Pippin scuffed his way along a path that wound through a field of, what was for him, deep grass. If he was hidden ‘twas all the better, he thought. He had seen their looks . . . well, he had seen them then. He had seen how they had looked at him when his stone had plunked and the sound of a hammer had followed the stone’s echos up the walls of the well. It had not been during the next march but at the start of the one after it that all had gone wrong. So horribly wrong. Afterward they were grief stricken, then too busy hurrying, too filled with worry to cast their accusing glances at a guilty hobbit. Dreading pursuit even as they paused for a bit of supper, hurriedly tending to Sam’s head wound as well as Frodo’s bruised side they had pushed themselves hard to reach the eves of the Golden Wood that night.

At first it was exhaustion that had kept Pippin quiet, now it was guilt. He had not looked the others in the eye since they had fled Moria. A shiver ran through him as he thought about what he would see if he did look. He knew. They knew. It was all his fault.

They had been in Lorien awhile now. How long he really couldn’t tell, but it had to be into Solmath by now. He shuffled along on feet that seemed a burden to lift, his eyes on the thin grass of the path just ahead of his toes. The Lady Galadriel had touched his mind and offered him the chance to go back; back home. He had seen the Green Hill country, Great Smials, his parents, his sisters, his cousins . . . No he couldn’t go back, the cousins he loved best in all Middle-earth were here. And yet . . . might they not all be better off without him?

He looked up. He was at the edge of a woods. The smell of leaves that cover the forest floor filled his nose. The air felt crisp. He heard laughter.

Elves. Just Elves. He had grown used to their voices. They had laughed a lot in Rivendell. He shuddered again, his eyes closed. They had not laughed here. Here in Lorien they sang dirges in the branches of the trees, mourning Gandalf who died from the thoughtless action of a "Fool of a Took."

"Tookling."

Pippin’s eyes opened to slits. He thought he heard his name.

"Tookling, mine."

Not quite like when the Lady Galadriel had spoken in his head, yet not quite to his ears the voice came with the sound of rustling leaves. He opened his eyes fully as he walked into the woods on silent feet until the field behind him could no longer be seen.

"Come no further, my young Tookling," the voice danced into his thoughts. "You have naught to fear from me."

Pippin felt light, giddy as he stood swaying slightly in the autumn scented breezes. He could see her. Well, he could sort of see her, enough to know she was not an Elf. She seemed dim and far away or like someone viewed through the mists that sometimes hang in the forests in the autumn of the year. As it would with those mists, a chill feeling moved through him, filling him, surrounding him. Oddly enough, it did not make him cold.

"I will care for my own as best as I am able. This I promised. This I will do." The notes of her voice filled his thoughts. Her slender hand reached out, her touch was like the brush of a breath on his forehead. She smiled. "How like my own dear Took he is," she thought, "from so many of their lives ago." Their eyes met. Pippin felt a wonder, a wildness, a joy, a longing stir within him. "My young Tookling, cast off this drab cloak of guilt. It buries your gift."

"I’ve no gift." His voice sounded dull in his ears.

"You are The Fool."

If he could have, Pippin would have withdrawn his gaze, but he could not. His heart fought to pull away.

"The word hurts you, I know. But The Fool has a subtle wisdom, and sharp is the mind that can find a jest in dire times. The one you hold as brother has need of your jests, lest his self imposed responsibilities become a load that drives him to exhaustion."

Pippin saw in his mind the many times he had helped Merry laugh over something he had carried as a worry.

"The one who bears the Burden needs you as well. Your light heart helps to keep alive in him the hope at the end of his journey." She smiled. "There are questions you have with answers you will never know, for each must travel their own path. The one who fell is beyond you, my young Tookling. His path is so hidden that even the wise of this realm do not see it. All may not be as it seems. There is no fault to be given in what has befallen him." Her voice grew softer. Pippin strained to hear. "This cloak of guilt is not yours to bear. I cast it from you. Be at peace."

To Pippin’s mind came the pitch darkness of Moria with the fearful sensation of the gaping hole of the well behind him. He felt tired, so tired. But he was too serious about not failing at his watch to relax. He was too frightened by the images in his mind of a hideous creature’s hand holding the hammer they had heard tapping for any sleep to come. Then, he heard the old wizard’s voice. "Get into a corner and have a sleep, my lad. You want to sleep, I expect. I cannot get a wink, so I may as well do the watching." There was kindness and concern in Gandalf’s voice. A thick sleepiness wrapped itself around Pippin as he crawled over to the wall of the chamber to lie down near where he knew Merry lay sleeping. His feelings of fear were dulled by Gandalf’s gentle words. He saw Gandalf’s care lined face by the dim light of a glowing chip in the wizard’s hand as he lit his pipe. He looked straight at Pippin. Pippin saw what his later sorrow and guilt had pushed from his mind. There was forgiveness in Gandalf’s twinkling eyes. It washed over Pippin, as comforting as the sleep that carried him away.

"I will care for my own," whispered the melodious voice at the edge of his hearing. "The child of my child whom you hold as a mother helps me care for you as well. Be at peace, my young Tookling falcon."

Merry hurried down the path that Legolas had pointed out to him. The Elf said he had seen Pippin walking slowly along it until he disappeared from sight into the tall grass. Merry’s heart tightened. He felt he had failed his young cousin, that because he had not kept a sharp enough eye on Pip the tween had done some foolish things. Now, Pippin hadn’t been acting like himself. He was quiet, avoiding the rest of the Fellowship. Worst, for Merry, Pippin had been avoiding him.

Merry nearly tripped over Pippin. He was lying on his side across the path at one of its many turnings as it meandered through the field. Merry dropped to his knees beside his cousin, gripped by a sudden fear that Pippin was ill or dead. "Please, just be sleeping, Pippin. Please, please. Just be asleep," he said under his breath. Merry lowered his head to place his ear near Pippin’s mouth, which was slightly open as usual when Pippin was sleeping, hoping to catch the sound of his breathing.

A loud kiss on his cheek set Merry’s ear ringing, then he was flipped onto his back and pinned to the ground.

"Well hello, cousin Meriadoc!" Pippin’s smile lit his face as it hadn’t in days. "I’m starving. Have you anything to eat in your pockets?" Merry screeched and writhed as Pippin tickled him in a mock effort to search his pockets. "Aha! An apple!" A triumphant Pip took a huge bite of the fruit as he rolled off his older cousin to lie beside him in the path. Merry stared open mouthed at this once again boisterous Pippin as he chewed then swallowed the mouthful of apple. Pippin turned his head to look at Merry, seriousness replacing the mirth that had lit his face only moments before. "You aren’t angry with me?"

"No."

"Are the others?"

"No."

" ‘Twas all in my head, then, that everyone blamed me for . . . for . . . Gandalf," Pippin said, his voice and eyes anxious.

Merry rolled onto his side. He reached over to tousle Pippin’s hair, gave his shoulder an affirming squeeze, then let his hand rest on his cousin’s chest over his heart. He looked Pippin squarely in the eyes. "Yes. It was all in your head. And you were avoiding us all, and . . ," Merry sighed. "Well. I’ve been talking to everyone. It seems, in differing amounts, every one of us was blaming ourselves, not each other. I will say you have been the worst about it." He flipped Pippin’s chin with his forefinger then put his hand back on Pippin’s chest. "I understand why. Mind you, no one was happy with you when you dropped that stone, but it was quickly put aside. Strider said he’s quite sure they, the orcs, knew we were there all along. He said all the noise from the collapse of the western gate couldn’t have been missed. They surely would have gone to see what had happened. His feeling is they were afraid of Gandalf with his glowing staff at first, but then grew bolder and waited until they had us where they thought we would be trapped. He said he thinks they tapped with their hammers after your adventure at the well to frighten us. Strider chuckled as he pointed out that it worked." Merry looked down at his hand as he patted Pippin’s chest. He thought about the piece of his handkerchief, stitched to the inside of Pip’s shirt right beneath his hand. "We’ve all been worried about you."

"None more than you," Pippin thought as he covered Merry’s hand with one of his own and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. "I’m sorry for that," he said quietly. "I’ve, well . . . ah . . ." Pippin was thinking fast about what had happened to him, about the misty figure in the woods. He looked around. It all had vanished. Yet he felt better about everything. Better, truth be told, than he had felt in a long time. Frodo needed him. Merry needed him. Perhaps they all needed their "Fool of a Took." Before he only thought he needed them, now it felt good to think he played a special part in all of this. He would just have to be careful with his curiosity. Yes, that was it. Just keep his pointed nose out of things. He quickly stood. Pippin looked around at the tall grass. No sign of woods nor small Lady. No, best not tell Merry he had been seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. "I’ve been walking, thinking and such, and . . . well, I think I’m fine now. Yes," Pippin said. He smiled as he looked up at the sky. "I’m fine now. It’s about time for afternoon tea, judging by the sun. You shan’t get any, Merry, if you aren’t faster than me." Pippin grinned wickedly then broke into his fastest run down the path toward the glade and the Fellowship’s pavilion.

Merry rose to his feet in no great hurry then merely jogged down the path. Tea would be there when he got there. He smiled. More important to him than any tea was Pippin being himself once again.

Saradoc Brandybuck looked at the large, unopened envelope that sat squarely in the middle of his large desk. He was sitting, as he now often did, in a smallish chair on the visitor’s side of the desk. He had a strange reluctance to sit behind the desk in the Master’s chair. Saradoc hated what he was doing. His own actions had brought him to a point where deceptions and falsehoods were to be the standard way of performing his duties as The Master of Buckland. He had never thought in the terms of enemies and allies. Military terms. The terms of war. But now indeed the line was drawn in the soil of his homeland. He had let the enemy in and to him fell the task of doing whatever needed to be done to prevent the total destruction of his people and their land.

The envelope sat there, mocking him with it’s official look. Gold sealing wax with a blood red ribbon holding closed the fine, heavy gauge paper. If all was going according to plan, it held the means to carry out the schemes he hoped would save his people. He had written to Lotho Pimple . . . no, Saradoc snorted, to The Chief of the Shire, imploring that perhaps certain hobbits could be issued permanent permits for travel throughout Buckland. Healers, farriers, drayhobbits to take grain to the mills and fodder to some of the smaller holdings, and joiners to make needed repairs. In the towns, would hobbits need a permit to conduct the usual business of a town? Hardest of all had been asking if he himself as The Master of Buckland might be regarded as The Chief of the Shire’s representative to the hobbits of Buckland and as such, given permission to travel as needed. Saradoc sighed as he reached for the envelope. He had no further plans in mind if this did not work out.

Mr. Brandybuck,

Signed: Lotho Sackville-Baggins, Chief of the Shire

Saradoc lowered the letter to his lap. He drew a deep breath then bowed his head as he let it out in a heavy sigh. What was needed had been given. He hoped that his ruse of asking permission to represent "the Chief of the Shire" had the desired effect of angering Lotho enough that he had not really given much thought to giving Saradoc the other permits. He stood up, walked around the desk, placed the letter and envelope on the desktop, pulled out the large leather chair and sat down.

"Every Master of the Hall has sat in this chair," Saradoc "Scattergold" Brandybuck said aloud. He laid his hand on the papers before him. "I vow, to the hobbits of Buckland, upon the memory of every Master that has been before me, that the office of The Master of Buckland will not cease, will not fail. I will never again sit in a chair meant for visitors. I am, and will be, The Master of Buckland. I love and care for my people and our land. I will not let the people of Buckland down again. I hope this will help them face what lies ahead."

Saradoc allowed of few moments of silence to seal his vow then drew the permits from the envelope. He had a great deal of deceiving The Chief of the Shire to do.

The weather had changed in the few weeks since those frigid cold, snow filled days when Lotho took over the Shire. What took it’s place was no better. The air was heavy with moisture causing the more customary, above freezing, temperatures of the Shire to feel colder than they were. A misanthropic fog hung like a wet wool blanket over the whole Shire. It was caught like shreds of fleece in the bare tree tops of the forest covering the Green Hill country.

The tall windows of the library at Great Smials faced east. It was high in the hill into which the huge smial had been excavated thus offering a panoramic view of the hills as they rolled away to meet the sky at the distant horizon. A wet cloak hung on the fireplace screen before the large open hearth that dominated one wall of the elegant room. A lone hobbit stood gazing out of one of the windows. The drying cloak was his.

Paladin had learned something from his son; that the library at Great Smials was a wonderful place to hide. He needed to hide. He needed to think. He had spent the morning alone on a mission, lurking in tall grass at the edge of fields and picking his way silently through the thick brush of hedgerows. Paladin started to shiver. He left the window. He began to work his jacket and waistcoat around his arm that hung in its sling. He draped them over the screen with his cloak, leaving an open spot where he stood, hoping that his breeches would start to dry out as well. But Paladin did not stop shivering, even as his trousers dried. He was afraid of what he had seen. Afraid of what it meant for the hobbits of Tookland.

It had begun gradually. Tooklanders noticing goods from the rest of the Shire were late in arriving, or did not arrive at all. Expected correspondence did not arrive, the hobbits of the Messenger Service were not seen. It had been a few days after the Gathering Rebellion that reports came to The Took and Thain that the Stock Road was blocked at the borders of Tookland by Lotho’s Ruffians armed with clubs, whips and knives. Several Tooklanders had been arrested and hauled away to the Lockholes as they tried to talk their way past the guards. As days passed high, stout rail fences appeared overnight blocking any farm lane that emptied out onto the Great East Road to the north and the Waymeet-Sackville Road to the west. Then came the news that had driven Paladin out into the bone-chilling damp; the Ruffians were patrolling the perimeter of Tookland.

The Thain of the Shire shuddered for that morning he had seen them himself. Large evil faced Men and Hobbit Sherriffs with feathers in their caps walking along the Tookland side of the Great East Road. Men on horses passed by on the Road itself at regular intervals. As Paladin watched, a farmer and his son had tried to gain the road. They weren’t even within twenty feet of the road when a Sherriff and a Man came up to them on foot to block their way. The Man sounded a note on a loud whistle. Within moments another Man rode up on a horse. He threatened the Tooklanders with his whip, snapping it over their heads. The farmer and his son made a hasty retreat back over their fields, the Ruffians resumed their patrols.

Paladin stepped away from the fireplace to nearly collapse into one of the overstuffed leather chairs that were placed here and there throughout the library. He lowered his head into his hands, running his fingers up into his grey hair where they curled and grabbed at it with a fierce grip. This was not what he had anticipated. He had foreseen some sort of deal being offered by Lotho Pimple. Some sort of tax or tariff placed upon the goods coming into or going out of the Tookland. Business tactics. Paladin had not foreseen military tactics. He had not foreseen a siege. Tookland was not entirely self-sufficient, but they could hold out a long while.

A log on the fire popped loudly. Paladin jumped then gazed into the fire. What had he done? He had been in dread from the moment this had all been mere rumor and speculation. He had felt like a condemned man as he had left his dear Lanti to talk to Lotho’s representatives that day back in Afteryule. "I am out of the realm of my experience. Will you love me if I make a mistake, Lanti? Will you love me if I fail you, fail our family, if I fail the hobbits of the Tookland and the Shire? Will you love me even then?" Those were the words he had spoken that day. He would soon find out if her promise to love him no matter what would hold true. He had made the wrong decision. He had failed.