1.  The Bitter And The Sweet

October 1420 -- The Shire

            “Well now Meriadoc Brandybuck, have you forgotten me then?”  Her voice called through the heavy air of the stable.

            Merry silently continued packing his saddlebags.

            “You were not so shy when last we met,” she said softly, now standing only a few feet behind him.

            “Hello Estella,” he replied as he turned to her with what he hoped was a friendly smile.  Her frown said not.

            “A year I waited for you, off adventuring.  And then another while you set the Shire to rights…  You rode often enough by my father’s house.  Why did you never stop?”

            ‘Oh but I did.  Just not where you could see,’ he almost answered, thinking of the many times he had stopped to watch her simple day.  He knew that she liked to watch the sky lighten in the morning with a cup of tea on the back step; that she laundered in the early hours and weeded the kitchen garden later in the day.  He now knew why she had always smelled of rosemary and sunshine when they used to sneak off after tea, and hold each other shyly behind the barn.

            ‘It seems so long ago….’ He thought.  He shook his head, banishing the memories.

            “I’m not the person I used to be Estella,” he said quietly.  “The things I’ve seen, and done….  There were hard choices, choices that had to be made…”

            Their eyes met in the dim light, and each saw reflected in the other the pain and guilt and fear of souls who’d seen too much.

            “The Shire saw dark times too while you were gone, Merry.  And we all had choices to make,” she answered, voice trembling with emotion.

            He reached out to cup her cheek gently, and she leaned into his caress.

            “I would protect you from that darkness…  It’s what we tried to do.” His eyes were full of unshed tears.  “I’m sorry I was late.”

            “Oh, Merry!” She threw herself into his arms, weeping quietly.  After a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face against her dark curls.  He breathed in the sweet smell of rosemary and sunshine, and started to cry.  Great wracking sobs shook his frame, and she pulled him to a bench and held him close.

            “So many times I thought I’d never make it back, never get out alive…” he whispered, voice cracking.  “We all feared we’d not return, so much death all around and we were so small, so young, so stupid….  There was so little left of me there at the end, falling in a dark dream….  And knowing all the while that I would have to return to tell their families that the others were dead….”

            “But they are not dead, Merry.  And neither are you,” she whispered, kissing the dark scar on his brow.  “And for that I am very glad.”

            He looked at her then, her face washed with tears, and her eyes and mouth sad yet hopeful.

            “It is time to live again, here, at peace,” she said softly.

            “I cannot forget….” He started, shaking his head.

            “No, never forget the trials and the pain, the price of that peace.  But don’t let the bitter bury the sweet.  Live.  Laugh…”

            “And love?” he finished in a whisper.  “Can you love these bloody hands and darkened eyes?”

            “More happened here than you could know, Merry,” she said, eyes downcast.  He noticed that she had started to absently wring the fabric of her skirt.  “You can get blood off of most anything, you know, save silk….” She murmured, distracted by some inner vision or memory.

            He reached out to still her fingers, and she seemed to return to herself.

            “Two small candles together can better light the darkness than each alone.  I love you, Merry, and no word or deed can stop that.”

            He leaned close and gently kissed her.  Her soft sigh brushed against him and she returned his embrace.  He moved his mouth upon hers, tasting, rediscovering her soft sweet breath.  Her lips parted slightly, inviting, and he let his tongue find hers and lost himself in her warmth.

            “Will you share your light, your life with me, always?” he whispered against her cheek.

            Her voice breathed softly across his skin.  “Always…”

2. A Hint Of Light

The stables were dim and still after the riotous afternoon festival outside, and Pippin stopped in the doorway to let his eyes adjust.  The quiet shuffling of ponies in their stalls was the only sound, though he’d seen Merry enter the building some time ago.  Pippin had endured a good hour more of the attentions of every matron in attendance with a daughter near to marriageable age, and still his cousin had not returned.

“Likely forgot me in favor of a nap in the hay,” he muttered to himself, a mischievous grin lighting his face as he imagined a fitting revenge for his troubles.

He came round to the last stall and froze, jesting words forgotten.  Merry sat, shoulders bowed as under a heavy burden, the traces of old tears still apparent on his cheeks.  A dark knot of fear tightened around Pippin’s heart.  Forcing a grin, he sauntered noisily to the bench and plopped down beside his cousin.

“Well, it was a rather nice party until the wolves closed in.  Don’t think I’ll forget you leaving me at their mercy for so long!”  He paused, barely breathing, waiting for a response.

At last, Merry looked up, a small wistful smile upon his lips.  “I’ve been trying to remember…  before.  When we knew nothing of the darkness out there…” he murmured.

Pippin let out a long held breath and, looking closely at his cousin’s face, so familiar he knew it better than his own, he had a glimpse of something Merry had always taken great pains to hide since they had returned:  the haunted look of one beset by memory and regret.

The nights at Crickhollow had rarely been peaceful those first months, and while long days of hard riding, well washed with fine ale, had kept the shadows at bay, too often dawn still found them wide awake.  Of course, Pippin had always known that their endless tour of the Shire was merely a distraction and that the darkness that was stealing Merry’s sleep and peace of mind would need to be faced.  He’d hoped for Frodo’s help, but his older cousin had continued to slip further from their lives, ill health and a quiet sort of desperation sapping the very life from that once bright soul.

Pippin sighed and looked back at Merry, painfully aware that this was no time for wit and mischief, for the joking fool that had always been his role among them.

“I remember,” he said quietly.  “But we don’t need to imagine the music and laughter we left behind anymore.  We’re here.  The Shire is safe again, almost completely recovered in fact, thanks to Sam’s hard work.  Everyone is already forgetting those dark times…” he trailed off, knowing he’d hit on the problem.  Not everyone could forget.

“Not everyone...” Merry replied, echoing Pippin’s thought.  Strangely though, the older hobbit started to smile.  “I think maybe it is time we got to work Pip.  We left more than music and laughter behind, you know.”

 ***   ***   ***

As they trotted down the road towards Buckland, a beautiful, strangely familiar, dark-haired lass watched them pass from behind the low hedge in front of the many windowed face of Budgeford's chief dwelling.  Dark eyes glowed amber in the sun’s dying light.  To Pippin’s great surprise, Merry stopped before her and leaned down to kiss her hand before continuing on.  He caught up to his cousin just past the bend in the road.

“What happened to getting to work and responsibility and all that?” Pippin asked.

“That was part of it…  Hopefully,” Merry replied with a smile.

3.  Home

Merry watched his mother carefully shut the nursery door with a smile, the well-worn storybook tucked under one arm.  Silver glinted in her chestnut curls, more than he remembered even a year ago.  It was neatly pinned up with a pale green ribbon, as befitted a lady of her means and station, and a soft woolen shawl draped over her shoulders.  He had known just where to find her in the first hour after sunset, here in the suite of rooms reserved for the children of the Master of Buckland.  By all rights, it should have stood empty in the last twenty odd years, at least until Merry filled it with his own progeny.  But Esmeralda had lost none of her Tookish stubbornness when she married a Brandybuck, and she did not accept life’s decree that a single child would be her due.  A dozen or more children, orphaned by the vagaries of life, had since been brought up in these rooms, and Brandy Hall remained the refuge of many a wayward cousin.  Merry never begrudged his mother’s generosity, as a similar twist of fate had made Pippin such a large part of his life.

Esmeralda turned to find her son smiling down at her in the flickering light of the hall.

“Merry!” she stammered in surprise.  “You scared the wits out of me, looming there in the shadows!”

“I’m sorry,” he replied with a smile, and he leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back for a visit,” she said softly as they started down the hall, arm in arm.  “You’ve missed supper, but I’m sure we can find you a bite in the kitchens.”

“Any hopes for apple tart?”

“Well, that depends… Where is my scamp of a nephew?  I do hope you’ve not left him to raid the larder, or there’ll be nothing left!” she teased.

“When I left him with Father, he was trying to finesse some of Brandy Hall’s finest applejack to take back to Great Smials.”

“Great Smials….  So he’s off for home at last.”  She turned to her son then, face anxious.  “I don’t know that your uncle would receive you well….  You know he blamed you for Pippin’s absence, and it’ll take more than a few bottles of brandy to soften his heart.”

Merry smiled and pulled her into a gentle hug.

“I’d rather stay home, if you can find me a bed,” he murmured against her ear.

“Find you a bed!  Keep growing and I’ll have to let you lie on the banquet tables,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her shawl.

“Come,” he said, with a chuckle, and put an arm about her shoulders.  “Lets go see if Pip’s stolen the last tart yet!”

 *** *** *** ***

Soon after his cousin’s footsteps had faded down the hall, Pippin let the conversation lapse into silence.  Looking up from the empty glass in his hand, he found his uncle’s gray eyes on him, his expression curious.

“Well, nephew, what do you need to tell me that my son should not hear?”

Pippin carefully set the glass on the side table and sighed.

“I really am returning to Great Smials.  Without Merry.”  He paused a moment.  “We’ve agreed there is work to be done and…  duties each of us must see to.  To be honest, I’ve been itching to return for some months now.  I don’t like the kind of talk coming out of Tookland.  Oh yes,” he continued with a bitter smile in answer to his uncle’s inquiring glance. “Yes, I’ve heard…  The one advantage to being thought an irresponsible scamp is that no one cares what they say or do in your presence.”

“It is clear, at least to me, that you are neither Peregrin,” Saradoc replied.

“But I was…  for far too long, and it will take a lot to change that perception.  I’ve seen a bit of good governance while I was away, and some bad, and I intend to put those lessons to good use.  There are better ways of doing things…”

He sighed and stood, restlessly moving to the sideboard to pour another brandy and pacing back to the fireside.  Saradoc watched the young hobbit curiously.  Whatever he needed to say was clearly difficult for him.

Pippin finally turned back to his uncle and sat down across from him, long legs curled under him in the overstuffed chair.

“Merry…” he began hesitantly, “Merry….  Well, you know him.  He thinks, he broods, he worries…  He can’t let go of, well, all that’s happened these past two years.  Not just what we encountered on the quest, but the aftermath…  and everything that happened here. We just never thought that any harm could reach the Shire, we thought we’d prevented that.  We all felt terrible that we waited so long to come back, and then dawdled on the way…  But Merry really took it to heart and he seems to feel destined to watch helpless while others fall…  There are nights he still walks the gardens in the Houses of Healing, waiting for news, for hope… for the end…” he finished in a whisper, gaze distant.  “When the nightmares come, he’ll not know you or remember in the morning, and some nights he’ll not sleep at all.  You’ll have to draw him out, get him to tell…  He’s still trying to protect me,” Pippin finished with a bittersweet smile.

“And you’d like to return the favor?”

Pippin nodded.

“You have…  You brought him home.”

A heavy silence stretched between them, and Saradoc again wondered what could have done so much to change the lad so powerfully in one short year.  The serious young hobbit before him, tall and lean, features still sharpened by uncertain provender and hard roads, had little in common with the baby faced tweenager who had stolen tarts from the kitchens with alarming regularity.  He suddenly needed very much to see his nephew smile.

“Well, a few bottles of brandy is poor payment for that, but it may get you in the front door at Great Smials.  Your father always appreciated Buckland’s best, if not the Bucklanders themselves.”

“I’ll no doubt be sent back for more in no time,” Pippin replied with a grin.  “The cooks are far less lenient with pastry thieves in the Thain’s kitchens than they are here at Brandy Hall!”

4. Letters

  Two letters came by post that morning and Estella had quietly slipped out to the back garden with hers.  She sat among her rosemary bushes by the fence and stared at her name, written in dark ink in bold elegant strokes on the expensive parchment.  She opened the envelope and smiled, quickly reading the short verse on the single page.

"In the garden my love is the fairest of flowers

The Sun shines in her eye and lays soft on her hair

Though I watch from afar in the morning’s first hour

My heart lies evermore in the rosemary there."

   She felt soft lips press a kiss against her neck and heard Merry’s deep voice whisper “Good morning, love…” in her ear.

  She turned and kissed his cheek with a grin.  “Should you really be lurking in my garden uninvited?  Somehow, I don’t think my father would approve.”

  “I’ve written to ask permission to call on you, but I simply could not wait for the answer…” he replied, catching up her hand and pressing each fingertip to his lips.

  “This week has dragged on for years…  I thought you might have forgotten me again,” she teased, tugging on a honey-brown curl.

  “But I never did,” he murmured, reaching into his shirt.  He unfolded a thin square of parchment, worn and lined, to reveal a small sprig of rosemary twined about a dark curl of her hair.  “Two years ago, we sat here together.  I knew I would soon be leaving and I couldn’t tell you, not even to ask you to wait for me.  But I did ask for a token.”

  “And I teased you about reading too many old tales.  I thought you were just being romantic and silly….”

  “Well, I kept it close to my heart, to Minas Tirith and back…  And that is where I will keep you,” he finished, pulling her close.

  Their tender kiss was interrupted by her father’s call from within the house.

  With a last brush of his lips on hers, Merry slipped back through the rosemary and was gone.  Heart racing, Estella walked slowly back into the kitchen, nervously smoothing her skirts.

  Her father was sitting at the table, second breakfast half finished, and he waved her to the seat across from him.  Everyone else had already left to tend to their own occupations, though she could hear her mother rummaging through the pantry next door.  She poured herself a cup of tea, trying in vain to steady her breathing.

  “Do you know about this?” he said, one finger tapping the letter by his plate.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Is that all?  Just ‘Yes, Father’ and no more?”

  Estella looked up into her father’s face, hoping to read from it the question she needed to answer and the answer she needed to give.  Curiosity and irritation were mingled in his gaze, so she dared a few words into the waiting silence.

  “We spoke at the festival last week…”

  “Yes, he mentioned that here…  I remember he used to visit rather often before the Troubles started.”

  She nodded in agreement and smiled into her teacup.

  “Well, he seemed a bright enough lad until he ran off so suddenly.  I don’t know, Estella.  For all that he’s a Brandybuck, he’s more than half Took, and once they start wandering, they rarely stop for long.  Who knows how long till he goes haring off again on some adventure, him and that ridiculous young Peregrin Took.”

  “He didn’t run off, he was helping his cousin Frodo.”

  “Association with those Bagginses of Bag End does not recommend him to anyone interested in securing a future for you, my dear daughter, and if you think I’m impressed by all that fine dress and talk, you couldn’t be more wrong.  Let him settle down and turn his hand to something useful first.”  His voice softened in response to his daughter’s distress.  “It isn’t as if you lack for young hobbits calling for your hand, Estella.  You’re the only daughter of a wealthy and well-respected family, you can pick and choose from the best the Shire has to offer.”

  “Please Father,” she said quietly, “At least give him a chance to prove himself.” 

  She waited anxiously as he fussed with the food on his plate.

  “Oh, alright, have him to tea next week.  But hear me now,” he warned, “I’ll not pronounce myself officially on this until I see some real sign he’d make a decent husband for you.  Besides,” he muttered into his teacup, “I’ll need time to word a proper refusal for the unlucky soul who fails in this endeavor.”

5. A Cry In The Night

An anguished cry tore Saradoc from his rest, alarm and sleep still fogging his thoughts.  The broken moan from the next room finished to clear his head, however, and he rolled quietly from the bed.  Esmeralda was already gone, most likely to the nursery, and he sighed in relief.  He had almost convinced himself these last few days that Pippin’s warnings had been unnecessary, that home had been the simple cure for Merry’s restless soul.  He had told her nothing of the fears their nephew had shared before leaving.  He now hesitated outside his son’s room, hand upon the door, and steeled his heart against what he might face beyond its threshold.

He pushed it open quietly and found the room ablaze with light.  The bed itself was a wreck, pillows tumbled, sheets tangled, and Merry lay upon it, arms out flung against some unseen thing.  Esmeralda knelt beside him, face awash with tears.

“What’s happening to him?” she asked, voice rising with panic.

Saradoc settled himself on the edge of the bed.

“Dark dreams,” he said softly, stroking damp curls back from his son’s tear-streaked face.  “Pippin warned me before he left.”

“Pip?” Merry murmured brokenly, turning wide and unseeing eyes towards his father.  “Are you going to bury me?”

Esmeralda choked back a sob, and laid a trembling hand against Merry’s cheek.

“No, my Merry-lad, no….  All’s well, go back to sleep, my bonny boy, go to sleep…”

Saradoc sat, thunderstruck, and listened to her croon soft nonsense words to their son, as she had when he was small.

As the young hobbit slowly calmed and fell into a deeper sleep, he gently gathered his wife into his lap, though she held fast to Merry’s hand.  He stared hard at the pale crisscrossing scars that marred the strong wrist, dark with sun upon the white coverlet, and a cold knot of anger and fear coiled slowly about his heart.  What darkness had touched his bright-eyed lad?

6. Prices Paid

With every armed guard he had passed on his way to Tuckborough, the tiny kernel of anger inside Pippin had grown.  Closed borders, empty fields, abandoned farmsteads, drawn and worried faces, all brought back the memory of that desperate ride into Gondor and the dreadful days of waiting in the shadow of coming war.  Nearly a year after the last of the ruffians had been chased from the Shire, the Tookland remained under siege, in fear of an enemy that no longer threatened.  Now he found himself standing outside his father’s study, belly full of fire, trying hard to regain some scrap of composure.  All the excuses and rationalizations his mind had conjured in the last months to counter the rumors had been burned away by the reality, and the joyous words of homecoming that had hummed hopefully in his heart were ash on his tongue.

He finally nodded curtly to the guards at the door and was shown in.  Maps, tallies and reports were strewn about the room, mostly on the massive oak desk that dominated the space.  The remains of a barely touched tea balanced precariously on the edge of a chair nearby.  Paladin Took, thin as winter and gray as morning fog, rose from his seat and stepped towards him, dislodging several stacks of papers, which slid gracelessly to the floor.

“Peregrin!  So, you’re back then,” the old hobbit said.  “Well, at least you had the good sense to go armed and leave that troublesome cousin of yours at the border.”

Pippin shook his head.  “Not a good way to start off, Da, if you’re looking for me to stay.  Lucky for you, I have some sense of what could happen if you keep on as you have, and I mean to set things straight hereabouts.”

“Oh truly!” his father replied, narrowed eyes sweeping the young hobbit from head to toe.  “Your fine gear and fancy friends have turned your head if you think to wrest from me what is mine, Prince of the Haflings,” he growled, flicking a battered letter at him.

He caught it and read the fine script on its envelope.  “Peregrin Took, Ernil-i-Pheriannath, Tookland, The Shire.”  The wax seal set with Faramir’s mark had been broken, the letter obviously read.

“You read it?” Pippin asked, not yet trusting himself to look up.

“And had translated what I could not understand.  Someone thinks well of you somewhere, though what good the opinion of Big Folk would do you I can’t imagine.  Seems to me you’d best sit and learn a bit more before you go telling your betters what’s what,” he finished, fussing at the papers on the desk.

“It was a misunderstanding…” Pippin started softly.

“What?”

“That title, it was a misunderstanding.  They assumed I was their better because I spoke straight and fair to their Lord, and looked in his face.  They mistook my ignorance of courtly manners for the familiarity of an equal.  I told them my father was a farmer, but it was too late.  This,” he said waving the parchment, “This is the joke of a friend, who, by the way, is a prince.”

“Well, prince or no, you’ve no call being so friendly with your people’s enemy.”

“The Steward of Gondor is no more our enemy than the hobbits outside of Tookland are!  There is a king again, and the Rangers have returned to watch the empty lands outside our borders.  We have nothing more to fear from those ruffians.”

“Place your trust in foreign hands if you want, but I’d be a fool to let them slip by again.  Not ever again!” he shouted, voice atremble with emotion.

“I’ve been riding the bounds all year.  There’s no sign of any trouble anywhere but here,” Pippin stated, finger stabbing down upon their location on the large map between them.  “What is going on?  Why are you guarding Tookland from the rest of the Shire?”

The older hobbit turned away and leaned heavily against the stone mantel of the fireplace.  Pippin was suddenly, and forcefully, reminded that his father was far from young, and that the office he had so recently inherited had never sat comfortably on him.  At a time when he had begun to pass responsibilities down to other to enjoy the plenty he had worked so long to gather, the summons had come from Great Smials.  Paladin Took had taken up the duties of Took and Thain without flinching but had little joy in either.

“They took her in the night…” he said, low murmur barely audible over the crackling flames.

Pippin stepped closer to hear.

“No ruffian could have snuck into Great Smials that night.  We had refugees though…  Many had been coming in through the summer, we turned none away.”  He grasped his son’s arm tightly, dark eyes boring into him.  Pippin could feel the trembling strength of his emotion even through the mail.

“Hobbits took her.  To them.”

“Took who?” he asked, though he did not want to hear an answer that could only bring grief.

“Your sister….  Vinca…” Paladin released his grip on him and sat wearily on the hearth, face in his hands.

Pippin stood silent, numb with shock.

“My poor lass…” Paladin continued brokenly, “She was meek as a lamb when they brought her back, our little firebrand.  Like a ghost she was, so quiet…  A week later she...  We found her in the pond by the old brockhouse.”

“What are you saying?  What’s happened to her!”

“We don’t know, she never spoke a word after…”

“Where…?” he choked out, fighting a dark flood of rage and tears.

“Whitwell, beside the Honey Tree.”

Pippin turned and left the study without a sound.  Making his way through the long halls, he saw none of the faces of those he passed nor did he hear their murmured sympathy.  He finally found himself in the gardens, thankfully empty in the failing light.  He stumbled over a snacking root and fell hard against the large shade tree.  He sank to his knees, rough bark scratching his cheek, and burst into tears.

“Oh, Vinca…!”  he sobbed, helpless to stop the memory of her laughing face and flashing eyes.  He’d seen too much to doubt the cruelties that would drive a hobbit lass to so desperate an end.  There was nothing natural or right about a meek and silent Pervinca…  Contrary and brash, she had turned the Great Smials on its ear when they’d moved in, but her wit and beauty had kept a steady line of young hobbits at her beck and call.

Gentle fingers brushed his hair and he turned into his mother’s embrace.

“Hush now, my lad.  Tears cannot bring her back…  Not even yours, my darling boy,” she murmured, tipping his face up, and brushing a soft hand against his cheek.  “More stubborn Tooks have tried,” she added with a sad smile.

“If only I’d…” he started.

She stopped him, placing fingers wet with his own tears against his mouth.  “No, my son, no blame comes to you for this.  It is too late for that, or for vengeance.  But if you loved her, help me bring her father back.  You’re the only one who can.”

He nodded and stood, roughly wiping tears from his face.  “That I can do,” he murmured.

She smoothed her hand down the dark fabric of his surcoat, fingers lingering over the pale embroidered tree upon his breast.  “How you have grown, Peregrin Took,” she said, looking up into his face.

7. A Bit Of Hope

Pippin angled the small mirror to catch the light of the rising sun and stood slowly, brushing grass from his knees.  The filigreed roses on its silver frame reflected the brilliant fall colors of the garden.  He looked down at the small circle of brightness on the green mound that was Pervinca’s grave and silently bid his sister farewell.  He’d ridden early to Whitwell, pale stars still dotting the sky, after a restless night that had yielded little insight into a solution for either his father or the Shire.

Trailing fingers through the tall grass in the field between the orchard and the small farmstead that had seen his childhood days, Pippin turned his thoughts to the facts of the situation.  Though he could understand the anger and suspicion that had come of his sister’s abduction, he saw no justification for continuing this isolation, though it had served to keep Tookland free during the Troubles.  His mother had been surprised to hear of the countless festivals and joyous marriages that had filled that spring and summer, from Buckland to the Downs.  No news had come to Tuckborough of the blossoming of the first mallorn in the Shire or the multitude of fair babes that had been born that year.   The post was turned back at the borders and warnings were the only words that greeted the few hobbits desperate enough for news to approach the hard-eyed archers that paced the edge of the wooded hills.  His heart ached with the thought of so many families divided by that silent wall.  How many mourned those hobbits who had sought safety here and were now counted lost?

A quiet rustling from the hedge ahead caught his attention and he slowed his approach.

“Stand by or I’ll stick you!” called the sharp voice of a small lad.

Pippin stopped and raised empty hands in surrender to his unseen foe.

“Run in and fetch Da, quick!  Go on Dinny,” the lad whispered loudly, and a slow grin spread across Pippin’s face as he watched one pudgy nephew dash madly for the kitchen door.

“Is it arrows or swords you’ve got for me lad?” he called out, taking another cautious step forward.

“I spit a coney across the garden patch yesterday, so don’t you move!” the lad answered, stepping out into the path, child-sized bow and arrow at the ready.

“Are Tooks no longer welcome in Whitwell then?”

“What’s this you’ve caught Danny?  Too tall for a proper hobbit…”

Pippin turned to face the stout hobbit that had just emerged from the round door and smiled.  “Danivar Bolger, how goes the morning?”

The newcomer peered closely at the tall young hobbit, taking in the dark surcoat and mail, and the bright sword at his side.

“No frogs in my pockets today,” Pippin promised with a grin.

“Peregrin Took!  As I live and breathe!”

The young Took promptly found himself half crushed by his sister’s husband, who, despite being a good head shorter, was quite a bit stronger.  He swept him forward past the hedge and into the spacious kitchen.

“Pearl, my love!  Look what little Danny caught in the garden this morning,” he caroled as they entered.

“No more frogs or lizards please!  I’m full up!” she called back, emerging from the large pantry with a toddler on one hip and a flour sack on the other.

“Well, I haven’t been called any of those things in some time, so I think we’re alright!” Pippin announced cheerfully with a wink to little Dinny, who was now peeking from behind his mother’s skirts.

“Oh, Pippin, you brat,” she teased with a laugh and pulled him close in a heartfelt hug.  A sharp yank on his hair brought him face to face with a pair of vividly green eyes and a curious frown.

“Perdi!  No!” Pearl remonstrated firmly, trying to untangle the toddler’s sticky fingers from her brother’s wild curls.  Pippin winced at one last tug and gently tweaked her sharp little nose.  He held his hands out to her and smiled.

“Would you like to come and greet me properly, little bird?”

He was rewarded with a joyous grin as the child practically threw herself from her mother’s arms.

“Well, Perdita, say ‘hello’ to your uncle Pip,” her father said with a chuckle.

“Ha!” the little girl crowed and clapped her hands.

They all gathered about the table for a quick breakfast of dark bread slathered with honey and apple butter.  The boys soon followed their father out to see to the day’s first chores and Pippin watched Pearl fuss about the kitchen, little Perdita happily poking at the bright tree on his surcoat.  An indignant shriek had followed his last attempt to return her to her mother, so he was quite content to let her wriggle about on his lap, babbling quietly in her own secret language.

“I can already tell she’s all Took, this one.  Aren’t you, little bird?” he said quietly.

“If you mean stubborn and fearless and loud besides, she surely is all Took!” Pearl replied, looking the very image of motherly exasperation.

“So much the better, I say!  I’ll bet she stole her grand-da’s heart at first sight, and is therefore terribly spoiled already.”

“He…. He hasn’t seen her since her naming day, actually,” Pearl murmured.  “She was born a month after Vinca…  After she…” She sighed and turned back to the sweet rolls she was shaping for their second breakfast.  “She was named for you both, you know.  She seems to take the honor to heart with all the trouble and fuss she kicks up...” she continued, sniffing back tears.

“I’m sorry I stayed away so long,” he said after a moment.

He gently put Perdi down in his chair, temporarily distracted by the dark amber beads of a bracelet he’d brought back as a gift.  He crossed the room to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I’m not enough of a fool to think I can change things much, but maybe just a little…  Just enough.”

They stood silent a moment in the quiet warmth of the kitchen that had been witness to more peaceful days, when fear had meant bed without supper and sorrows were soothed by their father’s gentle hands.

The tug of small hands on his trousers pulled Pippin from his quiet recollections and he found Perdita smiling up at him.

“Pah!” she declared, raised arms demanding to be picked up.

“Do you know, little bird,” he said, sweeping her up, “I think you may be the one holding the key to that old hobbit’s heart.”

“Pippin!  What are you up to?”

“Just plotting to take a little hobbit to get the best of an old dragon is all.  It has worked in the past…”

***   ***   ***

He was securing the last of the saddlebags and murmuring quiet apologies to his heavily burdened pony when his father stormed into the stables.

“And where do you thing you’re going?”

Pippin almost laughed at the predictability of the question.

“For a ride,” he answered simply.

“Where to?”

“Oh, I thought I’d push on to Brandy Hall at least,” he said lightly and waited for the storm to strike.

“Running away to Buckland already?” his father snarled.

“I’ll be back when my errand’s run; no more than a month, I’d guess.”

“So it is true.  Instead of standing by me as any honorable hobbit should, you’re going to defy me from the start!” he accused, yanking open the bulging saddlebag and fingering one of the letters inside.

“I’d hardly call delivering a few letters defiance, Da.  It’s certainly nothing on the scale of my usual mischief.  No salt in the sugar bowl this morning,” the young hobbit replied, trying hard to maintain his light tone.

“You are not going anywhere, Peregrin Took, and that is final!” Paladin thundered.

“Or what?!” Pippin shouted back, control finally cracked. “You’ll send me to my room?  Clap me in irons?  I’ve lived through far worse,” he challenged, thrusting forward fisted hands where the reminders of his captivity stood stark on bared wrists.  “A hundred armed Uruks didn’t keep us from doing the right thing, and neither will you!”  They glared at each other one long moment before his father looked away.  Pippin took his time working fingers into dark riding gloves before continuing more calmly.  “Aunt Esmeralda should hear about Pervinca from a sympathetic heart rather than in some faceless list on parchment.  So should others, but until you come to your senses, these letters will have to do.”

He brushed past him, leading the chestnut mare out into the November wind.

“What makes you think you can get past the archers twice without my leave?” Paladin called after him.

“Let’s hope the armorers of Gondor know their business better than our Tookland fletchers,” Pippin replied with a grin.  “I’ll be back for Yule, mum,” he added, bending down from the saddle to kiss her cheek.  “Remember our mission, little bird,” he whispered to the tot in her arms, ruffling the wild auburn curls.

A few dozen eyes watched him ride off from the Smials, a lonely gray-green figure on the windswept road that carried their hopes and tears on paper wings.

8. Ill News The West Wind Brings

The small wreath of pale and fragile blooms drifted by upon the river, gray flood beneath a gray sky, and Pippin was grateful for Merry’s strong hand clasped tight about his own.  Other hobbits stood upon the riverside, alone or in small groups, as their silent offerings were swept away by the dark current.  It had been freeing to join his grief to the keening wails of those for whom the long wait for news had held hope, a hope that had been dashed by some of the letters he had carried out of Tuckborough to Brandy Hall.  His aunt still knelt in her husband’s arms upon the grassy bank, undone as much by the cause and manner of Pervinca’s death as by the very passing of the child she had watched grow from petulant tot to fiery maid.

The weight of the heavy satchel Pippin had carried across the Shire had made it clear to him that despite the cold distance that currently existed between the heads of their respective families, the Brandybucks and Tooks still had much to say to each other.  They had so long intermarried that their family trees more resembled a web, inextricably tangled together, though now stretched and torn by recent events.  It was time to cut and mend the master strand before someone decided to start anew without it.  He gave Merry’s hand a slight squeeze and looked into his cousin’s face.  The wind had dried the tears upon his cheeks and tousled the neat curls above his winter coat, and a small smile quirked the generous mouth.

“What are you thinking?” Pippin asked quietly.

“That Vinca would slap me silly if she found me moping about as I have lately.  She was never one to put up with that sort of thing,” Merry replied, smile warming as Pippin nodded and laughed.

“That she would indeed, though she was more likely to pull my hair for that,” he said.

They turned together towards the Hall, the weight of grief having made way for happier memories in their hearts.

***   ***   ***

Saradoc found Merry and Pippin tucked away in the second parlor, the decanter of brandy on the table between them three quarters empty and the air heavy with fragrant smoke.  The two young hobbits were deep in conversation, heads together over a mess of parchment and maps, though they both looked up when he closed the door behind him.

“Hard at work or play this evening?” he inquired with a smile.

“That depends on your idea of fun, I suppose,” Pippin answered.  “Merry here enjoys puzzles and knotty problems, so he’s having a grand old time.”

“But you’re not?”

“I’d rather be stealing tarts and kissing girls, of course,” he said with a grin.

“Pippin!” Merry sputtered indignantly.

“Well, I have to make up for my cousin getting all serious and dull in his pursuit of wedded bliss, you know!  How goes the quest for the fair Estella’s heart?”

“Winning her heart isn’t the problem, it’s her father’s good opinion he has yet to gain.  But I suppose you’re a little young to have such concerns,” Saradoc teased.

“Oh I’m quite smitten actually, love at first sight and all that,” Pippin replied straight-faced.  “Oh yes,” he went on, barely suppressing his amusement at their dumbfounded expressions. “She’s quite the charmer, at least in my opinion, though she can get rather cranky if she misses her nap.”

“What?” Merry asked, now completely confused.

“My dear Merry,” Pippin said with a chuckle, “You’ve a darling new cousin in Whitwell, and when she learns to speak, we’ll all be in trouble!”

***   ***   ***

“Well, I’m glad to hear that you carry good news along with the bad, Peregrin,” Saradoc said after they had sat through a brief account of Pippin’s visit with his sister. 

“I wish it were all good,” the young hobbit answered with a sigh.  “The Troubles won’t be truly over until Tookland is freed from my father’s fears.  I just don’t know how to do that.”

“You’ve made a start bringing these letters out, though baiting the old bear in his own den was a bit reckless,” Merry said.

“It’ll take more than a few letters to fix the problem, but then that’s why I’m here,” Pippin replied with a wicked grin.  “I’ll need all your cleverness to keep the promises I’ve made.”

9. Threats And Promises

    The cold February wind had almost kept Merry home that week, but the long month of snow and ice that had crashed upon the Shire directly after the Yule celebrations had already seemed to last years.  The interruption of his weekly visits to Budgeford was as necessary as it was painful, and he had looked forward to calmer weather like a drowning man to the shore.  The bustle and noise of Brandy Hall was comforting though, and the long hours of storytelling and song had their own familiar power to distract and entertain.  The nights, however, were long and close for him while the snow made it impossible for him to spend his nights in the privacy and peace of Crickhollow.  Three weeks into being snowed in at the Hall, after the old tales and stories had run thin, some of the tweenagers, likely prompted by his father, had started to clamor for an account of his year abroad.   

   Though he and Pippin had gladly told the many tales they had heard from their companions on the quest, the true tale of their journey had been too dark and private to tell in those first months, and now he was loath to remind his people that there had been so great an evil in the wider world, though it had touched them but a little.  Badgered, wheedled and pursued by a dozen young cousins, however, he found himself slowly speaking of his companions and the lighter moments of their long trek across Middle Earth.  The weeks spent in Rivendell and Lothlorien, as well as the celebrations in Minas Tirith at the end of the war had easily filled the first ten nights of telling, as the ever-inquisitive youths had found a dozen questions for every person, place and thing he had described.  He had neatly skirted the very purpose of the quest and its darker dangers, though he felt the keen eyes of several of the older hobbits in the Hall upon him and he knew he could not fool his parents, or the trusted few that had been witness to his restless nights.  There had been several mornings when he had woken in the last hour before dawn to find a watcher dozing by his bed.  He had feigned sleep until they left and dared not ask what they had heard or guessed of the terrors that still visited in dreams, for he would then have to answer their questions as well.  Some things were best left buried where they could not taint the hearts and minds of those he loved.

   Merry urged his pony faster into the wind, relishing the feel of cold air and the sight  of open sky above him.  He fingered the satiny length of ribbon in his pocket as he turned up the lane towards Budgeford, and he could not keep the smile from his face.  For two months now he had carried it, coiled inside its velvet pouch, since he had seen it among a trader’s wares.  A deep shade of red a hint darker than rubies, it hung heavy and straight with the liquid shimmer of fine wine and the thought of plaiting it through Estella’s dark curls quickened his heart and breath.  More than a declaration that she, and her family, had accepted his suit, the love knot would seal a world of promises they had already made to each other, in words and actions, over the last few months.

   ‘Today is the day,’ Merry thought to himself, face flushed with more than winter’s chill.  He turned off the lane and into the hedged courtyard and grinned.  ‘Today.’

***   ***   ***

    Teatime at the Bolger home had always been something of an affair, involving far more than a simple tea and biscuit course, but now every Friday the parlor and kitchen were turned upside down and inside out, and the master of the house retreated to his study directly after lunch to wait out the whirlwind of activity that ensued.  While Estella’s father harbored doubts on the advantages of a match with Brandy Hall’s sole heir, her mother had none and was set to nudge their families into closer association.  That the match would make her only daughter happy was all she had needed to seal the bargain in her own mind.  She had been certain, even those many years ago, that young Merry Brandybuck would likely ask for Estella’s hand before long, and was secretly glad that the lass had waited for his return.  Rosamunda had not married for love and was determined to see her daughter wed as her heart should choose, regardless of the consequences.

   The skies had cleared and the road emerged from the snow and ice, and it was reasonably certain they could finally expect company for afternoon tea.  The house fairly hummed with anticipation, and Odovacar Bolger found himself growing increasingly annoyed by the giggling in the kitchens, the whispers in the halls and his wife’s anxious fluttering in every corner of the house.  All in all, it left him ill disposed towards the source of the disturbance in his once tranquil home, and Merry’s appearance at his door, color high in his cheeks and warmly cloaked in the rich green of Rohan, finished to sour his mood for the day.

***   ***   ***

   “With all due respect, sir, I did not come to purchase your daughter with wealth or position, or to win her like some prize by deed or word.  I came to ask your blessing on the decision she and I have made to join our lives.  I fervently hope you value her happiness more than her worth as a token in some tawdry business venture.  Good day,” Merry finished coldly and, nodding politely to Estella and her mother, he rose from the table and left without another word.  The slam of the front door punctuated the sudden silence in the small parlor.  Estella, eyes flashing with embarrassed fury, stalked out the door after him.

   Her father sat back down at the small table and let out a long breath.  He looked up to find his wife shaking her head, hands on hips, and he waved her off wearily.

   “Aye, I know…  I may have been mistaken on the lad’s account after all.” 

   “Your words were ill chosen in any case.  You’ve managed to hurt your daughter’s feelings as well as offend the next Master of Buckland,” she said angrily. “And to what purpose?  To please a higher bidder for her hand?” 

   “I am concerned for her future!  They don’t call his father ‘Scattergold’ for nothing, you know.  Young Meriadoc will be lucky to inherit Brandy Hall itself by the end.” 

   “Putting up orphans and rebuilding farms speaks well of the Brandybucks.  At least they take care of their own,” she said, clearly implying that some had done far less, and he knew who stood chief in her dislike in that regard. 

   “I know, I know….  I must think,” he replied and walked slowly to his study.

   He stepped to the window in time to watch his daughter’s suitor ride away, the pony’s hooves loud on the frozen road.  The young hobbit turned back an instant, hand raised in farewell, and disappeared past the hill.  Estella stood by the gate, a dark red love knot plaited in her long brown hair.  His daughter had effectively wrested the decision from his hands, and it was now his lot to accept or disavow the results.

***   ***   ***

   Over the next week, Odovacar Bolger visited with several of his friends and associates, hobbits he knew to be both honest and canny, whose judgment had proved sound in the past.  While he had attended many social functions at Brandy Hall, he had had little business to conduct there directly.  What he heard on young Meriadoc’s account was encouraging.  Despite the loss of half the orchards and fields in Buckland to the ruffians’ depredations, the harvest had been plentiful and well handled.  The Master’s son had returned to the tasks that had been his before his departure, apportioning the fruit and grain to storage, kitchens and stills.  The Brandybucks looked to turn a nice profit by spring, though the new spirits would take a year or more to mature. 

   As he chewed thoughtfully on his last teacake, wrestling with an invitation that needed to serve as both blessing and apology, the loud pounding of a walking stick heavily wielded sounded at the door.  Before he could even rise from his overstuffed chair, the study door blew open to admit an angry and disheveled hobbit.  Tengo Goodbody strode aggressively up to the desk and leaned into his face. 

    “I just know you’ve a good explanation for the rumors I’ve been hearing, Master Bolger!” he growled.  Though nearly thirty years his junior, he was a keen merchant and had greatly advanced his family’s fortunes, even through the Troubles.  He was also one of the most forward in pressing his suit for Estella’s hand. 

   “Master Goodbody!” the older hobbit answered, sinking further into his chair. “What can I do for you today?” His mind raced to find a diplomatic escape from some ambiguous verbal agreements that had been made over the last two years.

    “You know very well why I’ve come.  They say your daughter has made a match, but I don’t seem to recall plaiting that love knot in her hair.  How do you suppose that happened?” he demanded angrily.

     “Estella has made her choice, my friend.  I’m sorry you find it ill…” he started with a shrug.

    “Don’t ‘friend’ me, Odovacar Bolger!  I did a lot to keep your family whole and safe last year, in spite of your son’s blunders, and I’ve asked for little in return.  Break the engagement!”

     “It is not mine to break.”

    “It seemed to be yours to promise, so you can find a way to break it as well.  Who heads this household?  The scullery maid?” he said with a sneer.

   “You misunderstood me gravely if you thought I’d wed my daughter against her heart, Tengo.  Now come,” he said, a hearty dose of false sympathy in his voice.  “Let us drink together and speak of other things.”

   Tengo slapped aside his outstretched hand and reached across the desk, face dark with anger.  “We’ve nothing else to speak of.  I will have what is mine, one way or another!” he snarled, shoving him back into his chair.  He stormed from the room, and the front door slammed behind him hard enough to jostle several paintings from the adjoining wall.

10. A Small Break In The Dam

   A great deal of Brandy Hall’s finest apple brandy had followed a hearty meal, and Saradoc had gladly let Merry steer the conversation to comfortable subjects while surreptitiously topping off his glass as often as he could.  It had meant drinking more than he cared for as well, but he had come to the conclusion that his son would not be caught off guard without some assistance, and he meant to learn what he could of Merry’s journey tonight.  The picture he and Esmerelda had pieced together from the tales he had told and his muttered words when deep in dark dreams had been bleak.  The truth could not be more terrible than their uninformed guesses.  Saradoc had therefore decided to join his son at Crickhollow for the evening, supposedly to discuss their strategy with regards to the situation in Tookland.  The talk had meandered from the Tooks to the business of the Hall and the latest escapades of the newest crop of cousins that had taken up residence under Esmerelda’s wing.  It had warmed his heart to hear Merry’s bright laughter and to see the blushing affection he held for young Estella Bolger.  These spoke of new and happier times for his son and he nudged the conversation towards darker things with some regret.  Poisons left buried would only fester.

   “Now we come to it,” Merry said with a chuckle.  “What is it you’re really after, Father?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “It’s not everyday my own father tries to get me drunk.  Though at least you do it with fine spirits, unlike some I might mention.”

   Saradoc now saw with some pride that the keen mind behind his son’s eyes had pierced his small deception and that Merry had been aware of his ruse all along, despite the slight blur of brandy in his gaze.  There was little sense left in evasion now, and he dived straight in to the matter’s heart.

   “I may not be so well traveled as you, my son, but I’ve seen the maps and there are parts to your tale that you’ve not told us.”

   “Isn’t it enough that we came back?” Merry asked quietly, looking away.  “It is part of the past, and of little concern to anyone but the four of us.”

    Reaching across the table, his father grabbed his hand, pushing up the sleeve. “This,” he said nodding at the scarred wrist, “is what concerns me.  You didn’t get those drinking in a tavern in Minas Tirith, Merry!”

   “You wish more darkness in your life?” he said, yanking back his hand. “That’s just the littlest thorn in the bush.”

   He rose unsteadily from his chair and pulled the soft linen shirt over his head and turned away.  Half a dozen long scars marred the fair skin between shoulder and waist.  He walked slowly to the fireplace and knelt there, poking at the crackling flames with a small brand.

   “Is there still more you would know?” he continued, voice hollow.  “Shall I tell you of the long dark horror of Moria, or maybe the thousands left dead on the Pellenor Fields?  Or would the tale of five nights watching Pippin draw each fragile breath into his broken body be enough to stop your curiosity?!” he finished with a snarl.

   The quiet snapping of the fire filled the silence.  Saradoc finally crossed the small distance between them, settling on the hearth at Merry’s side.

   “You lads paid a heavy price, anyone with eyes can see that.  Can you not tell me what it is that sacrifice has bought?”

   He watched and waited as Merry sat mutely, dark gaze on some unseen horizon.

   “It seemed such a little thing,” he began quietly.  “A mere trinket really.  Just the plainest little band of gold I’d ever seen…”

   The night wore on and Merry’s words poured forth, now halting, now rolling, drawing them over hill and dale, through dark and light, and home again.  The candles guttered one by one, until only the red glow of the dying embers remained.  The pale fingers of dawn, easing past the shuttered windows, painted faint rays across the floor, reaching to touch gold to the honey brown curls beneath Saradoc’s hand.  Leaning tiredly against the warm stones of the fireplace, he gazed down thoughtfully at the sleeping form of this, his only child, whose heart and soul, revealed this night, had shared in the most important task appointed to hobbit, elf or Man.  That all their sacrifice, particularly Frodo’s, should go unknown and unpraised among their own seemed a bitter end to this darkest of histories.

***   ***   ***

 When Merry returned from Crickhollow the next afternoon, he discovered Pippin, tucked away in the quiet privacy of his study, with his nose in a book and a plateful of pastries within reach.

  “No, they’re not stolen,” Pippin stated, eyes still locked on the pages before him.  “I got them quite legitimately for the price of a kiss,” he added, looking up with a grin, one finger marking his place.

  “Scoundrel!  Stop debauching the kitchen staff, they’ve all good husbands to find,” Merry replied with feigned indignation, soon broken by his own laughter as he reached for a small tart.

  “Hey there, cousin!  You’ve a sweetheart to bake you treats now, don’t steal mine!”

   Merry took a large and deliberate bite of the pilfered sweet and slumped into the large chair behind his desk.  They sat munching companionably, enjoying the quiet moment of creature comfort together.

   Brushing crumbs from his vest, Merry soon leaned forward over the neat stacks and ledgers before him, fingers closing about a new quill.

   “Oh no you don’t!” Pippin exclaimed, jumping up.  “Frodo and Sam are expecting us at Bag End any day now.  I’ve only been waiting for you to turn up.”

   “It takes a day or two to set things so I can leave for two weeks, Pip,” he replied with a sigh.

   “You really are getting dull in my absence.  Maybe I should stay for a while,” the younger hobbit said brightly, but Merry could see that the cheer was false, the smile brittle.

   “Baiting the bear again, cousin?” he asked, concern clear in his eyes.

   Pippin shrugged and replaced the book on the shelf.  “You know how the tallest tree in the forest is the first that lightning strikes?”

    “I know you bring it on yourself on purpose, but you can’t let him blame you for everything.”

   “There is no letting or not letting, Merry.  He isn’t just my father, he’s the Thain and the head of my house.  If I’m to keep him from grinding down everyone in his path on his way back to reason without undermining his authority, there are very few options open to me.  I cannot be seen as initiating any changes or he’ll dig in his heels.  He doesn’t see me as an ally, the way your father does you.  I’m to be a pawn at best and a rival at worst.  Best he should still think me a child and leave me free to do what I can.”  He looked down at his hands and went on quietly.  “If a little mischief and defiance are what will break him from the rut he’s plowed into, then that’s just what I’ll have to do.”

   “And how long do you think you can play at being a tweenaged prankster before even you forget that it is a lie?  You’re no fool, Pippin, and I would have others see that…”

   “Respectability is vastly overrated, Merry dear.  Frodo doesn’t seem to mind the whispers and looks, why should I?”

   “Frodo isn’t set to inherit the kind of responsibilities your father will leave you on his death.  You’ll be hard put to change things for the good if they all think you’re not much more than a, a…”

    “Fool?” Pippin finished for him, voice bitter.  “I can’t seem to escape the word…” He sighed and smiled up at his cousin.  “Maybe fate will leave me time enough to grow wiser, or at least to seem so in their eyes.  In the meantime,” he said, rising with a wicked grin, “it is my job to stir up you old sticks in the mud!  I’m off to beg a few more cakes from your mother, and I’ll saddle the ponies.  Don’t keep me waiting!”

11.  Something New

They arrived in Hobbiton on the 23^rd of March, on a bright morning full of sun and the smell of coming spring.  Rosie greeted them at the front door with a smile, and led them to the kitchen, explaining that Sam had gone off to the market and their cousin had yet to emerge from his study.  They followed her slowly, still recovering from their surprise at her very pregnant appearance.  It was the first time they had seen her in many months, and though she carried the new weight remarkably well, with the strange beauty and grace that is granted expectant mothers, it was a far cry from the slip of a girl they had danced with only a year before at her wedding.  As they entered the kitchen, Pippin dashed to the windowsill and leaned down to take in the sweet scent of the tarts that had been left there to cool.

“Apple tarts, Merry!” he exclaimed happily. “Rosie dear, you’re a treasure!” he said, leaning in to kiss her rounded cheek.

“Why thank you Mister Peregrin, sir,” she replied, blushing shyly.  “It was expecting you that set it in my mind to bake them.”

“But that’s quite enough work for you today on our account, Mistress Rose,” Merry said, seeing her poised to begin setting out the necessities for the next meal.  “You settle yourself by the window here, and guard those tarts, while my cousin readies the tea for us,” he added, steering her gently to the cushioned seat that had been set there.

He didn’t remember it being there in previous years, but it was one of the many small changes that had crept in with the new female presence in the old bachelor’s den.  He and Pippin busied themselves putting together a small assortment of sandwiches and pastries under the shy direction of Sam’s young wife.

“You finish setting the table, Pip,” Merry said, heading for the hall.  “I’ll go and fetch Frodo from his books.”

He walked slowly down the long passage, Pippin’s voice and Rosie’s clear laughter following his steps.  He stopped before the study door, hand on the latch, and took a deep bracing breath.  When he had come last November with the news of Pervinca’s death, he had been shocked by the changes that two short months had made.  Frodo had looked worn and faded, like a painting left too long in the sun, though the brilliant blue gaze still shone clear and the sharp intellect behind it was yet undimmed.  He had welcomed them at the front door that day, still gaunt and hollow-cheeked despite a year’s feeding up at the Gamgees’ generous table.  He had been quietly cheerful and had obviously enjoyed their visit, but he had tired quickly and taken to his bed soon after the sun had set.  Later that first night, after far too much ale and talk, Sam had told Merry and Pippin of Frodo’s strange words on the anniversary of his wounding on Weathertop.  He had tearfully confessed his fears that far from healing with time, his Master seemed to be failing slowly, day by day.

“He eats little and sleeps less, just writing, writing all day and night…  We manage to coax him out to the garden every now and again, but it’s no use…” Sam had sobbed quietly into his hands.  “It’s like the Ring never left him.”

“Can we not send to Rivendell?” Pippin had asked.

Merry had shaken his head. “I don’t think there is much they have not already done.  Frodo spent a lot of time with Lord Elrond when we stopped there on the way back.  But I don’t think this trouble comes from the wounding itself, it’s his spirit that fades…”

“What can we do then?  We must do something,” Pippin had said into the silence that had followed.  The young hobbit had somehow continued to hold back the storm of tears and rage Merry could see brewing behind his eyes, and he had quietly reached out to his young cousin under the table, gently clasping the slender fingers in his own.  The crushing strength of Pippin’s response promised a long night ahead.

“Keep watch, draw life and light around him.  Perhaps when the book is finished he will turn to us again,” Merry had replied, but the words had tasted false on his tongue.  If his own nights still brought restless dreams, what must roam his cousin’s nightscape, he who had been ridden by the Ring through terrors unknown and unknowable by any save Frodo himself?

No better answers had found their way among them that night, though he and Pippin had stayed up until the weak November sun had peaked through the shutters.  They had left Sam asleep, head pillowed on the kitchen table, and walked out into the fields beyond the Hill.  Crisp cool darkness had surrounded them, stars clear in the windswept sky, and Merry had silently followed his cousin, allowing him to set their pace and direction.  As they had reached the prickly hedge that bordered the field, Pippin had veered off, and they had soon found themselves in the Party Field.  The pale light of the stars glinted softly on the graceful mallorn and the young hobbit had stopped beside it, reaching up to stroke its silvered bark.

“It’s not right,” Pippin had started softly.  “Heroes go home to wife and kin and plenty, not a slow death by inches, unknown and alone…  It just isn’t fair!” he had continued, voice rising as the tenuous control over his emotions slipped.

Merry had stepped up behind his cousin and placed gentle hands on his shoulders.  “Life isn’t fair, Pip…  It never was, we just didn’t know any better.”  He had felt the angry tension in his cousin’s shoulders coil beneath his fingers and suddenly realized he had badly mistepped.

The younger hobbit had shrugged him off and turned, eyes ablaze.  “Don’t you dare talk down to me, Meriadoc Brandybuck, not after all that we’ve been through!  I’m so sick of you taking this part with me, like I’m still a child to be soothed and cosseted.”

“You’re not...”

“Don’t!” Pippin had interrupted, fists clenched at his side.  “How can you just accept that he should suffer so much and have so little peace at the end?  Why are you giving up already?”

“Don’t you think I’d rather have some hope for him?  But wishing won’t make it so!  Some things are just too much for one hobbit to bear…”

“With that attitude maybe I should have buried you after the Pellenor Fields!”

The words had hung in the air between them, full of the anguish of every sleepless night since and the warring bonds of love, frustration and fear that tied them to each other.  After long years of friendship and months of hardship on the road, the short weeks of separation during the war, capped off by deathbed vigils only mended by miracle, had been full of loneliness so painful they had done everything they could to forget it.

Merry closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the angry sorrow on Pippin’s face.  “I’m sorry…” he had murmured, the words barely carrying in the still air.  He had felt strong arms about his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry too.  I shouldn’t have said that…  I just…”

“I know.  I’m glad you’re too damn stubborn to give up, you crazy Took,” he had replied with a crooked grin.

“It takes a Took to keep tabs on you Brandybucks, or you’d forget to come back home.”

They had wandered back to Bag End arm in arm, sneaking pie and ale to Merry’s room as they had often done as tweens.  Merry had watched the pale dawn through half-closed eyes, red with tears and lack of sleep. He had pulled the blanket closer around his cousin’s lightly snoring form and rolled into his own, comforted by the warm body at his back.

He now stood four months later, uncertain in the dim light of the hall, hand raised to knock upon the study door.  He had promised his cousin to hope and to fight what had seemed inevitable.  It had been easy to imagine a happier fate for Frodo while in Estella’s embrace, but reality was rarely as kind as dream.  Before he had managed to work up the courage to face it however, the door opened quietly to reveal the smiling face of his cousin.

“Come on in, Merry,” Frodo said.  “I’ll just finish up and we can join the others for elevenses.”

Merry followed him silently and leaned up against the small fireplace.  Though still pale and drawn, he seemed at once more lively and more serene than he had been.   Merry watched his cousin quickly clean and store inks and quills, and other oddments that littered the writing desk and marveled at how little the missing finger seemed to slow his movements anymore.  One pale parchment page was left drying upon the wooden surface, covered in Frodo’s elegant script.

Frodo smiled up at Merry and glanced back at the written page.  “We have reached your part in the tale, cousin,” he murmured.  “I hope I have not misstated any of the facts?”

“Of course not,” Merry answered quickly, scanning the text before him.  He blinked back tears and turned quickly away.

“Merry?”

“It’s strange seeing it written like that.  It’s almost as if it’s about someone else…”

“I sometimes wish it were,” Frodo said, catching Merry’s eyes with his own intense gaze.  “I’d give anything to spare you lads what you went through for my sake.  Yet I do not think any others could have done half so well as you two did with the cards you were dealt,” he added with a small smile.

“There’s nothing remarkable in our survival, just pure stupid luck.”

“You did a lot more than just survive Merry, and even if you choose to forget it, the written page will not,” Frodo replied softly, fingers brushing down the edge of the parchment.  He shook his head and smiled up into his friend’s face.

“Come, cousin, I believe I caught a whiff of apple tart this morning, and there’ll be little left if we don’t hurry,” he said, catching Merry’s arm and turning towards the door.  “I hope your appetite has grown along with your legs, my friend.  Mistress Rose has decided that Sam and I should match her bite for bite, and while he’s doing well enough with it, I have been disappointing her all winter.  You two rascals will be a good distraction for her, though I dare say she’ll be preoccupied enough before too much longer.”

***   ***   ***

That day and the next had been spent in the kitchen and garden of Bag End, mainly scrambling about to predict and preempt Rosie’s every move.  She seemed to have gone into a frenzied flurry of cooking and cleaning, which by Frodo’s whispered report had started late last week.  He and Sam had done their best to keep up with her and distract her from the least reasonable projects, but they were doubly glad for the extra help.

“I remember my sister doing much the same with her first,” Sam remarked, handing Pippin another dish to dry.  “Nesting, mum called it…  I’m not sure why, but she just reordered every closet in the place in those last few weeks, and well near drove her husband mad with cleaning.”

“Well, if it marks the end of her term, then it seems clear your wait will soon be over,” Pippin replied.

“That would be lovely…” Sam sighed. “I don’t doubt that the little mite will be quite as much trouble outside as in, but I’m that anxious to hold him safe and sound.”

“It’s to be a boy then?” Frodo asked from across the room where he was folding the table linens.

“Anything the lady pleases, so long as it is soon.”

“Your wish is my command, husband,” Rosie said from the doorway where she had paused, leaning hard on Merry’s arm.  He had volunteered to accompany her on a short stroll in the garden while they cleared the supper table.

Sam hurried to her side, wiping sudsy hands on his shirt, and helped her down onto the bench.  “Is it time then, love?”

She nodded once, and a few minutes of frantic activity saw all three of the bachelors present dashing off.  With Frodo headed to the Gamgee’s home and Merry off to fetch the Cottons, Pippin was left to ride about through Hobbiton, tracking the midwife’s many stops that day.  His search led him to the very last hole on the road out of town, which according to her previous patient, Mistress Burrows had been following to her next call.

His knock at the front door had received no answer, though he could hear voices somewhere within.  He had eased it open, the cracked blue paint peeling under his fingers, and looked into the shabby confines of the windowless room.  A single candle flickered on the table, pale wax pooling into a shard of pottery.  The floor sloped unevenly downward to the entrance of the next chamber and Pippin wondered what thoughtless wretch had dug so incompetently:  the dwelling was sure to flood at the first sign of rain.  Touching the taper he had found on the shelf by the door to the small flame, he stepped down to the second door.  A soft rustle and quick movement in the darkness beyond the small circle of light made him shudder.  Who lived in such a hovel with the Shire so bountiful this past year?  How had this escaped the notice of the good folk hereabouts?  Or had it?  Pippin made an effort to push aside the questions, vowing to further investigate in the morning.

“Mistress Burrows?” he called, knocking on the thin panel that served to close what was likely a sleeping chamber.

Soft voices came clear to his ear then and he took a step back from the door.

“Hold on lass, rest a bit while you can.  I’ll send whoever it is off.”

A wedge of bright light struck his eyes, and a plump silhouette filled the narrow opening.

“What is it you’re wanting, young sir?” the old hobbit’s voice grumped at him.

“Mistress Gamgee’s sent me to fetch you…” he said hesitantly, blinking in the glare.

“Things have only just started?”

“Well, it did take me an hour to find you,” he admitted, finally able to make out the midwife’s blunt features.  The grim line of her mouth was set in a frown he could tell was more worried than irritated.

“And who might you be?”

“Peregrin Took, mam, at your service.”

“Hmph, well, I’ll be there soon, lad.  Go on with you now,” she said and started to close the door.

“What do you mean ‘soon’?  How about now?”

“Look here now, Master Took, this brave lass here is on the point of delivering her babe alone and needs me here now.  Young Rose Gamgee, bless her heart, will be well aided by her mam and husband while she waits.  These things take time, and if she’s sent you so soon, she’ll keep some time yet.  Just you mind your manners and make yourself useful to her in the meantime.”

Pippin stared for one stunned moment at the door that had closed in his face on the midwife’s last word.  Turning back into the dark kitchen, he stared at the miserable space.

“What a bleak place to come into the world,” he murmured to himself.

He blew out the small candle in his hand and set it back by the door.  Striding from the tiny dwelling, he mounted his mare and turned her head towards the Hill.  Riding through the empty streets of Hobbiton, he reflected darkly that more damage had been done to the Shire than he had thought when a lass was left unaided in such desperate circumstances.  He reached Bag End just as Merry was leading away a pair of ponies, still hitched to the Cottons’ cart.

“Come help me with these lads, Pip.  There are more female Gamgees and Cottons in that kitchen right now than either of us can handle,” he called with a grin.

“I’m only back a moment actually…”

“What’s happened?  Couldn’t find the midwife?” Merry asked, concern coloring his voice.

“I found her…  She is presently occupied though,” he started and went on quickly to explain the situation he had witnessed.  “From all I’ve seen and heard, and I grant that’s not much, a new mother needs a lot of help the first days.  Pearl didn’t leave her bed for a week, as I recall.  Someone should sit with her when Mistress Burrows comes here.”

“I agree with you there, but are certain you’re the right one for the job?  Wouldn’t she rather have another woman there?”

Pippin scuffed the dark soil beneath his feet nervously.  “There has to be a reason she was left to fend for herself in that place, Merry.  I don’t know why, but I think a stranger might be more welcome than a knowing face.”

“Alright.  We’ll do as you think best, but I’ll ride down with you to escort the midwife up here when she’s done.”

After settling the other animal for the night, Pippin led their ponies to the front door while Merry snuck in to the back pantry.  They were both fully familiar with every possible entry point in and out of the comfortable dwelling, and he was grateful for their youthful explorations this evening.  He gathered various preserves and winter vegetables and an assortment of other easily transported items he found on the well-stocked shelves.  Sneaking across the hall to the spare bedroom he occupied while in town, he added several of the fat white candles that were scattered liberally around the room.  As he backed out of the room with two bulging satchels he bumped into Frodo’s slight form standing just outside the door.

“I trust it’s not mischief you’re up to on this night?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at the sack in Merry’s hand.

The younger hobbit remained silent, uncertain of how much of Pippin’s theory he should reveal.  He couldn’t image his cousin being less than sympathetic to her plight, but all of Hobbiton had left the lass to her fate, after all.

Frodo shook his head, puzzled but unconcerned.  “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons.  Tell me in the morning.”

Merry nodded gratefully and slipped out the back.  Pippin me him outside and saw their cousin quietly close the door with a wave.

“He knows?”

“He didn’t ask, and I didn’t know what to tell him.  We’ll have to account for it in the morning though.  How did you do?”

“Well, I told them the midwife needed a report and they all trooped off to get one from poor Rosie, I guess.  I did manage to swipe a tart and two fresh loaves from the sideboard before they all came back,” he said, proudly producing the snatched items from behind his back.

“Lovely, let’s go before they notice.”

***   ***   ***

The ride back was short, but as they entered the dark dwelling, they could tell enough time had passed for the lass’s labor to reach its peak.  Loud gasping moans and sobs could be heard from the behind the flimsy bedroom door.  Pippin dropped his sack upon the table and hurried across the room.

“Mistress Burrows? Is everything well?” he called loudly.

“No, Master Took, if that’s you again.  Be useful or be gone!” she shouted back.

Merry stirred behind him and Pippin felt his strong hand on his shoulder.

“This is not your affair, Pippin, you needn’t do this.”

“Someone must,” he replied and slowly eased into the brightly lit chamber.

He shyly turned his eyes away from the lass on the bed and the midwife laughed.

“No time for modesty, lad.  I’ve little doubt you’ve seen enough of the cause of her troubles to face for once the results.  Fetch a blanket from that chest, she’ll be cold enough soon.”

He moved to the only other piece of furniture in the small room, a dark chest of fine wood, intricately carved with flowers and birds, and thoroughly out of place with its surroundings.  He gently draped the threadbare blanket over the lass’s straining form as she gasped through another long spasm.  She fell back onto the pillow and lay shivering on the bed for a short time before curling forward again around the pain.  Pippin unclasped his cloak and wrapped it about her thin shoulders.  As the moment passed and she fell limply against the thin mattress, he looked down at her.  Her dark curls were damp with sweat and her sunken cheeks flushed, and though she looked like a victim of fever, with dark circles beneath too bright eyes, he thought she might have been pretty once.  She certainly couldn’t be much older than he was.  He fished out his handkerchief and gently mopped the moisture on her face.

“Is it always like this?” he asked, turning to the old hobbit who knelt at the foot of the bed.

“For some…  But the babe is coming the wrong way first, and that’s the main trouble here.  I’m about to try to turn him round.”

“You can do that?” Pippin asked incredulously.

“Sometimes…” she said, reaching into the battered satchel at her side.  “Hold tight, lass.  It shan’t be pleasant, but it is a necessity,” she added with a gentle pat on the girl’s knee.  Pippin watched her take a long swig of what looked like brandy and pour a generous dose over each hand.  She leaned forward and her hands disappeared under the blanket.  He winced in shocked sympathy for what he imagined was going on beneath the tattered cloth and grasped the lass’s trembling hand.  Her nails dug into his skin, but he bit back his complaint and simply squeezed the tensed fingers reassuringly.  Beneath the sound of the young mother’s ragged breathing and her occasional whimpers of pain, he could hear the faint murmur of the midwife’s whispered prayer.  He certainly hoped the Valar were listening this night.

                                                     ***  ***   ***

After his cousin had disappeared into the bedchamber, Merry had gone around the small room and lit every candle he had brought.  The light revealed the poorly built dwelling for what it was:  barely more than an oversized burrow tunneled into a low bank.  Someone, likely the poor lass in the chamber beyond, had attempted to add a few comforts to it, and the space was well kept.  The small table was scrubbed clean and the floor swept, though the sudden excess of light had flushed out a pair of glint-eyed rats, which he hounded until they scurried out through a small chink between the doorjamb and the wall.  He jammed a handful of moist earth from the neglected garden outside into the hole and added several small rocks for good measure.  It would not stop the vermin for long, but a proper job could wait for daylight.  He stored away the goods they had brought down and started a fire in the small grate.  He doubted that the meager stack of firewood that sat nearby would last more than one night, but he would haul back another load after taking the midwife back to Bag End.

As he swung the kettle over the flames, he mentally turned over the possible explanations for the girl’s position.  Unlike Pippin, who was still somewhat more naïve about the many ways the young could fall from the path of acceptable behavior, Merry refused to assume she was necessarily innocent of contributing to the trouble she had found herself in, though he was just as shocked that no one had had the decency to find the lass a better situation, if only for the sake of the child.  He was pulled from his quiet ruminations by the sudden increase in the volume and frequency of the pained moans issuing from the other room, and he silently hoped the scene on the Hill was less desperate-sounding or poor Sam would be simply beside himself.

‘It probably sounds a lot worse than it is…’ he told himself, setting out the teapot and cups.

As if to give his last thought the lie, a particularly loud groan, almost a scream, tore through the air.  Merry approached the door, concerned but hesitant to distract the midwife with his presence.  Another great cry decided him, and he stepped in just as the tiny newborn in the midwife’s hands let out a hiccupping wail of his own.

“Are your hands clean, my lad?” she asked him without looking up, gently wiping at the little face.

“Uhm, well….” He stammered uncertainly.

“Likely clean enough, I imagine,” she said with a frown.  “Grab that towel beside me and hold it open.”

She put the squirming child into his outstretched hands and, quickly binding and cutting the birth cord, she wrapped the little lad snuggly in the soft cloth.  She waved Merry towards the mother, who lay panting against his cousin’s shoulder, and returned to her task.  He settled himself at her side and started to hand her the warm bundle he held.

“He’s a fine strapping lad you’ve got here…”

“No,” she whispered, turning her face away.

“Will you not name him at least?” he asked softly.

Silent tears were her only response, and he tucked the child back against his shoulder.  He looked up at Pippin, whose bewildered expression likely mirrored his own, and walked out with a sigh.

Sitting in the chair where he had waited by the fireplace, Merry gazed down at the infant in his arms.  As he wiped at the moisture still clinging to one delicately pointed ear, the child blinked gray-blue eyes at the movements so near his face, yawned hugely and fell fast asleep, breath whistling softly against Merry’s shirt.

“May grace go with you all your days, little one.  Not every night is this dark,” he murmured, pressing a kiss on the tiny forehead.

                                                       ***   ***   ***

A long half hour later, Pippin emerged into the now well-lit main room to find Merry ineffectively nudging at the flames with the sleeping infant cradled in his lap.  He took the long branch from his cousin’s hands and roused the fire.  He quickly set the tea to steep and cut a thick slice of crusty bread, which he slathered with dark honey.  Clutching the dripping slice, he slid down next to Merry’s chair, his back against the wall.  His shirt was soaked with sweat and his fingers bruised, and he was dizzy with relief that the main portion of the night’s work was over.

“I can’t believe I’m the fourth child my mother bore.  I don’t think I could do this more than once!” he declared tiredly.

“I don’t imagine it’s this difficult all the time, or there would be far fewer hobbits about,” Merry replied with a quiet chuckle.

“Right you are, Master Brandybuck, the lad decided to come out contrary-wise, just as you did,” the midwife said as she shut the door behind her.  “Well, who else would you be, too tall and walking in with that scamp,” she added in response to his surprise at her use of his name.  She sat gratefully in the seat Merry had vacated for her and quietly sipped the strong tea Pippin had placed into her hands.

She soon heaved herself from the chair with a tired sigh and picked up a small basket she had earlier set beside the bedroom door.  Moving to the table, she took the little one from Merry’s arms and gently lay him down.  Movements quick yet tender, she cleaned and dressed the infant, talking all the while in a mixture of senseless endearments to the child and gruff advice to the two young hobbits at her side.  Bundling the little lad into a warm blanket, she placed him into Pippin’s arms with a last pat on the cheek for each of them.

“He is lucky that it is Rose Gamgee and no other who’ll be delivered later tonight.  The Cottons always had room for one more at the table and I’m afraid he may need the care of another mam before long.”  She fixed Pippin with a solemn gaze saying, “I place this child and his mother in you charge for tonight, Master Took.  I’ll return in the morning.”  Setting her satchel over her shoulder she stepped out into the night.

“Back soon,” Merry murmured with a last glance at the babe, and followed the midwife out of the door.

After a short stop at her home for fresh clothes and a few words to her family, Merry had accompanied Mistress Burrows up to the Hill.  The bright lights and almost festive atmosphere at Bag End made a sharp contrast to the benighted misery they had so recently left, and the plenty he had grown up to regard as normal now seemed to him garish and almost obscene in its excess.  He watched quietly from the doorway as Mrs. Cotton greeted the midwife with a warm smile and ushered her off to the large bedroom beyond.  Wandering through the small sitting room, he saw Rosie’s father press a brimming mug of ale on a fretful Sam who now paced the kitchen, having been firmly put out of the birthing room by the assembled womenfolk.  Frodo, who had tucked himself into a quiet corner of the room to observe the nearby chaos, shot Merry an amused grin, obviously greatly entertained by the expectant father’s discomfiture.  Some of Merry’s conflicted feelings must have shown on his face however, for the older hobbit quickly crossed the room and pulled him outside into the night.

“What’s happened, Merry?  Where’s Pippin?”

“Minding a newborn, if you can imagine that,” Merry replied, a touch of hollow amusement in his voice.

“Where?”

Merry stared out into the dark fields below the Hill, trying to gather his whirling thoughts and emotions.  Shame and outrage mingled with the bitter loss of his last illusions that the Shire was untouched by the darker tendencies of Men, and he was hard put to express his disgust without attacking the very character of the residents of this beloved little town.  He dared not stretch his sight, freed by travel of the blinders of the homebound, to acknowledge that the seed of that evil could not grow in a heart without the flaws to feed it.  Not yet.  He let go of as much as he could of the more abstract aspects of his worries and came back to their source, to the lonely lass across town.

“It isn’t my place to say, as Buckland has no reach this far west of the Brandywine, but…  none who look to us want for shelter or food, and not even girls in this kind of trouble need face the consequences alone.”

“Speak plainly, cousin.  What is this about?”

“Mistress Burrows just delivered a fine lad tonight in a lightless, airless hole barely fit for a rabbit.  The lass had no kin and no friends about her, save a stranger who happened there by chance,” he said, voice low and tight.

“I didn’t know…”

“I guessed as much,” Merry replied, turning to face Frodo.  “But someone had to have known, and yet nothing was done.”

“’Twas done a purpose, Mister Merry,” Daisy Gamgee said, stepping into the circle of light pouring from the open door.  “Her mate came down on the wrong side during the Troubles and Posey hadn’t the sense to feel shame for it.  Not till much later anyways, when the scoundrel turned into a penniless sot and it was far too late.  Once the Hornblowers had washed their hands of her, folks in these parts lost too much to just forget it.  She was lucky he fell into a ditch before he beat the babe from her.”

“What a horrible thing to say!”

“The truth isn’t always pretty, Mister Frodo, sir,” she said, walking back through the door without another word.

The bitter weight of her revelation hung heavy in the cool night air.

“Even Buckland won’t be far enough for a fresh start for her,” Frodo murmured, shaking his head.

They both knew too well the speed that news traveled across the Shire, especially the more scandalous sort, and the poor lass would indeed find few doors open to her.

“I’ll take her out of the Shire, to Bree or Archet, as soon as the babe is old enough to travel,” Merry said quietly.

“Can we not approach her family first?  Surely…”

“No.  I know her sister.  Pansy lost her husband to the Lockholes and was left with five little ones to see to.  If Posey’s parents haven’t come for her by now, they won’t.  Some things you just can’t fix and sometimes it’s best to leave the past behind,” he finished.

“Sometimes it is,” Frodo agreed, catching Merry’s eye. The young hobbit had the sudden intuition they were no longer speaking of Posey and her little lad.  A queer fluttering anticipation filled him, his heart reading a world of meaning from those three words and from the sad but serene countenance of his cousin.  The puzzle pieces fell into place, and the reason for the returned peace in Frodo’s face struck him:  the fight against the dark slide into despair had been neither won nor lost, but his cousin had made a decision regarding his own fate, and he had the determined look of a hobbit prepared to accept what mercy would come without expectations for more.  A deep swell of love surged through Merry then, and he pulled Frodo’s frail form into a fierce hug.

“Some things are worth keeping no matter what,” he whispered against his ear, voice rough with emotion.

“And some are better given away than held too tight,” Frodo replied, gentle hands smoothing circles against Merry’s back.  The gesture, so familiar a thousand memories returned at the touch, threatened to break his self-control altogether.

‘Even now he tries to comfort me, but can nothing comfort him back?’ he thought, despairing.

Frodo slowly pulled away and looked into his eyes.

“Just be merry, Merry,” Frodo said with a grin.

Merry heard himself make a strange strangled sound, half giggle half sob, at the hideous play on words that had always delighted his cousin.

“That’s a truly awful joke, Frodo Baggins!” he said, gently slapping his shoulder.  “It aught to be punishable by law.”

“You’ll have the ear of the Thain before too long, though I hope he never gets too serious to tease you from your worries.”

“Yes…  But who’ll explain them away when you’ve gone?”

“You don’t need me for that anymore, Merry,” Frodo said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.  “Go help Pippin, we’ll do fine here tonight.”

Merry watched him walk back into Bag End and heard his clear voice join with the others inside.

                                                           ***   ***   ***

She woke, curled on her side around the fading pain in her belly.  She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in the wavering light.  The sight of the teapot on its tray nearby suddenly brought to the fore a raging thirst she had not noticed before and she eased herself upright.  As she drank down the first cup of weak tea, she twitched aside the cloth that covered the other half of the tray and discovered several slices of crusty white bread slathered with dark honey.  She hungrily crammed the first into her mouth and grabbed a second as she gulped down another cup of cold tea.

“There’s more out in the kitchen.  You needn’t hurry so.”

She turned to the door, startled by the quiet words from the young stranger standing there.  She slowly put down the teacup and swallowed the last crumbs on her tongue.  He smiled at her and hesitantly entered the room, a small bundle cradled against his chest.

“I’ll go make another pot for you, I’m sure this one’s gone quite cold by now,” he said approaching the bed.  “Hold him a moment,” he added leaning down to rest the sleeping lad in her arms.

“I don’t…”

“Just a minute, I’ll be right back,” he interrupted and hurried out with the teapot.

Frowning at the half open door, she shifted the slight weight on her lap against her more comfortably.  The baby, tucked deep into his blanket, made a soft snuffling snort and she looked down at his sleeping face.  She stroked a gentle finger down the round cheek and the little rosebud mouth opened slightly, seeking her fingertip.  A tiny smile quirked her lips.

“A right proper hobbit, aren’t you?  Already looking for your sup…” she murmured.

She watched the tiny eyelashes flutter open, revealing the slate blue eyes of a newborn, and she was caught for a long moment by that unfocused gaze.

“It’s a little late for supper, lad, but if we stay up awhile we can call it first breakfast,” she finally said, tugging at the laces of her nightdress.

Peeping past the door that now stood ajar, Pippin felt a satisfied grin creep over his face as the newest resident of the Shire took his first hungry taste of life.  He quietly nudged the door almost shut and set the teapot by the fireplace.  Lighting a well-deserved pipe, he stepped out to smoke under the stars, watching their pale movements late into the night.

                                                       ***    ***   ***

Young Elanor Gamgee, the first child born at Bag End within memory of those present, made her entrance into the world with the rising of the Sun.  Rosie, exhausted but radiant received those who had waited the night through in her home with all the grace of a queen.  If Merry and Pippin’s absence in that first hour were noticed at all, it was quickly forgiven for the fuss they made over “the fairest babe in the whole of the Shire”, as they declared her with all the authority young gentlehobbits can muster on such matters.  Only Frodo, who was privy to the night’s sad tale, spotted the telltale signs of fatigue and worry, well concealed by their genuine joy for their friends.  Sam’s eyes were all for the precious child in his arms, and the awe and love in his face warmed their hearts.  In the mingling and milling about in the large bedchamber, Frodo found himself standing between his young cousins and took each of their hands into his.

“While there is life, there is hope,” he murmured.  “Always there is hope.”

12. Quiet Conversations

“I’d forgotten how loud little babies can be, and how often,” Frodo said with an exhausted sigh as he sat down in the fragrant grass that bordered the neat field he and Pippin had wandered into.  A quiet walk outside of Bag End had recommended itself when the third day of young Elanor’s life had started as the previous had ended with an imperious shriek and whimper.  He looked up at his cousin, whose nervous energy rarely allowed for silence or stillness, though he was now staring quietly into the distance.

“How is your niece doing these days?  Less fuss I’d guess than our little queen bee,” Frodo asked, aware that home was likely what was occupying Pippin’s mind.  “Pippin?  Hello?”

“Hmm, what?  Oh yes, Perdita’s not a fuss at all…” he answered distractedly.

“Here and I thought you said she was as perfectly Tookish as can be,” Frodo teased, tugging the young hobbit to sit by his side.  “You’re a thousand miles away, cousin.  What’s troubling you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  Just wondering if I’m doing any good at all.  I wish Merry could come to Great Smials with me this time.”

“I thought you wanted to do this on your own.”

“To be honest, I’ve wanted his help from the first day.  But my father…  My father is clinging to this foolish notion that Merry and his father are to blame for me leaving in the first place, as if I couldn’t get into that much trouble by myself,” he said shaking his head.  “I guess he never noticed just who was always pulling me from the messes I’d jump into, though everyone else did I’m sure.  He certainly never stayed anyone’s hand when Merry took the thrashings meant for me.”

“Things are a little different now, Pippin, surely your father can see that.  You’ve grown, you know to consider the consequences of your actions.”

“Oh, I always knew after the fact that the idea wasn’t a good one, but my mouth always runs faster than my mind.  Some trouble you can’t talk your way around or out of…”

“What is it you think Merry could do that you cannot to help your father?”

“Subtle argument has never been my strength, you know that…  I can charm the cookies off a plate or talk a passel of lads into mischief, but to reason out a solution and make my father think it is his own is not something I’ve ever managed.  And he’d never buy it from me anyway.”

“I think you underestimate yourself, Pippin.  But surely others in Tuckborough are pushing for things to resume their normal course?”

“Yes, thank goodness, there are enough who’ll gladly run in that direction once the word is given.”

“Will his advisors not help you?”

“Ha!” Pippin spat bitterly, getting up again to pace.  “Frightened old hobbits!  They don’t dare to say a word crosswise to him.  That simple farmer from Whitwell scared them out of their wits with his response to the invasion.”  He looked down at his feet, voice low and rough.  “It hurt to find him so hard, so sharp and cold.”

“Imagine his surprise when his little lad came back from the dead full grown and armed to the teeth,” Frodo said, placing a gentle hand on Pippin’s arm.  “Life has been cruel to him of late.  But he’ll recover, you’ll see.”

“I know.  It’s happening, little by little.  I just hope it happens soon enough…”

“Soon enough for what?”

“For it to make a difference.  He’s not getting any younger, you know.  And while I’m busy playing the fool to distract him, I can feel their eyes on me and it isn’t a friendly feeling I get.”

“Now I know you’re worrying for nothing.  If there’s one thing your family won’t do is disrupt the chain of inheritance.  They’re too proud of that to ignore it, even in your case.”

“Thanks, I think…”

“Oh really, Pippin,” Frodo said, fondly squeezing the younger hobbit’s shoulder.  “It may indeed take some time to smooth things out between you, and for the rest of them to see you as more than Paladin’s young rapscallion of a son, but they’ll see their advantage soon enough.  They’ll think to pull your strings as they did his and you’ll surprise them just as much by tugging back.  Remember, ‘fealty with love, valor with honor.’  The Steward was not too far from wrong in some respects.”

“You forgot vengeance,” the young Took murmured.

“What?”

“Oath-breaking with vengeance…” Pippin said, forcing the words past jaws clenched with remembered anger.  “Shall I deal out death in judgment as he did?  Even on my own flesh and blood?  Shall we become as Men, unforgiving and inflexible?”

He drew the short blade that still hung at his side.  Polished and oiled to preserve it from the elements, its bright length caught the light of morning.

“Shall we too live by the sword?”

“No, that is not our road.  It never has been.” 

“But it is the one my father nearly set us on." 

“It is done, Pippin.  The guards have put up their arms, the letters flood from the Green Hills…  That chapter is closed for the Shire.”

“Save the part between us.”

“Follow your heart, Pippin, it has never steered you wrong.  You’ll find the way.”

13. Plots & Devices

One of April’s drizzling showers had caught him out on his way back home from Hobbiton, and Pippin had decided to push on past the last inn on the road despite the cold trickle of rain snaking down his back.   He had almost taken Merry up on his invitation to escort young Posey back to Buckland and then on to Bree, but duty had pulled him westward once more.  Though he did not look forward to a return to Tuckborough, he felt he might as well get it over with early in the day and so make his escape to Whitwell in time for tea.  Little Perdita’s simple joys were all he wished to see today.

Merry had been right of course, as he usually was with this sort of thing.  Playing the part of a stubborn and foolish tween was wearing thin already, after less than six months, and he wasn’t certain how long he could swallow the lie.  His first act in his campaign to set things aright had been one of defiance, and though born of grief and compassion rather than premeditated thought, it had brought down a wall of bewildered hurt and anger between them.  Paladin had wanted his son back, the cherished, engaging young scamp who had been gloriously spoiled by one and all since his first day.  He had not been ready for the self-assurance and grim determination behind the eyes of the tall captain who had led off a contingent of archers to beat back their enemies.  He had not known how to greet the armed stranger that had met him near Sarn Ford, calmly cleaning the blood from his sword as he approached.  This was not his boy, though the features were the same and the laughter still clear as a bell.  Paladin had been glad to turn his anger on the hobbit at Pippin’s side, as unfair and childish as it had seemed even then.  It had simply been easier to blame Merry for those changes than to accept that fate had torn from him two children and only this dark-clad warrior would return.  Regrets had come, of course, but far too late to take back the harsh words spoken.  Pippin had ridden off after Merry and not once looked back.

Paladin had locked Tookland tight around himself, quietly nursing the anger and resentment he had already long harbored against those whom he blamed for the loss of his own.  There had been enough noise made over those casualties the Tooks had suffered to justify the continued guard.  Months later, when admitting he had erred would have brought more relief than shame, the attempted visits from the Mayor and others concerned about the situation had made it impossible to back down without loosing face.  He would not be dictated to or bullied into anything by anyone.  He would maintain at least the authority of the office, as hollow an honor as that might be without an heir to pass it on to.  It had been unfortunate for them both that Pippin had inherited so much of his father’s temper.  Neither had been prepared for the confrontation that had attended his recent return to Great Smials, and though it had ended in tears rather than anger, it had not been the homecoming either had imagined.  Breaking the stop Paladin had put on the Post had publicly set them in opposition and pride would allow no quarter, even for his son.  November had been a dark month, waiting for Pippin’s return, and if the archers ignored their orders in his regard, no one dared to remind them to his father.  No apologies had been given between them, but the grinning mischief-maker had pounced back into their midst, stealing pastries and talking up the maids, and Paladin had buried the dark memory of their last words in the stables.  The son he remembered and missed was back, as if the past two years had been undone.

The Thain would therefore have been entirely surprised to find that a quiet sort of revolution was taking effect under his very nose, in his very own study in fact, and that Pippin was well aware of his thoughts on his account.  Reginard Took, who had been the Thain’s assistant and scribe since he had taken office, would certainly have been the last hobbit most would suspect of anything so bold, but he had approached Pippin to offer his support.  It had been very surprising indeed to find an ally in his father’s most trusted associate.  Unbeknownst to all but a chosen few, Reginard had been the hand behind the last few acts of the previous Thain, who in his dotage had left Tookland’s affairs to the whimsy of fate, and he had been the one to push for Paladin’s selection as heir according to the old customs, though others had felt no such confidence in a farmer born and raised outside of Great Smials.  The quiet hobbit had been a forgotten witness to the clashes between father and son, and was privy to the Thain’s rambling ruminations on Pippin’s behavior, past and present.  He had watched helplessly as grief and paranoia had slowly banished the awkward generosity and open-handed governance that had marked Paladin’s first few years in office.  Where he had been lenient in his adjudications of the matters brought before him, he was now harsh; where he had been generous with the needy, he kept all on tight rations; where his day had turned on the simple joys of his family, he now drove himself late into the night without a moment to spare for any of them.  Eglantine had come to Reginard early in the first months after Pervinca’s death, but there had been little either of them could do.  Quiet counter-orders and late night shuffling of resources had made some small difference for the residents of Great Smials, but it had taken Pippin’s return to shake the Tooks awake.

The news that the young hobbit was planning to take and deliver to the Bywater post office every letter he was given in the next three days had spread through Tuckborough like a flame through dry tinder.  It had taken him two days to find the opportunity to approach Pippin, but Reginard had finally caught him alone in the gardens at twilight, pale smoke twining about the branches above him.

“Hello, cousin,” Pippin had said, looking down at him from his perch on the tree’s lowest limb.  “Taking the air this fine evening?  I dare say you need it after a day in that stuffy old study.  I don’t know how you stand it…”

“Sometimes I don’t know either, but then I remember that I’d much rather hear news first hand than a week later in the kitchens,” he had replied.  “Nice view from up there I’ll warrant.”

“It is…  Stars in the branches and not another soul in sight.  It’s peaceful.”

Reginard had let the cold quiet stretch out. Two long days of testing out words for this very conversation and he’d merely realized that he had never looked past the joking face of this young cousin and hadn’t the faintest idea of how his advice would be received.

“This thing with the letters, you don’t really think he’ll let you go, do you?”

“When has another’s opinion ever stopped me, or any self-respecting Took, from doing a needful thing?”

“Things are different now…”

“I can see that,” Pippin had interrupted, dropping lightly from the branch.  “I intend to change them back, and you can tell my father that if you wish.”

“I’m not here as his aide, Peregrin.  I came to tell you…  to tell you I agree with you completely.  It’s about time we got things back to normal around here.”

The young hobbit had narrowed his eyes and placed a heavy hand on the portly hobbit’s shoulder.

“I’ll suffer no treasonous words against him, Reginard, not even from you,” he had said, the hard edge in his voice sharp as a knife.  “I love my father and I’ve no intention of pushing him from his rightful place or diminishing his authority in any way.”

“There are some who would welcome that very thing and will view all your actions in that same light.  This could divide the Smials when it most needs to stand united.”

“Then I’ll just have to make sure they don’t see a worthy rival to put forward.”

“That’s a dangerous game to play, Peregrin.  You do intend to take the thainship on his death, do you not?”

“Duty calls me to it, and I will do what I must.”

“Let us hope there is enough time to redeem your foolishness before that time comes.”

“It’ll be complicated no matter what happens.  I’ve no illusions on that matter.”

Reginard had offered Pippin his hand and felt the calluses on the slender fingers that grasped his own, the hard grip of a hobbit grown into his strength, and he had smiled in the moonlit dark.

“You can count on me.”

That conversation had been the first of many, and their secret collaboration was finally bearing fruit.  The exaggerated scale of Pippin’s demands made the milder changes that Reginard proposed easy to accept and, slowly but surely, the Tooks saw their lives return to normal.  The post resumed its services, the guards were withdrawn from the borders and the farming families on the outskirts of Tookland set to making the most of one of the greenest springs seen in the Shire, only surpassed by the previous year.

Yet a gaping maw of angry desperate tension lay between the Thain and his son. 

There had been too many words between them and no truth, until they could barely stand to stare each other in the face.  Pippin was gone for longer and longer periods of time, returning to report to his father as a mere formality before dashing off again, for Whitwell or beyond.

The wide door of Great Smials beckoned across the sodden courtyard as Pippin led his pony towards the stables.  By the time he’d seen her groomed and fed, the drizzle had ceased, and he threaded between the many puddles that lay in his path.  Doffing cloak and coat, both drenched to double their weight with rainwater, he took the time to soak his feet in the basin a pretty young maid set before him, as much to get warm as to rid himself of the mud spring always brought.  Berilac found him there, pensively swishing his toes in the now murky water.

“Cleaning up or making soup?”

“Ah…  Neither, actually,” Pippin answered, pulling his feet from the cold water with a frown.  “Heading in or out?” he asked, toweling off and setting the basin by the door.

“In.  Will the stars be out tonight do you think?”

“They’re always up there when you need them,” the young hobbit replied with a sigh.  A meeting tonight would mean a day’s delay before returning to his sister’s house.

Reginard nodded and led the way down the hall towards the Thain’s study.

Later that evening, once the majority of those living in the honeycombed tunnels of Great Smials had left the common rooms for their own quarters, Reginard found himself staring up at the stars through the new spring leaves in the ancient oak that marked the center of the garden.  Tucked away in the shadows above, Pippin blew small smoke rings into the cool air to join the high clouds sweeping in feathery wisps across the sky.

“It really is too bad about young Posey Hornblower, or Chubb I guess she is now. 

It must have broken her poor mother’s heart.”

“I worry more about her lad.  Bad enough to grow up without a father, but so far off…”

“Better that than what he’d suffer staying hereabouts, believe me.  Children can be awfully cruel, and often their parents are little better.”

They both stared up at the impartial stars, lost in their own thoughts, until the soft patter of returning rain drove them back indoors.

 “What news from the wider world?” Reginard inquired as they padded quietly past many doors to the small parlor that fronted his little family’s rooms.

“I’m not sure why you ask me, since you seem to know more about every fact and rumor I bring you.”

“I need to know what you noticed, what you chose to remember, Pippin.  That’s the only way I have of predicting just which way you’ll jump next,” he replied with a smile.

He poured them drinks and nodded to the paired chairs before the warm embers in the hearth.  The older hobbit couldn’t help but grin watching his young cousin squirm and twist to find a comfortable position for his too tall frame.

“It isn’t all that funny…” Pippin grumped, fondly remembering the pleasure of curling up in countless other cozy seats that now offered little ease.  “In all honesty, I spend more time at Brandy Hall because they’re rather more fond of overstuffed couches, with plenty of room for all this,” he added, waving down his long legs now sprawled out before him.  “That and a nice wide bed awaits me in Crickhollow, wide enough to stretch out and really sleep…”

“Well, creature comforts aside, how are our cousins fairing this year?”

“Better every day…  Have the wedding invitations arrived yet?”

Reginard hesitated a moment before nodding, all humor fled from his round face.  “I’ve managed to delay his decision, but I don’t know for how long.”

“I can’t believe he’s being so stubborn…  Why hold a grudge so long for so little reason?”

 “Little reason!  Pippin, I don’t think you fully realize what your disappearance did to your father.  It’s every parent’s nightmare, a child lost in the Old Forest!  That your uncle had lost no hobbits to its perils in all his years as Master was the only reason you were allowed to roam about Buckland at all.”

“But we were never in any danger!  The High Hay…”

 “Didn’t keep you in!”  Reginard interrupted.  “Don’t you see?  None lost in decades, and then you.  Not by accident, but led in through the gate.  Not a soul could reproach your father his anger at the Brandybucks.  But it has gone on long enough.  You have returned, despite all expectations, and it is time forgive and forget.”

“But how do we get those two back on speaking terms?  They won’t even write!”

“Well, if we can make him see that tradition requires it, the wedding might be an opportunity…”

“For disaster!  No, we can’t have them snarling at each other over the vows…  It’s Merry and Estella’s day, it shouldn’t be shadowed by stubborn old fools waging war.  But something public, a party or something…  Somewhere they would have to be civil, with plenty of drink…  And Aunt Esmeralda will do the rest!  She can’t abide this thing between them either.”

“The question is, what other event could they not refuse to attend?”

Pippin suddenly grinned, and a dangerous twinkle lit his eyes.  “Yes, I think that could work…  I know just the thing.  Leave the details to me, cousin, we’re going to get this nonsense dealt with by year’s end!”

14. Brothers

June 14, 1421

For the first time in two years, every window in the Great Smials in Tuckborough was open and pouring music and light into the summer night.  The few in the surrounding area who were too ill to attend or had the misfortune of being otherwise occupied had no difficulty in imagining the crowded feast hall that occupied a large portion of the green hill, likely crammed with hobbits, tables groaning under the weight of food and drink.  Some had already spilled out into the courtyard and gardens, and inside, the small parlors and front rooms had been claimed by the more timid who sought to escape the noise and tension in the hall.  More than merriment was in attendance at young Peregrin Took’s birthday party, and speculation ran wild as to what would come of his latest act of defiance.

Though the near-sacred rules of hospitality had forced Paladin Took to grant welcome to all of his son’s guests, including the Brandybucks, nothing could make him enjoy it.  The chilly courtesy exchanged between Master and Thain had left those seated closest to the head table unusually subdued until they had found excuses to drift to other parts of the room.  Mingling happily at the loaded tables and at various points throughout the hall the Bolgers, Banks and other visitors found themselves convenient conversational covers for the assembled Tooks and Brandybucks to trade discreet greetings under the Thain’s disapproving eye.

“Well, everyone else seems to be having a good time,” Merry murmured to Pippin as they carried back brimming mugs of dark ale to the fireside corner where Frodo, Estella, Rosie and Sam had settled themselves.

“Now that I think about it, forcing those two back into the same room may not have been the smartest thing…” his cousin replied, nodding back at their fathers who were studiously ignoring each other, to the great and obvious annoyance of their respective spouses.

“Mother won’t stand it for long,” Merry chuckled, glancing back.  “She’ll dunk them both, family heads or no, if something doesn’t happen soon.”

Esmeralda Brandybuck, seated between her brother and her husband, certainly looked less than pleased with her silent dinner companions.  The way her fist tightened periodically about the wine cup clenched in her hand, she looked likely to prove Merry’s prediction correct before evening’s end.  Saradoc, who could usually be counted on to make small talk with the dullest of gaffers as well as with his closest friends, was paying a ridiculous amount of attention to the food on his plate.  Her attempts to draw him into conversation with her brother merely garnered wordless assent and the occasional derisive snort.  During a short break while Paladin had left the table, she’d hissed her discontent in her husband’s ear, fingers pinching into his arm to press her point.

“Must you both continue behaving like sullen schoolboys the night through?  This is a birthday party!”

“You know my mind on this, Esmeralda.  It’ll be a fine snow in July before I apologize for my existence and for my son’s.  Let your pig-headed brother come to his senses and I’ll be waiting open-armed.”

“We’re here, aren’t we?  We were invited, we came…”

“For Peregrin.  You saw Paladin’s face when we arrived.  He’d rather see us shot than drinking his ale.”

“Saradoc Brandybuck, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say!  Shot indeed!  You two are hopeless!” she finished loudly and turned to her sister-in-law with a rueful smile.  “Dear Eglantine, what are we to do with these stubborn old hobbits?”

“I dare say we’d find life too quiet by half without their fussing,” the small Mistress answered softly.

“You’re probably right,” Esmeralda replied, shaking her head and squeezing the other’s hand.

Their murmured conversation was cut short a few moments later by the Thain’s return, his stern presence breaking the pleasant contact between them.  Staring hard at her brother’s frowning profile, she again wished for the lively girl he had married, a sometime companion of her own youth, who seemed to peek out from time to time from behind the pale face of the melancholy woman Eglantine had become.  Esmeralda looked back out over the room, packed wall to wall with hobbits, young and old, enjoying the fruits of her nephew’s thankless work.  Merry had been increasingly fretful on his cousin’s account and Pippin’s fraying temper showed more with every passing week.  The thought of legitimately confronting her brother for what his pride and inflexibility were doing to their children had been too tempting to pass up.  Now she wondered whether anyone could get through to him at all.  She shook her head and caught sight of her son, literally head and shoulders above the rest, making his way towards his friends at the other end of the hall, Pippin trailing in his wake.

As they passed a small crowd of young hobbits, they were grabbed up with a whoop and drawn to the center of the hall, the assembled youths chanting, “Give us a song!  Give us a tale!  We’re happy and merry, now earn your ale!”  No few of their elders joined the cry, glad for a break from the tension that radiated from the head table.  Relieved of their mugs and thrust into the spotlight, Merry and Pippin shrugged and grinned, and launched into one of their favorite old drinking songs.  One followed another, loud songs, short tales, all so well known the hall burst in with each chorus and snickered well in advance of each comic turn told.

When they finally paused to drain the frothy mugs a dark haired lass offered up, Esmeralda sensed a shift in her brother’s tense posture and she glanced over to find him drawing a deep breath to speak.  His narrowed eyes were fixed on Merry’s back as the young hobbit chatted easily with the group of lads about him and she felt her heart drop to her toes.  The building storm was about to hit.  She saw that Pippin had caught his father’s mood and stepped purposely across Paladin’s field of vision, drawing the old hobbit’s gaze and letting some of his own anger flash across the gulf between them.

“I’ll have a tale from you, my lads!” Paladin growled, voice stilling the babbling crowd.  “A tale of dutiful, loyal sons, if you know one.”

Setting a calming hand on Merry’s arm, Pippin stepped forward with a short bow, still holding his father’s intense scrutiny.

“I know just the thing,” he said softly, and standing alone before the head table, he began to speak.

“Far to the south and east, past the Misty Mountains and the fair rolling plains of Rohan lay the besieged realm of Gondor.  Its last and strongest fortress, the White City of Minas Tirith, was set against the flanks of Mount Mindolluin, and its seven circling walls, each thicker than the last, led up to the Citadel and Tower where the Stewards ruled while awaiting the return of the King.  Long did these noble Men hold back the Dark Lord’s armies, whose fearsome lands lay near enough to see from the city’s walls.  Only the river Anduin and the brave soldiers holding the bridge in Osgiliath stood between the Enemy and the peaceful West.

“The Lord Steward that I speak of had two sons, both fair and brave and honorable, both loyal to their people and their father in equal measure.  The eldest was a mighty captain and leader of men, and he excelled in all feats of war.  He bought many resounding victories at the head of his troops, heavy cavalry and armored men crushing the orcs against the pale stone of the ruined city of Osgiliath.  The younger waged a different sort of conflict with the Enemy, capturing spies and harrying the Dark Lord’s minions from within the occupied lands of Ithilien.  That fair land, once known as the garden of Gondor, had long fallen under the shadow and none lived there now save the young Captain’s Rangers, who roamed its quiet paths and hidden dells beneath the Enemy’s fearsome eye.

“Over long years, dark years, of growing threat each shining victory brought the eldest higher in his father’s favor and eclipsed the silent successes of his brother, though it should be said that naught but love lay between the two.  When dark and fateful quest led the first from the White City never to return, the Steward turned his face from his youngest in bitterness, that the one he loved best had gone so untimely while this other remained.  And as he raged and mourned inside his Tower, the Dark Lord moved his hand and his armies swept through ruined Osgiliath and took the bridge, forcing the young Captain to withdraw to Minas Tirith’s walls.  Yet the Steward sent him forth again, coldly asking of his son before the council, ‘Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord’s will?’

“‘Since you are robbed of my brother,’ his son answered, ‘I will go and do what I can in his stead, if you command it.’

“‘I do so,’ the old man replied, though it was known to all present that no force that could be gathered in the city this day could hope to retake the bridge against so many.

“‘Then farewell, but if I should return, think better of me,’ the young Captain replied and walked away, back straight and heart broken by his father’s last cold words.

“‘That depends upon the manner of your return.’”

Pippin drew a shaky breath, heart hammering as it had that day, tongue straining to cry out against the injustice playing out before him, yet bound by duty and fear to remain silent.  He closed his eyes and again took up the tale.

“Of those who left, a full third never returned, and fevered by his wounds, the young Captain did not hear his father’s last despairing words as he was laid at the Steward’s feet.  Dismissing his guards and servants, the old man turned from his duty, saying, ‘I have sent my son forth unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins.  The House of the Stewards has failed.’

“He left his people to fight alone, even as the city began to burn, and he sat and mourned his sons, the one that had died and the one that yet lingered, each dutiful to the last.”

Silence followed Pippin’s last words, his audience fixed upon the narrow space between father and son, fairly crackling with pent up emotion.  The entire hall waited with bated breath, not daring a word or move lest it should call down the lightning that brewed in their midst.  The rows between Thain Paladin and his son were quickly becoming legendary even outside Great Smials.

The sudden cry of a little child broke the spell, however, and time abruptly resumed its course.  Each turned to their neighbors, digesting this new tale, a few ladies dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

Pippin snatched a mug from a nearby table and strode quickly from the hall.  Heart still pounding he reached the dark stables and leaned back against his pony’s stall door.  He could still see the pyre behind his closed eyes, the Steward’s grief-maddened face as he railed against Gandalf’s last appeal.  He’d never thought to see that terrible old man again, and now he feared to look too hard or long into his father’s face, lest he should find that lurking bitterness, that seed of madness and fear in the clear gray eyes.

His ear caught soft footsteps approaching in the night, and he considered for a moment ducking back into the shadows.  ‘No…  Let it come,’ he thought, and stood still, gazing blankly at the wall across the way.

“What happened to him?” his father’s voice rumbled from the warm darkness at his shoulder.

“The Steward?  He died by his own hand soon after, mad with grief and the Enemy’s lies.  Faramir lives still.”

“The young captain?”

“Yes, though he is the Steward now…  You read his letter, remember?  You know, I felt very badly for him, that his father fell so far from him…  I never thought…  I never thought I’d see such blind and bitter judgment again.”

Pippin turned to look at his father and found that his words had struck home.  Shock and disbelief altered the spare lines of Paladin’s face.

“How can you think that?  I could never turn my back on you, Peregrin, not for all the mischief in the world!  I’d never….”

“I know…  I was always the favored son,” Pippin said softly and silently walked out.

The murmured words still hanging in the air before him, Paladin felt the world turn on its ear and the cold light of understanding cut past pretense and pride, like a knife through butter.  His son knew he could do no wrong, he’d never doubted his place was safe in his affections.  But if Pippin was the favored son, who stood in his shadow, unthanked, and had been sent away for bitterness and senseless enmity?

“Merry...”

His nephew’s absence had loomed large in the last few months, disturbing even him, though he couldn’t have put into words his unease until this very moment.  He could see it now, that these lads had been inseparable, like brothers.  The simple phrase stuck like a burr to the tattered edges of his heart.  Like brothers, and he had tried to separate them with his anger and fear, and his need to assign blame for the heartache of that dreadful year.  It was fast becoming clear their time away had held more than a pleasant ramble about foreign parts, and that it had drawn them closer than ever.

“Like brothers…” he murmured.

His sister’s son stepped from the shadows, as if called by Paladin’s fresh regrets.

“I did my best to dissuade him from going, you know.  I knew it would be dangerous, and that leaving without a word would hurt you all.  But there was no talking him around.  You know Pippin…” Merry said walking past to where is own little mare waited patiently in her stall.

Paladin watched silently as the young hobbit started to groom his dark mount.

“He held his own, though, even among Men twice his size and age.  He has earned a place of great respect from those he has met, and not always by his charm, as we might be tempted to think…”

He paused a moment and looked back at Paladin.  “I don’t imagine he told you, but he saved that young captain’s life.  He saw the Steward’s madness and countered it, at great risk to himself.  You should know that.”

“Thank you.”

Merry finished saddling the mare in silence and led her towards the open door.

“I don’t need thanks for what I do with a willing heart, and I love my cousin

dearly, but if you wish to do right by him, stop tugging at the loyalties you helped to bind his life with, it’s tearing him apart.  You’ll lose him just as sure as…” he finished, waving vaguely eastward with a sigh.  “Goodnight, uncle,” he added, guiding the mare out into the night.

***    ***   ***

Dark eyes watched from the nearby hedge that bordered the courtyard, following the tall figure that rode through the gate.  Distracted by the slow movements of the aged Thain as he emerged from the stables, the watcher lost sight of the rider and cursed under his breath.  The old hobbit in the courtyard paused, gray head turning this way and that, before finally passing into the well-lit smial.  The watcher let out his fear-held breath.  It would not do to be seen lurking here, particularly not by that hobbit.  The old fool might well remember his face from two summers past, despite the new scars that had altered his features, and he might too recall that he had been among those missing after his daughter’s kidnapping.  It had been a pleasure and a relief to leave that haughty wildcat in the Men’s care, though he’d not been aware of their specific intentions at the time.  It had been a brutal and shocking experience, but thrilling too, to see so many rules broken by these strangers, and he saw that his own master’s words were true:  might made right, and it was best to find oneself at the stronger end of that equation.  He grinned in the dark and slipped over the wall behind him, slipping through the gardens to rejoin his four companions on the edge of town.  Pervinca Took had been easy to take, but his current target would prove to be more challenging by far.  Chuckling low in his throat, he mounted his small pony and signaled his companions eastward.

“Foxhunt, boys.  Pick off the fox tonight and we’ll have a shot at the vixen sooner than expected.”

15. A Trap Is Sprung

August 1421 – The Shire

‘A poor end to a lovely afternoon,’ Merry thought idly, scanning the darkness around him.  Estella lay sleeping beside him, head pillowed in his lap, and the hard rock behind him pressed into his back uncomfortably.  The gloom held no answers, but his mind worked on, fitting the puzzling events of this summer together with their present situation.  Stray arrows in the woods, close calls on suddenly rickety bridges that had been sound, all of these had seemed mere accidents and coincidences, at least until today.  One hand still gently stroking the silky curls that tumbled down her back, he carefully lifted the sodden cloth from the gash along his ribs.  Though it had bled impressively a few hours ago, the arrow had barely grazed him before getting tangled up in his cloak.  Its continued presence and the dark stain that had spread down his coat had served to convince their attackers that the hit had been true, and they had gladly left him here to die.  Unfortunately, in a lovely but foolish display of defiance and loyalty, Estella had doomed herself to spend the next few days in this damp cave, which Tengo Goodbody had intended as Merry’s tomb.  He had watched from the floor where the burly hobbit’s thugs had dropped him, waiting for an opportunity for escape that never came.  Tengo had kept his prize in hand, dagger drawn, at all times.  Merry had been quite certain she would be safe as long as he himself posed no threat.  He had forgotten the slow simmering temper that his bride-to-be had inherited from her mother.  Took women were dangerous to cross.  When their captor had roughly cut the love knot from her hair, Estella had slapped his hands from her dark curls.

“I will never marry you, Tengo Goodbody!  Never!  Do you hear me?  Never!” she had challenged, small fists tight with fury.

“Brave words!” Tengo had sneered and shoved her down beside Merry’s still form.  “But I’m sure a few hungry days under the ground will change your mind!”

He had turned back at the entrance, where a half dozen hooded hobbits were struggling with a great boulder.  “I’ll return when your passions have cooled somewhat, along with the body of this interfering whelp,” he had called back with a dark laugh as the last crescent of light disappeared and their exit was blocked.

The anger that had fueled her courage died with the silence and darkness that now enclosed them, and Merry had awkwardly gathered her into his arms, despite the trammeling cords that still bound his hands.  His conscious presence had turned her attention away from the uncertain future and she had busied herself with cutting him free.  Overconfidence or sheer stupidity had kept Tengo’s hobbits from searching them, and they had found several useful things still about their persons, not the least of which was Merry’s pocket knife.  Estella’s next discovery, however, had had less pleasant effects on her state of mind.  Wrapping his arms about her, Merry had felt her small hands slide beneath his jacket, as had become her habit in weeks past, and he winced as she brushed against the shallow wound.  A small whimper had escaped her lips as she pulled back a hand, sticky with his blood, and burst into tears.

It had taken some time to calm her from her near hysterical reaction, which he had sensed was due as much to the present situation as to one she had made every effort to forget.  Merry had found out in well-watered late night discussions with Freddy that Master Bolger had done more than protect his own small domain during the Troubles.  The scattered farms and sheds of Budgeford had proved to be a haven for the rebels, and no little amount of the grain that had been kept back for the planting had made its way into their hide-outs in the Brockenbores, while protection money to pay off the ruffians had drained the family’s coffers.   The wounded had often been left in their care, and too many had never risen from their hidden sickbeds deep within the house.  Merry’s blood on her hands had been too harsh a reminder of that dark little room where their lives had fled from between her fingers and their eyes closed forever, some of them not much more than boys.

‘My poor heart,’ he smiled sadly, seeing in thought the dark lashes on tear-stained cheeks that the lightless cave hid from his sight.  “I’m sorry you’ve seen even this much of war, my love,” Merry whispered softly.

He refolded and secured the cloth against his side and ran questing fingers over the raw marks about his wrists.  New scars would soon join the old.  He had almost lost the small advantage he’d gained himself by feigning unconsciousness when his assailants had moved to bind his hands.  Instinct swelled by panic screamed at him to fight or to flee, to do anything to avoid being bound once more, and it had required every ounce of his will to remain limp and unmoving as he was thrown over the saddle of a dark pony.  He could hardly rescue Estella if they decided to kill him out of hand.  He didn’t dare imagine what might have happened to his gallant mare, or whether he would ever find his silver horn again.  Though he had managed a single short call, Pippin and the others had been far ahead when the path had skirted under the trees where the ambush had been laid.  Four hobbits, hooded and armed, had darted out from the trees and tried to pull him down.  Merry’s mount, usually a calm and steady creature, had reared up with a cry and momentarily scattered his attackers.  The clear call of the Horn still shivered in the air when a voice had called from the cover of the wood.

“Bring him down!  Bring him down now!”

The sharp twang of bowstrings followed and only the purest chance had saved him from a quick death at the wrong end of dark fletched arrows.  Off-balance and overmatched, Merry had been dragged from the saddle, and horn and sword were knocked from his hands.  Estella’s angry cry sounded to his right and he had turned straight into a heavy fisted blow that had left him dazed and flat on his back.  The large bruise above his ear still throbbed in reminder of that hard knock, and he promised himself an equal return if he ever caught up with the villain.  The likelihood of that event was small, given their current situation, and he did not dare to hope for rescue.  Soon after they had left the path, bound and gagged, Merry had heard the shrill scream of distressed ponies in the distance and wondered bleakly what trap had been set to waylay their companions.

***   ***   ***

Though Pippin had only heard the Horn of Rohan winded a few times, there was no mistaking its clear call, and he threw himself into his saddle without a second thought.

“Merry’s in trouble, mount up!” he called back over his shoulder to Freddy Bolger and their two pretty companions where they sat upon the green hill hungrily

investigating a well packed picnic basket.

Without waiting for a response, Pippin galloped off across the field that separated their resting place from the small wood they had passed earlier, and whence the horn’s call had come.  The distance closed slowly, too slowly, and by the time he crossed the line of trees, he found only the signs of struggle and none of the participants.  Many feet and hooves had churned up the muddy dirt of the road, and the tracks led off in several different directions.  Before Pippin could investigate further, the scream of a downed pony drew him down the path towards the outer edge of the wood.  He hurried to find Freddy upon the ground, curled around an obviously broken arm, his white mare shrilling desperately nearby.  There was little that might be done for her broken leg and Pippin quickly gave her what mercy he could.  The two girls had stopped short of the treacherous rope that stretched low across the way, and they now slipped over it to help Freddy to his feet.

“There’s not much we can do for you here, Freddy,” Pippin said, cutting the cord free of its anchoring tree.  “You girls take him back to the nearest farmstead, then send on to Budgeford for help.  Have them rally the foresters of Buckland and any bounders that might be about.  There’s sign of a struggle up the road, and I don’t think our companions came out on top.”

He helped the portly hobbit up into the saddle, where the dark eyed lass held him fast, and they went off at a gentle walk.

“I’ll mark a trail as I go!” Pippin called after them.

Returning to the site of the ambush, he worked his way slowly over the trampled ground, looking for any indications of what might have happened.  A small glint of light led him to Merry’s silver horn, fetched up under a low bush.  He set it over his shoulder and continued searching.  Assuming the other riders had been hostile, which he felt they must be, Pippin finally decided that Merry and Estella would likely be in the company of their assailants and there was only one trail of more than two sets of hooves.  Leading his chestnut mare on foot, he set off into the wood, eyes scanning the forest floor anxiously.  Several yards from the road, a splash of blood, already dark, marked a pale stone underfoot.  He hoped Merry had been the one to score against his mysterious opponents, but only time would tell.  Pippin jogged on faster now, pausing occasionally to scratch markers into the trees he passed.  He reached the edge of the wood as the sun sank westward and fading light presented him with a difficult choice:  to go on and possibly loose the trail in the night, or wait for dawn, which left his friends at their captors’ mercy for longer than he cared to think about.  The rolling fields stretched out to shadowy horizons to either side, and the dark hills of the Brockenbores rose before him a little further north.  They could have gone anywhere.

He had no illusions that his poor attempts at tracking could come anything near to a Ranger’s skills, though he hunted with no less determination and haste.  He cast a final glance towards the darkening sky and drew back under the eaves of the forest.  After freeing the mare to find her own supper, he settled in the angle of two great roots, where the leafy mulch of the previous fall still lay thick and warm from the summer sun.  Shrugging unhappily into his cloak, he nibbled at one of the journey cakes he had started carrying in his pocket since they had returned home, in memory of their hungry trek across Rohan.  He would gladly trade every sweet loaf in his mother’s kitchen for the aid of any one of the members of the Fellowship on this hunt.  Though the wide world no longer hung in the balance, at this moment his own personal part of it certainly did.  More than kin, more than friend, Merry had always been Pippin’s anchor, the only constant in the changing set of circumstances that had made up his young life.  His mother’s long illness after his birth, along with the recurring dark spells that had taken her since, had led to Pippin’s first lengthy stay at Brandy Hall at the tender age of three.  Bewildered and forgotten by the adults who had crowded around to question his uncle, Pippin had hid himself in the dark nook between two overstuffed couches in the parlor, trying to make sense of the hushed conversations around him.  To this day he remembered that first meeting, when a smiling lad had knelt beside him, blue-gray eyes bright and kind, and had offered him a sweet.  Merry had taken his hand, and in a very real sense, had never let go.  That same warm hand around his own had been his first memory of Cormallen, before he even opened his eyes, the gentle pulse against his skin a comforting counterpoint to the sharp pain that had come with every breath.  Even in this last year, when shadows had crowded round to dim that steady flame, it was his cousin’s resolve and care that had lent direction to those strange months of restless wandering through the Shire.  And now Merry lay somewhere, near or far, perhaps even at death’s door, the bright happy love so recently found with him, and there was little Pippin could do but wait for morning’s light.

16. False Trails And Hidden Paths

At dawn, Pippin found himself at the head of twenty hobbits, armed and eager to pursue their quarry.  Most of them were Bucklanders who reported directly to Merry and patrolled with him along the High Hay, including Berilac, a close cousin who had grown up in Brandy Hall.  Pippin was glad to see the sharp-eyed hobbit, whose sure nose for trouble and a roguish eye for the ladies had once rivaled his own until the Mistress’s maid had collared him and married him into good sense.  He now led the Master of Buckland’s border guards, his handsome round face marred only by the dark patch over his left eye, a token of his resistance to the ruffians’ depredations.

More confident in their well honed tracking skills than Pippin had been alone, they all moved quickly across the fields northward towards the hills beyond Scary.  Though some effort had been made to sweep all evidence of their passage, the culprits had badly rushed the job and left more than enough for them to follow in the light of day.  The trail wound back among the deep folds of land where flocks of sheep grazed on the greening heights.  Much time was lost when they crossed the paths of the tramping beasts, innocently masking the traces left by those they pursued.  Some time later in the day, the tracks doubled back directly upon themselves and veered east.  The company gazed long at both options before following the fresher of the two towards the Brandywine, whose gray-green line they soon saw past Bridgefields as they came out of the hills.

During his lonely vigil in the night, Pippin had wrestled with the likely nature and motivation of Merry’s assailants and none of the possibilities that had presented themselves were pleasant to consider.  Either ruffians, bent on vengeance or ransom, had somehow forded the Brandywine and set upon the first hobbits they had encountered, or, more sinister still, someone had lain in wait specifically for the Master’s son.  The idea that one hobbit could lay violent hands upon another was anathema, even to eyes that had witnessed the intemperate perfidy of Men, but Pippin found it hard not to hear again his father’s anguished words regarding his sister’s abductors.

‘”Hobbits took her.  To them.”’

Betrayal had come easily enough to some.  This darker thought struck him anew when the hoof prints turned up a narrow lane, away from the river that marked the easternmost border of the Shire.

Pippin signaled the party to pass on eastward and into the small wood a half-mile beyond.  “Whose lands are these?” he asked the others as they rested themselves and their mounts in the shade.

“Goodbody’s.  Owns most of the fields hereabouts, property runs right up to the Bolgers’,” one of the Bounders replied, running a sun dark hand through the graying hair beneath his cap.  “He don’t take well to strangers on his lands, not even us Bounders, through he’s civil enough to a jingling purse…  What hey!” he reproached his neighbor, who’d dug a cautioning elbow into his ribs with a quick nod towards the young gentlehobbit he was addressing.  “Mister Took knows I don’t mean no disrespect,” he continued, “but handsome is as handsome does and that Tengo Goodbody don’t care about nothing but coin.  Not like his father, bless his bones.  Half the fortune and twice the heart, he had.”

Two oldsters in the company grunted in agreement, and Pippin turned to look out across the fields.

“Let’s go find what we may, then.”

Leaving behind the ponies, they crept quickly through the fields where the wheat was golden and high, a perfect screen for they approach.  Wriggling up to the hedge that separated field from the rear courtyard, they were confronted by the most damning evidence of Tengo’s complicity short of the missing hobbits’ presence.  Merry’s dark mare, one odd sock clear enough identification even without her tack, was being led from the yard on a halter, closely followed by the cream gelding Estella had been riding.

“Ride hard for Michel Delving.  The fair opens there in three days and we’ll lack no buyers for such fine mounts, preferably some yokel from out west near the bounds.”

“Yes, sir,” the pair of dark clothed hobbits responded, mounting their own ponies.

“Remember, no names!”

As they cantered from the yard, Pippin beckoned the three Bounders in the company closer, whispering, “Catch them up before they can sell those ponies and detain them for theft.  The mare was shoed in Rohan, one of only two ponies in the whole of the Shire.  The farrier’s mark ought to be proof enough for now.  We’ll deal with the rest.”

They darted off silently as the remainder of the party resumed their anxious watch.  The portly hobbit on the broad steps rested meaty hands on his hips, his posture fairly radiating a deeply satisfied arrogance.  He gazed long at the dark humps of the hills that reared to the northwest before finally turning back inside.

“What now?” Berilac mouthed at him.

“I don’t know…” Pippin replied staring at the cheerful curtains blowing through the open windows.  “Depends on whether you think he could be hiding them here or someplace else.  But I wonder why he’s involved….”

“That I can answer quick enough, sir,” interjected a young cousin whose name he could not at the moment recall.  “He’s been courting Miss Bolger for some time now, same as me.  I heard he took it none too well when Cousin Merry claimed her for his own, and with her father’s blessing no less.”

“That’s ridiculous!  What does he hope to accomplish by holding them?  Stubborn as Tooks, both of them, begging your pardon, cousin,” Berilac apologized absently.

Pippin waved the comment off, distractedly chewing on his lower lip.

“It’s not Merry’s mind he needs to change…  And Estella may find few choices before her if he has truly sunk this low.”

“So where is he keeping them?  His sister lives here, and there are too many other hobbits about to safely stow away two unwilling guests.”

“That trail in the hills….  What if they didn’t just double back to confuse their tracks?  The rebels had some tidy hideouts up in those hills I hear, the whole range is riddled with caves and burrows but without at livable hole in sight.  Were any of you part of Freddy’s crew?”

They all shook their heads glumly, for once sorry to have been on home guard at Brandy Hall during the Troubles.

“Mister Freddy was said to know every track and crevasse in those rocks,” the youngest lad said, a note of wistful awe in his voice.  “He led those ruffians a merry chase ‘til some fool betrayed him to the Lockholes…  I think we can all guess who that might be now.  But he’d be right useful to us today…”

“Well, it’s no use wishing for snow in July, as they say.”

They split again, and Berilac and six other lads were left to watch Tengo’s movements in case the other trail proved false.  Pippin took the best trackers back to their ponies, the noon sun hot on their necks as they sped westward over the flat plain.

***   ***   ***

The cooling night had forced them to huddle close under his light cloak while they dozed through the soundless hours, and now Estella stretched slowly against him, sending a pleasant shiver up his spine, and Merry curled an arm tight about her and buried his face in her hair.

“Merry?”

“Yes, love?”

“Not a dream then…”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, regretfully unwinding his arms from her and sitting up.  “But breakfast might compensate for the less than cozy surroundings.”

“That’s not funny, Merry.  What are we, dwarves, that we should eat rocks?”

“Hardly!” he laughed, the sound echoing crazily about in the confined space.  “Besides, dwarves don’t eat rocks, and I’ve no intention of growing a beard.  Dreadfully itchy from what I’ve seen.  But here,” he said, thrusting a smooth rounded object into her hand.  “An apple should give us the start we need.”

“Wonderful, Merry, but where did you get it?” she replied happily, sinking her teeth into its firm flesh.

“I’ve always got a few in my pocket, never know when you’ll need one…  Do leave me half, sweet.   I’m saving the others for later.”

“Freddy and Pippin will find us,” she said confidently, and he thought better of dashing what hopes she still had for rescue.

“Well, there’s a stream or something this way,” he finally said, changing the subject.  “I can hear water.”

The half eaten apple was folded back into his hand, sticky with juice, and he felt Estella rise to her feet.

“Oh good, I’m parched!” she said, stepping away.

He scrambled up to follow her, somewhat surprised at her bravado, genuine or feigned, in this dark situation.  Her ardor cooled a bit after a few stumbles and their progress slowed to a cautious shuffle along the cave wall.  Her foot finally struck water, icy cold upon her toes.

“I’ve found it,” she said, tugging him gently down beside her.  They knelt and drank in careful sips, and Merry soon heard the vigorous splash of Estella’s hands as she scrubbed the blood from her fingers.  He reached for her in the darkness, fingers meeting her bowed shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze.

“I’m alright,” she murmured.

He turned back towards the cave wall, running his hands along the edge of the little run of water to its source.  It seeped under a low lip of rock, which he followed round a fold in the stone face.  Stepping past the water, he found a narrow crevice that split the dark rock about waist high down to the pooling spring.  Hope quickening his movements, he found the crack quite wide enough for him to wriggle through, though it likely meant splashing through it on hands and knees.

“Estella, I’ve found something, could be a way out.”

“Where?”

He heard her splash towards him and pulled her close.

“Wait here until I’m sure it’s safe,” he said, putting her hand against the opening.

The tiny passage wormed through some three feet of rock before widening again.  To his right, the water deepened, but a solid bank lay to his left, and he moved out of the chilly water with a shiver.  His light-starved eyes immediately noticed the faint shimmer of light upon the water and he almost shouted for joy.  Light, air and water all must enter somewhere and that could easily mean an escape from their makeshift prison.  Estella splashed out of the little tunnel behind him, muttering under her breath and he could make out her faint movements nearby.

“To the left,” he called, and heard the dark rustling of her skirts as she put herself in order.  For a wonder the soft swirl of dry cloth brushed his cold leg as she stepped close.

“Is that light?”

“It is.  Faint and distant, but it’s definitely there,” he confirmed with a grin.

Hand in hand, they stepped carefully into the open space before them, still following the curve of the cave wall.  They had not gone a dozen paces when Merry’s foot snagged on a small mound of cloth.  He knelt to touch the dusty fabric, palms smoothing it against hard shapes beneath.  Curiosity turned to horror as his fingers brushed the soft silk of hair and he recoiled violently, knocking Estella back into the rock.

“Bright Lady save us!” he gasped.

“Merry!  What’s going on?” Estella snapped, missing his distress in her irritation as she picked herself up from the hard ground.

“Stay back, I … Just wait a minute,” he mumbled, gathering his wits.

He forced himself to touch again the body in their path, fingers trailing down what he now recognized as a worn woven cloak to its hem.

“No boots…  One of the rebels, I guess.  Poor soul…  What an end.”

He carefully guided Estella past the sad obstacle, her shocked silence and bruising grip on his hand the only indication of the distress she was trying hard to hold in check.  A hundred paces further on, the wall abruptly disappeared under his hand, and the source of the faint light was revealed around the corner.  High in the cave’s arching roof, inaccessible as the moon itself, a narrow crack let in the silvered moonlight that bathed the world above.  It shone coldly down upon them, picking out the silent tears Estella was bravely trying to rub from her cheeks.

“There’s hope yet, love,” Merry murmured, pulling her close. “The pool must have a source.”

They gazed a moment at the vast span of water that extended far into the dark, before pressing on along the rocky bank.  They stumbled on until their path ended quite suddenly beneath their feet and only Estella’s quick hand upon his collar kept Merry from a freezing plunge into the icy depths below.

“Can you swim?” he asked, as they sat in the gloom, catching their breath.

“Certainly not!” she replied indignantly, for a moment forgetting the strange pride her intended’s family set by that most unhobbit-like skill.

“We shall have to turn back then, for we’ve run out of rock,” Merry said, turning away to hide his grin.  “I don’t imagine this is the best place for your first swimming lesson, in any case.”

17. A Question Of Honor

Two long hours of backtracking found them nestled in a small hollow well away from the water’s edge.  Exhausted and despondent, they had curled tightly against each other and dozed fitfully as the moon faded and the pale gold of dawn streamed down to dance on the water.  Turning sleepily in his arms, Estella buried her face against his chest, and her innocent movements in seeking his warmth sent a delicious heat rushing through him from ear tip to tiptoe.  Merry was suddenly terrifyingly aware of her every inch and breath:  each perfect finger light upon his chest, her round knee against his thigh, the slow rise and fall of her back under his hand.  One delicate toe shifted against his bare ankle in guileless torture more maddening than any calculated stroke could be.  A thousand nights of half-remembered dreams urged him to gather her closer still, to press her every curve against him and to be lost in the dark heat rising from her skin.  It went against everything he’d ever been taught about the respect owed a lady, and he heaved a frustrated sigh.

“Oh, to be married already…” he murmured aloud.

“Hmm?” Estella inquired softly, raising her sleepy eyes to search his face.

“Just thinking I should have stolen you away months ago, tradition and propriety be damned,” he muttered, pressing a kiss into her tangled curls.

“What a deliciously wicked idea…” she replied, eyes half closed, and stretched slowly against the full length of his body.

All notions of gentle restraint fled from his head, indeed all thought drowned beneath the rushing sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears, and he leaned down to capture her mouth in a long breathless kiss.  Her hot little tongue flicked and twirled against his own and nothing else existed but the taste of her.  He broke at last from the kiss to press his face into her neck, needing to feel her skin under his lips, and he could barely hear her words past her harsh breath whistling in his ear.

“Steal me now.”

Merry pulled away to stare into her face.  She was wide awake, full of fire and sadness in the half-light of the cave, and he thought he could see looming in her eyes the meaning behind her words.

“What…?”

One small hand pressed against his cheek as she spoke, voice trembling and hollow.

“We both know what Tengo wants from me, Merry, but I’ve no intention of indulging his illusions that I’d have him of my own free will.”

“He cannot…”

“He will!” she whispered harshly, ruthlessly shoving the dark reality in his face.  “If he can leave you here to die, he’s lost all sense and honor.  Why should he stop there?”  She brushed soft fingertips against his lips, delicately tracing their curve and stilling his protest.  “Give me some place to go to when the inevitable comes…” she murmured.

He drew her tight against him, tears falling unchecked into her hair.

“I will not let this happen!  I will not!  I cannot…”

“It is past our choosing.  I will bear it if I know you are alive and looking for me.”

“I will have to kill him, whatever happens else, I will kill him, you know that, and then I will be banished too…  But that will not matter, dishonor or no, we’ll leave, we’ll go… away…”

“No!  Listen to me!” she cried, holding his face close to hers, hands on his cheeks.  “No one will deny a husband’s right to avenge that kind of slight.  There will be no dishonor.”

Her fingers slipped between his own to lace their hands together and he felt her breath warm on his face as she spoke into the semidark.

“For every day and every night, for every year in wealth or blight, I bind my life, my heart, my soul, to make our halves forever whole.”

He looked long into her eyes, unable to speak, to move, in the face of the nightmare to come where so long dreams had had their place.  He nodded finally and lay his cheek against hers.  They were past choosing, but not past hope.

“As long as sun and stars may shine, I vow to treat your heart as mine, to share the joys and come what may for every night and every day…” he finished the simple couplet, unchanged for generations without count, that should have marked the first day of their common lives.  Forever, shortened so soon, was more bitter than never could have been. 

“I have no bride gift for you, love,” he murmured, tracing the sharp curve of her ear to its point.

“No one will care…” she whispered, pressing a kiss in the hollow of his throat.

***   ***   ***

“Just out of curiosity, my love,” she asked, absently smoothing his curls where he lay, head upon her breast.  “Where would you have taken us?”

“Well, Rohan I suppose, or maybe Gondor…”

“So far?”

“I’d rather offer you a life in a king’s hall than a woodcutter’s shed if I can.”

“Good point…  Can we still go?  To visit, I mean.”

“We may still have to,” he said, laying a gentle hand on her flat belly, only half-hoping nothing more would come of their fateful choice.  “But Eomer has made it plain we are welcome anytime, and it’s not much further to Minas Tirith and Ithilien…  But I’m surprised you’d willingly go so far from home.” 

“Positively scandalous, isn’t it?  My father would fall out of his chair.  Now I think on it, we must absolutely make the trip!”

“Alright, then, but we’ll need a proper escort…” he said, glad to hear her speak with hope of their future.

“Do you think Freddy would come?”

Merry’s clear laugh rang out again.  “I think your brother has no intention of leaving home and board for a long time yet, if ever.”

“Just as well, I suppose, he’d never live down the sight of me in trousers.”

“Trousers?”

“You don’t honestly think I’ll ride sidesaddle in lacy skirts for weeks on end do you?  Out in the wild there’ll be no one to talk and I’d rather be steady in a proper saddle.”

“And here I thought I’d married a proper and demure young lady of unimpeachable character and deportment!” he teased.

“Ha!  If you’d rather I simper and faint at the sight of a mouse, I know a few empty-headed waifs that would suit you better!”

“No, thank you, I rather like the little firebrand I’ve found under those manners…” he murmured, pushing up to kiss her with a smile.  “Besides, I have no problem with you riding properly in trousers or skirts or your Sunday bathrobe for that matter.  I rode to war with a woman in man’s gear and survived to tell of it.”

“Now this I must hear.”

“Oh, there isn’t much to tell…” Merry replied, pulling away awkwardly.  He sat up beside her, eyes fixed on the small buttons in the faint light as he closed his shirt.

“You guard your past so jealously, Merry, yet I cannot imagine you’ve done anything so shameful you need hide it so well.”

“Not shameful…  Just…  Dark.  Too dark, too awful,” he said softly and turned to look at her. “I don’t want it to touch us, to touch you.  War twists things, brings evils you should not have to see or even hear of.”

“I have seen enough to know that things unspoken can lay hard between people and their happiness.  As for war…  Do you not know how many lads died in my care, half of them Brandybucks, Bolgers and Burrowses?  Every new broken body could have been yours or my brother’s, and most of them I knew…” She paused, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “Did nothing good come of your journey?”

“I…  A lot of good, in fact the greatest possible good.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Most days I’d say yes.  But there was so much lost, so many dead…”

“Do you think you honor them by forgetting how and why they died?”

The slow trickle of the sunken river filled the long silence that followed.

“No.”

Estella waited quietly, watching the tension in his back slowly seep away, and his head rise as he looked off across the dark expanse of their prison.  He soon turned back, the ghost of a smile barely visible with the pale light behind him.  Merry reached for her hand and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“So, did she always walk about in men’s clothes?”

“What?”

“This woman you rode to war with…”

“Oh no!” he chuckled, “though I can’t say she’d never borrowed her brother’s trews in the past, and most likely she steals her husband’s on occasion today.  No, she couldn’t very well do that in the house of the king, being his niece after all.”

“Did all their women follow their mates to war?”

“No, it was very rare, but she was not the usual sort of woman either.”

“Why did she go?”

“I’m not sure I ever understood it fully, save that she went out seeking death and honor in battle the way some look for forgetfulness in drink.  Perhaps she felt she had little left to lose…”

“How tragic…  But you begin the tale by its end, my heart.  Tell me about…  what was her name?”

“Eowyn.”

“Tell me about the Lady Eowyn, who rode one day to war,” she said, in the tone she often used when beginning the grand legends of which they were both so fond.  Merry smiled.  Perhaps that was the way to tell it, like a story found in a book…

He sighed deeply, and for a moment Estella thought he might again withdraw, but he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and his words filled the silent space about them.

“Tall and fair as morning she was, and ever so sad and strong, like a lonely tree in a meadow that wishes for its brothers.  The first time I saw her, she was armed and astride her great gray horse, long blond braid over her shoulder, and it seemed appropriate somehow, though I didn’t yet know how right I was about that…”

18. Actions Of A Desperate Heart 

Head pillowed against Merry’s chest, Estella now half-dozed, listening to the low rumble of his voice as he quietly described the golden hall of Meduseld and the fair people that dwelt upon the rolling plains of Rohan.  They were very like the folk that strode through the great epics that slept on dusty shelves in her father’s house, and she could almost see the faded glories that graced the tapestries in their wide hall.

There were questions she had not asked and answers he’s not given, but Estella looked out upon the world and the hobbit at her side with changed eyes.  It was clear that some portion of his solar nature, that energy and joy that lay at the core of the person she had known, had been eclipsed by some darkness still unvoiced.  It frightened her to think of Merry as anything less than strong, and it still seemed strange to her for him to be dismissed, to be thought small.  Yet, he made much of his connection to the Men he had known and at whose side he had fought, and the sorrow in his voice as he recounted the passing of Rohan’s king had been all too clear.  There would be many years to count up every scar, to draw the bitterness from those wounds and set the memories again in the sun.  At least there should have been, and the perversity of fate stung her anew.  Too much had been too dearly bought for one pathetic fool to ruin all with a greedy swipe.  Estella had very little doubt that her dowry had been as much enticement for Goodbody as her person, if not more.

Merry felt her tense against his heart, and a quick glance at her face in the uncertain light revealed eyes narrowed in anger and lips pressed into one thin line.

“Estella?  What’s wrong?” he asked, one hand gently cupping her cheek.

“Everything!” she said, rising to pace the uneven shore.  “I don’t think I want to let him win, not even as a ruse.  I just…  I just can’t see another way and I can’t stand it!”

Merry stepped near to clasp her hands in his, secretly relieved that she was the one to reject the plan she had suggested.  He had by no means been certain he could force himself to let her walk into Tengo’s grasping hands.  To sacrifice one’s life for another seemed small compared to that.  The dead found peace after their torment, but the living could expect no such respite from their own hearts and memories.

“Where will wants not, a way opens,” he said with a grim smile.  “The White Lady was not wrong, even in her despair.  We will find another way.”

“But where?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” he said, turning about to glance at the sheer wall and broken ground.  “The crack above is beyond us, even if we had a rope, and I’d be willing to bet the current as it enters the pool is too strong to swim against, even for me.  See how it eddies about against the rock face?”  He shook his head and frowned.

“Well, the water must go out somewhere…” Estella suggested, though her sidelong glance at the dark stream was anything but comfortable.

“That it must, but whether it is a path we can follow is an entirely different question.  Still, it is worth looking at.”

They walk towards the rock wall that divided the cave from its entryway, skirting the lonely stranger’s remains with exaggerated care.  Dropping a soft kiss upon her cheek, Merry waded out into the current.  The icy water rose quickly and it soon became obvious that the small passage they had used was only a kind of overflow channel that filled when rain had swollen the small river past its usual bounds.  The current pressed him hard against the smooth rock so he practically crawled sideways along its surface, fighting the increasing downward pull with all his strength.  He soon turned back, breathless and none the wiser.

“The current is pulling far too strongly for me to simply take a look,” he said, shivering upon the shore.  “Once in its grasp, we’d never come back up until it spit us out at the other end, and that could mean as far as the Brandywine without a breath.  It looks like the only way out is going to be through Goodbody’s thugs.”

“But how?  You said yourself there are too many of them to fight off.”

“Quick and quiet will have to be our way.  If they are as stupid as they seem, we probably lure them in and slip out behind them.”

“It’s too risky!  If they catch us, they’ll make quite sure to kill you this time!”

“We can sit here and starve together, like that poor fellow, if you’d rather.”

“But Pippin and Freddy…”

“Have no idea where we are, and…  And I don’t know they are well enough to search for us,” he finished in a low voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“That ambush may have been set for us, but I suspect they set another for our friends, to keep them from following us, at least for a while.  Who knows what they’ve done?”

“No!  How can they think to make so many disappear without being caught?  It is madness!”

“People don’t always make sense, my love.  But there is hope still.  Odds are good these ruffians have failed to do more than delay our friends, just as they’ll fail to keep us here another day.  Come, we must set our own trap for these rats before they come for you,” he said, taking her hand in his with a tight grin.

***   ***  ***

They had lost the trail.  Bare rock, swept free of any track or sign that they could find had left them wandering the barren hills for two hours now without success.  As the westering sun threw up its last golden rays and the searchers made a final tour of the dry riverbed they had come across, the clear cadence of galloping ponies echoed in the evening air.  Taking cover, they soon saw a small group of hobbits pass below they position and turn up into the darkening hills.  Tengo Goodbody rode gracelessly at their head, an uncommonly long blade at his side.

“Mount up!  The wretch will lead us straight on himself!” Pippin said angrily.

As they readied themselves to follow, they were joined by Berilac and his companions.

“I’d hoped to find Goodbody raging after his escaped prisoners tonight,” the one-eyed Brandybuck growled, wiping the dust and sweat of their nervous ride from his face.  “I thought we’d lost him a dozen times and been discovered twice that.”

“I’m afraid we’ve had no luck yet, but I don’t think even a ranger could have tracked anything across this mess.”

“I really must meet one of the rangers someday.  You two seem quite taken with their skills,” Berilac grumbled.

“I hope never to have need of one again, but you may yet get your wish, cousin,” Pippin replied as they set out, though his eyes obviously gazed upon other lands than those that lay before them.

***   ***   ***

Their plan had sounded simple enough, but Estella felt her heart gallop in her chest as the sound of rock scraping on rock ground through the air.  The golden light of sunset seeped through the widening gap, at first blinding, then revealing Merry’s worried frown on the other side of the opening.  He nodded once and stepped back, and she flattened herself against the cave wall.

“Estella dear!” Tengo called, entering the cave with a flickering torch held high.

His hobbits stumped in after him carelessly, never glancing to either side.  The rascals all walked straight to the small mound she and Merry had made of the stranger’s sad remains, huddled beneath the rich green Rohan cloak.  After the last of them passed the arch, she sprang lightly through it into fresh air, Merry two steps behind her.  A rough hand snatched her arm and dragged her to a stop against the chest of a dark hooded hobbit.

“Ho there!  The mice have fled!” he cried before crumpling at her feet with a groan, nose streaming blood from the sharp impact of Merry’s fist.

“Run!” Merry called, shoving her towards the growing darkness beyond the circle of torchlight.  “I’m right behind you!”

“After her, you fools!” the cry came from within the cave.

The pounding of racing feet was sharp in her ears though nearly drowned by her thundering heart.  She crashed gratefully through the brush at the foot of the hill, the last glimmer of sunset limning the vague forms of trees ahead.  She was snatched off her feet and held tight as soon as she reached cover and her heart sank.  Biting hard on the fingers against her mouth, she writhed about, digging elbows back into her captor.

“Blast it, cousin, be still!” a voice hissed in her ear and she froze.

A sudden rush of movement filled the little wood and soon a pair of hooded hobbits were thrown, bound and gagged, at her feet, and a third lay dead in the grass.

“Where’s Merry?” she asked, turning to Pippin as he released her.  “He was right behind me.”

The tall hobbit shook his head.  “No one else came down the hill.  He’s still up there.”

***   ***   ***

Pinned against the ground by three hard-handed hobbits, Merry couldn’t help but grin.  They would all sport spectacular bruises come morning, and it looked as if Tengo had lost his prize into the night.  If Estella’s pursuers were going to catch her, they already would have done so by now.  There really had been little chance they’d both escape, but at least Estella was free and unhurt.  Nothing else mattered as much.

“What have you got to grin about, boy?”  Tengo snarled, rough fingers turning Merry’s face towards him.  “I don’t think you understand what’s happening here, but you will soon enough!  Take him in.”

They dragged him up, adding enough kicks and jabs as they did so to slow their progress into the darkness.  They flung him down and busied themselves wedging lit torches about the small chamber while Tengo held Merry’s slim blade to his throat.

“It’s a fine sword, I’ll hate to lose it, but I really can’t afford to be caught with it after you disappear.”

“How did you come to this, Goodbody?  Kidnapping, murder, rape?  Didn’t we have enough of that from the ruffians?”

“Come now, you’re not that naïve are you?  The strong have always taken what was their due, those Men just dispensed with the niceties.  There was much to learn for those that had the intelligence to do so.”

“You worked for them, then?  You were one of Lotho’s little cronies.”

“Ha!  Lotho was a fool!  I knew he didn’t have what it takes to keep those Men in line.  It was only a matter of time before things slipped his control, so I kept my mouth shut.  Silent partners can profit and pull out when things get a little hot.”

“It will never happen again.  That time is past…”

“That’s what you think!  There’s plenty the ambitious can accomplish here.  But as for you, my young troublemaker…  There are more subtle arts than murder to be learned from Men.  Just killing you now wouldn’t begin to soothe the irritation you’ve caused me.”

The older hobbit smiled, round face alight with cold glee.  Rough hands again pressed Merry against the hard rock.

“A sword is such a crude tool, really,” Tengo said, lightly tracing an invisible line along Merry’s body from neck to groin.  “What fun is there in simply gutting your enemies, when a little patience yields such entertaining results.”

He flung the sword across the dark cave, where it landed with a ring and a splash on the edge of the little pool of water.  Crouching down over his rival, he drew a small blade whose gently curving edge glinted wickedly in the flickering light.

“You see,” he started, carefully snipping off the small buttons with its razor-sharp edge as he spoke, “Any hobbit might face direct attack with some courage, even fight back or keep silent as he saw fit.  Your kin are particularly stubborn that way, quite the challenge to get any information out of them.” He pressed the dagger’s point over Merry’s heart.  “You make my very point with your angry stares.  If telling me the color of the grass would stay my hand, you would die with a curse on your lips rather than say ‘green’ right now.  However,” he continued, turning his attention to the smooth skin below Merry’s ribs, “If you make of pain a promise…” The knife bit a shallow line across his middle. “Well, who wouldn’t rather avoid a few more days of this?” he asked, continuing to draw the blade over chest and stomach, movements deliberate and slow, as he watched his rival with obvious satisfaction.  Perspiration beaded upon Merry’s face, tensed before every stroke, the occasional groan escaping clenched jaws as the fiery trail of pain hitched on a particularly sensitive spot.  But his eyes, still defiant and hard, remained fixed on his captor.  Tengo smirked, changing his last caressing slice into a vicious jab.  “Surprises also have their place, wouldn’t you say?” he laughed, as already straining muscles jumped to pull away from the sudden agony in his left shoulder.

“What do you want?” Merry snarled.

“Nothing.  Well, nothing now, nothing from you.  Our lovely wildcat however…  Well, that is what you are paying for today, isn’t it?  I’ll think of you fondly in this dark place alone when I have from her all that marriage vows allow.”

“Too late,” Merry whispered, grinning through the red haze of pain.  “Consent and consummation are all the law requires, and that is done…”

“Liar!” Tengo snarled, hands flying up to crush the breath from his enemy. “You lie!  You lie!”

***   ***   ***

Estella anxiously watched the dark cave mouth where her rescuers had disappeared.  Full night had fallen in the twenty minutes since she had gone flying from that wretched hole and the last few, cautiously stealing back up the hillside, had seemed to drag by like years.

Sudden movement and light ahead caught her eye and she saw a trio of disheveled hobbits led out by archers and forced to kneel upon the rocky ground.  She leapt to her feet and dashed across the bare terrain.  Half-way there, a dark rider galloped past, his body flat against the pony’s neck in urgent haste.

A few feet from the entrance, a young Bucklander stepped before her, barring her way.

“Wait, no!  Miss Bolger, you can’t…”

“Get out of my way!” she interrupted, trying to shove past him without success.

“You can’t go in there yet,” he pleaded.

Further protest on her part died on her tongue as she watched two hobbits drag a third into the flickering light of the torches.  For an endless horrified moment, her worst fears seemed realized, until she noticed the utter disregard and contempt with which the arrow-riddled body was handled.  She snatched the torch from the young archer and pushed past him, coming to stand over the chief instigator of the last two days’ events.  Her healer’s eye caught the faintest flick of a pulse at his throat and she knelt close to put her lips to Tengo’s ear.

“I could not save you now, even if I wished, but I want you to know that I leave you gladly here to rot like the vermin you truly are,” she whispered harshly and walked away.

19. Aftermath

“I was right not to trust outside my own, this proves it!  Men’s evil is loose among us and thriving under our very noses!” Paladin announced without preamble as he entered the feast hall, where he’d come to judge the case against his nephew’s attackers.

“One rotten apple doesn’t spoil the whole bushel, Paladin, and one ill-intentioned hobbit is not necessarily a sign of more to come,” the Master of Buckland replied tiredly, rising to greet his brother in law.

“Ill-intentioned?  Your son lies half dead and still you deny the need for action,” the Thain sneered.

“I deny nothing save the need for paranoid excess.  And you have some blame to bear for this snake in the grass lying at my doorstep.”

“What?!!”

“If we had heard of the events in Tuckborough two years ago, as should have been, we’d have caught and cast out the traitors, likely Tengo Goodbody among them!  None of us knew some hobbits had fallen past a grim acceptance of the ruffian’s ways.”

“Oh, please, how naïve can you be?  With shirriffs at the North Gate and manning the ferry within sight of your home instead of your own people?  How could you not suspect some would turn?”

“There’s not a hobbit in Buckland, from farmer’s wife to farrier’s lad, that didn’t trip, trick or steal to hinder our foe, and more than one felt the lash in consequence.  How many Tooks went to the Lockholes for defending their neighbors?”

“What are you trying to imply, you arrogant…!”

“Arrogant?  Why you, stiff-necked, hidebound…!”

“Enough!” Esmeralda’s thunderous shout pierced the air half an instant before she grabbed hold of an ear in each hand.  Hard fingers pinched the sensitive flesh and the Thain of the Shire and the Master of Buckland found themselves half kneeling before her like a pair of errant lads.

“It is a sad day when sons are wiser than their fathers and wives must call their mates to task.  Now, be civil and attend to your duties this day, and you can roll in the mud behind the barn on your own time!”

She released them and turned away to rearrange the tea tray she’d been bringing in as they got back to their feet, muttering quietly and rubbing at ears reddened by more than her rough handling.  Pippin, leaning his long frame against the doorjamb, repressed the laughter that tickled at his throat, knowing that his father would stand for no disrespect from him today, though his aunt obviously recognized no such boundary.  His mother, sitting unassumingly by the cold fireplace, looked both pleased and scandalized by Esmeralda’s breach of etiquette.

“Father.  Uncle.” Pippin began, with a courteous nod to each.  “Do you wish to proceed today or after a night’s rest?”

They both turned to answer the question and glared at each other.  The Master bowed to the Thain, who after all was to preside over the hearing, and Paladin acknowledged his courtesy with a stiff nod.

“Let’s get this over with,” he growled, and he stamped to the head table.

A confused passel of rumors had reached Tuckburough a week before, hard on the heels of Pippin’s brief report and the Master of Buckland’s appeal for adjudication.  There was no way Saradoc could be expected to rule fairly on the fate of his son’s attackers, though by virtue of his position, he had every right to do so.  As preparations were being made to ride to Brandy Hall, a letter had arrived from Cora Goodbody contesting the accusations made against her brother and his associates and demanding compensation for his death.  It was, of course, just this kind of tangled puzzle that had in the past caused Paladin to seek his brother-in-law’s advice.  There were few as adept at parsing truth from lie, and none he trusted more, save in this impossible case.

Watching the room slowly fill with the curious and the concerned, he wondered how impartial his own judgment could be in the light of recent events.  Though he had yet to find the right words to renew their old ties, his heart had turned in full to his sister’s family and he had hoped for some grand gesture, some inspired act or word to show it at the coming wedding celebration.  That his old fears had risen like evil ghosts in a bad tale to snatch at his kin once more had shaken him to his core.  Hobbits laying hands on other hobbits this way, it was without precedent, save one.  Some rumors spoke of darker things than kidnap though, of torture, rape and worse, and at the hands of the five hobbits that entered to stand before him.  None of them looked any different from those he saw every day at Great Smials, save that they stood here, bound and blank-eyed, under guard today.

Cora Goodbody settled herself upon a chair at the front beside them, her round face pinched into a disapproving frown as she fanned herself with her black shawl.  Across the room to his right the Bolgers and Brandybucks formed a quiet, straight-backed group, soon joined by his son and the captain of the border watch.

“Are all the principals here?” he called, looking over the room.  “Where is Meriadoc Brandybuck?” he asked, the stiff formality in his voice stilling the last low murmurs in the packed room.

“Still abed, healer’s orders,” Saradoc answered into the silence.  “Peregrin Took and Estella Bolger will speak for him.”

“Very well.  Let us begin.”

***   ***   ***

“I’m sorry nephew, but some will not believe what they’ve not witnessed themselves, my husband among them, and they need a shock to find the truth undeniable,” Eglantine said, gently stroking Merry’s curls into some kind of order.

Merry simply nodded.  His body bore the only proof of Tengo’s malice and nothing less would tip the scales when only their word stood against a dead hobbit’s character.  Eglantine helped him slip the light shirt over his bandaged chest, one arm still tightly bound to immobilize his wounded shoulder.

He entered the crowded hall, leaning on Berilac’s strong arm, amid the murmured exclamations of the assembled hobbits.  Heads turned to watch his slow approach, momentarily distracted from the shouting match taking place before the head table.  Paladin caught sight of him and banged on the table for quiet, though without much success.

“Silence!” the old hobbit roared, shocking the Brandybucks and Goodbodies before him into sudden stillness.

By now, Merry had reached Pippin’s side before the head table.  Cora Goodbody sniffed, looking him up and down with a frown.

“You don’t look half dead to me,” she said.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I hear my cousin’s words are in doubt?”

“I see no proof here!  Looks more to me like he’s had the losing end of a tavern brawl, no more,” she sneered, and murmurs and nods followed her words.

There was no room for pride or modesty here.  No precedents existed to guide the Thain’s judgment and the findings here had to be final and indisputable or the Goodbodies would cry foul until the end of days.  Reaching for the small buttons of his shirt, Merry fumbled one handed for a moment before Pippin mercifully cut in to finish the job.

“I’m sorry about this,” he whispered as he tugged the last one free. “Why they can’t just take our word for it…”

“I know,” Merry replied softly, wincing as the dressing on the cuts was removed.  “I’m going to look like a damned map before long,” he murmured in Pippin’s ear, by way of apology for the distress plain on his cousin’s face as he revealed the crisscrossing wounds with an unsteady hand.

Looking up, Merry found the Thain’s eyes on him, taking in the fading bruises on his face, the finger marks around his neck.  He noted the clenching jaw as Paladin’s gaze trailed down across the raw red cuts still glaring angrily against his pale skin.  He had a glimpse of Cora’s gap-mouthed shock from the corner of one eye and suppressed a bitter smile.  Some things were hard to overlook, even for family.

“You’re well enough to be here?” the Thain’s low growl called his attention back to the gray hobbit whose word would send these miscreants into exile or beggar his father’s house in monetary reparations to Tengo’s family for his death.

“Duty calls,” he replied simply.

“You received these… injuries the day Peregrin’s party found you?”

“Yes.”

“Who cut you?”

“Tengo Goodbody.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

“None these others had a part in it?”

“They held me.  They watched.”

“These hobbits claim that you provoked his attack on you, that there were whispered words between you at the end.”

“We traded words, but he needed no provocation for his actions.  He did this before that conversation took place.”

“What was it about?”

“It’s no longer relevant.”

“That will be my decision to make.  What was said?” Paladin snapped.

“He didn’t care for my response to his plans for Miss Bolger,” Merry answered, hoping the Thain would not inquire further into events he and Estella had both agreed should remain between them while they could.  While their vows were valid and their actions justified, the complications and gossip that would ensue were better avoided than endured.

“What plans?” he insisted, eyes narrowed with dark suspicion.

“There’s no need…” Merry started.

“My brother had only kind regard for Estella Bolger, for all she’s been very ungrateful for all that he’d done for her father,” Cora broke in.

“And kind regard usually involves being bound and gagged by your book?” Estella sniped from where she sat between her parents.

“Ladies!” Paladin warned.  “You have both had your say, and unless there is anything new to add, I think I can put an end to this distasteful business very soon.  I’ll return with my decision in a few minutes,” he finished, rising from his seat to hobble out by the small door behind him.

A rush of sound, like a cresting wave, followed his departure.

“I cannot believe Cora is continuing with this farce,” Saradoc muttered, glaring at the little round woman across the room.

“Oh, they’re a contentious lot, those Goodbodies,” his brother Merimac replied.  “Old Tando was alright, but the rest of them would cut off their noses to spite their faces.”

“I just can’t believe we didn’t notice this was going on…”

“Lets just be thankful Tengo likes to hear himself talk,” Merry murmured, half-falling into a chair between them.  “Otherwise, we’d still be wondering what happened when he handed us our hats on our way down the river.”

***   ***    ***

Paladin walked slowly down the long hallway, his gait loosening as movement restored the sluggish circulation in his legs.  He wandered absently past bobbing maids and running children, but his mind was filled with all he’d heard and seen today.  He’d been so right, and yet so wrong, about everything.  Evil would not stay out just because you shut your door, and he had failed his office and his people when he had turned his back on the rest of the Shire.  No good had come from hiding, yes, hiding, damn it, like a frightened child, behind his fears, his walls, his duties…  He was getting too old for this, his heart…  His heart could no longer bear the sharp edges of life and it was showing.

“I have to get back to Whitwell…  The last of the summer honey must be got soon,” he murmured.

He stopped before the heavy silver mirror that hung in the entryway to Brandy Hall.  The weary-eyed hobbit facing him frowned, gray brows furrowed and lips drawn into a thin line, hardly the face he remembered at all.

“When did I get so old?” he murmured to the image before him.

***   ***   ***

The crowded hall was silent as the Thain returned to pronounce his judgment, accusers and accused standing quietly before him.  He turned first to Cora and her kin, most of whom refused to meet his eye.

“Since Tengo went out of his way to conceal his activities from you, I deem you bear no responsibility for the harm he has done.  However, some reparations will need to be made from his estate, once an accurate survey has been conducted of his affairs.  With regard to your claim, Cora, it is denied.  Your brother earned his death; he needs no further payment for it.

“As for you,” he continued, turning to the five hobbits that stood accused.  “You have broken too many of our oldest, most enduring laws to forgive.  Until the coming of Men, violent death had no place among us, and our womenfolk had no fear of undue attentions from greedy hearts.  In perpetuating the ruffians’ evils, you have continued to break the peace of the Shire that was your home and bread until this day.  If Men’s ways are yours, to kill and thieve from your own kin, then let your fate go with theirs.  You are hereby banished and will be marked and cast beyond our border.  May you find what mercy the wide world may have for such as you.”

“Peregrin Took.  Berilac Brandybuck.  Though your quick actions saved a life, they also took more than one.  In future please remember that deadly force has no recall and is always a last recourse.  That having been said, I think we are all grateful for what you’ve done.  The alternative is simply too awful to contemplate.”

He nodded once in their direction and rose to leave again by the little door behind him.  He found that Saradoc barred his way, level gaze stern but not unfriendly.  “Stay awhile, brother, we have much to discuss, and to celebrate,” he said one hand extended hopefully.

A small smile twitched at Paladin’s lips, threatening to bloom into outright relieved laughter.  No grand gestures then, just this.  He nodded.  This was enough.

“That indeed we do,” he replied, clasping the other’s hand. “We most certainly do.”

20.  Coming Home

26 October 1421 – Brandy Hall, The Shire

   With a wild whoop, Pippin pulled Rosie into the whirling reel that had just begun and they joined the other pairs that danced about the cleared space at the center of the feast hall.  Little Elanor watched placidly from the comfort of her father’s arms.  The newlyweds had already left and their friends and families were happily celebrating them with the bounty that had been laid out in their honor.

   Odovacar Bolger was very conscientiously finishing each brandy poured for him and he was therefore getting very pleasantly drunk in the honorable company of the Master of Buckland and the Thain.

   “Dear brother-in-law,” he slurred for the hundredth time, one hand heavy on Saradoc’s shoulder. “Dear brother-in-law, I think we did quite well by those two, and I should like to pro…..   propa…..   toast them again with you!” he finished with a wobbly smile.

   “Joy!” they all cried once more, oblivious to the frowns and giggles they attracted.

   “Now, we’ve only got your son to marry off, Paladin,” Saradoc said with a wink.  “Any likely lasses we should hear about?”

   “Ha!  Getting him to pick just one’s the trouble…  Just look at him!” he growled, though any fool could see the fierce pride in his eye.  “I’m surprised he’s no whelps scattered from the Downs to the River with the way he carries on!”  He paused a moment, the liquor haze lifting slightly to allow a clear moment of insight to tease at him.  “There’s something to that…” he murmured, gazing at the tall young hobbit across the room, who was now guiding his dance partner back to sit beside her husband.  Pippin glanced about, face shining with joy and exertion, when he suddenly noted his father’s eyes upon him.  He nodded once, quirked a grin and dashed back into the crowd of dancers.

   “Your son is happy today, his heart is giddy with the possibilities life has to bring.  But he is no less your son when trouble sharpens his eye.  You’ve gained a strong right hand…  Don’t mistrust it because of the scars it bears.”

   Paladin turned to look at his sister’s husband, this hobbit he’d blamed for so much with so little cause, for jealousy and fear and spite.  He lifted his glass unsteadily.

   “To sons and brothers.  May they forgive us all someday.”

   “I’ll drink to that!” Saradoc replied, downing his drink with a smile.

   Pippin watched his father smile again from behind the long trestle table, heaped with the thousand and one dishes the kitchens had turned out for this happy day.  He leaned back against the wall, sipping his ale in invisible salute to whatever his elders had just toasted with such relish.  Nothing ill could come of this day; of that at least he was sure.  Though trouble had dogged them through the summer, it was now well and truly gone.  With Great Smials and Brandy Hall reconciled, and Tookland restored to its bustling and gregarious self, only the mire of misunderstanding between his father and himself had yet to be resolved.  “All it will take is time,” Pippin murmured to himself as he drained his tankard.  “But that’s a worry for tomorrow,” he added with a smile as his eyes settled on a lively young lass whose winsome face turned once again his way.

   Merry’s gaze lingered a long moment on the joyful smiles that wreathed every face on the other side of the window.  Standing in the bushes in the twilight, he caught sight of Pippin’s tall frame among the dancers, the inebriated cheers coming from the head table, Sam’s animated face as he recounted some tale to captivate the toddling audience at his feet.  Elanor sat regally upon his lap watching his hands gesture above her head as he used them to enhance his storytelling.  For a ‘simple gardener,’ as he insisted on calling himself, his skills in this matter were, in Merry’s opinion, equal to those of a royal bard.  The very simplicity Sam thought made him less, elevated a willing audience to one that truly believed.  The days when he could hide his strengths in the shadows of modesty were numbered, and Merry smiled fondly at the thought.  Frodo had been so certain of so many things for their future, especially Sam’s, and they all knew that his insights, dearly bought, would show true in the end.  Though Frodo’s absence had a cast a small shadow over Merry’s heart that morning, the knowledge that his cousin had surely reached the far shore and had gained peace at last had set its own particular light inside him, and he had felt so strong a sense of that gentle hand upon his shoulder he had no doubts some close kin of Galadriel’s Mirror had been at his cousin’s disposition today.  A strange fancy perhaps, but not so farfetched as he would once have thought it, before the darkness and the light, before the journey’s end, here at home.  Finally home.  He gently pressed the small warm hand entwined in his own against his lips.

   “Let’s go home,” he murmured, and followed his heart into the night.

The End

A/N:  *exhausted happy sigh*  Well, that’s it for Coming Home, but if you are still intrigued, there is more to come for our friends, oh yes, much more, as the lads have been recounting a thousand and one tales in my ears and the plot bunnies are shackled fast to my ankles, nibbling away.

I’d like to thank, first of all, my dear beta Birchtree, who can spot a plot hole a mile away, couldn’t do it without you B!  Huge virtual hug to Ariel, who has been evermore encouraging in oh so many ways!  And lastly, I would like to thank two fanfic authors whose lovely work inspired me to take the ideas in my head and give them form, and share them with all of you nice people:  Lindelea, whose great sagas of the years after the War are quite amazing and absorbing; and Baylor, who has filled many years for our young rascals with a loving and mischievous eye.  I’d never have had the courage without these nice people to lift my eyes.  Go read!