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Celeritas' Birthday Bash 2011  by Celeritas

“More tea?” the old pherian said.

Boromir shook his head.  He was beginning to become accustomed to the prodigious appetites of Halflings, but it was a fresher shock seeing one so aged consume for “tea” more than he did at the day-meal.

“How did your people come by this?” he asked.  “Tisanes are popular among some of the nobility in Gondor, but the colour and flavour of this is more like to coffee than it is to those.”

Bilbo—Boromir had not yet learned his father’s name—shrugged.  “We buy it that way.  This is imported from far to the east, and of course it can’t be brought in fresh.  Either you don’t have tea plants in Gondor, or whatever it is that dries them changes their flavour so.”  He frowned.  “That is odd, I thought a land such as yours would trade robustly.”

“We did, once,” said Boromir.  “But so much of our gold now goes to fight the Enemy, and those we traded with long years ago side openly with him.  Let not the splendour of bygone days deceive you, Master Pherian.”

“You’re still a sight wealthier than the line of Isildur,” Bilbo remarked.  He patted the slender volumes that lay next to him again.  “You really don’t care to read history?”

Boromir eyed him sharply.  “I do not care to read for leisure, no.  You are treating those books as if they are a duty.”

“Oh, are they?” Bilbo said innocently.

Boromir leaned forward.  “I may dislike intrigue,” he said coldly, “but I am, in fact, the Steward’s son, and I should be dead now if I did not recognize it when I saw it.  Speak plainly what you mean by these attempts to ‘educate’ me, as you say, about the barren wastes of the North.”

Bilbo did not look particularly intimidated.  “Oh,” he said.  “If you mean that I am testing your character, why, yes, of course I am!  You are to be traveling with my beloved nephew, the son of my dear gardener, the son of Glóin of the Quest for Erebor, Gandalf, and of course the Dúnadan.  Now, all of them can take care of themselves perfectly well, but I am old, and I worry.  And besides, you are frightfully ignorant of the North, and it’s better to get over these prickly issues in comfort and peace, rather than on the road, don’t you think?”

Boromir opened his mouth, and then closed it.  Bilbo was far, far shrewder than he looked.  “Forgive me,” he said.  “In my land, most intrigues are ill-willed.  For your part, you must know that I agreed to dine with you, in part, because I must know see for myself whether an object like—like that—is truly safe in the hands of a Halfling.”

“Not in his hands, perhaps,” said Bilbo, “but in his pockets, certainly.  Especially Frodo’s.  So: you wish to be educated about hobbits—and your first lesson is that you must start calling us that, we don’t go about calling you Doublings, you know—and I wish to educate you about hobbits, and I wish to test your mettle.  Dear me, this might take longer than one meal!  Would you care for tea tomorrow?”

“No,” said Boromir, whose appetite for supper was probably already overwhelmed.  “But my father always said that you could learn much of a people by the games that they play.  Tell me, do they play chess in your homeland?”

“We play draughts,” said Bilbo, “but I learned chess once, long ago.  Haven’t had much opportunity to play it, though, because the Elves seem to think they have all the time in the world to make up their minds…”

“That is just as well,” said Boromir.  “I play it poorly, and my brother is always telling me to improve my craft.”

“Excellent!  Chess tomorrow, then?”

“Chess tomorrow,” said Boromir.  Faramir would be proud of him, on more than one account.  He only hoped he could learn as much from the encounter as Faramir would.



The "doublings" line is poached and slightly distilled from Dreamflower.  I've seen the term "Doubling" in discussion forums also, but I think that was after I had already put the term in cold storage for use in later fic.




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