Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.

Sweets and Secret Ingredients 

Chapter One

Merry peered up at the darkening sky anxiously. "I don't like the look of those clouds. Come on, Sam. We'd better try to find some shelter. I don’t want to risk Frodo getting wet."  He adjusted his arm carefully across his cousin’s back, careful not to brush against Frodo’s still-tender side.  Opposite him, Sam tightened his hold on Frodo’s good shoulder, his worried gaze following the younger hobbit’s.  Frodo leaned back against the support of their arms and raised his eyes from the great piece of creased parchment held open before him.

“Really, Merry, I’m not going to melt,” Frodo protested mildly, the ghost of a twinkle in his eyes.  Merry looked at him in concern, noting the weariness and pain-stiff posture.  “You needn’t fuss so,” Frodo continued softly, laying his hand on Merry’s arm.  “I truly am much better.”

“You may not melt but you’re not to get cold either,” Merry shot back, scanning their surroundings for some structure with a good roof and a wall or two.  Merry had decided that it might be wise for he and Pippin to make themselves scarce as the Elves repaired the fireplace and set the new door in.  Most of the soot from the unfortunate Brewing Incident had already been cleaned off the walls and the burned linens and carpeting had been replaced.*  He and Pip had watched from the safety of the courtyard as the Elves brought in sagging baskets of bricks and buckets of mortar until Aragorn had appeared and seemed to be looking for them.  At that point the two had quietly quit their vantage point behind an azalea bush and decided to check on Frodo.  Merry had greeted Frodo’s desire to go outside enthusiastically as, Merry thought, the next logical place for Aragorn to look for them was their cousin’s room.

Beautiful as Rivendell’s architecture was, it leaned towards open gazebos and unroofed courtyards, and provided little relief from inclement weather.  As he looked for a likely spot, Merry wondered when he would stop treasuring every word his cousin said, when he would stop fearing every cold breeze or stray raindrop.  Frodo had come so close to death.  Worse than death, had not Lord Elrond found the shard in time.  Unconsciously, his arm tightened around his cousin and Frodo smiled at him, understanding in his shadowed eyes.

Merry had chosen the bench on which they sat for its full exposure to the sun, pale and cold as the late October daylight was.  He should have scouted a route beforehand, Merry silently chided himself, and located convenient resting spots and shelters before taking Frodo out.  “Lord Elrond said we could only take you for a walk – a short walk – if we kept you warm and didn’t let you get tired.”

“I feel fine,” Frodo grumbled, but even as he protested Merry’s concern, Merry saw him shiver.  Sam’s keen eyes saw it too, and he undid his cloak and wrapped it around his master.  Frodo smiled at him in silent thanks, knowing it was useless to object.

“Then I don’t want to get the map wet,” Merry continued, unerringly finding the lever required to pry obedience out of his stubborn cousin.  “Lord Elrond wouldn’t be very pleased with us if we did.”  At Frodo’s request, Merry had obtained a map of Middle-earth from their host.  They were pouring over it, trying to understand the distance that Frodo had agreed to travel.  Pippin had tried to follow his elders’ conversation, but he had no head for maps and after growing bored, had wandered off to seek his own amusement.

“I don’t want to go back to my room, Merry,” Frodo demurred softly.  “I can describe each of the carvings in the beams above my bed.  Do you know there’s one that looks exactly like Gandalf’s nose?”  When Merry looked at him in disbelief, Frodo sighed mournfully.  “I’m tired of being inside.”

“Uh-oh,” murmured Sam.  The others looked up to follow his gaze.

Aragorn was striding swiftly towards them.  The Ranger’s face was set and angry, and one arm was locked around something held against his hip.  The three hobbits stared.  The large bundle held under Aragorn’s arm resolved into a hobbit, which the Ranger deposited firmly on the end of the bench.  Pippin glared up at him then looked sullenly at the others, his arms folded belligerently across his chest.

“Sit,” ordered Aragorn tightly.  Pippin glowered up at him, his sharp face pale except for two burning spots on his cheeks.  Aragorn glared back, his mouth a thin line and his piercing eyes annoyed.  Pippin’s mouth started to open, and Aragorn shook a finger in his face and scowled at him.  “Stay!”  With that, Aragorn awarded all of the hobbits a dark look then turned on his heel and strode off, aggravation in every line of his tall body.

The hobbits stared after him, open-mouthed.  Then three pairs of shocked eyes turned to the youngest of their number.

“I didn’t do it,” declared Pippin resentfully. 

Merry groaned and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his forehead.  Frodo sighed tiredly and closed his eyes in resignation.  Sam darted a quick look at all of them, then plucked the map from Frodo’s unresisting grasp and began to fold it carefully, his gaze circumspectly downcast.

“Pippin,” Frodo said with granite patience, “what is it you didn’t do?”  Pippin transferred his glare to his hairy toes and kicked at the air.  He mumbled something under his breath, ending in a growl.  “I didn’t hear you, lad,” Frodo said quietly but clearly.  Merry tensed, knowing that tone of voice of old.  He saw those dark brows quirk then draw together, and Frodo’s eyes turned from sun-lit morning glory blooms to glacial ice.  Silently, he urged Pippin to ‘fess up to whatever crime he had found time to commit in the last few minutes.

“…you were all so busy…  I was bored…the Lady Arwen…”

“The Lady Arwen?” Frodo repeated in a horrified whisper.  “Peregrin Took, what did you do?”

Pippin smiled dreamily, his expression blank.  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?  She’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen.  Her hair is like black silk.  In the sunlight, it sparkles with diamonds like dew glinting in the morning.”

“Pippin -" 

“And her skin!  Moonlight shining through a blossoming lily -"

“Pippin!”

Pippin jerked and sat up straight.  Merry responded to Frodo’s voice in the same manner, even though it was not directed at him.  “I wrote her a poem.  That’s all – just a poem.  I said she was so pretty, and that I – um…   I didn’t sign it.  I don’t know how they figured out it was me.”

“Did you write it in Elvish?”

Pippin looked at Frodo in surprise.  “Of course not.  I don’t know Elvish.  I wrote it in Westron.  And I wrapped it around the prettiest rose I could find and laid it outside her room.”  Pippin blushed.  “Then I knocked on her door and ran.”

Frodo closed his eyes again.  “And Aragorn?”

More mumbles.  Then, “He opened the door.”  Pippin kicked viciously at a grass stalk.  “I think it was highly improper of him to have been in her room, just the two of them, and with the door closed and everything.”  Pippin looked indignant.  “He found my poem and read it!  And her name was right there on the envelope!”

“What did the poem say?”  Pippin was staring at his feet again, color high in his face.  “Pippin,” said Frodo evenly.  “Answer me, young hobbit.”

Pippin flushed even redder.  Then he raised his head and stared defiantly into his cousin’s horrified eyes.  “I said if she were my lady, I wouldn’t run off into the Wild and leave her all the time.  And I’d bring her all sorts of presents, and I’d-“

“Pippin,” Frodo said with careful patience, “aside from the fact that you just insulted Aragorn, what do you think Lord Elrond would think of you propositioning his daughter?”

Pippin gasped.  “Frodo!  How could you think that?  I would never… and Lord Elrond – oh.  Oh!”

“Pip-lad,” Frodo said more gently, “Lady Arwen and Aragorn are meant for one another.  Haven’t you seen the way they look at each other?  It is as if no one else is in the room.  Or on Middle-earth.  Your suit hasn’t a chance.”

“I know that, Frodo,” Pippin replied miserably.  “I just wanted her to know, that’s all.”

“I think she is honored by your regard, lad,” Frodo said tenderly.  Pippin sniffed, rubbing his eyes.  Sam was staring neutrally into the middle distance, his expression noncommittal but Merry could feel suspicious quivers through their linked arms.   “Now why don’t you go inside, and think of a way to apologize.”

They watched Pippin trudge dejectedly into the House, shoulders slumped.  “I think you broke his heart, Frodo,” Merry said.

“He’ll survive,” Frodo replied firmly.  “I am certain the Lady Arwen does not wish to be followed about by a lovesick tweenaged hobbit.  Bringing her a rose!  I’m surprised Aragorn didn’t flatten him.”

* * * * *.

Pippin stared out into the rain and sighed heavily.  That in itself wasn’t so unusual, but Pippin had been loudly repeating the sighs every few minutes, ensuring that his cousins and Sam were well aware of the unfairness of it all.  Deciding toignore him,Frodo had retreated to his bed again, dozing lightly to the music of the dancing rain.  Sam was sitting quietly by his side, a pair of Pippin’s torn breeches in his hands, his sewing kit on the table beside him.  Merry, the map spread before him, had watched the needle flash through the cloth until he felt dizzy.

“Frodo?”

Frodo opened one eye and squinted at Pippin.  “What, lad?”

“That wasn’t a very intelligent thing to do, was it?”

“No, Pippin,” Frodo replied as gently as he could.  At the fond sympathy in his cousin’s voice, Pippin left the windowsill and climbed up onto Frodo’s bed, cuddling against his cousin.  Frodo slipped his good arm around Pippin and hugged him, smoothing errant curls out of his face.

“It’s just that she’s so beautiful, Frodo.”  Pippin sniffed again, genuinely this time.  “I just wanted…”  Frodo was silent, waiting him out.  “Well…  Merry keeps making those moon-calf eyes at Estella Bolger, and Sam has his Rose –“

“Master Pippin!” objected Sam, before Merry could recover from his shock.

“You do,” Pippin insisted.  “Rosie won’t look at another – everyone knows it.  And there isn’t a lass in the Shire who wouldn’t fall at Frodo’s feet if he so much as smiled at her.”  Pippin enjoyed the small triumph of seeing his cousin blush.  “Really, Frodo, you should hear them go on.”  He rolled his eyes and adopted a high falsetto.  “‘Frodo Baggins is so handsome – Frodo Baggins is so rich, Frodo Baggins is such a gentlehobbit…’”  Pippin squirmed in disgust.  “And they all gush about your eyes until I think I’ll be sick.”

“Pippin,” Frodo warned.

Called to order, Pippin sighed.  “All right, I shouldn’t have done it.”  He lay quietly at his cousin’s side, thinking of a way to make amends.  “Do you think they would like it if I made them some taffy?  Mum has the best taffy recipe, and I know it by heart.”

Frodo thought about it for a moment.  “Pippin, I think the Lady would like that very much.  And you know that Aragorn hides a fondness for sweets.”

Pippin beamed, his usual sunny nature restored.  “That’s it, then!  Sam, may I use your pans?  Merry can go to the kitchens and get the ingredients, and I’ll mix it, and then all three of us can pull.”  Pippin paused in dispensing orders and regarded his eldest cousin.  “Frodo, you can’t pull.  Not ‘til your shoulder’s better.  You can … you can wrap up the candy!”  Pippin beamed, satisfied with his taskmastering.  Frodo regarded him with amusement.

“Now hold on, Cousin,” Merry objected.  “Pulling taffy is a lot of work.  And messy.”

“Sure would taste good, though,” said Sam thoughtfully.   “Mistress Eglantine’s taffy is famous.  Best I’ve ever tasted and no mistake.”

Merry found his mouth watering just at the memory.  “Oh, all right,” he capitulated gracefully.   “It’s a bother, but if you think it would make amends with Lady Arwen and Aragorn – and as long as there’s a little left over for us.”  Merry paused for a moment, thinking.  “A lot left over for us.”

* * * * * 

Pippin leaned forward over Sam’s deepest kettle and stirred the bubbling mixture carefully.  The sugary smell of cooking syrup wafted up from the hearth through the room, and combined with the fresh scent of rain, it was a fragrance sweeter to hobbit-noses than any elven perfume.

Frodo and Sam were absent, Frodo having expressed a need to ‘go for a walk.’   As if, Merry thought with a private grin, that euphemism didn’t mean a trip to the privy.  Sam commented that he ‘needed a sniff of air’ himself, as if that didn’t mean he didn’t trust his master not to trip and collapse halfway there.  Remembering his own concern for his injured cousin, Merry spared a moment to be grateful to Sam for his protectiveness of Frodo.

“What do you think, Merry?” Pippin asked his elder cousin. 

Merry took the spoon held out to him and blew on it carefully, then lifted it to his mouth with a look of absolute concentration.  He smacked his lips, gaze abstracted.  “I don’t know, Pip.  It just seems to be missing something.”

Pippin tasted his own spoonful.  “I know.  But I’m certain I have the recipe right.” 

The lad looked so woeful that Merry had to intervene.  “Let’s try a little flavoring.  Run to the kitchens, Pip, and ask them if you might have some extract of lemon.  Or mint.”

Merry’s sharp ears tracked Pippin’s progress down the hall until he turned the corner.  Certain now that the tweenager would not turn back, Merry dove for his cloak and the small flask he had managed to secret there on his way back from collecting the ingredients.  He was heartily glad that Gimli the Dwarf had been agreeable to a little trade – half of the pipe weed in Merry’s pouch in exchange for the contents of the flask.  Gimli had seemed rather surprised when Merry had proposed the trade, but he had been willing enough when he found out the reason.  Promising the Dwarf a share of the sweets, Merry handed over the pipe-weed and pocketed the full, heavy flask.

Merry unscrewed the lid and sniffed, then coughed as his eyes watered.  Quickly he poured the entire flask into the bubbling concoction.  “That ought to do it,” he said to the empty room in satisfaction.  “Aunt Eggie never made a better batch herself.”

“Of taffy, lad?”  Merry whipped around to discover their eldest cousin in the doorway.  Ancient or not, Bilbo could still move with hobbit-quietness.  “I could smell that delicious aroma down the hall,” Bilbo answered in response to Merry’s unspoken question.  The elderly hobbit tottered over to the pot and inhaled deeply, a grin breaking out on his aged features.  “Eggie’s recipe, is it?  Be a good lad and just check that no one’s coming, would you, Merry?”

With a puzzled nod, Merry moved past him to the door and quickly looked both ways down the hall.  No sign of Pip or Frodo and Sam yet.  He turned around just in time to see Bilbo shaking the last drops from a slim silver flask into the taffy mixture.

“Bilbo!” yelped Merry, shocked, clamping his teeth shut on blurting out his own addition to the mix.

Bilbo stirred the taffy then sniffed approvingly.  “I know why Eggie makes the best taffy in the Shire, Merry my lad.  And I know our Pippin doesn’t know why his mother always takes the blue ribbon at the midsummer Free Fair every year.  No need to disabuse the boy of his mum’s talent – this is just between us.  And absolutelyno need to tell Frodo.  I love that boy as my own son, but you know he tends to be a tad straight-laced about such things.”

Whatever response Merry might have had was lost in the patter of hobbit-feet that ended in a dash to the door.  “Mint, Merry!” Pippin crowed, holding up a small vial filled with light green liquid.  A second was filled with sunshine yellow.  “And lemon!  Hullo, Cousin Bilbo!”

“Hullo, lad!” Bilbo responded jovially.  Merry noticed that the silver flask had disappeared.  “Great idea, this!”

Pippin practically glowed.  “Frodo and Sam are on their way back.  I told them the taffy needed something, and Frodo said he thought lemon would be splendid.”  He carefully unstoppered the vial and poured it in a lemon-scented stream ofsparkling liquid.  The syrup took on an egg-yolk hue, shiny and enticing.  Pippin quivered, practically beside himself with joy. 

A few moments later, Sam opened the door and ushered in Frodo.  After greetings were exchanged, Frodo and Bilbo retired to the corner to put their heads together over Elrond’s map, leaving the younger hobbits to concentrate on the boiling pot.

Sam was looking at the syrup with a critical eye.  “You are going to clean out my good cooking pot, aren’t you, Master Pippin?” he asked rather forbiddenly.  “You know how taffy sticks.”

Pippin jumped guiltily.  “Of course, Sam.”  He looked injured.  “You know I wouldn’t leave a mess.  Um … I’ll just set some water on the hearth to heat, shall I?”

Merry managed not to grin as he watched Pippin select two more of Sam’s treasured cooking pots and fill them with water.  “Sam,” he said as he turned back - and choked.  Sam was quietly whacking the bottom of a square bottle, and as Merry watched in dismay, the last drop ran out and into the sweet mixture with a faint ‘plop.’

Sam looked at Merry calmly.  “I’ll wager that’s what the taffy was needing, Mr. Merry.”  Misinterpreting Merry’s look of horror, Sam grinned.  “No need to thank me, sir.  Master Pip’s a bit young to know his mum’s secret ingredient, but me Gaffer figured it out years ago.”  Sam stuck the empty bottle back into his pocket and whistling slightly to himself, went to prepare for the next step of taffy-making.

Merry gulped and regarded the steaming mixture warily.  It looked all right, if rather frothy.  He nudged the wooden mixing spoon carefully.  It hadn’t dissolved.  Perhaps he could manage to ‘accidentally’ knock over the batch, and they would have to start afresh.  Then he could stand guard over it and prevent all well-meaning attempts to ‘flavor it up.’  Merry winced as he thought of trying to clean up cooling taffy from the beautiful wooden floors of Frodo’s room.  Likely it would pry up the floorboards –

“Move over, Merry,” hissed a voice in his ear.  Merry twitched nervously and turned – too late.  Pippin was carefully pouring in the last of a dark brown liquid from a tonic-bottle, shielding his actions from Frodo and Bilbo.  Belatedly, Merry identified the single surviving bottle of the Gaffer’s home brew, their only reward from the short-lived distilling attempt that had damaged their room.  He gurgled an inarticulate protest – he had had his own plans for that surviving bottle.  “Mum thinks I don’t know,” Pippin confided with a smirk, “but ‘Vinca told me last Yule.  Older sisters are good for something, I suppose.”

“Pippin – no,” Merry whispered but it was already too late. “Where did you get that?”

Pippin glanced at the empty bottle then handed it to Merry.  “I ducked into our room, Merry, and got it from where you hid it behind the books in the bookcase.  I know you wanted to keep it, but this is a good cause, don’t you think?  I just hope it’s not too strong.   Maybe I shouldn’t have used the whole bottle.  Do you think I shouldn’t have used the whole bottle?”  Not waiting for an answer, Pippin dug the stirring spoon into the mixture and held it up high, eyeing the sunshine-colored cascadeof syrup with a critical eye.  “Right!” he barked.  “It’s ready!  Sam, how’s that table?”

“Ready, sir,” Sam replied.  Merry saw that Sam had cleaned the top of the wooden side table and spread butter liberally over its surface.  Pippin caught up the sides of the heavy pot with a tea towel and struggled with it over to Sam.  The gardener relieved it from him and easily lifted it up to the table, pouring out a great puddle of gleaming syrup.

“Ah, beautiful,” murmured Frodo eagerly.  He and Bilbo set the map aside and watched as the younger hobbits buttered their hands and then folded the mixture onto itself, trapping air between the two lengths of glistening taffy.  Accomplished pullers (which most hobbits are) work quickly, listening for the familiar `swish, smack, slap' of the two lengths as they join into one.  Expertly and efficiently, Merry, Pippin and Sam pulled and twisted the shining lengths, working in the tiny bubbles that would keep the sweet light and chewy. 

When they had a length of sweet rope, smooth and glistening, Pippin proudly carried it to his older cousins and Frodo buttered a small knife to cut it into generously sized pieces.  Finding that two hands were needed to twist the wrapper shut, Bilbo volunteered to lay each sweet in a small square of waxed paper and seal both ends. 

It was demanding but enjoyable work, and it wasn’t long before the pot had been emptied and a great pile of wrapped sweets rose between Bilbo and Frodo.  At last Merry handed the final rope to Pippin and examined his hands.  Despite his caution, he had acquired a few burns.  At least the results would be worth it.  He’d best check if anyone else needed burn ointment, starting with…

“Frodo?”

Frodo smiled at Merry with a slightly vacant expression.  Forgetting his hands, Merry’s gaze narrowed suspiciously.  “Frodo, have you been sampling those sweets?”

Frodo smiled, his eyes unfocused.  “Of course, Merry.  A most excellent batch.  Worthy of Eggie’s best, if I do say so myself.”  He hiccupped and then looked surprised.

Merry waved his hand in front of his cousin’s eyes.  Frodo blinked and followed the movement with difficulty, then stared at Merry in puzzlement.  “Frodo, can you touch the tip of your nose with your finger?”

His cousin stared at him hazily.  “Why would I want to do that, lad?”  Seeing Merry’s implacable gaze, Frodo humored him.  “Oh, all right.”  His out flung arm narrowly missed Merry’s nose before Frodo regained control of it.  He frowned at his hand then shook a finger and bent his elbow.  “Ouch!  Drat!  Hold still, nose.”

Merry collapsed onto one of the divans and groaned.  Bilbo was laughing quietly, having deduced the reason for his nephew’s lack of coordination.   The old hobbit looked around.  “All right, lads.  ‘Fess up.  How many of you poured in a little – um, contribution – to Pippin’s taffy?”  He counted the guilty looks.  “Oh dear.  Oh, my.  Eggie only uses a few drops.  I don’t think we’d better let anyone else have any of these sweets, lads.”

“Why not?” asked Frodo, popping another into his mouth.  “They’re wonderful.”  He crinkled up the wrapper, aimed with great concentration, and then hurled it at the small wastebasket set by his bed.  It missed by at least a foot.  Frodo stared at it in confusion.

“No more for you, either, lad,” Bilbo commented, and motioned for Merry to remove the temptations.  Frodo watched sadly as his cousin swept the pile into a blanket.   Merry tied a knot in the blanket and looped it over his arm, all under his cousin’s blinking, mournful gaze.

“They’re wunnerful – wond-er-ful, Bilbo,” Frodo repeated carefully.  “The Lady Argorn … I mean, Lady Arawen … um.”  Frodo’s dark brows drew down as he wondered over his uncooperative tongue.  “I think I shall take a nap,” he enunciated with great care, sagging back against the pillows.

“Good idea, sir,” said Sam smoothly.  The stocky gardener glowered at all of them, conveniently forgetting (Merry decided) that he had himself contributed to Frodo’s condition.  Sam stood up pointedly and stared at them.

Merry sighed and reached over to snag Pippin with his free arm.  Bilbo’s deep brown eyes sparkled at them, thoroughly enjoying the situation.   “I’ll just stay with Frodo-lad a bit, my boys.  Why don’t you check on the repairs in your room?”

Wondering if there was anything taking place in Rivendell that Bilbo didn’t know about, Merry dutifully took his leave of his elder cousins, towing a reluctant Pippin behind him.  “Come on, Pippin.  Let Frodo rest.  Let’s see if they’ve finished the fireplace yet.”

In the hallway, Pippin pulled his arm free and swung around to face Merry.  “What was that all about, Merry?  I wanted to stay and make certain that Frodo was all right –“

Merry held up the blanket-sack, which he had managed to keep hidden between his body and Pippin’s.  It sagged suggestively with the weight of the sweets inside.  “We have some amends to make, Pippin-lad,” he said gleefully.  “I think Lady Arwen and Aragorn and Gimli will like our taffy, right enough.”

“But we’ll –er- warn them first, won’t we?” asked Pippin anxiously.

Briefly Merry considered the amusement that might be gained from not warning them.  Then he reconsidered, remembering the size of Gimli’s axe and Aragorn’s expertise with that long, sharp sword he carried.  “I suppose,” he said regretfully.  Then his smile brightened.  “After we’ve had our fill, that is.”

With an answering grin, Pippin reached for the sack.

TBC**

* “Bribery and Blackmail” by Budgielover

** Pippin’s Taffy Recipe (minus his mum’s special ingredient)

2 tbsp. butter
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/8 tsp. salt
1/2 cup corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1/2 tsp. vanilla

1/4 to 1 teaspoon flavoring, if desired (lemon, maple or mint)

3 drops of liquid food coloring, if desired

Spread butter on large platter.  In a saucepan, mix sugar, salt, corn syrup and water.  Cook until the mixture reaches hard-ball stage.  If you have a candy thermometer, the temperature should be 225 degrees.  Stir in vanilla and flavorings, add food coloring.  Pour mixture onto prepared platter.  Caution – mixture will be very hot!  Immediately after emptying pan, fill with HOT tap water and allow to sit until taffy dissolves.  (Otherwise you will never get it off.)  When cool enough to touch, lift edges to middle.  Pull candy with buttered fingers until it is stiff and satiny.  Pull into a long rope 1/2-inch wide.  Cut with buttered scissors or buttered knife into 1-inch pieces. While working one half, place remaining taffy in a 200-degree oven to keep soft.  Wrap pieces in waxed paper and twist ends.  Makes up in less than 30 minutes and serves many people or a few hobbits.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sam advised quietly.  The stocky gardener’s round face was apprehensive and his grey eyes were tight with worry.  Merry paused with his hand on the door of Frodo’s bedroom.  He had already begun to turn the beautifully carved knob, but at Sam’s warning, he quietly eased the great wooden door shut and removed his hand.  Behind him, Pippin gave them both a half-curious, half-worried look.

“Aye,” Sam continued in a whisper with a jerk of his head towards the closed door, “he’s in a fine state this morning.  Says he feels sick and his head’s pounding fit to burst, has been ever since you two left yesterday.  He don’t know why.  I’ve half a mind to tell him.”

Merry covered the surge of fear that coursed through him with an easy, teasing smile.  “Now, Sam, you can’t do that.  You’d have to confess your little contribution to the taffy we made.  Then you’d be in the stew, too.”

“And don’t I know it,” Sam growled back almost inaudibly, mindful of his master’s excellent hearing.  “If Master Elrond makes him take another one o’ those tonics he hates so much, I will tell him why he feels so bad.  At least he’ll know it’s not his fault.”  Pippin blanched.  “He hardly ate any tea after you two left yesterday, and he slept right through dinner and supper,” Sam continued, glowering at them both.

“So he got a good rest, then?” Merry asked weakly with an ingratiating smile.  Sam glared at him.

“If you call falling-down drunk ‘a good rest’,” Sam growled.  “You know Mr. Frodo don’t hardly ever drink anything stronger than an ale or two, or a glass of wine.  There was enough hard liquor in those sweets to flatten a pony.”

“It’s not my fault,” Pippin protested from the safety of Merry’s far side.  “I didn’t know all of you were going to pour in all those spirits.  I already put in more than Mum’s recipe called for.”  Pippin tried to look indignant instead of guilty.  “Between what you and Merry and Bilbo added, I’m not surprised Frodo’s sick.”  Sam’s jaw firmed and those bright grey eyes narrowed dangerously.  Pippin made certain he was out of reach. “It’s Frodo’s own fault, really.  He went ahead and ate all that taffy.  We didn’t force him to be so greedy.”

Sam’s face flushed red and he inhaled, chest swelling perilously.  Pippin ducked behind his cousin, his fingers tight in the pocket of Merry’s waistcoat.  Merry backed up a pace.  “Just you listen here, young masters -”

“Sam?”  The voice that threaded through their hissed conversation was tight with suppressed pain. 

Sam bit off his tirade and still glaring, edged up to the closed door.  “Yes, sir?” he called back as quietly as possible.

“Is that Merry and Pippin I hear?”  There was an almost inaudible groan, followed by a stifled whimper.

“Yes, sir,” Sam replied resignedly.

“Send them in, please.  I would like to speak to them.”  Sam stepped back from the door and motioned for Merry to continue through.  Merry tried to smile jauntily as he passed, but it came out as rather a sickly grin.  Pippin almost trod on his heels, feeling Sam’s hot gaze burning on his back as the door closed after them.

The room was subdued, the drapes still drawn against the cheerful morning light.  Outside, birds contested with the music of Rivendell’s ever-present waterfalls, their piping voices blending with the chuckling song of water.  Their cousin was discernable only as an irregular lump on the near edge of the bed.  The lump did not greet them or make any movement.  Suddenly worried, Merry and Pippin exchanged a glance and crept closer to the high bed.  “Frodo?” whispered Merry.

A hand whipped out from under the covers and with the suddenness of a striking snake, fastened on the tip of Merry’s ear.  The covers erupted up like a fountain and a second, weaker hand fastened on Pippin’s.

“Ow!  Ow!  Ow!” the young hobbits shrieked in unison.  “Let go, Frodo!”

Frodo’s pale face emerged from the blankets, creased in pain.  “Will you two be quiet?” he demanded.  “My head feels like it is splitting in two.”  He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.  “Perhaps you can tell me why?”  Pippin twisted and Frodo’s weaker hand gave.  The tweenager shot to the far side of the room and proceeded to rub his ear, readily abandoning Merry to their elder cousin’s wrath.  With a growl, Frodo laid his left arm across his middle and tightened his hold on his remaining captive.

“Now, Frodo,” Merry gasped, “no need to be hasty.  I can explain about the sweets.  Everyone was just trying to help, you see, and -”

Merry’s breathless explanation was interrupted by a knock at the door.  Sam stuck his head in and surveyed the scene, then swung the door wider to admit Lord Elrond.  The Elf-lord paused in the entryway, his dark eyes sweeping the room at the sight of Pippin cowering behind the washbasin while the Ring-bearer held tightly to a squirming Merry’s ear.  The hobbits froze, eyes wide.  Elrond’s impassive gaze swept the motionless tableau for a moment, then he bowed.

Frodo hurriedly released Merry’s ear and the younger hobbit straightened with commendable speed, brushing off his waistcoat and adjusting his shirtcuffs.  Frodo sat up in bed and tried to look as if he had not just been holding onto his young cousin’s ear with a death grip.  In the mortified silence that followed, the Ring-bearer bowed stiffly from the waist.  The courtesy was rather spoiled by his putting a hand to his forehead and moaning.

“Good morning, little masters,” Elrond said neutrally.   Neither of the two young ones would meet his gaze, and the lord’s thin eyebrows rose.  Deciding not to ask questions that he would probably prefer not to know the answers to, he swept majestically to Frodo’s bedside, his great copper-colored mantle falling in graceful folds about him.  Merry swiftly made room for him, seizing the opportunity to edge back out of his elder cousin’s reach.

“Good morning, Lord Elrond,” Frodo gritted out as graciously as he could with dwarf-drums pounding inside his head.  His greeting was almost inaudibly repeated by the other two, who were keeping their distance.

“I hope I have not … interrupted you,” Elrond said graciously.  “But Bilbo informs me that you might be feeling unwell, Master Frodo.”

Frodo shook his head, then paled, his complexion taking on a decidedly greenish hue.  Pippin shifted nervously and the Elf-lord’s eyes turned to him consideringly.  Behind the Master, Frodo waved his hands in the air, pointing at Elrond’s back, and swinging his finger towards the door.  When Merry stared at him, Frodo rolled his eyes and made a pushing motion at Elrond’s back.  Pippin giggled, then presented an innocent face when Elrond’s dark brows rose.

“I trust you two are not suffering from the mysterious ailment that troubles your cousin,” the Elf-lord commented after a moment.  Merry and Pippin shook their heads mutely, eyes on their furry toes.  The healer half-turned back towards Frodo and the hobbit froze, then jerkily changed the pushing motion to scratching his head.  Elrond frowned, and Frodo looked innocent, remarkably resembling his youngest cousin.  Merry and Pippin took advantage of the distraction to edge towards the door.

The healer leaned forward and placed the back of his hand against the hobbit’s forehead.  “I find no fever, Master Frodo,” Elrond continued after a slight pause.  “Nor any reason for your headache and sensitivity to light.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” Frodo replied, “but Bilbo is being overcautious.  I am quite well this morning and wish to speak with my cousins.”  The last was added in a raised voice, causing Frodo to clench his teeth, his hands tightening on the blankets.  Merry, trying the knob, heard a growl from the other side and discovered that Sam was blocking the door with his body.

Elrond glanced between the cousins curiously, well aware of the undercurrents in the room, if not their cause.  “Yes-s,” the Elf-lord said slowly.  “I was concerned that your walk in the rain yesterday might have resulted in a cold.”  An “Ummph!” and a thud behind him caused to pivot on the bed and stare at the two younger hobbits.  Merry was rubbing his shoulder.  Seeing their host’s gaze upon them, Merry straightened and smiled widely, hastily shoving his hands in his pockets.  Pippin began intently examining the carved beams of the ceiling.  Elrond frowned at them and turned his attention back to his patient. 

“Therefore, Master Frodo…” (“Push harder, Merry!”), “I have taken…” (“I can’t, Pip!  He’s holding it shut!”) “…the precaution of …” (“Sam, you let us out!”) “…preparing a…” (“He wants ‘ta talk to you, Mr. Merry.”) “…restorative tonic…”  (“That’s why I want out, Sam!”) “…to ensure that… to ensure…”

Elrond trailed off, overcome by the muffled thumps and increasingly loud whispers emanating from the direction of the door.  Becoming aware that the healer had ceased to speak, Merry and Pippin turned around.  Elrond and Frodo were both staring at them.  The Elf-lord’s high brows were arched and their cousin’s were drawn down over infuriated blue eyes.

“Er…” Merry temporized.

“…You do not become ill,” Elrond belatedly finished his sentence.  The Elf-lord gave the young hobbits a mystified stare then swiveled gracefully back to his patient.  He withdrew from his robes a small vial, which he presented to the Ring-bearer.  “Drink it, Master Frodo.”

“No no no, my lord,” the hobbit gulped.  “Truly, it is not necessary.  I am fine.  I -”

Elrond smiled for the first time since entering the room.  “I am well aware you do not care for the taste of my elixirs, little master, but they do you nothing but good.”  One slim hand gently unstoppered the vial, then guided it to the hobbit’s mouth.  “Drink it.”

“Lord Elrond -”

“Drink.”

His hand trembling, Frodo reached out and took the delicate glass vial.  Beseeching eyes raised to the healer’s – uselessly.  The Elf-lord’s gaze was implacable.  Seeing no recourse, Frodo closed his eyes and opened his mouth.  Elrond gently supported the trembling hand and tilted the liquid into the hobbit’s mouth.

“Swallow, Frodo.”

The hobbit did, then his face distorted in a horrible grimace.  His lips thinned over bared teeth as his entire face flushed, and both hands flew to his mouth, pressing tightly.  “Gaaaccckkk!”

Elrond watched dispassionately.  “Good,” the Elf-lord intoned, despite every evidence to the contrary.  He rose majestically to his feet, ignoring his patient’s strangled coughs.  “I will check on you later in the day.  For now, I suggest you rest.”

Elrond swept to the door.  It opened for him without resistance, indicating that Sam had been listening with his ear up against the wood.  Elrond stepped forward when two small forms burst past him.  The Elf looked down quizzically.

“Little masters,” he began, “I believe your cousin said he wishes to speak with you -”

“He needs to rest,” Merry piped, ignoring the choked gurgle behind him, which was all Frodo was capable of producing at the moment.  Pippin was nodding so violently that his curly hair bobbed into his eyes.  “Excuse us, sir,” Merry continued quickly.  “Things to do, you know -”

“Mr. Merry,” began Sam ominously, but Merry pushed past him, sheltered by the proximity of their host and his surety that Sam’s respect for the Master of Rivendell would prevent Sam from tackling them and physically dragging them back inside.

“You heard Master Elrond, Sam,” Merry replied hurriedly.  “Frodo needs to rest.  Mustn’t excite him.  No stimulating discussions.”  Another choke issued from within the room, followed by a series of throttled coughs.

“Mer,” could possibly be made out amidst the hacking, followed by “back here!” the words indistinct and distorted by more coughs.  Merry decided on selective deafness and snatched Pippin’s jacket, hauling his younger cousin after him.  “Good day, Lord Elrond.  See you at luncheon, Sam.  Maybe tea.  Certainly dinner, or supper…”  Still talking, Merry rounded the corner and a moment later, two sets of hobbit-feet took to their heels down the hallway.

* * * * *

“Just how many did we give away, Pip?” Merry asked, trying to estimate the number of wrapped sweets remaining in their improvised sack.  There didn’t seem to be very many left, and he knew that he and Pip had eaten hardly any.  Merry resisted the urge to sample one – he had a feeling he would need all of his wits about him today.

“Two handfuls to Gimli,” Pippin recited, his sharp face screwed up with thought, “three handfuls to Aragorn, one handful each to Elladan and Elrohir, one for Bilbo, one each to Legolas and Boromir, one to Glorfindel, four to Lady Arwen…”

“Four?”

Pippin flushed.  “I gave her some more.  She said they were very good.”

Merry bit his tongue against pointing out that Pippin’s infatuation with Elrond’s daughter had got them into this mess.  That would solve nothing and only start an argument.   “Well, what happened to the rest of them?”

“I suppose we just gave them away,” Pippin concluded miserably.  “Quite a bit of last evening is rather foggy.”

“And the people we gave them to may have given them to people,” Merry continued.  “And those people might have given some to more people, as well as eating them themselves.”  Merry raised haunted eyes to look out of the window.  “So a lot of people in Rivendell are feeling rather odd today, or not feeling very well at all, depending on how many they ate.”  Merry remembered the weight of the sack.  He could hardly lift it.  They had made an enormous batch of taffy, and cut and wrapped perhaps hundreds of pieces.  Almost all of them now dispersed about Rivendell.  Merry sought a chair, feeling overwhelmed.  “What say we just stay in our room for the rest of the day, Pip?”

Pippin had already gone to the window and after a careful glance in all directions, was drawing the drapes.  “Good idea, Merry.  And if anyone knocks on our door, we don’t answer.  Right?”

“Right.”

* * * * *

Lord Elrond finished wrapping the bandage around his master cook’s hand and waved aside his servant’s embarrassed thanks.  Cuts were far from unknown among the kitchen staff, but rarely was it the head cook, and never twice in a single morning.  Normally, one of his children would have attended to such   simple tasks but Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen had all sent messages pleading indisposition this morning, a most rare thing for elven-kind.  It was very disconcerting for all three of his children to be feeling unwell upon the same day, and he was more than a little concerned.  He had been about to investigate the cause of this phenomenon when his bleeding cook had arrived for the second time. 

There seemed to be a rash of little accidents and illnesses around Rivendell this morning.  Nothing noteworthy, but odd, stumbling little miscalculations involving stubbed toes and burnt fingers and barked shins, and an odd tendency to giggle.  Elves do not giggle.  Elrond dismissed his discomfited cook with an admonition to take more care, and sat back in his chair to consider.

It must have to do with the halflings.  As this thought passed through his mind, the Elf-lord felt exasperated with himself, and shamed by the unworthiness of the thought.  He could not blame every little thing on the hobbits.  Next he would be holding them responsible for cloudy days and the approach of winter.  Nevertheless…

“Father?”  Elrond identified Estel’s footfalls, soft as they were, before his foster son spoke.  Looking up, he beheld a sorry sight.  Aragorn’s eyes were red and half-closed in a pale, unshaven face, and his features tight with pain.  Elrond rose with alacrity and guided the man into his own vacated seat, steadying him with a hand under Aragorn’s elbow.

“Thank you.”  Aragorn learned forward, massaging his scalp with his fingertips.  “I have a dreadful headache,” the Ranger confessed, squinting as he looked up at the Elf-lord.  He sighed in relief as cool fingertips were laid against his forehead.  Comfort seemed to flow from Elrond’s hands, soothing the fiery pounding.  Aragorn leaned gratefully into his foster father’s touch.  “It started last night.  I felt quite strange after eating several sweets that Merry and Pippin had given me.”

“Merry and Pippin?” repeated Elrond, feeling his own headache start.

Aragorn caught the tension in his lord’s voice.  “The hobbits made taffy,” the Ranger hastened to explain.  “It was very good, actually.”  He made no mention of the reason for the youngest hobbit’s gesture of apology, though he thought, a laugh might do Elrond good.  Storm clouds were gathering on his lord’s high brow, and those dark, far-seeing eyes were suspicious.

“Arwen gave me several pieces,” Elrond said thoughtfully.  He crossed to his desk and picked up one of the bright yellow sweets, wrapped in waxed paper with a jaunty twist on each end.  He had thanked her and set them aside, his mind on another matter.  Now the Elf-lord unwrapped the sweet and sniffed it carefully, eyes narrowed in concentration.  They closed all the way when elven senses brought to his sensitive nose another barely discernable aroma.

“How many of these did you eat, my son?” the Elf-lord asked noncommittally. 

Aragorn rubbed his forehead.  “Quite a few,” the Ranger admitted, “but I also gave many away,” he added, misinterpreting Elrond’s sudden, dark look.  “Merry and Pippin were quite generous.  I gave almost a full handful to Gandalf.”

Elrond covered his eyes with his hands.  “Mithrandir?  You gave these to Mithrandir?”

Despite his discomfort, Aragorn chuckled.  “That wizard is as fond of sweets as a child.  Or a hobbit.  He actually ate all of them before he took leave of me.”

“Oh, no,” murmured Elrond.

* * * * *

“Frodo!  Save us!”  The great wooden door rebounded violently on its hinges as two blurred forms shot past a surprised Sam and into Frodo’s bedroom before Sam could connect the shrieked words to the fleeing forms.  A peacefully sleeping Frodo let out a yelp and shot up in the bed, unfortunately making himself a target for the trembling figures that flung themselves upon him and then fought to conceal themselves behind him.

“Pippin!  What -?!” The smaller of the two forms was trying to hide under Frodo’s pillows, pushing his elder cousin forward in the bed as the tweenager burrowed behind him.  Frodo’s startled cry was cut off as the other trembling form, now identified as Merry, jerked the blankets up and crawled beneath them, locking his arms around his cousin’s legs and hiding his face against Frodo’s knees.  Belatedly, Sam appeared in the door, his mouth a perfect ‘o’ as he stared unabashedly.

Frodo looked at him and shrugged.  An attempt to twist around earned him a sharp stab in his bad shoulder, wringing a gasp from him.  Sam stepped forward in concern but Frodo shook his head at his friend, then reached out and tentatively lifted the covers to expose Merry’s white face.  Merry stared up at him from beneath his shelter, blue eyes wide.  “All right,” Frodo said resignedly.  “What have you done now?”

Neither answered him, other than to tighten their holds on his person.  Merry laid his head against Frodo’s knees and clutched for all he was worth.  Behind Frodo, the pillow quivered as Pippin trembled.  The Ring-bearer sighed and reached down to stroke the top of Merry’s quivering head.  “There, there, my lads.  Sam, would you please make some tea?  And perhaps some scones -”

“Where are they?” Gandalf stormed through the door, beard bristling and hand clenched tight around his staff, his long, bony fingers white against the gnarled wood.  “Where are those two?  They’ll rue the day they did this to me!”

Pippin shrieked and Merry echoed him, shivering violently.  Frodo reared back in the bed, unintentionally squishing Pippin, and stared at the wizard.  “Gandalf,” he said sharply.  “Calm down!  You’re frightening them.”

“I mean to!”  The wizard strode towards Frodo’s bed, fury on his face.  Pippin peeked out and squeaked, then Frodo’s trembling backrest was suddenly removed as his little cousin flung himself down the far side of the bed and under it.  From this refuge came a series of gasping whimpers.

“I will not have you frightening my kin,” snapped Frodo, sitting up straight, blue eyes blazing.

“Frogdom, lads,” Gandalf hissed.  “Come out of there so I can transform you.  You’ll hardly feel a thing.”  He raised his staff threateningly and both young hobbits wailed.

“Mithrandir!”

Gandalf spun around to confront a slightly disheveled Master of Rivendell, Aragorn panting beside him.  “No one is turning anyone into amphibians in my House,” stated Elrond resolutely.  Wizard and Elf-lord stared at each other.  Silent beside his foster father, Aragorn gaped at the scene, astonishment warring with pain in his blue-grey eyes.  Sam stood rooted just inside the bedroom door, unsure of what to do.

“Think of how much less trouble they’ll be, Elrond,” Gandalf wheedled.  “They won’t eat nearly as much.  Just flies.  And they won’t be spiking innocent sweets!”

 “It was an accident!” yipped Pippin from the darkness under the bed.  “I was just trying to do something nice to apologize to Strider and Lady Arwen!”

Elrond inclined his long length forward to look closely under the bed.  A pair of green-gold eyes, wide with terror, peered back at him.  “Master Peregrin?”

“Peregrin, come out of there,” Frodo ordered flatly.  “Meriadoc.”  Rustlings preceded the younger hobbits’ reluctant reappearance.  “Now,” continued their elder cousin sternly, “what is going on here?”

Unfortunately, the Ring-bearer did not specify to whom that question was addressed, with the result that Merry, Pippin, Gandalf and Aragorn all began to speak at once.  Elrond was silent, but something like humor was beginning to glimmer in his dark eyes.  Frodo was looking from one shouting, gesticulating speaker to another, totally lost and increasingly aggravated.  Now that the imminent danger of transformation had passed, Sam was watching with a grin.  Elrond shook his head.  At least Master Baggins has forgotten his illness, he thought.   Now may the rest of my House do the same.

“Peace.  Be still – all of you.”  The Elf-lord’s voice easily overrode the “We didn’t mean any harm!” and “Just how much of this candy did you give out, my friends?” and “Enough to give me a raging headache!”

“Peace,” repeated Elrond more gently.  “No permanent harm has been done.”  He set aside the thoughts of the minor injuries that had plagued his morning.  “I will make available a remedy to all those who partook of the young ones’ … apology.”  Gandalf growled and rubbed his eyes.  “I suggest, however,” Elrond added in a tone of voice that was not a suggestion at all, “that the remaining sweets be destroyed.  I recommend burying them.  Quite deeply.”

“There isn’t much left, sir,” Merry confessed, one nervous eye still on the disgruntled wizard. 

“Then it should not take you long,” Elrond rejoined smoothly.  “After which, I suggest you provide an explanation and an apology to all of the people affected.”  The young hobbits had recovered enough to look rebellious.  “My folk are unused to strong spirits,” Elrond said firmly, affixing them with a forbidding eye.  “We are accustomed to fine wines, to liqueurs and cordials.  Not to the Gaffer’s ‘home brew’ and whatever other foul concoctions went into this.”

“Lord Elrond,” pleaded Merry.  “We didn’t think we needed to warn people.  There was so much of the taffy mixture, and relatively, not that much alcohol.  Maybe some of it burned off in the cooking?”  Pippin nodded frantically.  Grateful for his cousin’s support, Merry continued, “We -”

“Would be delighted to apologize,” interjected Frodo decisively. The Ring-bearer’s arms were crossed firmly across his chest and his back straight and stiff.  “They will make an apology to each and every person in Rivendell, if they must.”  Frodo turned icy blue eyes to them.  “Won’t you, my lads?”

“But,” struggled Merry.  Frodo stared at him. 

“Yes, Cousin Frodo,” whispered Pippin.  A moment later, Merry repeated his words.

Frodo settled back into the bed and allowed himself to relax, satisfied.  “Good.  You may start with Gandalf and Aragorn.  Then the Lady Arwen, I fear.  And after you have apologized to everyone in Rivendell, you may come back and apologize to me.”

“Yes, Cousin Frodo.”

“Starting now.”

“Yes, Cousin Frodo.”

While the two young hobbits shuffled hesitantly up to the wizard and the Ranger, Elrond glided to the Ring-bearer’s side and began to straighten the disordered bedding.  The hobbit looked up at him resignedly.  “Lord Elrond, I am most sincerely sorry.”

“Master Frodo,” Elrond replied gently, “do not be.  There truly was no harm done.  Perhaps it is good for my folk to be reminded of youth and silliness, and the consequences of overindulgence.”

Frodo nodded and eased himself back against the pillows, suddenly weary.  “Thank you, my lord.”  He watched his young cousins speaking to Aragorn and Gandalf, their expressions contrite.  Aragorn had knelt, his eyes at a level with theirs, while Gandalf leaned on his staff, his angry expression softening.  “They can charm the birds out of the trees, those two,” Frodo whispered half to himself.

Elrond’s lips quirked as Gandalf reached out and ruffled the youngest hobbit’s hair.  “I go to prepare the headache medicine.  Do you require a dose, Master Frodo?”

Frodo shook his head with a smile.  “The tonic you gave me seems to have taken care of the problem, my lord.”  Then he sighed and the Elf-lord was pleased to see a spark of mischief lurking in the hobbit’s eyes.  “I am slightly disappointed, though…”

Elrond paused and looked down at his small guest.  “In what, may I ask?”

Frodo grinned up at him, eyes sparkling.  “I should dearly have loved to seen Merry and Pippin as frogs.  Just for a moment or two.”

Elrond laughed softly and looked over to where the young hobbits were taking their leave, bowing to Gandalf and his foster son. “Do not despair, Master Frodo.  You have a long journey ahead of you, and somehow  … somehow I think you may well have the opportunity.”

The End