no tradition for a twenty-sixth birthday,” Frodo added.

“I was nearly twenty-six when you put me in that frock,” Merry said.

“You’re the one who hounded me the whole visit to take you drinking,” Frodo said. “I’m glad to say you never hounded me again after that.”

“There’s also a lad or lass’s twenty-eighth birthday,” Sam interjected before Merry could begin the old argument again. “A lad or lass can begin courting when they turn 28, so that birthday is usually quite special. The byrding dances with all the lasses, or the lass with all the lads, who are also 28 or older and not presently courting. At the end of the dance, they kiss.”

“That’s not exactly the best tradition,” Pippin said, wrinkling his nose up at the thought of some of the lasses he’d had to kiss at his twenty-eighth birthday party. The others laughed with him and they went on to share many memories of birthdays past.  

Merry knocked on Pippin’s door later that night. When no answer came, Merry slipped inside the room and found his cousin standing on the balcony, wrapped in a fleece blanket two sizes too big for him. Half of the blanket trailed across the floor behind him, indicating the direction he had walked. Merry followed the tail of the blanket to the desk in the corner of the room. A blank piece of parchment and a lit candle sat abandoned on the desk.

“Pip,” Merry said. He stepped around the blanket and stood next to his cousin, looking out at the darkened landscape. A light snow was falling. “Sam says the snow won’t last. Tomorrow, we’ll have to get up early and see if there’s enough to play in before it melts.”

Pippin nodded. A moment later, he sniffled and Merry noticed then that he was silently crying. Merry expected as much, what with all their talk of birthdays; it had not escaped his attention what day it was. He draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders and pulled him close.

“It can’t be helped Pippin,” Merry said quietly. “They might think we’re dead. At the very least, they’re steaming mad that we took off the way we did, but they’ll get on without us until we can get home and set everything to straights again.” They stood watching the snow for a while, Pippin silently weeping on Merry’s shoulder. Then Merry continued. “My father’s birthday was last month, the day we were camped at those stone trolls. Mother’s birthday is coming up in a few months. I thought about leaving parcels for them at the post master’s, to be delivered on the eve of their birthdays, but then I thought that might only hurt them more, so I didn’t do it. Now I wonder if I made the right decision. I can’t be sure about that. All I can be sure about is that Frodo needs us, and this is too important for regrets.”

Pippin nodded but his tears would not abate. Merry rubbed his back and shoulder and they watched as the snow grew thicker and heavier, falling faster so that it resembled a white flowing curtain.

“At least you won’t cause your father any headaches tonight,” Merry went on after a time. “Remember last year, you dropped that warm taffy on his feet and he had to shave off all his foot hair.”

Pippin snickered.

“And remember the year, you probably don’t remember, you were seven or eight and you had made Uncle Pally an ash tray but all it really looked like was a clump of lumpy baked clay.”

Pippin snickered again. “He still has that in his study. He uses it as a paperweight. Remember that year Uncle Saradoc gave you your first pipe and we almost set the parlor rug on fire?”

They both laughed hard at that memory. “You were so scared, your eyes were popping clear out of your head all the next day,” Merry added.

“You singed your eyebrows,” Pippin added, but he sobered quickly. “Da would have given me a pipe this year.”

“Pippin, you already have two pipes,” Merry said. 

“But his would have been special.” Pippin returned his head to Merry’s shoulder and Merry slowly steered him toward the bed. They sat at the edge of the mattress and continued to watch the flurry. “Gimli said there’s an off chance we might be able to send letters home with the Elves, if any leave for the Grey Havens before we return from the Quest. I was trying to write a letter to my parents but I can’t think what to say. What can I say? ‘Sorry for leaving so suddenly, but Frodo was in peril danger and I had to go to help him. If I’m not back in a year, give my rock collection to Pearl?’ That’s about all I’ve come up with but I can’t write that.”

“How about you tell them the things you miss about them?” Merry said. “That will mean much more to them. I think I’ll write one of my own also. Sam will want to write home as well. Gaffer can get a post messenger to read it for him. And thank you.”

“For what?” Pippin asked.

“For not leaving your rock collection to Pervinca. The lads of Tookland will sleep easier for that,” Merry jested.

Pippin smiled wistfully. “That they will.”

“Come on, let’s get you in bed. You’ll feel better after a good night’s rest,” Merry said.

“No, I want to write that letter,” Pippin insisted. “Will you read it for errors when I’m done?”

“Of course. Do you want me to stay with you?”

“I’ll be all right. I sort of need to be alone right now.”

“Very well. I think I’ll start on my own letter then,” Merry said. “Come find me when you’re done.”

Pippin waited until the door clicked closed behind Merry before he shuffled over to the desk, the blanket still trailing behind him and coming to puddle around his feet as he sat down. He rubbed his nose absently as he stared at the blank parchment. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts as best he could, then he took the fountain pen in hand and began writing.

Dear Mum and Da,  

You might not ever see this but in case you do I wanted to say sorry for missing your birthdays and making them sad. I don’t want you to be sad, even if I’m sad from missing you so much. I can’t tell you why we left, only that it’s really important to everyone that we help Frodo right now. The world will be better for it if we’re successful. I promise it wasn’t just for adventure and it wasn’t a whim, so when we do get home I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put me on restriction until I’m 33, though I’ll understand it if you do.  

Tell Pearl that I miss her cooking and her funny stories, and don't get mad at her but sometimes she would sneak me extra sweets and I miss that also. Tell Pimmie that I miss her cucumber sandwiches. There’s all kinds of wonderful food here, but no one here can make cucumber sandwiches like Pimmie can. I miss Fendon too. He was teaching me to track deer before we left and it’s really come in handy. Not with tracking deer but for other things. He's a good brother-in-law to have around. Tell Vinca that I miss her too. I wouldn’t have thought that possible, but I miss the way she always gives me a hard time and doesn’t let me get away with things. I’d much rather have *her* chasing after me, believe me!  

Mum, I miss your hugs and your smiles and your kisses and the way you smell like wildflowers in the sun. You always have good advice and I could certainly use some of that now, but Merry and Frodo come through in a pinch. Plus Bilbo’s here and he knows a lot about all sorts of things. Da, I miss your lectures and your laughs. You have a laugh similar to a new friend of mine – big and booming, and unexpected because you don’t usually give any hints that it’s coming, which makes it that much more enjoyable. I never noticed that about your laugh until now. 

Anyway, this is the longest letter I’ve ever written and I don’t know what else to say. I love you all and I think about you always. I’m being good and listening to Merry and Frodo and I’m staying out of trouble for the most part. If I can get the recipe for rum cake from the dwarves I’ll include that in this letter. You really should have rum cake. It’s very delicious. Just, don’t eat too much or you’ll dream of giant chickens.  

Love,
Pippin  

PS - Don’t tell Vinca I said I like the way she annoys me. When I do get back, I don’t want her to be doubly annoying.

PPS - I'm sorry this letter is so late in coming. It's far past your birthdays and very rude, but I hope you won't mind given the circumstances.

PPPS - I still miss you.

Love again,
Pippin

Pippin let the ink dry as he reread his letter, feeling better already for having written it. He knew there was only a small hope that his parents would ever see it, but for now a small hope was enough.
 
 

To be continued…

GF 11/21/06