Thinning 

            He sat in the chair in his bedroom, an oversized shawl about his shoulders, watching through the window.  Sam was out there, a couple of baskets and his tools in hand as he prepared to do his fall thinning.  Sam stood looking down at the bed of Elven lilies, his eyes considering how many would have to go; then he knelt, setting the baskets down by him, and took up his trowel.  He was beginning to hum a hymn to Yavanna under his breath as he worked, a song he’d often heard the Lady Arwen sing as he’d knelt by her side, working in the herb gardens by the Houses of Healing or behind the Citadel, after the wedding.

            In the distance within the smial Frodo could hear Rosie talking to Elanor while she cleaned up after second breakfast and kneaded the bread for tonight’s dinner.  They sounded so cheerful, so happy.  Did they realize, Frodo wondered, that their second child, their so long awaited Frodo-Lad, would be with them soon enough?  Frodo-Lad would be there, but not Frodo himself.  He’d decided, decided only a few days previous.  He’d chosen, was doing his own thinning....

 *******

            He was six when he learned about thinning.  Six?  Well, of course he was six--it was his sixth birthday, even; and his parents had brought him to Bag End to spend the day with Uncle Bilbo, for it was Uncle Bilbo’s birthday, too--his eighty-fourth birthday.  They’d arrived for elevenses, and then he’d been settled down in his guest room, the one just by Uncle Bilbo’s own, to take his nap after the long trip from Buckland.  But he didn’t sleep long, waking to hear Gaffer Gamgee outside in the garden, talking to his wife Bell as she and their two sons came up to deliver his nuncheon.  Peeking out the window he saw the gardener ruffling Ham’s hair as he spoke with him, and the way he smiled into his wife’s eyes before he leaned over the little lass in the crook of Bell’s arm to kiss her forehead.  Bell’s hair was kissed by the Sun, her eyes shining in response to the tone of her husband’s voice.  Tomorrow Frodo would go out and down the Hill, find Ham and Hal and go down to the woods and explore.  For some reason the Gaffer didn’t want his lads to play with him, but neither Frodo nor the lads paid that much mind.

            But today it was important that Frodo not go far, that he stay nearby for the party later this afternoon.  Once he realized he wasn’t going to go back to sleep, he’d gotten up, made sure his braces were straight and properly buttoned as Mummy had been working with him on for the last few months, and looked to see what was happening in the smial.  Mummy and Daddy were in their room, also napping, their arms about each other.  Uncle Bilbo was in his study, reading and writing at the same time.  How and why he did this Frodo wasn’t certain, but he seemed to do a good deal of it.  Frodo went into the study and stood by his uncle’s chair and watched.  It took a few minutes for Bilbo to notice him, and when he did he seemed startled, startled but also pleased. 

            “Well, that wasn’t a particularly long nap, was it?” Bilbo asked.

            “No, it wasn’t.  I heard the Gaffer talking with his wife and Ham and Hal.  What are you doing?”

            “Copying a book sent by Lord Elrond.  It’s a book of Elvish grammar.”

            “What’s Elvish grammar?”

            “Oh, dear, you would ask that.  Let me see--it explains how Elves say things.”

            “Don’t they say things the way we do?”

            “When they are speaking the Common Tongue they do.  But you see, they speak other languages as well--Sindarin and Quenya, among others.”

            “Oh.  Is it hard to learn the other languages?”

            “No, not particularly hard--but it’s also not easy for those of us brought up to think only in terms of one language.”

            “Why are you copying it?”

            “Because I’ll need to send this one back soon to him, and only if I make a copy of it will I be able to study it over and over until I understand better.”

            “Oh.  Can you teach me some Elvish?”

            Bilbo had taught him his first Sindarin words that day, adar, naneth, Anor, Ithil, gil, estel, dun.  Then he’d sent him out to play with the admonition to ask to make certain Master Hamfast wouldn’t be bothered before he began to ask him a spate of questions.

            Master Hamfast had finished his noon meal and was just kneeling down to work in the iris bed when he realized he wasn’t alone.  He was also a bit startled, for young Master Frodo was able to be even quieter at times than most Hobbits, when he wasn’t asking a great many questions.

            “Well, hello, young master,” he said to the lad.

            “Hello, Master Hamfast.  Would it bother you if I ask questions?”

            “And who said as it might bother me if you asked questions?”

            “Uncle Bilbo said I must ask you if it would bother you.”

            The Gaffer was grateful for his master’s thoughtfulness.  “I’ll tell you what, if it becomes much of a bother I’ll send you off; until it does, you may stay.”

            “Thank you.”  Then, the questions began.  “Are you weeding?”

            “Sort of.”

            “How can you tell the weeds from the flowers?”

            “Sometimes you can’t.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well, you see, there’s weeds and weeds, if you take my meaning.”

            “What’s the difference between weeds and weeds?”

            Hamfast sighed--this one was always one for questions, and didn’t take well, he knew, to answers that were just made up to quiet them.  How to explain?  Finally he thought of a way.  “Well,” he said, slowly, “there is some plants as is weeds any time you see ’em.  Things like goat’s head.  Then there’s them as is fine in a field but not in a flower garden, like dandelions.  Dandelions is dead common, you know; and left to themselves they’ll just seed and spread, seed and spread.  Take over ever’thing, dandelions will.  So, although they’re pretty enough as they is, we consider them weeds in the garden and pull them up every time we see them.  Otherwise they’ll choke out the flowers as we want there.”

            “Oh.”  The lad looked at the plants that the Gaffer had just dug up and placed in his basket.  “But those aren’t dandelions.”

            “No, they’re not.”

            “And they’re not goat’s head.”

            “Right enough.”

            “Aren’t they iris plants, too?”

            “Yessir, that they are.”

            “But why are you weeding them out?”

            “For not all weeds is plants like dandelions or goat’s head.  Basically, a weed is any plant as is growing where you don’t want it to grow.  You find an Elven lily growin’ amidst the roses and you don’t want it there, and it becomes a weed.  Or if the nasturtiums start growin’ in amongst the gladioli.”

            “So you’ll dig it out, then?”

            “O’ course.”

            “But you’re digging out irises, and those are all irises!”

            “Yessir.  What I’m doin’ here isn’t really weedin’--it’s thinnin’.”

            Young Frodo looked horrified and fascinated at the same time.  “But why dig up the flowers you want to grow there?”

            “I’m not diggin’ up ’em all--just some of 'em.”  He carefully dug into the soil and exposed a mass of bulbs.  “See this?  When we first started this bed eighteen year ago, ol’ Holman and me, we started with twelve bulbs.  This was likely one of ’em.  But, the soil here on the Hill is rich and deep, and the bulbs take in lots o’ sun and they grow, grow until there’s enough bulb for two plants--or more.  O’er the years this’n’s grown till it’s too many bulbs for this bed.  Don’t thin it oncet in a while, and this’ll be too many plants in one place.  So you have to dig up the extras so’s the ones you started with and the ones more as has growed’ll stay healthy.”  He carefully pulled away many of the smaller bulbs from the large bulb that was the basis of the cluster, and continued that throughout the bed.  Finally he seemed happy with what he’d done.  “Now, when them come in next summer, all will be tall and strong.”  He looked at the basket that was now full of it seemed like hundreds of small bulbs and rose to carry them away, and Frodo was left looking at the bare earth now covering the bed, still grieving for all the irises that wouldn’t have the chance to flower in the coming year.

 *******

            Frodo knew that this was what Sam was doing now, thinning the Elven lilies under his window so that there wouldn’t be too many in the coming year.  He knew it was necessary, but he still grieved for those that wouldn’t have the chance to bloom next year, those that had been thinned away.

            Well, that was what he was doing, too--some thinning within the hole, or so he hoped.  Now, all was overshadowed by himself, by his grief and pain and nightmares and his guilt, and he’d have no more of it.  No, he’d have no more of it at all.  He’d thin himself away, and now Sam and his family would have more room to grow and bloom.  He smiled sadly to think of it, but knew it was the right thing to do--for Sam and his children, for Rosie and Elanor.  He smiled and closed his eyes, laid his head back and dozed.

 *******

            The door opened as Sam carried in a tray.  A small vase held a few late blooms--as he awoke again Frodo couldn’t see to tell what they were exactly, but saw the glory of gold there, brightening his world for him.  Frodo blinked several times, but they refused to clear properly this morning.

            “So, you’ve been up already this mornin’ have you, Frodo?  It’s a beautiful mornin’ so far--rained early last evenin’ but then let up, it did; and now the sky is blue as blue, you know.  Wonderful mornin’, it is.  Well, here’s some breakfast as Rosie’s fixed for you.  Hope as it’s not too much and all, but it’s good.”

            “Thank you, Sam.  I was feeling a bit on the lazy side this morning, just sitting and looking out the window at the garden.”

            “Hope as I didn’t bother you and all, thinnin’ out the Elven lilies as I was.”

            “Oh, no--you are never a bother to me, Sam--never you.  I fear it’s all too one-sided on my part.”

            “Well, I found a good place to move the excess lily bulbs to, t’other side of the Hill.  Nice shady spot it is, and it’ll be beautiful as we enter the orchard in the comin’ years with the lilies growin’ each side of the path, like.”

            “Then you didn’t throw away the extra bulbs?”  Frodo was startled.

            “Throw ’em away?  Course I’m not goin’ to throw them away.  Took some of the bulbs down to the Gaffer’s place and planted them near his window, and a few to the Widow Rumble’s as well.  Goin’ to be Elven lilies all round the Hill in coming years, delightin’ all.  Transplanted the extras, you know.”

            “Transplanted?”

            “O’ course.  The soil all ’bout the hill is rich and deep.  Those bulbs as I’ve transplanted, they’ll put down new roots, grow deep, and some day’ll fill the whole Shire with their beauty.”

            Sam was suddenly aware of the unconscious smile Frodo was giving, as if an idea had just struck him that made him happy at a deep level.

            “You transplanted them.”

            “Yes, Master, I transplanted them.”

            “Your dad--he’d just dump the extra bulbs.”

            “Lots o’ times, yes.  But I don’t hold with that kind of waste, you know.  There’s no need to let the beauty go to naught.”  He was beginning to understand what had always bothered Mr. Frodo about thinning, realized he was happy to know the potential for beauty was still going on, just shared out throughout the neighborhood.

            Frodo leaned his head back in his chair, his face less lined, his smile lighting up the room for all he’d closed his eyes.  Even his Light seemed brighter this morning.  “Thank you, Sam.  Thank you.”

            “You eat that now, Mr. Frodo.”

            “I will, Sam.”  He opened his eyes, and they, too, were smiling.  “I will.”

            Sam left him, glad that his Master’s mood was lighter, somehow.  He’d been better the last few days, some decision made that had been long put off, he sensed.  But that decision had also left him solemn.  Now his mood was brightened, as if the simple act of him, Sam, transplanting lily bulbs had somehow lightened his thought.

            As Sam closed the door quietly behind himself, Frodo sat, thinking on the transplanted bulbs.  Well, that was how he was going to think of it, now--not just thinning himself out of Bag End so Sam and his growing family could shine in the renewed light, but transplanting himself.  Yes--a good metaphor--transplanting.  He ate a few bites of scrambled egg, and again drifted off into a blessed sleep for a time.

Stricken from the Book

       Benlo Bracegirdle approached the Council Hole from the village stable muttering under his breath.  “Just like the blasted beast,” he cursed, “throwing a shoe when I was so far from Hardbottle and not close enough to here.  Ought to of been here an hour back.  Most like he’s gone back to Hobbiton by this time.”

       Spying several Tooks exiting the door to the Council Hole, he called out, “Has Baggins left, then?”

       Tollerand Took looked on the family head for the Bracegirdles with a level of distaste.  Of course, the Bracegirdles were seldom a family most folks enjoyed dealing with, with their rather acquisitive nature and acerbic temperament.  “The Deputy Mayor is inside, in the office.”  As soon as he said it he regretted it.  Frodo was doing all right, he supposed, but he was just recovering from whatever it was that had kept him out of Michel Delving for almost two weeks, and he was still rather fragile looking.  However, Frodo wasn’t exactly alone--Isumbard was with him.  With a muttered word which might be thanks, Benlo headed into the hole.

       The Mayor’s desk sat to the left, just inside the door to the Mayor’s office.  A dark head leaned forward over papers lying there, a slender hand running through the hair.  The waistcoat was a dark brown, the shirt a soft gold, although a bit worn.  Under the collar was a white bandage against Frodo’s neck, slightly stained as if he had a weeping sore under it.

       At the sound of Benlo entering Frodo looked up somewhat warily.  His face was thin and far more pale than Benlo remembered seeing it, his eyes shadowed as if he’d been ill or had been in great pain.  “Hello, Benlo,” he said quietly, his eyes remaining guarded.

       It took a few seconds more than he’d intended for the Bracegirdle to respond.  “Hello, Frodo,” he said, his usual sarcastic tone sounding merely brusque.  “Are they keeping you busy?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “You need to speak to me?”

       “Yes.”

       “Then please take a seat.  Bard and I have a few things left to speak of before he goes.”

       Benlo surprised himself by doing just as Frodo had suggested.

       Isumbard Took looked over his shoulder at Benlo, a look of calculation and even worry in his eye.  Benlo looked back somewhat defiantly until Bard turned back to Frodo.  “As I was saying, at least two of the claims here are, if not totally false, at least highly exaggerated.  Goodwife Appledore’s claim for three plow ponies is definitely untrue--she and Dwermo never had a pony in their life--just that spavined donkey Dwermo brought back from Bree eight years back.  And if it becomes known that you are paying any claim that comes across your desk where will that lead, do you think?”

       Frodo sighed.  “I know.  I’d like to pay any claim tendered, but it would not do to save the Shire from learning hatred to teach it to lie.”  He stretched his shoulders, then rubbed at the left one as if it were aching.  For a second his face reflected pain, and then he had it smoothed, but Benlo realized it was by force of effort. 

       Isumbard pushed a mug at him.  “Best drink some of that,” he advised, and absently Frodo nodded as he drank several swallows, then set it down and leaned back, reaching up now to his neck where he held something unseen, and the spasm seemed to ease away.  He kept his gaze on the papers.  Finally he stretched again, and letting go of whatever he’d been clutching he now leaned forward to go through several, then straightened them into a neat pile.

       At last he sighed and looked up at his cousin.  “We’ll have to form a committee to examine each claim, even those we know are honest, for all to accept they are fair.”  Bard nodded.  “Griffo Boffin, Reginard Took, Moro Burrows, Berilac Brandybuck, Balbo Underhill--everyone tends to trust them, and they have not only eyes to see but the ability to be forthright without sparking anger.  I’m not certain how they’ll take to being asked to do this, but in the end all will trust their judgment.”

       “Two farmers, a businessman, a representative of the Master, and one of the Thain--yes, I think all will accept their rulings,” Isumbard agreed.

       “I’d suggest Old Tom Cotton as well, but as I’m staying there and not everyone knows him....”

       “No, they’ll respect Balbo instead.”

       “Berilac is coming tomorrow with Merry--I can speak with him then; and Griffo and Moro when I go back to Bywater the day after.  Can you speak to Balbo and Reginard?  And get Uncle Paladin’s agreement for Reginard to do this?”

       “Of course, Frodo.”

       There was a small smile on the Deputy Mayor’s face.  “Good.  One thing accomplished at least today.”

       “You sorted through that mess regarding the Tunnely and Gravelly claims near Westhall.  That was no small matter.  We’ve been going back and forth over that for the past two weeks.  How you knew about the old marker stone now lying in the creek there....”

       The smile widened, and Frodo gave a single laugh.  “I’ve done walking trips up that way a couple times a year for the last eight years or so.  I was there just after the stream shifted its bed four years back, and we were discussing how the marker stone was now in the middle of it.”

       “We?” asked the Took.

       “Relatives of the Gravellies who have property up that way.  One of my farm shares.”

       “Well, it’s definitely been to the advantage of everyone to have an acting Mayor who is as familiar with the entire Shire as you are.”

       “Don’t try to turn my head, Bard.”  Frodo’s expression had again grown solemn.

       “Don’t you go all dissembling again.”

       Frodo shrugged his eyebrows, then reached again for his mug and sipped from it.  Finally he said, “I’ll go through a few of these and make notes.”

       “You’d best get back to the Whitfoot’s and get some rest.”

       “I promise, Bard, I’ll not stay late.”

       “Note that I’ll hold you to that, Frodo.  And you drink every drop of that, and eat that bite of cake Pearl sent for you.”

       “Tell her thanks, Bard.  And hug your children for me.”

       “I will.  Take care, Frodo.”

       Frodo nodded and watched Isumbard out of the office.  He then shifted the pile of papers before him to the left side of the desk and turned to Benlo.  “Now, how may I assist you?”

       Benlo rose and shrugged, came over to the desk, unslinging the bag he carried over his left shoulder.  He pulled up the chair Isumbard apparently usually used and sat down in it carelessly, setting the bag in his lap.

       “I’m here to help you, really,” he said.  He opened it and pulled out several thick documents and set them before the Deputy Mayor.

       Frodo examined them briefly, although he didn’t reach out to take them.  Finally he looked back up at the Bracegirdle.  “Property deeds?”

       “Yes.  Cousin Lobelia had several properties, as you know.”  Frodo nodded.  “Since she left her estate to the purpose of making reparations for the Time of Troubles, that means her properties are now to go to that as well.  How we’re to use them as her will specified....”

       Frodo sighed.  Finally he asked, “Is this all of them?”

       Benlo shrugged, feeling anger at the question.  “No, not all.  You so eager to see all of them?”

       Frodo pulled back somewhat, his face reflecting pained surprise at Benlo’s response.  “Benlo, I don’t want any of them.  It’s more than I can handle right now just trying to sort out my own properties and business dealings.  But these--” he indicated the pile of papers on the edge of the desk, “--are all claims for reparations.  How it became known so fast that Lobelia had left her estate to that purpose I have no idea, save that this is the Shire, and in the Shire there is almost no privacy at all.  Forget the quick post--merely tell something to the grocer’s wife in confidence and you can count on it being known from Buckland to Greenholm before nightfall.”

       Benlo sighed and reluctantly nodded his acknowledgment of that truth.  “We’re still sorting out all of it.  Before Lotho and Timono began their little spree of writing inequitable contracts, she and Lotho owned seventeen sizable farms and pipeweed plantations, mostly in the Southfarthing.  These are nine of them.  The other eight Lotho appears to have entailed about five years ago to obtain money to start his acquisitions of the taverns and inns.  They also owned about fifteen cottages and smallholdings they rented out throughout the Shire.  Until we get all the details of the deeds and contracts and leases sorted out on the rest of their properties, I won’t present the deeds.”

       “Fair enough.”  Again Frodo reached out to take up his mug and sipped at it, then set it down, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.  It was very obvious he had been--scoured--by whatever he’d been through during his absence from the Shire.  “Oh, Lotho,” he said as he finally opened his eyes again and straightened, focusing his attention on the pile of deeds, “what a mess you made of things.”  Benlo was shocked to see the grief in Frodo’s face.

       “What’s this about you staying with the Cottons?  Lobelia returned the deed for Bag End to you months ago.”

       “Yes, but it is still being restored.  Saruman’s folk all but caved much of it in.  Sam is seeing to the restoration, but I insisted he see to the redigging of the smials of the Row first.  Those folk have been living in abject misery in those shacks Lotho had put up.”

       “But they are substantial houses....”

       “Houses?  Have you been in them, Benlo?  Certainly they are brick--but he told those working the brickworks to skimp on the clay--many of the newer bricks used are little more than barely held together sand, and the Men who put them up were no masons.  Most of them are poorly laid, and they used substandard grout.  Inside they put up no inner walls, so the wind whistled through the cracks, and all the heat of the insubstantial fires the hearths are capable of escaped out almost immediately. 

       “Doors were poorly hung, window casements weren’t caulked, cupboards were never put in place, floors laid right on the earth with no sand beneath them.  Some of the floor tiles just sank right down into the ground during wet weather.  And as for the roofs!”  He shook his head.  “So many became ill.  Then Saruman had his folk cut down all the trees of the Shire they could get to, but to forbid any to use them for firewood!”

       “Who is this Saruman?”

       “Another of Sharkey’s names.  It’s how most in the outer world knew him.”

       “You heard of him there?”

       “Yes.”  Frodo’s eyes had become distant.  “He was great, once.  He fell so very far.”  Again pain and grief and--fear?--could be seen in his face and posture.

       “Frodo----”

       Frodo looked up into Benlo’s eyes.  He looked so tired, Benlo thought, and for the first time he realized Frodo Baggins was finally going grey at the temples.

       “Frodo, why in Middle Earth did you ever sell Bag End to Lotho?”

       Frodo closed his eyes and shook his head as he took a deep breath.  “I keep being asked this,” he finally said softly.  After another pause he opened his eyes and looked at Benlo.  “I needed to leave the Shire, and I needed to do it quietly.  I decided that I would pretend I’d spent all the treasure Bilbo left me--not that there’s been much of that for years, of course.  Bilbo was pretty lavish with his parties and gifts, after all.  But he’d inherited a good income from Uncle Bungo and Aunt Belladonna, of course, and had invested wisely--and taught me to do the same.  And my own parents didn’t exactly leave me destitute--just an orphan.

       “I offered Bag End to Ponto and Iris at a good price I thought they could handle, knowing that if--when I returned I could purchase it back from them.  They made the mistake of telling Peony, who of course told Lobelia.  The next day I had Lotho on the doorstep with cash in hand.  I insisted Brendilac Brandybuck write out the bill of sale and transference of the deed and all, and so I managed to end up one of the few individuals to do business with him and not be cheated.”  He gave a ragged sigh.  “They’d wanted Bag End for so very long, Benlo, so very long.  I truly thought they would care for it.”  His eyes as they searched Benlo’s were haunted.  “Why did he let them gut it?  Why did he let them destroy the garden?”  The pain was plain to see, and Benlo Bracegirdle felt an unfamiliar lurch in his heart to see it there, that raw pain.

       “I don’t know,” Benlo finally said.  “I don’t know.  We Bracegirdles aren’t exactly popular--never have been, after all; but we’ve never been outright thieves before.”  He looked at Frodo.  “We struck him out of the Book of Bracegirdle, you know, Frodo, if it brings you any comfort.”

       The look on Frodo’s face, however, was anything but reassured by this statement.  He looked totally horrified.  “You can’t have, Benlo--to have lost his family ties----”

       “He forfeited that when he destroyed the family honor by making such contracts.  Him and Timono both.  First we realized it was when Alyssum Sandybanks from Pincup came to me with this second mortgage contract in hand, about a month after you and the Took and the Brandybuck all disappeared.  Wanted to know how she’d managed to lose the deed to her smial when she’d only thought to take a small loan on it for seed for her smallholding.  I called Lotho in to question him on it, and he defied me--he defied me!  Said he didn’t have to answer to me, as he wasn’t even a Bracegirdle by name, but a Sackville and a Baggins.  Acted as if he were the Baggins family head, he did, for all we both knew that wasn’t true.”

       “No, I didn’t give him that.”

       “Who did you leave that to?”

       “My younger cousin Fosco.  He’s the closest to me.”

       “Fosco Baggins?  Thought that was your grandfather’s name.”

       “His father named him after our grandfather.”

       “Never knew there was another Fosco Baggins.”

       “Few do--but there are so very few of us Bagginses left, and we’re no longer all living here around Hobbiton any more.”  He looked into Benlo’s eyes.  “Just how much do you know about those Bracegirdles who live in the Marish?”

       “Personally?  Almost nothing.  Just their names, our relationships, and their ages.”

       Frodo shrugged.  He continued to look stricken.  “I still can’t see how you could do that to Lotho.”

       “We did it at Yule, that first Yule after you left.  He and Timono left us no choice.”

       “Timono, too?”

       “Yes.  When I asked him what he was doing, he told me that there was going to be a new order in the Shire--and family heads wouldn’t mean sand in it.  Said that a new age was coming, and Lotho was going to make certain that the Shire was part of it all.”

       Frodo, he realized, was shivering.  He reached out again to his mug, and wrapped both hands about it.  It was then that Benlo realized Frodo had lost his ring finger from his right hand.

       Trying to break the tension, Benlo commented, “Some hospitality you offer, Baggins--you sit there drinking tea and offer me none?”

       “It’s all I have left for today, and--and it’s--medicinal.”  Frodo sounded as if he could barely bring himself to admit this.  His blue eyes looked up from under his brows, his face white.  “You’re welcome to the cake there,” with a look to indicate the plate lying nearby.

       “The Took said his wife sent it for you.”

       Frodo almost whispered, “I can’t eat it now--not now.  I’d just lose it.”  A tear escaped to roll down his colorless cheek.  His eyes squeezed shut and he turned his face away.  “Oh, Lotho--Timono--why did you listen to Saruman’s lies?”

*******

       Benlo stayed at the reopened inn, and the next day sat waiting for Merry and Beri Brandybuck to ride into Michel Delving.  He followed them into the stable, then sought to corner Merry.  Merry looked at him warily, but told Berilac to go on to the Council Hole and he’d be along.  “Don’t tell Frodo whom I’m with,” he added.  “Don’t want to worry him.”

       “Doubt as it’d worry him any,” Benlo said.  “He was polite enough when we met last night.  We didn’t fight or nothing like that.”

       Once he was certain they were alone, Merry, now very much the Master’s heir, asked, “What is this about, Benlo?”

       “I want to know what’s wrong with him.”

       “With whom?  With Frodo?”

       Benlo nodded.  When Merry didn’t answer, he went on.  “He’s never looked like this, Brandybuck.”

       “Like what?”  Benlo realized Merry was himself concerned.

       “Thin as a rake, going grey, eyes all shadowed, finger missing, what looks like a boil on his neck, weeping over Lotho.”

       Merry looked stricken.  “Weeping over Lotho?”

       “Yes.”

       “Whatever for?”

       Benlo took a ragged breath and shook his head.  “Told him we’d struck Lotho and Timono out of the family Book--the Yule after you left, it was--and he looked as if I’d done it to him.  Kept on about Sharkey--except he called him Saruman or something like--how he’d been at fault, at how far he’d fallen.”

       Merry looked around toward the direction of the Council Hole.  Finally he looked back at Benlo.  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you--if I could tell you, Benlo.  But he’s not certain he ought to have come back to the Shire.  It’s going to take quite some time for him to recover.”

       “If he ever does,” Benlo pointed out.

       Merry went white and made no comment, his gaze dropping to the floor.  After a long silence he finally said, “He’s still the most responsible Hobbit in the entire Shire--one of the most responsible individuals in all of Middle Earth.”  He finally looked up into Benlo’s eyes.  “It almost destroyed him.  He almost didn’t come back at all.”

       “Whatever happened to him, it about scoured the heart right out of him.”

       Merry sighed.  When he spoke, his voice was tight with grief.  “Yes, it about did that.”  He straightened.  “I have to see him, Benlo.  Sounds as if he didn’t let me know he’d had a bad spell or something--not that he’d admit it anyway.  Stubborn Baggins.”

*******

       Not long before the Free Fair many of the family heads met as usually happened in the village hall in Hobbiton.  Griffo Boffin came in for the family from the region around the Hill and greeted the rest as he accepted a mug of ale from Largo Longbottom, whose turn it was to provide the drink for the gathering.  “Frodo won’t be able to come.  Just got back from Michel Delving, and Samwise says he was quite tired looking and went to bed early.”

       Isumbard, who was standing in for the Thain, was concerned.  “He looked well enough when I left him earlier this afternoon.”  He looked as if he were reviewing the order of the day.  “Now that I think about it,” he said with a sigh, “he didn’t eat a lot today.  That’s not a good sign with him.”

       “What’s wrong with his appetite?” asked old Odo Proudfoot.

       “His appetite is fine--it’s his stomach that’s the problem,” Bard said.  “Not been right since he returned to the Shire.”

       Odo shrugged.  The door opened and Will Whitfoot entered.  He had finally begun to regain his weight, and his color was almost normal.  His gait was much recovered, and he’d managed to at last discard the cane he’d used for a few months as his knee healed.  Odo brightened.  “Well, if you don’t look like a new Hobbit, Will.  Look, all--our Mayor is ready to go back to work!”

       “Not if I can help it,” Will said.  “I told you before, Odo--I intend to retire.  Frodo’s been doing a crack job of setting things to right, and I intend him as my successor.  I’ve been pushing everyone to support him.”

       “I certainly intend to,” Benlo Bracegirdle said, surprising everyone.  All looked at him.  Benlo raised his chin.  “He did well by our folk and is doing a fine job of making certain Cousin Lobelia’s estate goes as intended to rebuild what Lotho destroyed through his greed and foolishness.”

       “What’s been done about Timono?” asked Dormo Gravelly.

       “He’s being held in the storage holes in Michel Delving,” Will said.  “They’ve constructed a proper place for him to stay in--proper bed, table, chairs, bathing room, toilet facilities and all.  Has everything except freedom.”

       “What about the family?” asked Largo, turning to Benlo.

       “He’s been struck out of the family Book for a year and a half,” Benlo said.  All were impressed.

       “You didn’t tell me!” exclaimed the Mayor.

       “Lotho was already making it hard for us in Hardbottle to communicate with anyone else,” Benlo pointed out.  “And since when does all family business have to be reported to the Mayor’s office anyway?”

       “But to strike him out of the Book--that ought to be reported to someone.”

       “Well, this is the first time we’ve done such a thing for over at least two hundred years,” Benlo explained.  “When was the last time anyone struck anyone out of a family Book?”

       They all looked at one another and shrugged.

       “Will Frodo accept running for election?” asked Dormo Gravelly.

       “Of course he will,” Will said with certainty.  “He’s done so well since he took over for me.  Got all the documents that piled up during my time in the Lockholes all cleared out; reorganized the filing for property deeds; has worked on the investigation of what Lotho and Timono did and all; cut the Shiriffs back down to their proper size and functions; delegated the rebuilding and reforestation to Samwise Gamgee and the guarding of the borders to Merry and Pippin--they’re actually teaching the Borderers how to protect themselves and others, and seeing to it that Took archers are patrolling with them.  The quick post is back in order and is doing better than ever; he’s established regular communication with the King's messengers and the Rangers that patrol the outside of our borders----”

       “Why do we need to deal with outsiders, and Men at that?” demanded Odo.

       Saradoc Brandybuck sighed.  “The Rangers are the new King’s folk, and have been watching our borders for centuries, in case you didn’t know.  Only reason Sharkey’s Big Men got in here was because most of those who worked in this area went South to his aid--didn’t have enough then to keep up the patrols any more.”

       “That’s what that lad of yours told you?” Endero Tunnely asked.

       “That’s what the King’s letters have told me.”  The Master’s voice was very firm.  “We have a King again at last, and you’d best get used to the idea, Endero.  And I’ll tell you this--the lads all think the world of him, and he thinks the world of our lads, and particularly Frodo Baggins.”

       When at last the meeting was over, Benlo walked to Bag End to deliver some more of Lobelia’s deeds.  The garden looked so strangely new.  Hedges had been broken down and were just starting to recover; bushes had almost all needed to be replaced; flowers were only beginning to regain their lushness familiar to all who’d ever passed by.  He climbed the stairs to the gate, opened it and noted it had new palings to it and had new hinges and latch as well.  The front door had been lovingly smoothed and repainted the familiar green. 

       The bell rope looked brand new, which proved to be true.  He pulled at it, and after a few minutes the door opened, and inside stood Sam Gamgee, dressed much as he’d always done, although the quality of the fabric for his shirt and trousers were much better than they’d been before.  He held a letter in his hands which he’d obviously been reading.  “Master Bracegirdle?  What can I do for you?”

       “I’ve come to see Mr. Baggins,” Benlo said.  “Had some more documents for him to take with him when he goes back to Michel Delving.  More for the reparations....”

       Sam sighed and gave a brief nod of understanding.  “Come in, then.  He’s just got up again, he has.  He’s in the kitchen having some tea.  This way.”

       As he was led through the smial Benlo could see that the place had indeed been almost completely redone.  Most of the wainscoting was new; the tiles that had covered many of the floors and the entranceway had been replaced with slate; walls were freshly plastered and painted; curtains new; rub rails and picture rails had obviously been replaced.  Here and there support beams and braces had been clearly filled and painted or restained, and the lighting fixtures all had at least new ropes, if they hadn’t been replaced completely.  Even the carpeting was new.  Seeing Benlo examining that, Sam commented, “The Lady herself sent that as her gift, once she learned what Sharkey’s folks did to the hole.  Old Gimli brought it from Gondor.  Guess as she’d had it sent from Lothlorien to Minas Tirith or something, care of the Lady Arwen.  Sharkey’s Men--they’d ripped the old carpeting to shreds; hacked at the woodwork--looked like both swords and axes they used.  Don’t know as what exactly they used on the walls, but they was a right mess.  Had to completely redo the fireplace in Mr. Frodo’s room--looked as if they’d used mallets and a splitting maul on it.”

       They passed by the study door, which was open.  The desk stood there and a vase of flowers atop it shone in red glory.  All the rooms had flowers in them, Benlo noted.

       Frodo sat on the settle in the corner of the kitchen, wrapped in a striped blanket.  His face was pale and puffed with sleep.  He had a mug of tea in his hands, and a plate of biscuits beside him.  He looked up and smiled at Benlo.  “Good to see you,” he said, and it sounded heartfelt.

       “We missed you at the meeting.”

       “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come,” Frodo said, setting his mug down beside the plate.  “Not, of course, that there’s much to the family of Baggins any more.”

       “Had five more of the deeds for the larger properties to give you, two smallholdings, and one smial Whitfurrow way.”  He held them out.

       Frodo reached for them with both hands, and the blanket fell back from his shoulders.  Again Benlo noted the missing finger, and realized Frodo wore a pendant on a fine silver chain about his neck.  Then Benlo noted something else--a scar about Frodo’s wrist, as if a rope had been tied tightly about it, possibly cutting off the circulation.  He found himself glad Frodo was focused so on the deed he’d opened he didn’t realize how close an examination Benlo was giving him. 

       Frodo looked up at last and thanked him, his smile strangely sweet and vulnerable.  “I’ll take them back to Michel Delving with me next week,” he said.

       “You do that, Frodo,” Benlo told him.  “And I’ll see you at the Free Fair.  Intend to see you voted in as the new Mayor, you know.  You’re doing a fine job.”

       Frodo’s face paled with surprise and perhaps shock.  “New Mayor?”

       “Make it official, you know.”

       “Would you like some ale or a mug of tea, Mr. Benlo?” Sam’s wife Rosie asked him.

       “I thank you, but I’d best not.  Had far too much at the meeting, and have a fair way to ride tonight.”

       He finally accepted some biscuits to take with him, and he left, shown to the door again by Sam.  As he left the kitchen he glanced back and saw that Frodo was clutching the stack of documents in his lap, his face troubled.  At the front door he turned and addressed the gardener.  “Doesn’t he want to be true Mayor?”

       Sam glanced over his shoulder back toward the kitchen.  Turning back to his guest he sighed.  “I don’t rightly know--not for certain.  I know as he enjoys it, and I know as he feels he don’t deserve it.  But--” his face was filled with concern, “--there’s another thing--he’s not truly well.  I’m not certain as he’s made up his mind yet--but I’ll tell you this--once he does, it’ll be made up hard.  He’s a stubborn Baggins.”

*******

       At the Free Fair almost everyone was set to vote Frodo Baggins officially in as Mayor of the Shire.  When he asked to speak first when they had the candidates come forward to give their campaign speeches, all nodded with satisfaction--until he introduced himself and explained he was there that day to return the office of Mayor back to Will Whitfoot, how proud he’d been to assist such a marvelous gentlehobbit and to serve the Shire as he’d been allowed to do; and how proud he was to explain he was supporting Will’s candidacy for another seven year term.  How proud it had made him, he explained, discussing Will Whitfoot’s leadership with the King, how much he’d done for the Shire in the many years he’d given to its people.

       The speech was a marvel and a shock.  When at last he was done, old Odo Proudfoot shouted out, “You mean you aren’t running for Mayor after all?”

       Frodo’s face was pale but politely firm.  “I never said I was running for Mayor.  You see, no one asked me what I wanted.”  The growing growl of frustration almost drowned out what he said next.  “I would run if I could, but--but I am not ready at this time to serve a full term.”  Then, realizing hardly anyone could hear him, he gave a sad smile and a bow to his audience and stepped back to his place.  After Will started his own speech, he disappeared completely.  Benlo saw him just as he was slipping away, saw that a tear was again running down his cheek.

       At the voting table a large sign had been posted, with FB and WW on it.  As those voting came to cast their ballots, they were handed a square of paper and a pen and instructed to write the one if they were voting for Frodo Baggins, and the other if they were voting for Will Whitfoot.  Many who were literate, of course, wrote the full name of the candidate of their choice, and a few wrote a good deal more.

       After the votes were counted, Griffo Boffin gathered the ballots up and sorted through them one last time, tossing away those that were marked only with initials, examining those who’d written more, and finally placing most of those back in the ballot box, giving it to Will Whitfoot at the end of the evening, after the singing.

       Benlo Bracegirdle saw Frodo sitting there while the Elven Lords sang in his honor, saw the tears running down the faces of the four Travelers, saw the confusion in the eyes of many who didn’t understand what had happened that day any more than they understood what had happened during the time the four of them had been missing.  He hoped no one noticed that he was weeping that night.

*******

       Early next morning he joined Will Whitfoot in the breakfast tent.  Will and his wife were eating their meal and looking at the ballot box that sat between them as if it might leap up and strike them on the head at any moment.

       “What’s that there for?” Benlo asked.

       “Griffo said we might find some of the ballots--enlightening,” Will sighed. 

       Having finished his eggs and sausage at last, he reached to open it, and pulled out a ballot, then another.  Several had lines of indignation about that ungrateful Baggins, some extending to both sides.  A couple of these were identifiable by handwriting and style, and Will shook his head as he handed them to his wife.  Then he found one whose writing he recognized easily.  "Will Whitfoot, the best Hobbit for the job, with my prayers you will understand."  Frodo had clearly written that one.  Another was inscribed, “I don’t understand, but as he wishes it, WW.”  That, he thought, was by Samwise Gamgee.  Then he found still another, written in a stiff, angry hand clearly identifiable as that of the Hobbit sitting at the table with him, “I vote for the one who’ll do the best for the Shire, no matter what he says--FB.”

       For some time Will looked at it, then looked at Benlo.  He rummaged through the box until he found his own ballot, pulled it out, and handed both to Benlo.  Benlo colored as he realized that Will had recognized his writing, but he looked at both dutifully--and as he read Will’s own ballot and realized it read the same as his own, he took a series of deep breaths, doing he best to keep from letting more tears escape.  He looked at Will with his chin raised, and saw that Will was having a bit more difficulty trying to marshal his own tears than he was.

*******

       On the 30 of September of 1421 Benlo Bracegirdle received a letter from Hobbiton, written by Frodo Baggins.

Dear Benlo,

       I wished to thank you for the concern and expressions of support you have shown for me and my well being.  My relationship with your cousin Lobelia, as you know, was never close, much less mutually respectful until it was almost too late for us to truly appreciate one another, at which time we simply were not close enough to one another to truly get to know one another.

       I am sorry I could not run for Mayor last year.  However, what I feared then has since become fully true, and I can no longer remain in the Shire if I am to survive, spiritually or physically.  During my last trip out of the Shire I went through too much for me to remain now.  I therefore leave that I no longer cast the shadow of my guilt and pain on all for whom I care.

       It was told me that along the way I should find unexpected friends, and this has proven true.  Certainly to find I have your friendship has been both unexpected as well as heartening.  I thank you for it, and bless you for it as well.  Please forgive me for not expressing before how much it has meant to me. 

       I still grieve that you had to strike Lotho and Timono out of the Book of Bracegirdle.  However, I’ve had to strike one out of the Book of Baggins as well, and understand the great pain it must have caused you to do so.

       Please accept my wishes for a more pleasant future, and again, thank you for all the caring you have shown me.

                                   Yours always,
                                   Frodo the Traveler

       The third week of October he went to Hobbiton to deliver the last of the deeds for Lobelia’s properties, and found himself greeted by Sam Gamgee, and informed that he had been made the Master of Bag End, and was to carry on the distribution of the reparations to the rest of the Shire.  The gardener was pale but dignified, and there was no question he was dressed now in keeping with the role.

       “But where did Frodo go?” Benlo asked, only to receive the shake of a head.  Sam left the door and retreated further inside, clutching the deed he’d just been given to him, his face working.  He was replaced at the door by his wife.

       Rosie looked after her husband with concern, then came out onto the stoop and pulled the door closed after her, a shawl pulled tightly about her shoulders against the grey weather and wind that blew about the Hill that day.  “Master Frodo’s gone with the Elves,” she explained.  “He was so bad hurt, and it had become almost all he could bear, day after day.  It was offered him, and he took it.  But where Old Mr. Bilbo just didn’t come back, Master Frodo can’t come back--not ever.  If he hadn’t of gone, most like he’d of died--most like he’d of died by now.  He knew it and we knew it.  But it’s been right hard. 

       “Master Frodo always feared he was tearing Sam’s heart in two, him and Sam being like brothers as they always was since Master Frodo come here as he did.  He didn’t wish that to happen no more, so he chose to accept the right to go to Elvenhome, give Sam the hope he’s finally able to recover.  But to have him gone at all, that’s still tearing at my Sam’s heart, and always will, I suspect.  They went so far together, after all, all the way to Mordor and back----”

       “To where?”  Benlo was flabbergasted at the assertion.

       “To Mordor, Mr. Benlo, sir.  The two of them--they went to Mordor--and cuz they did, now Sauron’s gone.  Almost killed the both of them then, but the King called them back.  But Master Frodo was hurt too deep, couldn’t heal all the way as my Sam and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin have.  Not, I suppose, that they are all the way healed, neither.  They all three still have nightmares and some pain, too--just not as bad as Master Frodo.  They was all four helping to fight the evil of Mordor, each as he could.  They all almost died, but Master Frodo--he was the only one as wished as he’d done it.”

       Still reeling from this, Benlo went into Hobbiton to see Frodo’s cousin Daisy, who was married to Griffo Boffin.  Perhaps she could help him work it out.  The Boffins, however, already had houseguests--Daisy’s young half-sister and brother, twins, he realized.  He looked at young Fosco and realized at last whom Frodo had intended to serve as family head for the Bagginses.  Brought up in Westhall?  Almost unknown until a fairly short time ago to anyone who was anyone in the Shire?  That explained it.

       They were pale but composed.  He learned that they’d seen Frodo frequently through the years when he’d visited Westhall, usually at least twice a year until he left the Shire.  Since the return he’d not been well enough or free enough to come see them--they’d seen him only at the Free Fair and once in Michel Delving, and once from a distance as he left the Shire the last time.  But they’d seen he was fading, realized he had to go when he did or be lost.

       Then the bell rang again, and on the stoop stood Brendilac Brandybuck, Ordo and Oridon Goodbody, and Will Whitfoot, carrying a small chest.  The four of them looked very solemn.  Daisy looked at them with concern.  “It’s not another death or leaving or something, is it?”

       “No,” Will said.  “Just a last bit of business for--for Frodo--with the twins.  We decided to wait until they came here rather than traveling up to Westhall.  Lilac and Emro--they’d be totally at a loss.  I’m about at one, myself.”

       “Come in, then.  They’re here.”

       The four filed into the parlor and settled themselves about the room, all looking uncomfortably at one another.  Finally Will cleared his throat.  “Apparently while he was on his way--to the Havens, Frodo realized he’d forgotten to include Fosco and Forsythia in his will.  He wrote--or rather, dictated--a separate codicil concerning them and your cousin Narcissa Boffin.  The Elves who accompanied him witnessed it, as did old Bilbo, who apparently was going with them also.”

       Benlo was shocked yet again.  “You mean Old Mad Baggins is still alive?”

       Brendilac nodded.  “Yes.  Merry tells me he’s been living in Rivendell with the Elven lord Elrond Peredhil all this time.  Perhaps that’s part of the reason he’s survived this long, for Elrond has been the greatest healer living in Middle Earth for many hundreds of years.  Both Frodo and Bilbo were granted the right to go to the Undying Lands for their contribution to the defeat of Sauron.  Merry has--finally--explained that they both carried the Enemy’s Ring.”

       “What Ring?”

       Brendi sighed.  “It’s too long a story.  Short version--Sauron made a Ring of Power to control the world, but lost it three thousand years ago.  On his own journey Bilbo found it, and when he left the Shire left it to Frodo.  In order to defeat Sauron, once the Ring was identified it had to be destroyed, and Frodo volunteered to carry it to Mordor to see it done.  But it proved far more difficult than our folk could imagine, and it almost destroyed him.”

       Will and Benlo looked at one another, neither truly understanding what Brendilac had said, while Daisy and Griffo, who’d grown up hearing the tales of Bilbo Baggins, looked at one another as if the story were finally beginning to come together in their minds.  The twins simply nodded their heads as if one more piece of the puzzle had been granted to them.

       Finally Fosco asked, “What does the codicil say?”

       “Mostly it confirms what was indicated in his original will he wrote just before the four of them left the Shire.  He did change his primary heir from you two to Sam in his new will, and adopted him as he’d been adopted by Bilbo that there be no dispute as to his right to inherit Bag End.  In the codicil he explained he did this knowing that you and your sister were already well provided for, and knowing that Sam will be important for the Shire in the future.  He also explained that while he has always loved the two of you, he has come to realize the feeling of being a brother to Sam is far deeper and has a meaning beyond the bounds of Arda, although we aren’t truly certain what he meant by that.

       “He did lay claim, however, as family head for the Bagginses, to seeing to the needs for your future, and named an independent guardian for the two of you, if she will accept the role when the time comes, to oversee the travels within and without the Shire in accordance with the fostering agreement he had arranged for your benefit; and to serve as physical guardian if anything happens to your current folks.

       “Secondly, the money due to his father for the sideboard in the banquet chamber in the Council Hole was to be split in two and half to go to each of you when you marry.  It was to have gone to him on his marriage, but as he never married, it still remains in trust.

       “He also has appointed you, Fosco, as the family head for the few Bagginses who remain within the Shire, and the keeper of the family Book.  Until you come of age you’ll have to do your family business under the supervision of either the Mayor or the Thain--or both; but as of now you are the keeper of this.”  He lifted out of the chest a great book bound in deep blue leather and handed it to Fosco.

       Fosco accepted it, opened it to the back, then began flipping through it backwards until he found pages which had writing on them, then began going through them page by page, asking his sister to help him decipher the entries when the writing was too unclear for him to read.  They found the entries made by Bungo Baggins, then those by Bilbo, the indication he’d adopted Frodo Baggins as his heir and appointed him to be next family head, and the disposition of all the Bagginses at that time.

       Then came the firm writing of Frodo, first indicating that he’d become family head when Bilbo Baggins chose to leave the Shire permanently, leaving no heirs of his body.  Then followed the description of the diminishment of the Baggins family, as fewer daughters made any claim on their Baggins kinship and fewer and fewer sons were born.  There were a number of indications of miscarriages and stillbirths of sons here and there throughout the Shire until the final number had sunk to so very, very few.

       Among the last entries were the indication that he was appointing Fosco Baggins to be family head as of Midsummer Day, 1421, after which was a curious entry that neither of them could understand.

       The rest of those within the smial watched the two young Hobbits exploring the Book of Baggins, and smiled as they identified various entries of births, comings of age, marriages, and deaths that they recognized.  But finally, after the two of them had gone through the pages written by Bilbo several times, making comments to one another in low tones, growing obviously increasingly more frustrated, Fosco looked up at them.  “I don’t understand it,” he said.  “Here’s where Frodo came to Bag End, where he was adopted by Bilbo, where he came of age and into his inheritance and became family head; and there are all the entries he made.  But we can’t find the entry of his birth.”

       “That’s curious,” Will commented.  “Bilbo would never have let that slide.  Do you see the entries regarding his parents’ deaths?”

       “Yes, and their marriage and the babies they lost, too.  There are four of them....”  Forsythia read off the four dates, leafing over several pages as she did so.

       Daisy nodded.  “Yes, that’s right.  Frodo ought to be in the midst of all four, for he was their third.  September 22, 1368.”

       After going over the pages between the loss of the second and the third again, Forsythia shook her head.  “No, he’s not there.  There are several blank spaces as if waiting for expected marriage dates or such things for some individuals, but nothing for Iorhael.”

       Benlo Bracegirdle suddenly felt fearful.  “When did he mark you as family head, Fosco?”

       “Midsummer Day.”

       “That was several months ago.”

       “Yes.”

       Benlo took a deep breath.  “What is the last entry?”

       Forsythia sighed.  “I’m trying to read it, for it isn’t Westron or any of the other Elvish he ever taught us.  It seems to say “Struchen est,” followed by his initials and the day of Midsummer.”

       Griffo’s face paled, as did Brendi’s.  “He didn’t!” the lawyer said.

       Griffo, Benlo, and Brendi all three descended on the two young Bagginses, crowding around them.  Benlo said, “Look for a blank spot where it looks as if the surface of the paper has been scraped off.”

       Obviously confused, Forsythia turned to the relevant pages and examined the blank spaces carefully.  Finally she stopped, then held the book out to her brother.  “Here, Fosco, feel here and tell me what you think.”

       Fosco ran his fingers over the page, then paused at one of the two blank spaces it held.  He felt the rest of the page, then the second blank space, then the first one again.  “This doesn’t feel the same.”

       He handed the book to Benlo, who examined it carefully.  “Why did he do that, Will, Griffo?” he asked.

       “Do what?” asked the Mayor.

       “He struck himself from the Book of Baggins.”

*******

       On Midsummer, 1435, a special ballot was held at the Free Fair in Michel Delving.  It was explained to the folk of the Shire that sixteen years earlier all of the rest of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth had honored the one they knew as the Ringbearer for the great sacrifice he had made in carrying the Ring of the Enemy from the Shire to Mordor for its destruction.  Were they willing to ratify that ennoblement of Frodo Baggins as the Lord Iorhael?  Many laughed, not understanding if this was perhaps a joke; but most attending went to the voting table and filled out their ballots, all but eight marking YES. 

       After the singing, Fosco and Forsythia Baggins, their sister Daisy, the Thain, the Master, the Mayor, and all identified Bagginses in the Shire, as well as several relatives from the families of the Boffins, the Tooks, the Brandybucks, and the Proudfoots, the Gamgee family, one Bracegirdle, one Dwarf, one Elf, and several curious individuals who wished to understand what it was all about, all gathered in the Council Hole near the great sideboard with the Book of the Bagginses.

       When all were quiet, Fosco Baggins, now of age and unquestionably the head of the Baggins family, began to speak.  “We are gathered together today to right a great wrong done to one of our own fourteen years ago.  In a fit of self-hatred fired by pain, loss, guilt, and illness, Frodo Baggins was stricken from the Book of the Bagginses by he who was then family head.  It must be the only time in the history of the Shire someone has stricken himself from his family book.

       “Today we undo that striking.  We hope he is now healed and can accept that what he did to himself then was a great injustice.”

       He brought out the knife that he’d been sent as a Yule gift by the King, and went to the last entry made by Frodo Baggins, and carefully scraped off the entry, eradicating it from the page.  He then flipped backwards to the page where Frodo had done similarly with his own birthdate, and dipping a pen in green ink, he carefully wrote in the date and time of birth as Master Meriadoc Brandybuck read the relevant information from the book of the Brandybucks, the names of the parents, the names of the witnesses.  Some of the lines bled into the material of the page, but when it was done it was legible.  He then signed it, Fosco Baggins for Bilbo Baggins: first noted September 22, 1368; re-entered Midsummer, 1435.  The notation was then initialed in red ink by Peregrin Took as Thain of the Shire, Meriadoc Brandybuck as Master of Buckland, Samwise Gamgee as Mayor of the Shire and Frodo’s principal heir, Brendilac Brandybuck as his personal lawyer, and all whose names were noted in the book.

       He then turned to the newly-blank space, and once again using the green ink he made a different notation there:  Frodo Baggins honored as a Lord of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth on the Field of Cormallen, Ithilien, Gondor, April 6, 1419.  Again he signed it as before.  He then handed the book to Pippin, who wrote under it, Ratified by the folk of the Shire by special election at the Free Fair of 1435, and signed it as Thain of the Shire, which was countersigned by the Mayor of the Shire, then by Legolas Greenleaf and Gimli son of Gloin.

       Then Fosco took it again, and inscribed:  Frodo Baggins, worn by physical and spiritual pain, purposed to leave the Shire on this day:  September 22, 1421.  His next entry:  Frodo Baggins, the Lord Iorhael of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, left Middle Earth this date in company with Bilbo Baggins and many of the Great Elves who had remained among us, sailing for Tol Eressëa, to find rest and healing.  May we never forget his gentleness, love, and dedication.  September 29, 1421.  Here he signed it.

       His next entry was regarding Bilbo.  Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took Baggins, believed to have died sometime in the Spring of 1422 on Tol Eressëa.  Ringfinder, Adventurer, Riddler, Rider of Barrels, Elf friend and Dwarf Friend, Confounder of Dragons, Author, Scribe, Creator of Books, greatly beloved Uncle and Cousin and Teller of Tales.

       After signing that and leaving a space in case somehow there might be one day an indication of a date of death for Frodo, Fosco made his final entry.  He who struck himself from the Book of Baggins has been restored this day, by the will of all of the name, with the goodwill of Thain, Master, Mayor, and all who knew and loved him throughout the Shire and Middle Earth.  He fathered no children, but cared for all the Shire and Middle Earth as if we were all his kindred.  He gave much for all in the struggle against the Enemy, and we pray he now has found the delight he so well deserves.  He signed and dated this also as family head, then handed the pen to Forsythia.  Hobbit and Hobbitess, adult and child, Baggins, Boffin, Brandybuck, Took, Proudfoot, Bracegirdle, Gamgee, onlooker, Dwarf, and Elf--all signed the book.

       Finally, he wiped the pens used, sealed the bottles of ink, and with great reverence laid the book open to this page on the sideboard crafted by Drogo Baggins for all who that evening and the following day might wish to look on it.  At a sign from the Mayor, all turned to the West, making a special Standing Silence in honor of Frodo Baggins.

       Benlo Bracegirdle took part in the Standing Silence for the first time, finally realizing he at last understood what it was about.

Inspired jointly by Bodkin ("Discretion" and in the early seventies of "Reflections from the Paradise of Elves") and the Grey Wonderer ("If I Had a Hammer").  Enjoy!

Gifts and the Benefits of Scholarship

       Eager to escape the confines of the Citadel for a time, the Lord Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar went first to his own rooms and removed his robes of state, pulled on a simple shirt from his Ranger days, took up his cloak from Lothlorien and flung it about his shoulders, and set about slipping out of the place.  He was going, he thought, more than slightly mad from being held always indoors, such as hadn’t happened in many, many years; and being held from the freedoms of the woods and forests and fields and riverbanks was almost enough to drive him fully insane.  He couldn’t go far or for long, he knew, for a delegation was due from Lossarnach an hour before dinner regarding the confirmation of their new lord; and the Lady Inidril of Dol Amroth was due to arrive at the Harlond before nightfall with her daughter Lothiriel and the youngest of her sons, Amrothos he thought he’d been told the boy was called.  Not, of course, that he was a child now, but nearly a Man grown who’d been fighting the enemies of the land for the last three years since he turned fifteen, much as Aragorn had gone at that age with his brothers to aid in the wars against the orcs of the Misty Mountains.

       No, he couldn’t stay away long; but if he didn’t get away from pomp and circumstance and protocol for at least the next two hours he’d undoubtedly begin flinging flagons and cups at all who approached him.  He’d given a rather wild look, he knew, at the Lord Steward Faramir after the last group of minor nobles had been shown from his presence, said, “Can you take over for a time?” and at the amused nod he’d noted had fled for his rooms to make his bid for freedom.

       He almost made it unaccompanied, but found that near the ramp down to the sixth level Peregrin Took, a Guard of the Citadel now under the joint command of Captain Gilmaros and Lord Captain Hardorn, was waiting for him.  None of the other Guards of the Citadel seemed to even notice him; but Pippin was, after all, a Hobbit.  Coming from a people apt to hiding and going unnoticed as well as being accustomed to traveling with others wearing cloaks from Lorien, Pippin spotted him right away, shrugged, and slipping on his own cloak which he’d been holding over his arm moved to follow him down to the sixth level.  A large family who’d been up to look out across the Pelennor from the Court of Gathering and to relive in talk the coronation and the wonders of the past week were on their way down the ramp, and somehow failed to notice the two forms cloaked in grey that had joined their party; and none noticed as these broke away from it to head down a quiet lane past mostly empty houses and guest houses for the city to the furthest down on the right.

       Here no guard had been set, for Frodo had been absolutely insistent on that, his pale face going totally white in his anger at the thought.  The two in grey cloaks paused, and Aragorn pushed back his hood, looking down on his smallest guard with calculation.  Pippin pushed back his hood as well, his amused green eyes looking as levelly up to meet those of his friend and newly-sworn lord as possible for one not four and a half feet tall to gaze into the eyes of one well over six.

       “Hardorn set you there, I suppose?”

       “Of course.  Actually, Aragorn, it’s taken you a day longer to break than I’d thought, and two more than he’d hazarded.  I think Lord Éomer has won the wager, actually.”

       Somewhat baffled, the newly crowned King of Gondor and Arnor looked down at him.  “You’ve been wagering on when I’d become so overwhelmed I’d try to get away unseen?”

       The Hobbit laughed as he nodded.  Not certain whether to become furious or to laugh loud and long, Aragorn son of Arathorn opened the door and went in, shaking his head.  Pippin followed him and closed the door after them, then hung his cloak on the tree set for that purpose.  Only one other hung there now, for Merry was standing guard at the tomb where King Théoden’s body lay at rest, Gandalf was out riding the Pelennor with Elrohir, Elladan, and Prince Imrahil, looking for signs of any fell weapons that might have fallen unheeded into the mud of the battlefield and not yet found; Gimli was out walking the walls of the city with the Master of the Guild of Masons and Builders and the Master of the Guild of Stone Cutters surveying the damage done there; and Legolas and Samwise were in the garden of the Houses of Healing speaking with the Master Herbalist and some of the gardeners for the city.

        It was a wonder to find the house almost empty.  In the kitchen he could see Mistress Loren, who’d been given the keeping of the house for those of the Fellowship who dwelt yet for a time here, obviously preparing a cake for baking; where Frodo and the young page Lasgon might be, however, wasn’t immediately clear.  Then they heard a blow of some kind followed by a cry of pain.  Pippin and Aragorn turned toward the balcony and ran that way, then leaned on the railing and looked down into the narrow yard below to see Frodo sitting there on the ground with several slabs of wood about him, a hammer fallen by his foot, sucking on his thumb.

       Aragorn hurried down the stair and knelt by his friend, seeing that there was no real hurt there, but that Frodo’s face reflected equal measures of amusement, embarrassment, and frustration.  “What is it, Frodo?” he asked. 

       “It was to be a surprise for Sam,” Frodo sighed, allowing the Man to examine the thumb.  “But I find I can’t even hold a hammer, Aragorn.”

       Examining the slabs of wood, the King looked at his friend with interest.  “What is it you’re seeking to build?”

       “A bench--a proper sized bench for a Hobbit.  These others are just too tall.  I’d planned to set it up on the balcony, but thought it would be better put together down here where--where I can’t destroy too much while trying to put it together.  The carpenter who helped adapt the furniture cut the wood for me and brought it all here, but I’d wanted to put it together myself.”

       “Where’s Lasgon?”

       “He’s gone to the market in the fourth circle for me, to see if he can find some of the orange fruits for me to eat.”

       Knowing how hard it had been for Frodo to eat much at a time or to keep it down since he’d awakened, the King nodded his acceptance of the youth’s errand.  “I’d be glad to help you, Frodo.  I’d warned you it could be difficult to hold things for a time.  Is it aching again?”

       “Yes, the stump has been throbbing all morning.”

       Aragorn took the hand in his, caressed it, then focussed his attention on it and allowed his fingers to feel deep, began to quietly sing the invocation.  That the pain was ebbing at least some was evident from Frodo’s face; but it didn’t ease completely.  There were so many wounds that Frodo had gathered, it seemed that the King’s healing abilities would ever be stolen away from the hand to one of the others.  Frodo’s eyes had gone closed, and there was a definite relaxation in his shoulders.  Finally he opened them again and looked into his friend’s grey ones. 

       “That is better.  Not just my hand, but--but my back as well.”

       “You’d best allow Pippin and me to work on this, then, don’t you think?”

       Sighing with acceptance, Frodo reluctantly rose and sat upon the stone bench which stood in the center of the small yard, laid his left hand over his right one in his lap.  “I always was mostly a failure with tools, although I did manage do to my nesting boxes--although many of those I held together with twine and glue rather than nails.  Bilbo helped me find a way of doing them when he realized how much they meant to me, told me that part of the reason we employed the Gaffer and Sam was to see to the projects beyond those of us inept at working with our hands.”

       Pippin gave him a searching look.  “You mean that the summer I was working on carpentry the reason you didn’t help teach me----”  At Frodo’s nod he burst out laughing.  “Now there are two things I’m better than you at!”

       Even Frodo smiled at that.

       “Now,” Aragorn said, “since you are such a wonder with tools, maybe you’ll help me with this.”

       “Help you?”

       “Yes.”

       “Why?”

       The Man took a deep breath.  “Pippin, I have been learning to use weapons since I was five, and how to heal and use my abilities there even longer.  But although I’ve learned how to repair the seams on my riding leathers----”

       The Hobbit guard snickered.  “They look as if you were trying to set stitches on a wound.”  He refused to be cowed by the glare he received.

       “As I was saying before you interrupted, I have learned the rudiments of sewing and carving, but have never successfully wielded a hammer in my life.”  He looked at the pieces of wood lying there and commented, “It can’t be too difficult, can it?  Now, how do these go together?”

       Frodo came forward to help set the pieces in alignment, showed how the ends had been mitred to allow legs and seat to fit together neatly, how the triangular pieces went between leg and seat to keep all from collapsing, and how he’d already marked where the pieces went together.  

       Pippin again laughed.  “That’s a good job, except....”

       “Except what?”

       “You marked the places on the outside, not where they go on the underside of the bench and the inside of the legs.  You ought to have Sam here--he understands all this.”

       “It wouldn’t be exactly a surprise if I had him help me put it together, would it?” Frodo asked dryly.

       “We ought to put one leg onto the seat first, but it will have to be driven carefully, the way it’s cut,” Pippin said.  He looked at the nails supplied by the carpenter and nodded with relief.  “Good--they’re sturdy but not too wide.  First time I used one so wide it split the wood, and Sam had to help me cut the piece out all over again.”  He had Aragorn hold the leg and Frodo the seat, and after making certain all were properly lined up he carefully set the nail, then managed to get it properly hammered into place.  Then he did the same with a second nail.

       “That’s good,” Pippin said.  “They’re in at the right angle so they didn’t come through the side of the leg or anything.”  More quickly they got the second leg on it.  However, with the last nail he used he smashed his finger badly enough to split the fingernail.

       Sucking at his fingernail, he still managed to drive the nail home, then looked at the wedges.

       “We could do without those, couldn’t we?” Frodo asked.

       “No, Frodo, we couldn’t.  With the mitering, the first time you tried to sit down on the bench it would collapse.

       Frodo sighed.  “It would be that way.”

       “At least you have the outside marked so we can see where the nails will go.”

       They measured carefully to see where the piece was to be set into place, centered on seat and leg, and Pippin demonstrated why the two nails had to be placed here and here rather than there so as to not stick out near the corners of the wedge.  Finally, with Pippin lying on his back holding the wedge into place, Aragorn took the nail between thumb and forefinger of his left hand while preparing to wield the hammer with the other....

       The blow was a mighty one, and the words that poured out of Aragorn’s mouth were rolling and terrible to hear.  The house next door was inhabited by the family of Healer Eldamir--himself, his wife, their son, and the wife’s parents who worked in the Citadel.  Eldamir had come home early to get a nap before going back on duty at nightfall.  He thrust his head out of his open window to look down to see what was the source of the words he was hearing, to find the new King of the realm kneeling by a wooden bench holding his thumb to his mouth, a hammer lying by his knee, and uttering words that Eldamir found himself glad he didn’t understand.  Captain Peregrin was lying on his back under the bench wearing his uniform, his eyes wide with some type of horror, and Lord Frodo was sitting on the stone garden bench in the center of the yard, his cheeks a flaming red as he seemed almost to be choking.

       A moment later Eldamir was out on his own balcony and hurrying down the stairs to his yard, then stepping carefully between his wife’s flowers and over the low stone wall that marked the boundaries between the two yards.  He quickly realized that Pippin had been unhurt, although he was now holding his head where he’d banged it on the bench trying to sit up and come to the aid of the Lord King Elessar.  The King himself was alternately sucking his thumb and shaking it while apparently cursing fluently in a language Eldamir suspected was Dwarvish.  Looking quickly to Lord Frodo, he realized that the slender Hobbit was not trying to deal with distress so much as struggling mightily not to laugh out loud, and that his eyes, which were too often sad and distant, were full of a mighty delight and humor.  Following the healer’s gaze, the King found himself wanting to laugh as well, both of them glad to see the sheer enjoyment the Hobbit showed for the moment.

       “Well, that is the one good thing to come out of this,” Aragorn said, the pain abating enough at last for him to examine the wounded thumb.  “No real damage--just a heavily bruised nail bed, I see.” 

       Eldamir took his King’s hand and examined it carefully.  “I concur, my Lord,” he said.  He then looked at the bench and the wedges, and examined it all.  “What have we here?”

       “A wooden bench for Sam,” the Lord of Gondor and Arnor told him, his gaze at the thing stern.  “You would think I could do something so simple as to drive a simple nail, wouldn’t you?”

       “It does take some practice to do it well.  Would you like me to do it, my Lord?”

       “Not if it adds you to the list of wounded.”

       “I’ve some experience at it.  Let me see what’s still to be done.”

       He soon had the thing on its side, saw where the places to set the wedges had been marked, was grateful the placement for the nails was marked as well, and soon had the last eight nails driven properly home.  Setting it upon its legs, he bowed.  “Now, my liege, if you would be pleased to try it....”

       His liege was fully glad to try it, although he soon stood up and moved to sit on the wall instead.  “It’s a bit low for me, of course.  Frodo, do you need a glass of water?”

       “If you would please get me one, Aragorn.  I don’t think at the moment I could get up.  That took me so by surprise....  Where did you learn that Khuzdul?”

       “Elladan and Elrohir learned it years ago from Dwarves they met on the road to Mithlond.”

       “Young Dwarves?”

       “Yes.  Why?”

       “Fili and Kili had begun to teach Bilbo similar phrases, you see.  Be certain you don’t say them around any Dwarves....”

       “I do have a sense of propriety, Frodo Baggins.  But at the moment--they do allow a good deal of frustration and pain to be voiced.”

       Frodo waited until Aragorn was up the stairs and he’d entered the kitchen before he let out with a peal of laughter fit to set the late blossoms in the cherry tree overhead to dancing.  “Oh, sweet Valar!  I hope he never realizes what he was saying!” he finally managed to gasp out.

       “Why?” asked the mystified healer.

       “Young Dwarves----”  He struggled to control his laughter.  “Young Dwarves tend to have a marked sense of mischief, and Fili and Kili thought it great fun on the journey to the Lonely Mountain to teach Bilbo phrases.  That must be one of their favorites to teach to non-Dwarves.  It sounds so wonderfully angry, doesn’t it?”

       “You know what it means?”

       Frodo nodded, looking up with delight at the balcony so as to make certain Aragorn didn’t overhear him.  “Bilbo stubbed his toe one time and used it in front of Balin, who explained the joke.  It means something to the effect of ‘I would delight for you to apply the toe of your boot to my backside, sweet maiden’.”  He giggled guiltily.  “When Bilbo heard I was to be traveling with Gimli he thought to warn me what some of the phrases they’d tried to trick him into using were and meant so that I could make certain we Hobbits wouldn’t end up the butts of similar jokes.  Thankfully, Gimli is apparently beyond that.  And the words he did teach to Pippin and Merry do mean what they are supposed to mean.”

       “How do you know what words he taught Merry and me?” asked Pippin suspiciously.

       “Ever since I was stabbed with the Morgul knife my hearing has been sharper.”  The glint of amusement was back in Frodo’s eyes.  “To hear dear Strider say such a thing!”  Again he broke out into laughter, which was continuing as Aragorn came down the stairs carrying a tray of mugs and jugs.

*******

       Soon after Sam returned and was properly pleased and grateful to find the bench standing proudly on the balcony for him.  Not long after that the King realized he must return to his duties, and after embracing Sam and Frodo he left with healer and guard in tow.  As they approached Eldamir’s door the King, his Lorien cloak over his arm, glanced back long enough to see that Pippin, his finger now bandaged properly, was back a respectful distance.  “Well,” he murmured as he paused to take leave of Eldamir, “it was worth while to smash my thumb to see Frodo laugh so, even if it was at the expense of some pain.  And I ought to have realized that as well as Sindarin and Quenya Bilbo had taught him a smattering of Dwarvish also.”  Eldamir collapsed into helpless guffaws as he went into his house and closed the door, and Pippin could be heard trying to suppress snorts of laughter behind him.  As he headed up the ramp to the Citadel, Aragorn looked back suspiciously at Pippin, then toward the house where Frodo Baggins, who had been a student of languages, giggled still over what he’d heard his friend say that he’d not translated for the others.

A Message and a Bottle

       It was late in the day of September 22 when the party from Gondor neared the South Gate into Bree.  The gatekeeper gladly opened to allow them entry, for those who wore the grey and silver of Annúminas were always welcome now, as well as those in the black and silver of the King’s own service. 

       In the company was one small figure who wore the latter, Captain Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel and Knight of Gondor, whose office, when he was in the King’s company, was to guard the King’s own person.  Now he rode beside the Rangers of Eriador as they returned to service in the North, one of only two Hobbits in the company, the other, his cousin Isumbard Took, beside him on his own pony, both of them glad to finally return to an inn they knew well.

       As they entered the Inn of the Prancing Pony, Barliman Butterbur greeted them with pleasure.  “It’s been a good long time, and I feared when the others from your party came back without you perhaps you were lost, or had decided to remain in the Southlands indefinite like, sirs.  But they said you’d be due about now, and two days past Master Samwise and Master Meriadoc came out of the Shire to wait for you.  They’re in the common room now, if you’d like to see them, you know.”

       Putting aside the idea of seeking a bath and some rest first, they let Berevrion and those with him go on to their quarters and found their friends indeed in the common room, sitting at a table in the corner where long ago a tall figure had sat watching them when they came here fleeing Black Riders and the terrors of the unknown, hoping to find Gandalf and guidance.  The table was a bit high for them, but the rest of the room was full to overcrowding.

       On the table before them was a small canvas bag, a rather familiar one to Pippin, who had presented that bag and its contents annually to old Toby for some years.  He looked with question at his cousin and the Mayor of the Shire, for he’d left orders that the bag was to be given back to old Toby at Midsummer, rather than waiting this time for his birthday.  Toby had been ill before they left, and Pippin had been afraid the old Hobbit wouldn’t make it till his birthday this year to give it to him then.

       Isumbard lifted himself onto the high stool brought there for his use by Barliman’s son and thanked him, and looked also at the bag.  “Toby is dead, then?” he asked, turning to the Master of Buckland.

       “Yes, two weeks after our return.  He left the bottle to you, Pippin, and asked we have you open it and drink a toast to old Bilbo’s and Frodo’s and his own memory on the birthday.  Of course, we weren’t certain you’d make it in time, so we came out to meet you here.”

       “So, here we are,” Sam said, his face still, his eyes slightly distant with memory and the feeling of loss that still overtook him from time to time.  He was fingering the silver key that hung as a fob from his watch chain.  “Eight years since he left Bag End the last time, and it feels like it was just yesterday, it does.”

       Pippin nodded.  He looked up as a Man approached their table with several mugs of ale, and noted it was Lord Halladan, the Steward of Arnor himself.  “My Lord?  It’s an honor.”  He bowed his head as best he could, as both knew getting to his feet to bow would have been more trouble than it was worth.

       “And how was my Lord Cousin as you left him, Captain Peregrin?”

       “Very well, my Lord.  Happily entertaining the Prince of Harad and his family, but sad to see us leave him, of course.”

       Halladan smiled.  “He has found a level of comfort in your people he has with no others, I think.  And how was the visit to Harad?”

       Pippin shook his head.  “You can be glad Hardorn accompanied him, sir, as it was full of peril.  We got caught in the midst of a revolt, although all turned out well enough.  Aragorn won through, of course, and he’s quite the hero there now.  And wait till you meet Lord Benai of Camaloa!”

       The Man’s eyebrows raised, but he decided to wait until later to question those who’d gone with the King as to what precisely had happened in Harad.  He looked at the bag that sat on the table.  “Lord Samwise has been saying all day you’d be here before sunset, and it appears he foresaw things aright.  Of course, we were also advised by the foreriders from your party as well as Elves from Imladris that this was true, so it was decided to sit here and wait for your coming.  Now, if you will tell me the story of this bag, which they insisted must be here when you arrived....”

       Pippin looked at the bag and sighed, then looked at Isumbard.  “Will you tell him, Bard?  I knew Toby was going to leave us, but it’s still hard----”

       The older Took looked at his cousin and nodded as slowly Pippin reached for the bag and opened it.  Quietly he began to explain.  “It’s a birthday mathom, my Lord.  Thirty-eight years ago on his birthday our cousin Bilbo Baggins gave its contents to Tobobard Took, who was overseer for the farm that Pippin’s family lived on when he was younger, before the Thain named Pippin’s father his heir and insisted the family move back to the Great Smial.” 

       They watched as Pippin removed a wine bottle and set it on the table before him.  He continued, “Bilbo’s parents owned a vineyard and wine press, and it produced a wine they called Old Winyards.  When Bilbo was still quite a little one, only a few years old, the vineyard produced a bumper crop which made a particularly fine vintage, and Bungo put down a great store of bottles of it in his wine storage room.  Every major celebration at Bag End for over a century included the opening of at least one of the bottles of Old Winyards, while special occasions got one of the bumper year bottles.

       “Toby admired Bilbo quite a good deal, and Bilbo felt much the same for Toby, who was quite a character even as a young Hobbit.  Once he realized that Toby liked Old Winyards, Bilbo decided to give him a bottle as a birthday gift, expecting him, of course, to open it and drink it as a sensible Hobbit would.  Instead, Toby displayed it proudly and told everyone he knew about how lucky he was to receive such a gift.

       “Toby’s birthday was in the early spring when Bilbo was accustomed to be at the farm, visiting Paladin and Eglantine and the children.  At Toby’s next party he couldn’t think what to give Bilbo, so he put the bottle back into the bag Bilbo gave it to him in and gave it back to him.  And it went back and forth for years until Bilbo went away, at which time Toby started exchanging it with Frodo, and then, after Frodo left, with Pippin.”

       Lord Halladan was looking a bit confused.  “But I thought Master Bilbo and Lord Frodo’s birthdays were in the fall.”

       Pippin looked up at him.  “They had the same birthday--September 22, today.”

       “And this Tobobard had his in the spring?”

       “Yes.”

       “But you said Master Bilbo gave it to Master Toby as a birthday present?”

       Merry laughed.  “We will get some presents on our own birthdays from close family, but we make a point of giving presents to others at our parties, you see.  Often the gifts will be either things we’ve made ourselves or mathoms, things which folks just give to one another, round and round again.  Bilbo, however, tended to give new things for birthday gifts, and usually quite nice ones.  Not many folks turned his gifts into mathoms.”

       “Oh,” said the Man, beginning to understand.  “It sounds as if birthdays in the Shire tend to be pleasant affairs, then.”

       “Usually,” Pippin said, smiling.  But as he looked back at the wine bottle his smile became sad and thoughtful again.  “Toby made this bottle of wine a private mathom that went between him and one other--first Bilbo, then Frodo, and then me.  It’s been going on almost all my life, you see.  It’s a tradition, one that just ended.  Toby was always there, all my life, and now he’s gone.  It’s a bit hard to take in.”

       “What are you to do with it, then?”

       “He apparently asked I open it now and use it in the birthday toast to Frodo and Bilbo.”  He looked up into the Steward’s eyes.  “Frodo asked us in his will that we drink a toast to him and Bilbo on the birthday.”

       Merry looked at the bottle uncertainly.  “Do you think it’s any good any more?  He’s kept that bottle in the window for thirty-eight years when it was in his hands, you know.”

       Pippin grimaced.  “It could be very nasty.”

       Sam said nothing, just looked sad and thoughtful.

       Lord Halladan asked gently, “How old would Lord Frodo be today?”

       Pippin answered softly, “Sixty-one.  He’s sixty-one years old today.  Ten years ago today we were in Rivendell helping Bilbo celebrate his hundred twenty-ninth birthday.  It was eleven years ago that we left Bag End to start on the quest.  We drank the last bottle of Old Winyards Frodo had left that night, for he was determined we not leave it for Lotho and Lobelia.”

       Sam said, “And it was eight years ago we met Lord Elrond and the Lady in the Woody End, and I realized he was going to the Undying Lands and not Rivendell.”

       Barliman came over to their table.  “You lot all right?” he asked.  “Is the ale satisfactory?”  Then he saw the bottle, and looked curiously at the Hobbits.  “You brought your own bottle to the Pony?”

       “It’s a bequest,” Pippin explained.  “We were to open it today and drink a toast from it.  The last bottle of Old Winyards.”

       “The Baggins vintage?” asked Butterbur, impressed.

       “Yes.”

       “I’ll bring some goblets,” the innkeeper decided, and hurried off to get them and a corkscrew.

       Fifteen minutes later the bottle was open, and Pippin was carefully pouring small amounts into the six goblets, for Butterbur had included himself in the toast.  “I’m promising nothing,” he warned.  “Toby kept it in the sunlight, so it’s likely not much more than very well aged vinegar at this point.  But if he wanted us to drink our birthday toasts to Bilbo and Frodo and our farewell toast to him with it, I’ll do it.” 

       Finally he set down the bottle.  He took up his own goblet and looked at it, then finally declared, “To Bilbo and Frodo on their birthday, and in memory of Tobobard Took!”  The other five lifted their goblets in honor, then closing their eyes drank from them.

       Merry opened his eyes and looked at his glass in surprise.  “It’s good!” he exclaimed.  “I can’t believe it--it’s good!”

       Barliman Butterbur savored his wine with great satisfaction.  “Now, I’m not much of a one for wine,” he said, examining the color of that in his goblet with interest, “but I declare, this is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

       “If this is a sample of what Old Winyards is like,” Lord Halladan said with conviction, “then if the vineyard ever produces again I’ll order fifty bottles and send half south to my Lord Cousin.

       Sam was smiling, although quiet tears were slipping down his cheeks.  “It’s just now fully recovered after being burnt to the ground by Sharkey’s folks.  We had a small harvest in 1420, and I’ll allow the wine was good, what little we got out of it.  But I’ll send you a bottle of it along with fifty bottles from this year’s pressing.  Old Mr. Bilbo--he’d approve, I think.”

       The goblets were filled again, and a proper toast drunk this time, and carefully Pippin worked the cork back into the bottle, a plan growing in his head.

       Pippin wasn’t there when Merry awoke, and he didn’t appear until well after first breakfast, a large toy wooden boat and a small pot of paint and a fine brush in his hands.

       “What’s that for?” Merry asked.

       “I’m fixing something,” Pippin answered.

       “You missed first breakfast.”

       “I ate in the marketplace.  Go get me a mug of ale.”

       “A mug of ale?”

       “Yes.  Please go get me a mug of ale.”

       By the time Merry got back Pippin was tamping the lid back into place on the pot of paint.  On the bow of the small boat was written, To Frodo Baggins from old Toby.

       “What are you planning on doing, Pippin?” he asked.

       “I’m putting the rest of the bottle in this and setting it free on the Brandywine.”

       “Why?”

       Pippin looked at him, defiance in his face, his chin raised.  “I’m sending it to him.  I want him to know.”

       Merry shook his head, his mouth open in astonishment.  “You expect that to cross the Sundering Seas and somehow find the Straight Path to Tol Eressëa?  Are you taking your name seriously, Peregrin Took?”

       “If we don’t try, then how can we know what’s possible, Merry?”

       A tear slipped from Merry’s eye.  “How will we know if it makes it or not, Pippin?”

       Pippin was exceptionally solemn.  “Maybe we won’t ever know, Merry.  But I will try.”

       Merry looked at him for some minutes, then gave a single nod.  “You’re right--doesn’t matter whether or not we know if he gets it.  But if we don’t try, he has no chance at all of receiving it.”  He sighed.  “I’m going to include a note.”

       “A note?  Now who deserves the name of Took?”
      
       It was late that evening when they crossed the Brandywine Bridge, and they headed directly for Brandy Hall.  Sam, having been apprised of what was to be done with Pippin’s small wooden boat, stayed awake that night trying to write his own note, finally scrawling only a couple lines.  At dawn the three of them went out together to the river, and after carefully secreting the messages inside the cover Pippin had nailed over the bottle, Sam and Merry stood back as they watched Pippin advance to the river’s bank and gently set the boat down in the water. 

       “Lord Ulmo,” Pippin said, “I know we can’t go there ourselves, or at least maybe only Sam, and even him not now.  But we ask that you take this to Frodo, if it is allowed.  We miss him, you see.”  He let it go and stood up.  They watched as the small craft paused by the riverbank, then slowly slipped toward the middle of the stream and the current.  They watched it as long as they could, until at last it could no longer be seen.

       A child of Men stood by the Baranduin some leagues South of the Shire, and watched as a large toy boat made of wood was carried by him by the river.  A fisherman checking his weir saw it upon the waters.  An Elf on an errand Southward from Mithlond noted it, read the inscription on the side of it and shook his head in wonder.  And so it came to the Sea.

       The creatures of Lord Ulmo told him of its presence, and he came forth to examine it, again read the inscription and the intent of it, and laughed, but gently.  And if it should have received a small push onto the Straight Path by him, none of the rest of the Valar would be likely to criticize.

       
       He was south of the city, walking along the beach when he heard his name called.  “Iorhael!  Iorhael!  Come and look!  The Sea has brought you a gift!”

       He turned and saw young Livwen, who had befriended him during his first years here while she was yet an elfling and he still overwhelmed by the experience of being indeed in the Undying Lands.  She was hurrying toward him, her face alight with the joy of seeing him and the reason for calling him.  He stopped until she came up to him.

       “Oh come, Iorhael!  Come and see!  It has your Westron name upon it!”

       Intrigued, he came.  “What?” he asked.

       “A boat.  A small boat.  We will soon be there and you will see it for yourself.”

       She led him to a small cove just South of the wharves, and there, washed up upon the white sand, lay a small wooden boat.  It had been much battered by wind and waves; but somehow it had come here.  He approached through the crowd of Elven children that encircled it, and finally knelt by it, not caring that sand was clinging now to the knees of his robe.  He reached out and touched it, examined it.  There, written in red paint, was most of his name in Westron lettering: 

       o F odo Ba g ns fr m old To y

       Suddenly he was aware of Olórin joining the group, and he turned to look at the Maia.  “What is it, Iorhael?” he who had been known as Gandalf asked.

       He shrugged, and turned back to pick it up.

       It was a common enough design for a toy boat--common to Buckland and Bree, he knew.  He’d had one similar to this when he was a child, made for him by Uncle Rorimac.  But over the gunwale had been nailed a cover of sorts, something obviously not put on it by its original builder.  He slid his finger under the cover as well as he could, but couldn’t dislodge it.  Finally an older child brought him a slender yet still strong branch, and using it he finally managed to lever off the added board.  Under it were two small bundles wrapped tightly in oilskin, and in a stained canvas bag, a wine bottle.

       How could he not recognize it?  How often he’d seen Bilbo pull it from its wrapper and thank Tobobard Took effusively, and how often he’d seen Bilbo slide it back into its canvas bag when the birthday rolled around to return it to the farmer.  Then it had been his turn to slide it out of and then back into its wrappings.  Nineteen times he’d done it.

       And now it lay one more time in his hand, and he examined it carefully, then held it to him, realizing what its presence meant.

       “Toby’s dead now,” he said quietly.

       “Who sent it?” asked a small ellon.

       He examined the writing, and smiled.  “Pippin.”  He held the boat out to Olórin, who took it.  He still held the wine bottle in one hand, noting it was only half full.  Carefully he broke the seal on one of the oilskin packets, and realized it was a short note. 

       Hoping you’re well, it read.  We drank your birthday toast from it.  We miss you something terrible.  Sam’s writing, he realized.

       Aragorn is well and happy, and he and Arwen have two children now.  Estella and I have one now, as do Pippin and Diamond.  Sam and Rosie have five now, and Frodo-lad is a pip.  As for Elanorellë--she’s becoming so beautiful it would make you weep with pleasure. 

       We miss you terribly.  MB

       Frodo smiled, his face alight with joy.

*******

       Meriadoc’s son Periadoc was twelve when Merry decided to take the family West to Mithlond to see the memorial to the Riding of the Elves there, done some years previously by Ruvemir son of Mardil, a sculptor from Gondor, with the assistance of his friend Bergemon.  After spending a good deal of time examining the sculpture group itself, they camped north of the city, and spent the next day walking along the beach before heading for the Western Marches the following day.

       They were headed back for their camping place when Periadoc found a corked bottle washed ashore by the tide.  The glass was sand scoured, and it had a patina to it.  Young Perry smiled with pleasure at his find, and brought it to show his parents.

       “What did you find, dearling?” his mother asked him.

       “A bottle,” he said, holding it for both of them to see.  As Merry held out his hands, Perry set it in them, and his father examined it carefully.  The lad continued, “I wonder what part of Middle Earth it came from?  I wonder who threw it into the water?”

       Merry smiled at his son.  “We may never know, son.”  He looked at it with interest.  “It’s apparently been a good long way--see how the sand has scoured it?  And----”

       There was an indentation at the bottom where it had pushed against the mold it was blown into, and that looked familiar, somehow.  It wasn’t as scoured by long exposure to the sea as the rest of the bottle, and he could see somehow beyond it.  “I think there’s something in it,” he said with surprise.  Then, suddenly he said, “I know you’ll want to open it up now, but I think we should wait till we get back to the Shire.  We’re to spend a few days in Hobbiton, and if you think you can wait that long, I’d like to open it there.  Mayor Samwise will have the proper tool for taking out the cork and for getting out whatever’s inside without damaging the bottle more.  Do you think you can handle that, Perry?”

       Disappointed, Perry said, “If you think so, Dad.”

       Estella looked at her husband's face with curiosity to match that of their son, and saw the look of hope that was on it.  “You know something about this bottle?” she asked.  He just shook his head.

       All the way back to the Shire the children speculated as to what might be in the bottle, and Perry’s younger brother Roridoc was all for “accidentally” dropping it on a handy rock as they rode back through the Marches.  But Perry, looking at his father as he rode ahead with their mother, shook his head.  “No, Dad thinks we need to open this with the Mayor there, and I think Uncle Sam will want to see it, too.”

       All were pleased when they reached Hobbiton, some days later, to find Uncle Pippin and Aunt Diamond were there at Bag End waiting for them with Cousins Faramir and Wynnie.  They heard Mayor Sam’s laugh from the garden as they walked up the steps to the gate from the lane, having left their ponies at the Ivy Leaf’s stable.  “Well,” he said, “it’s about time, you know.  We was about to decide that you’d begged leave to ride on one of Lord Círdan’s Elven ships, maybe sailed back for the Mouths of the Sea and up to the Harlond to see Lord Strider and all!”

       “There you are,” the Thain added, coming forward.  He reached out his arms to hug his favorite cousin to him.  “I was thinking of riding out to find you, you know.  Was afraid you’d been taken by footpads!”

       Melody was hugging her cousin Wynnie and the girl Gardners.  “Oh, you should see the memorial.  Uncle Frodo was so small and so beautiful, and old Uncle Bilbo was so frail looking.  And Perry found something--he found a bottle with something in it!”

       “Did he?” asked Pippin.  “Did you really, Perry?”

       Perry nodded.  “But Dad didn’t want us to open it until now.  He said Uncle Sam would have what we need to get the cork out of it so we can see what’s inside.

       “Uncle Pippin, did you and Aunt Diamond really go see the memorial unveiled?” Melody demanded.

       The Thain laughed.  “Yes, we did, and your da and mummy and the Mayor as well.  Master Ruvemir made certain we’ve made it to the unveilings of his monuments.”  And they walked back through the garden past the miniature Hobbit house that was the pride of the Gardner children, whose thatching they saw to each spring, back to the table where they all were gathered for tea.

       Mistress Rose had plenty for all--she seemed to have a foreknowledge of when extra guests were expected; and soon they were all sitting here and there in their favorite places about the gardens with plates of scones and deviled eggs and cups of cider, milk, or milky tea.

       Tea was over and the sun beginning to lower in the sky when Perry brought his prize to the table where the grownups sat.  Pippin looked at it with interest.  “You found this on the beach, lad?”

       “Yes, and I wonder where it fell into the water.  Da says there’s something in it, and he wanted to wait to open it till we were here.  Can you really open it without damaging it, Uncle Sam?”

       “I ought to be able to,” Sam said.  “It’ll most like need a corkscrew, and maybe some fine tongs.  I think as there’s some of those in the box as Mr. Frodo left his tools in for working on books and all.”

       “I thought those went to the library,” Merry commented.

       “Most of ’em did, but I kept a few as there was duplicates of,” Sam answered.  He had Frodo-lad go with him into the smial, and within fifteen minutes they were back with the required tools and a long, bent pick that Master Ruvemir had given him some years previously, one which Sam now used in some of his repair work when he had to clean a drain.

       Pippin had been running his hands over and over the bottle while Sam was away, then stopped and examined it more closely, looking with curiosity at the cork and the mold mark on the bottom.  As Sam was coming back he looked at Merry, and obviously saw some similar growing excitement in his cousin’s eyes.

       “I wonder if someone in Anfalas dropped it into the water there,” Faramir said.  “That’s where Pando Proudfoot went to train as a sculptor of clay and to do castings.”

       “I think I’ll pretend Lady Melian dropped it into the Anduin,” Rosie-lass decided, “and finally it’s come all the way here.”  She looked to Pippin.  “That could happen, couldn’t it?”

       Peregrin nodded distractedly as he handed the bottle to Sam, who examined the cork carefully.  “Yes, small Rose, that could happen.  The Anduin goes through the Mouths of the Sea to the Sundering Sea, and then one of the currents might have brought it here.”  But he was more intent on watching Sam.

       Sam paused.  “You can tell as this cork’s been pulled out afore and replaced,” he commented.  “Good glass, it is.  And the size is smaller’n what I’d see used by Men.”  He started to use the corkscrew, then stopped, and decided to use Ruvemir’s long pick instead.  Carefully he inserted it, twisted, and began to pull.  It took some time and effort to keep the cork from disintegrating, but finally he had it eased out, and he peered in through the neck.

       “What’s inside?” asked Elanor for all the children.

       “Can’t tell yet.”  Sam lifted it up and peered through it at the sun--then stopped.  “It’s Shire glass, it is,” he said with decision.  “Never saw quite this shade of green for glass anywheres else.”  He held it to Merry, who peered through it, growing more tense with anticipation.  Merry didn’t speak as he handed it on to Pippin, who looked at it in his hands for a few moments before he, too, lifted and peered through it.  Pippin’s smile was strange as again he shared glances with his cousin.  Pippin handed it back to Sam.

       Sam had to use both the long pick and the fine tongs to get hold of the contents, which seemed to be rolled paper of some kind.  He had to use the tongs and pick to tighten the roll again until it was compact enough to pull out of the bottle’s narrow neck.  He was intent on what he was doing, working it carefully, and finally with a grunt of satisfaction he lifted the tight roll out and spread it on the table’s top.

       There were two sheets, the first one a drawing of an older Hobbit sitting in the sunlight, smiling, roses and other unnamed flowers twining around him.  Rosie went still, as did Estella, their eyes locked to the portrait.  Rory laughed.  “Maybe Pando did this, then.”

       Rosie shook her head.  “No, Master Rory, Master Pando didn’t do this picture.  Only one could of done this one.”

       Sam’s hands were shaking as he softly smoothed the drawing.  “It’s old Mr. Bilbo, it is.  Much as he was when we seen him last, but awake.”

       Merry was searching the picture, then laughed, and touched a dragonfly resting on the leaves of the plant that lifted flowers over the old Hobbit’s head.  “There it is, Sam.”

       “I see it, Merry,” the Mayor said gently.  “I see it.”

       “See what?  Merry, see what?  Is it...?”  Pippin’s voice was tight with anticipation.

       “Yes--there’s his signature sign, the dragonfly.”

       Sam’s fingers trembled as he lifted the precious portrait, and they looked at the second sheet.  It was done broad side up this time, and he turned it.  It was of the three of them, many years previously, as they’d stood on the quay in the light of Círdan’s lamps, eyes filled with tears, but tremulous smiles apparent as they watched easing finally begin to find one they’d loved dearly.

       Periadoc Brandybuck stood peering under Sam’s arm, and his face was still with surprise.  He looked up at his father, saw the tears beginning to form.  “Who did that one, Dad?” he asked.  “Who did that drawing?”

       Sam found the dragonfly this time, lit on the arm Merry had placed over Pippin’s shoulder.  “There it is,” he said, his voice soft.

       Elanor said quietly, “Then--then Uncle Frodo did them, didn’t he?”

       Her mother smiled, her own eyes swimming.  “Yes, he did, Lovey.”

       “I never thought we’d know if it got to him,” Merry said quietly.  He picked up the bottle and turned it again to look at the mold mark.  “But we do know.”  His face was suddenly split by a wide grin of triumph.  “We do know!”  He ran to the garden gate and out of it, then down the steps to the lane and over into the Party field, all hurrying after him as he danced and spun with excitement.  “We KNOW!” he was shouting.  “We KNOW!  Frodo got it!  Frodo got Pippin’s bottle!  And he sent it back again!”  And the children watched with awe as their fathers clasped shoulders and turned in constant circles until the three of them collapsed into the grass under the mallorn tree about the bottle.

*******

       Lord Ulmo looked up as the thought of Yavanna reached him.  My Lord Brother, she asked, amusement and delight obvious in her communication, what is it you have done for Hobbits of the Shire?  There are a number under the mallorn tree that grows there that are invoking your name with thanksgiving!

       She shared the image of grateful Hobbits there, and he smiled in satisfaction.

Parting Gifts

       The Lady of Light watched the two Periannath as they returned to Frodo’s two kinsmen and Estel and the rest of the Fellowship, her placid expression masking the turmoil within.  She had again thought to test them, particularly the Ringbearer, although she’d already been warned that the gardener would not willingly be parted from his master.  What she’d learned had been enlightening.  What she’d been offered had been--terrifying.

       Long indeed had she contemplated what might happen if the One Ring should come within her reach.  Considering what she had accomplished with Nenya, the chances offered her by the greater power inherent in Sauron’s weapon were thrilling to contemplate.

       She paused, realizing how in her own thought she’d just called It.  Yes, that was what It was--a weapon, a fell weapon which would burn the very hand which sought to wield It.  She’d trembled in Its presence, for she’d been bred, after all, for the manipulation of Power; she’d sacrificed herself and much of her life in the pursuit of it, in fact.  Now, that raw Power had been brought before her, offered to her freely--and she’d turned it down, even as a part of her so desired It.

       She had passed the test, and perhaps might at the last be allowed to return back to Aman.  It had been so very long, after all, since she’d left there for the mortal lands, seeking the freedom to find and wield power the Valar would have discouraged had she remained in the land of her birth.  She’d used the folly of her own kin as an excuse to leave, defying those who had cherished her since her very conception, in whose Light she had once delighted. 

       She’d seen much here--had seen mighty realms of Elves, Men, Dwarves, and evil creatures raised and thrown down afterwards; had seen examples of great wisdom and greater folly; had seen grasping and sacrifice; had watched with awe as a small ship crewed by a desperate Peredhel had sailed Westward, only to be seen again so long afterward, not on the Sea returning, but launched instead upon the Seas of Night, the focus of so much envy and strife and pointless vengeance and death and longing bound upon the brow of one who could not return ever again to those who’d watched with mingled grief and hope for the success of his mission.

       She’d seen Morgoth vanquished, and had trembled before the presence of the Valar who’d joined with those who’d opposed him, accepted her sentence as right and proper, considering how much defiance she’d shown.

       And now--now it was not the great, shining hand of one of the Valar who had offered her salvation and pardon; but a small, slight one with bitten nails and a scar on the knuckle which had offered her a small thing of greater weight than he had yet realized, eager to be done with It, preferring the idea of her holding and wielding It to the thought of Morgoth’s servant possibly recovering It, trusting in her wisdom.  A knife edge, had she described the dangers facing the eight who remained in the Fellowship?  How much finer had been the path beneath her own feet as she had stood looking down on It, the chain still through Its circle, lying in that palm?

       And yet, when the choice was finally offered, the choice between her final redemption and her eternal separation from all she had ever loved and wanted, in the end she’d found the choice simple.  If she’d accepted It--that would have been the end.  She would not have remained Galadriel--in the end she would have become the very thing she most hated, the image she’d cast on the Valar who’d warned her leaving Aman would mean her exile--the consuming power that seeks utter control of others.  In the end she would simply have become the enemy she’d ever stood against, and she’d refused It.

       She'd exiled herself, leaving with the Noldor to come to Middle Earth.  Although she'd not taken part in the internecine war among her kindred, yet she'd deliberately turned from the will of the Valar, choosing to enter the mortal lands in search of the fame, glory, and power which in Aman was counted for little.  She'd wished for her wisdom and cleverness to be seen and honored, for her power to be held in awe.  Well, her ambitions had been fulfilled--and to what purpose?

       When Celebrimbor had gifted Nenya to her, she'd accepted it as her due; and there was no question she had used it well.  And yet--what had she wrought?  Had she built a land unique within the world?  Nay--she had instead reproduced in the mortal lands a reflection of the immortal lands she'd left of her own free will!  That, reflecting on the glory and peace of Lothlorien, was what she now realized.  In her body and her conscious mind she'd sought to distance herself from the land of her birth; in the core of her heart, however, she'd in the end identified herself the more strongly to the land she'd held no hope of returning to for three Ages of Middle Earth.

       "You are troubled, Lady of my heart?" asked Celeborn as he joined her at the top of the steps to her private garden, standing behind her, guarding her back as he'd ever done.

       "I am yet in shock, beloved Lord," she responded, her eyes still fixed on the entrance to the pavilion where the members of the Fellowship were housed.

       "He looked into the Mirror?"

       "Yes--both he and his servant Samwise did so."

       Celeborn was himself amazed.  "That one looked also?  I expected his master to do so, for it is in his nature to seek to know.  But the gardener?"

       Galadriel gave a mirthless laugh.  "My husband, do not discount him.  A gardener he may be, and he may indeed see himself as but a servant; but that belies his full nature."  She turned to look into his ageless, so well beloved eyes.  "After all, my love, I, too, have been little more than a gardener since we returned here; and what is a true lord in the end save for the servant of all who think of him as their ruler?"

       "And whom does he rule?"

       "In time...."  She didn't bother to finish the statement.  "If Sauron is indeed cast down, the wisdom he has garnered from his teachers and from his beloved master will augment that which is native to him, and will be shared with many."

       Both turned to look back at the pavilion once more.  "Estel has grown much since he last entered our borders," Celeborn finally murmured.

       "Yes."

       "Is there any hope that the Cormacolindor will win through?"

       "There is always hope, Celeborn."

       "What have you seen, there in the Mirror and in your dreams?"

       She sighed deeply.  "Destruction; fire taking all of the Golden Wood; the Misty Mountains falling upon the Vale of Imladris; dragons waking again in the North and sweeping out of it to fall upon the fastnesses of Erebor, the Iron Hills, the Misty Mountains;  trolls cutting swaths through Fangorn; the Eldest in the Old Forest at last realizing the rest of the world cannot be held at bay and giving in to despair; evil Men destroying the lands of the Periannath; the halls of Thranduil invaded at last from Dol Guldur while between Saruman and Sauron Rohan and Gondor are wiped from the memory of Middle Earth; the Ringbearer lying in despair in an orc tower, beaten, bloody, and dying; Aragorn cut off from all others in the midst of the field of battle, in the end overwhelmed.

       "But I have seen also the thin sliver of Light which would negate all the rest of the images, a Light so overwhelming that, given the chance to enter, it will cleanse away all of the dark images I've seen--all save that of the Perian Frodo Baggins lying, beaten, bloody, and dying, in the orc tower.  That image is a constant.  Through that one instant both the dark and the Light might enter."

       Celeborn took a deep breath and held it.  Rarely did his wife and Lady speak so clearly of the foresight granted to her by mirror and vision.  And the thought of that small being lying broken in the hands of the least servants of the Enemy made him greatly angry.

       “And is there nothing that can be done for the Ringbearer?”

       She shook her head.  “If there is, I cannot see it.”

       Finally he asked, “Will you tell him?”

       Again she turned to search his eyes.  “Would you wish to know such a thing?  Would you have me give him nought but reason to despair now when he’s but a third of the way through with his quest?”

       “If he lies dying in an orc tower, how is it the Light may enter?”

       She sighed and shook her head, turning back to the sight of the pavilion.  He sat now crosslegged just inside the entrance to the pavilion, his slender, pale form erect and at ease--save that his right hand rubbed at his left shoulder where he’d been wounded.  Someone to his left spoke to him and he turned that way, and for a moment they could see his silhouette, quick, discerning, intelligent, remarkably beautiful for one of any race as he listened and then answered, and they saw a moment of laughter shared--but only a moment before his expression was withdrawn once more; then the conversation apparently moved to another and he turned toward someone further within the pavilion and once again they saw only the back of his dark head.

       “They leave tomorrow?”

       “They must--the time for it has come at last.  Any earlier and they would have been caught in the open at a time when they were most vulnerable; any later, and the Nazgul will find them before they are come to Parth Galen.”

       “They must come to Amon Hen?”

       “Yes--it is needful, although why it must be is hidden from me.”

       She felt as well as heard the sigh he gave, knew he shook his head with pity and acceptance.  “I would do all I can for all of them, particularly for him and Estel.”

       “I will prepare gifts for them,” she said.

       After another moment of silence he asked, very softly, “Will you give to Estel the Elessar stone as part of his gift?”

       “It was for this it was left with me.  Hope he may have been named and as such he may have served all these years; but if he is to prevail his own must be bolstered.  Also he will have much need of the strength it will add to his own great will in the days ahead; and it has been foretold he will himself be called by its name.  How, if he bears it not?”

       “She has indeed bound herself to him.”

       “Yes, as you well know.”

       “I will go and ready what I can.  The sheath is finished.”

       “Good.  The Sword Reforged is in need of it, and it will further hearten him.”

       “The boats are also readied.”

       She nodded.  A moment he stood, his right hand on her shoulder, before he turned away and went up to the talan where their hall stood.  She remained a bit longer, watching the small, erect form sitting within the pavilion before she finally turned and went down the steps again to her hidden garden.

       The Periannath had not noticed the niche that was in reality the entrance to her work space, a room cut back into the stone of the wall of her garden where she prepared her seeds, where she would sit in meditation when the rains swept over the Golden Wood, to which she gathered herbs and in which she prepared them.  Now there lay on her workbench a glass phial and its ground glass stopper and a roll of silver wire; also there rested a small casket she’d not opened more than a handful of times since her granddaughter’s last visit. 

       She looked at the small bottle.  This must be prepared just after nightfall.  A child of Eärendil she sensed Frodo Baggins was--or at least in spirit.  Certainly he held within himself the Light of Stars, as did Aragorn.  He would need to have to hand a light to his feet, for the way he must go was so dark.  With the Mariner’s willingness she would capture some of his Light within the phial to help bolster the Perian’s own hope for as long as he could hope to bear it.  She grieved only she could do no more for him. 

       The blade he carried had been wrought by her own people and had once been gifted to Turin himself; how it had come to Frodo Baggins she knew not and was reluctant to inquire.  Under his shirt he wore a corslet of mithril from Erebor from the days before the coming of the dragon; and the sword belt he wore was of the same workmanship.  A commission Elrond had given the armorers of the Lonely Mountain once to prepare such a corslet for a young mortal prince who would bear with him the hopes for Middle Earth.  All, including Elrond himself, had expected that corslet would be worn by the heir of Isildur himself while yet a child; but although the work had been completed the dragon had come ere the thing could be forwarded to Imladris to be held against the day the child was born.  In the end the child Estel had never needed such a thing; now it was worn by Frodo Baggins and had already served to save his life.  Had this indeed been truly intended for him rather than Aragorn?

       Already, she sensed, the evil Men who threatened the Shire had begun entering that land, and before they were through they would wreak much damage.  For Samwise Gamgee, she realized, was needed a gift of promise for renewal--but what?  Then she realized what it must be, and she smiled, looking again at the small casket with her initial on it in which she had been gifted the Elessar stone.  Aragorn would not need the box, for he would wear the stone openly.  She would fill it, therefore, with earth from her own garden and charge it for renewal....  Her smile broadened.

       She opened the casket for the last time and took out the Elessar brooch, pinned it to her gown, took the now empty casket out into the garden.  In one area the soil was accessible, and by that place she knelt, laying her hand upon it, invoking Yavanna ere she dug her hand into the earth and lifted it to fill the box.

       The last time she scooped up more soil she realized she’d brought a pebble as well, and she stopped to remove it--then realized this was no stone but instead a nut from one of the mallorn trees.  Almost she retained it, then shook her head.  No, let it come to him.  Once she left Middle Earth Lothlorien would begin to fail; the mallorns she’d brought to be in the mortal lands would become subject to the maladies that plagued the normal trees of Middle Earth and would eventually die as well.  This might well be the last shadow of the Undying Lands left here in Ennor.  Carefully she poked a long finger into the earth with which she’d filled the casket and hid the nut in the center of all; then she finished filling it.  She brought the casket out and laid it on the rim of her Mirror; brought out the phial and its stopper and laid them there as well.

       Sunset came, and she watched for the rising of Eärendil’s bark.  Once the light of the star fell on her Mirror she breathed a prayer invoking the Mariner as she had Yavanna earlier, then plunged the bottle into the basin of the Mirror, allowing the water to fill it.  She carefully stoppered it.

       Now was the time to charge these two gifts, and she readied herself to call upon the power of her ring--then stopped.  No, it was not the power of Nenya that was needed this night.  After all, of what good would the might of one of the great rings of Power be for one who carried that which was crafted to perceive and control and corrupt what was done with the rings gifted to Men, Dwarves, and Elves?  No, if she used Nenya it was likely that the Enemy’s Ring carried in such close proximity to the gifts would only counter what she did this night, corrupt it as well.

       A spark of green from her breast caught her attention, a spark she’d once been accustomed to seeing there before she’d given that brooch to her daughter when she went to her own marriage.  How strange that it should have come back to rest one last time on her own bosom before it went to the one mortal who would wear and utilize it. 

       Once again the Lady of Light smiled.  No, not the power of the ring on her finger would she use; the time to rely on such power was over.  No, not raw power, but strength of renewal was needed for both these gifts; and it was the power of the Elessar she invoked instead of Nenya as she bound the Light of Eärendil into the phial, as she charged the grains of soil in the small wooden box with the G rune on it to aid in renewing the Shire.

       And, when after their guests retired one last time to their pavilion to rest before resuming their way in the coming day she stood looking down on the full array of gifts prepared for them--cloaks and brooches, enamelled silver belts for Boromir and the two younger Periannath, bow for Legolas, sheath for Aragorn, Phial, and casket of soil, as well as the three Elven boats and their paddles, the coils of hythlain rope, and packets of lembas wafers, it was on the Elessar she called as she blessed the lot.  Tomorrow she might again be forced to rely on Nenya until the last came, and either the Ring was destroyed or it was once again restored to Sauron’s hand; but for tonight it was not on raw power she would rely, but on the strength of renewal.

       Manwë and the Lady Elbereth, far away in the fastnesses of Aman, watched as the Lady Galadriel passed her final unwitting test with satisfaction.  Yes, their errant and willful daughter would now return to them; and full worthy had she shown herself at the last.

       And as the light of Eärendil fell on the sleeping form of the Ringbearer through the open entrance to the pavilion, that sliver of Light Galadriel had foreseen slipped gently into place, blessing him and preparing him to win through past the ordeal in the orc tower.  Lord and Lady looked down on him with compassion and love, and gently they gifted him to Ulmo for his relief when the time came.

       Aragorn, sitting vigil to one side of the pavilion’s entrance, saw the light fall on the one he already considered his small brother, and smiled through the tears of pity for him that threatened to spill over.  “Oh, Frodo, It calls me to ease you of Its burden, and I know that now I cannot.  Please forgive me for not doing so.”

Dedicated to Dreamflower and Harrowcat for their mutual question, and to Radbooks and Lindelea and Bodkin just cuz!

Merry Christmas, folks!

Longing

       “You are really leaving the Shire and won’t come back!” Faramir said one more time as he watched his father fasten his saddlebags to his pony’s back.  Pippin, without turning, nodded.  “But I don’t understand why, Da, why now?”

       Pippin turned back to his son.  “It is time, Farry.”

       “But why is it time now, Da?  Mum’s not been gone for all that long, and now I must lose you, too?”

       Pippin looked deeply into his son’s eyes, then away.  Faramir had been surprised at what he’d seen there, a deep longing for something he couldn’t understand.  He’d surprised hints of that in his father’s eyes in the past, when he and Goldilocks were married, when his father had held his first grandchild in his arms, and at very odd moments before that, usually after Pippin had been sitting, smoking his pipe, on a hilltop looking Westward.  Finally he hazarded a guess:  “Are you especially missing Uncle Frodo now?”

       His father gave a slight shrug.  “In part.”

       “But why now, Da?  He’s gone now beyond the West.”

       “I know, and Sam with him.”

       “Are you running away to die, the way he did?”  It was a cruel thing to say, and he knew it.  It was what so many had said of Frodo in the past how many years--that Frodo Baggins had been dying and had left that he not have a fussy funeral and then be forgotten.  Rather than that, the gossip ran, he’d ridden off with the Elves so he could leave those of his kin who still mistakenly loved and cared for him forever guessing as to whether he was yet alive or dead, avoiding the expense of funerals altogether and prolonging the grief.

       He saw the pain in his father’s eyes.  “I suppose you might say I’m doing just that, Faramir Took,” he finally answered, “although if I know Aragorn he will not spare expense on my funeral when it comes.”

       “Then you are going to Gondor.”

       “By way of Rohan--yes.”

       “And Uncle Merry’s going with you?”

       “Yes.  You saw the note--Éomer is dying and wishes his Holdwine at his side when the time comes.”

       “And neither of you will come back.”

       “No, Farry, we won’t come back.  Now you can either wish us well and let me remember you with love, or you can keep arguing, get a full quarrel going, and let me remember my last moments with you with regret at what we’ve both said!”

       “Why don’t you wish to die here and be laid by Mum, Da?”

       The frustration Pippin was feeling finally broke out.  “Because I’m restless, child!  Because ever since the quest I’ve been restless!  I came back here because I thought it was here I was restless for, but I was mistaken.  I’ve gone on extended travels elsewhere because I was restless, and I thought the travels would ease my soul, and it hasn’t.  I hear a gull crying, and I want to go West.  I want to stand on those white shores Frodo knew, lie under a greater White Tree than grows in Minas Tirith.  I want to hear the singing of the Great Elves in joy because they--and I--are where we belong!”  His pain could be seen by his son.  “I have the Sea Longing, Farry--that’s it, plainly and simply.  I’ve had it most of my life, and I can’t go and demand a place on one of the grey ships and relieve it.”

       “Why?”  It was such an un-Hobbit thing to feel.

       Pippin turned half away, shrugged.  Finally he spoke quietly.  “I must suppose it’s the lembas.”

       “Lembas?  You mean the Elven waybread?”

       “Yes.”

       “Why?”

      Pippin looked up into his son’s face again.  “The last time I was in Imladris I was speaking with Elrohir about--about how I feel, and how Merry feels, too; about the dreams that keep recurring, of waves on white shores, a shining city, rain curtains pulling away into the glory of dawn on a land where sunrise falls on the shore first.  He sent me back with a book, and I finally translated it--with considerable difficulty, I’ll have you know.  Sindarin is difficult enough; Quenya is near impossible for me to wrap my mind about.

       “It told about the sowing of the grain for lembas, of the harvesting, of the grinding to flour, the making of it.  All of it is done by those dedicated to Yavanna, the Vala of growth and harvest.  It is not only for those who travel, but for those who are sorely hurt, who must have strength to continue on, who are in grave danger. 

       “Strider and Legolas both looked on the packets of lembas the Elves in Lorien gave us with surprise, and last time we saw him I asked the King why.  He’d been raised by the Elves, after all, and had been in Lorien before.  Why would the packets of waybread placed in the boats surprise him?

        “He told me that that was the first time he’d ever  been allowed to eat any of it, although his brothers carried it with them whenever they went out on patrol or on raids on the orc strongholds they’d found.  The only time they would share it with mortals was when those mortals were plainly dying, and it appeared to ease their way.  When he asked them why, they told him it was perilous for mortals.

      “Yet we were given a sizable amount of the stuff.  Merry and I--we found from our first taste of it we craved it.  Aragorn put as much as he could of it in Sam and Frodo’s packs, and we couldn’t understand why.  I thought it was only because they were the oldest and most responsible and least likely to gobble it up just because it was there.  Now I think it was because his foresight showed him they would probably break away and go on alone, and would need it desperately.  It was all that kept Frodo alive, most of the time they were in Mordor.  Both said afterwards that it alone gave them the strength to go on.”

       He stopped again, and looked Westward.  “Lembas tends to make mortals have Elvish cravings, including waking the Sea Longing.  Aragorn admits he has bouts of it at times, and that he dreams of himself and Frodo and Sam wandering along the shores of Tol Eressëa, all of them singing with the Elves.

       “Merry and I had some in our pockets when we were taken by the Orcs, and perhaps it’s the only reason that after we ate it we didn’t feel particularly bad when we started exploring Fangorn.  It speeds healing, you see.  Merry had been in a rather bad way with the wound on his forehead before he ate it, although the orc draught helped heal that, too.  But the lembas helped at last to wash away the nastiness of the orc draught, made us feel cleaner where the orc draught just made us feel sick at heart and tainted.  After he ate the lembas Merry just never complained about his forehead again.”

       Faramir was looking at his father with surprise.  “You want to go to Elvenhome, Da?”

       “Yes, Farry, I do.  I want it more than I can say, and I can’t go.  Legolas can, and I suspect that when Aragorn and Gimli are both gone he will build his own grey ship there in Ithilien and sail it down the Anduin and out to sea until he finds the Straight Path.  And five will get you ten he’ll have lembas on the ship to tide him over until he arrives.  How he’s fought the Sea Longing this long I don’t know, for I’ve seen how strongly it would take him, there in Minas Tirith, standing on the great keel of rock above the city, looking down the Anduin to the Sea, listening to the gulls cry.”

       “But he’s to be allowed to take Gimli with him,” Faramir said.  “The King told me so, when he was North last time.  The Valar granted it the same time they granted it for Uncle Frodo and Uncle Sam.”

       Pippin’s expression lightened.  “They did?  Gimli gets to go, does he?”  He sighed.  “Well, at least one of us remaining will be allowed to follow Frodo and Sam all the way, then.”

       He called out, “Peringard, do you have the pack pony ready?”

        Peringard was Aunt Pearl’s oldest grandson, and loved working in the stables.  “Yes, Uncle Pippin,” he said from the back of the stable.  “Mum brought out one more blanket she insisted I find some way to add to the luggage.”  In a moment he came out leading a sturdy grey loaded with bundles and packs.

       “At least this time you’ll start out with all you need,” Farry said.

       “We started out with far more than we ended up with the first time,” Pippin sighed.  “Started losing it right there in the Old Forest, and didn’t quit losing things until we returned to Minas Tirith.”

       “You’re not planning on leaving that way, are you?” asked Faramir.

       “No, son--once was enough.”  He swung himself up into the saddle of his pony.  Actually, Roheryn had horse blood in his line, Farry knew, and was of both Rohirric and Dúnedain breeding as were many of the ponies both at the Great Smial and at Brandy Hall.  It was rumored that the King’s own horse after which Pippin’s current steed was named had been one of this ones forebears.

       Faramir walked alongside his father out to the gate in the stableyard and opened it, and for a moment they were still looking at one another.  Pippin looked down at his son, and finally spoke.  “You asked if I was missing Frodo, and I told you in part I am.  First time I left the Shire I was following Frodo, but in the end I couldn’t go all the way with him, although I certainly intended to.  Now I can’t go after him the way he went, either, but I’ll go to those who understand because they feel it, too.  It’s as far as I can go to follow him this time, until I die and I can finally see him again.  I wouldn’t do this while your mum was alive, any more than Sam would give in and go while Rosie was still here.  But I’m going.  And hopefully, there by the King and Queen, able to sit for a time beneath the White Tree there and able to listen to her and her brothers and Legolas sing, I’ll be at ease until it’s finally time for me to finish the journey, and find Frodo and Sam again.”

       Faramir nodded his understanding.  He reached up and gripped his father’s hand until at last they both realized it was indeed time.  Both withdrew the clasp together.  “I love you, Da,” Farry said.

       “Love you, Farry,” his da replied, smiling.  And as he rode away Pippin was singing the song he’d heard the Elves sing as they led the horses aboard the grey ship on which Frodo had sailed to Elvenhome.

Iridescence

            “They say it was brought from far away, to the East and far South of here,” Pippin said as he led them along the main way in the Fifth Circle.  “I’ve never seen anything of the kind before, you know.”

            “You say it’s something like a pheasant?” Merry asked, trying to clarify the idea of the bird in his mind.

            “Yes, but much, much larger.  And when it calls out, it sounds as if some lass has managed to get her hair caught in the chain for the well bucket.”

            “And how do you know as what that sounds like?” Sam probed, giving the King’s smallest guard a sidelong look.

            “I have three sisters, if you’ll remember,” Pippin pointed out.  “On the farm Pervinca was always doing that--leaning down to see the bucket hit the water and standing to find her curls were caught again.  Da finally removed the chain and put a rope on the bucket instead, it happened so often.”

            “I thought you had a pump in the kitchen at the farm,” Frodo commented.

            “Well, we did, for the kitchen.  But we didn’t have one outside for the garden, you know.  We had to haul buckets of water into the barn and the byres and to water Mum’s flowers and the vegetable plots.”  Pippin turned to lead them down a side street away from the Pelennor.  At the fifth house he stopped, motioning for the others to do the same.  Quietly he said, “It’s here, in this yard.”

            The wall was low, but was topped by a fence about five feet high made of bars of wrought iron with a top rail with spiky points at regular intervals.  Inside was an imposing house of three stories, its windows glazed with diamond panes, a columned portico before the grand front door.  Plainly this was the town estate for a wealthy merchant or possibly a lord of the realm.  The grounds before it were immaculately kept, as were the trees planted to shade its lower story from the morning Sun.

            The four Hobbits paused, watching through the fence.  Finally there was a movement toward their right, and three great birds came pacing around the corner of the house and ambled across the yard toward them.  Frodo straightened, for he’d never seen any bird so large in his life.  All three were almost as tall as he was, with crests on the tops of their heads.  The largest, plainly the male, dragged a tail behind him across the smooth lawn, as brilliant a blue-green as the feathers on its breast.  Frodo could hear Sam murmur, “Look at that, will you?” as he found himself already following the gardener’s suggestion.

            “They’re so big!” Merry exclaimed, his voice filled with awe. 

            As they came out from beneath the shade of the trees the two females paused, allowing the male to approach the wall.  He came closer, then paused a couple paces inside the fence, peering at those looking at him with the same interest they showed.  He paced slightly to the right, watching them with his near eye, then turned about and followed the line of the wall, examining them with the other one.  Then it turned back, deliberately strutting now, then paused and turned toward the Hobbits, opened its beak and gave a cry that had the four of them clutching at their ears, particularly Frodo, whose hearing had become far more sensitive since he was wounded at Amon Sul.  Having impressed its audience with its cry, the bird now lifted and spread its tail, and Frodo dropped his hands from his ears in astonishment.  The feathers spread into a great, iridescent fan sufficiently large to have been useful to a troll intent on cooling itself, he thought, remembering the three stone trolls they’d seen as they’d traveled to the Bruinen.  The bird seemed intent on showing every glorious, shining inch of himself, and it turned slowly first this way and then the other.

            “What’s it called?” asked Sam.

            “I don’t know,” Pippin admitted.  “But it’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

            Without thought Frodo pressed closer to the fence, and the bird did the same, each examining the other closely.  Frodo reflexively reached his hand through the bars, gently touched the sleek head.

            “And what do you boys think you’re doing?” asked a woman’s imperious voice from behind them, and all jumped and turned.

            It was hard to say which was more startled, the Hobbits or the woman who stood there before the armed footman and maidservant who attended on her.  These were, she realized belatedly, not boys after all, but the new King’s Pheriannath companions.

            “I’m sorry,” the slender Pherian with the dark curls said.  “We’d been told of your pets, and couldn’t credit the story without seeing them for ourselves.  None of us have seen such things elsewhere.  That is, they are yours, aren’t they?”

            “Yes,” the woman said, much mollified and even a bit embarrassed.  “You mustn’t try feeding them, by the way, for I find the boys of the circle will give them almost anything, and it’s caused no end of bother.  The cock here will accept anything offered to him, and we’ve almost lost him three times so far due to choking.”

            “Oh, we wouldn’t think of hurting your birds,” the one with the warm brown hair said.  “What are they called?”

            “Peacocks,” she explained.  “The cock is quite the most beautiful bird of which I’m aware.  They are from a far country to the East and South where some sailing merchants go to trade for spices.  My father had some of the feathers from the tail of one, and I’d always hoped perhaps to have one myself one day.  When my husband learned of a party going there he commissioned them to bring me back six of the birds.  The other male died not long after they were brought to me, for he swallowed something the boys gave him and it killed him.  One of the females didn’t survive the journey, and so I have but the one cock and three hens.  The other hen has a clutch of eggs in the coop in which they spend their nights.  I’m not certain how long it takes for them to hatch, and of course I’m not certain they’ll hatch after all.  But if they do we intend to gift a few to the King when they are older.”

            “Oh,” commented the one with the dark curls as he turned to look at them again.  “Aragorn would undoubtedly enjoy that.”  Again he reached through the bars and stroked the bird’s head, and the peacock closed its eyes and nuzzled against the Halfling’s hand.  When the taller Pherian with the auburn hair followed suit, however, the bird drew back, then threw back its head and again gave its shrill cry.  Immediately all seven clapped hands to their ears, and the woman could see the distress in the eyes of the one who’d caressed the bird.  When the peacock went still again he dropped his hands, rubbing at his left shoulder as he contemplated the cock, his brow slightly furrowed.  “Now,” he added, “I’m not certain he’d like that.”

            “Now it is my turn to apologize,” she answered.  “I had no idea when I received them their cries would be so loud and painful to hear.  But they do tend to deter those who like to climb over fences, for they will cry out when strangers enter the gates.”  She straightened courteously.  “I would like to make amends.  Would you honor me by being my guests and accepting some wine or juice?”

            The four of them looked to one another, and at last the one with the auburn curls answered for the rest, “The honor would be ours, Mistress.”

            The one with the curls of dark gold gave the one with auburn hair a reproachful look, but the one with dark hair said, “We’re not letting you out of it, Sam.  Don’t forget what Aragorn told you of your status here.  Now, come along.”  The one called Sam muttered something under his breath the other three obviously understood, for the dark-haired one gave him another meaningful look while the others smiled and even, in the case of the one with auburn hair, gave a light laugh. 

            The footman went forward to open the gate, and all entered in.  The peacocks walked along the path by them, the cock’s attention still fixed on the four Pheriannath, and particularly on the dark-haired one.

            “I am sorry,” the one with the warm brown hair said as they approached the door, “but we’ve not learned your name as yet, Mistress.”

            She flushed.  “I must beg your pardon again, small masters,” she replied.  “I am Elisien, wife of Valdamir son of Castigil, Master of the Merchant Adventurers’ Guild.”

            The four small ones had stopped in a group.  The dark haired one bowed first.  “Frodo Baggins of Hobbiton in the Shire, at your service, Mistress Elisien.”

            “Meriadoc Brandybuck of Buckland, at your service,” said the one with the brown hair.

            The one with auburn hair followed his friend in a deep bow.  “Peregrin Took of the Tooklands in the Westfarthing, at your service.”

            “Samwise Gamgee of Hobbiton at your service, Mistress,” finished the last, the broader halfling with the hair of dark gold.  His bow wasn’t quite as deep as those of the others, but was nevertheless graceful. 

            Mistress Elisien smiled down on them.  “Now that that is out of the way, do come in.”  The maidservant went forward to open the door for her mistress, curtseying as they passed her.  Elisien noted with surprise that as they entered each gave a small bow to the girl and thanked her for her courtesy, and the maid smiled warmly in response.  Elisien herself spoke to the girl, who once all were within hurried off toward the kitchen.

            The woman led the way from the entrance down a lofty passageway to a room at the back of the house, looking out into the back garden.  She saw that the eyes of all four lighted with pleasure, but particularly those of Masters Frodo and Samwise.  “Very nice,” Master Samwise said with obvious approval.  “It’s one of the first gardens as reminds me o’ home as I’ve seen yet, I must say.”

            “Yes, Sam, isn’t it?” commented Master Frodo, his eyes running hungrily over the flowers.  “More cozy than that of the Citadel, and far more beautiful than the one behind our guest house.”

            “Oh, that last is comin’ along,” Samwise answered him, “not that I expect it’ll ever be much this season.  I don’t suppose we’ll stay for the entire summer, do you think?”

            Master Meriadoc shook his head.  “I hope not, for our families must be fully worried about us by now, don’t you agree?  It’s truly about time we went home.”  He smiled.  “It reminds me of the Master’s private garden behind the Hall, don’t you think so, Frodo?”

            Frodo nodded, smiling gently.  “Yes.  I remember how much time we’d spend out there when you were small, Merry.”

            “Yes, before you went with Bilbo.”

            Master Peregrin considered it.  “Now that you mention it, you’re right.  I knew it reminded me of a place somewhere at home, but couldn’t think particularly what,” he said.  He glanced at Master Samwise.  “I bet you’re itching to get out there in it and find something to putter with, aren’t you?”

            Master Samwise straightened, offended.  “Now, that’s not quite it, Mister Pippin,” he said.  “I don’t putter in gardens--I work in ’em plain and simple.”

            “Oh, then you are a gardener in your own land, Master Samwise?” Elisien asked.

            “Yes, Mistress,” he answered.  “Been workin’ in gardens since I was a little one, alongside my dad.”

            “And none in the Shire is better,” Master Frodo added, a look of pride on his face.  He looked back out at the garden outside the window, and again she could see the raw hunger for such beauty there in his pale face.  There was something else there, too, in his gaze--homesickness, she realized.  All four were homesick, but especially this one.  The others stood about him protectively, Meriadoc with his hand on Frodo’s left shoulder, Samwise with his on the right one, Peregrin just where he could see Frodo’s face out of the corner of his eye.

            “Would you like to sit out in it for your drink?” Mistress Elisien asked them.

            The pleasure could so easily be seen in the eyes of the eyes of each of them.  “Could we?” breathed Master Frodo.  “Oh, that would be so pleasant.”

            They’d barely spared a look at the appointments of this back parlor, but she found she didn’t mind as she brought them out of it to the doors that opened on the rear garden and to the circle of chairs about a metal table there on a small pavement of stone blocks set in a sunburst pattern.  The others steered Frodo to a seat first, where he sat rather heavily for one his size before the others each chose one for himself, Meriadoc again on one side and Samwise on the other, and Peregrin where he could keep an eye on him.  Elisien sat herself across from him, grateful the table and chairs were as low as they were.  From within the house she heard a cheerful clatter down the stairs.  “Oh, dear,” she said.  “The children have realized that I’m home, and will be down here in but a moment to overwhelm us, you’ll find.  I hope you don’t mind children.”

            “Oh, don’t worry for us,” said Master Meriadoc.  “Frodo here’s a past hand at dealing with children.  After all, he’s cared for each of us and our countless cousins and Pippin’s and Sam’s sisters over the years, not to mention the children that flock about him to hear his stories when he walks into Hobbiton and Bywater.”

            She smiled.  “Valdamir and I had this table put here for ours.  We have four,” she added, perhaps unnecessarily as the four in question burst out of the house, all eager to speak with her, only to come to an abrupt halt as they looked on their mother’s guests.

            The oldest had the coltish looks of a lad in early adolescence, and promised to be tall when his full growth was reached.  His dark hair was falling across his eyes, which were bright with interest and surprise as he examined the four about the table.  The next was a lass, with hair as dark as that of her brother and mother, and alert brown eyes, a book carried in her hands.  The third was a younger lass still with the roundness of childhood about her, perhaps up to the shoulders of the Halflings were they to stand.  She held a doll, obviously much loved, protectively in her arms.  The smallest was another lad, not as tall as his next older sister, who wore a wooden sword at his belt and an open helm on his head.  “Nana,” he said, after looking at the guests, “did you bring children for us to play with?”

            Master Frodo laughed, a clear, sweet laugh that filled the garden, and both Meriadoc and Peregrin laughed with him, while Samwise gave a low chuckle and shook his head.  “I very much fear,” Frodo said at last, “that the four of us left childhood a time ago, although I’ll admit that Pippin there is not quite of age yet.”

            “Well, I’m far closer to being of age,” said Peregrin, “than I am to being a child.”  He gave an ostentatious sigh as he turned to the older lad.  “Now, you don’t have intentions of standing me on my head, do you, as did the last lad I met here in Minas Tirith?”

            Frodo looked at him with surprise.  “Tergil would never suggest such a thing, surely?”

            “Not Tergil--Beregond’s son Bergil, Frodo.  When I was first sworn to Lord Denethor’s service Beregond told me where Bergil was staying in the Street of Lampwrights in the lower city, and first thing he was offering to do just that.  Definitely a Guardsman’s son, that one.”

            “He’d be so discourteous to one he’d but met?” asked Mistress Elisien’s oldest child.  “No, I’d not do so.  Then you are the Ernil i Pheriannath?”

            Peregrin rose and again gave a low and courtly bow.  “Peregrin Took at your service,” he said again, “although most just call me Pippin.”

            “But that’s but an apple,” objected the older daughter.  “My name’s Arniel, and that’s Valdarion--” pointing to her older brother, “--that’s Meliseth, and that’s our little brother Hirgon, who wants to be a Guardsman when he grows up.”

            Frodo looked to the little boy.  “Were you named for Lord Hirgon, then?” he asked.

            “He’s our ada’s cousin,” the child answered, nodding.  “Are you really a prince of the Halflings?” he asked Pippin.

            Frodo shook his head as he answered for his friend.  “No, Pippin isn’t a prince, although he is the Thain’s heir, for what that’s worth.  And Merry there,” with a nod toward Master Meriadoc, “will follow his father as Master of Buckland and the Marish one day.”

            Small Hirgon suddenly glowed with triumph.  “But you two have swords,” he said, turning to where Pippin still stood, the hilt of Troll’s Bane at his hip.

            Pippin’s face went solemn.  “Yes, I do, but I’ll assure you they’re not for play.”

            “Do you serve in the armies of your people?” Arniel asked him.

            Pippin sat back down, arranging his sword as he sat.  “We don’t exactly have armies in the Shire,” he said, “for which we’re all very grateful.  Now we do have a militia of sorts, I suppose, in the Tooklands, for most of our menfolk are expected to use a bow in case of need.  But we’d not gone to war since the days of Arvedui Last-King when Bucca of the Marish led a troop of archers to the King’s support in the war against the forces of the Witch King of Angmar.”  Both Meriadoc and Frodo visibly shuddered when that name was uttered, Mistress Elisien realized, and stories of what these four had reportedly done in the war against Sauron suddenly were brought to mind.

            The children looked at one another.  “But the last king wasn’t Arvedui,” objected Valdarion.  “It was Eärnur.”

            It was Frodo who answered, his face notably paler and a bit sad.  “Eärnur was last king here in Gondor,” he said quietly, “but in the North Kingdom our last king before Aragorn was Arvedui, who married Fíriel, daughter of Ondoher, reuniting the lines of Isildur and Anárion once more.  And so it is that Aragorn is able to claim both the Winged Crown and the Sceptre of Annúminas, for he is the last heir to both North and South.”

            The children were gathering near to the chair in which the dark haired Pherian sat.  “Will you tell us about Arvedui?” asked Meliseth.

            Frodo shared a look with his hostess as the maid and another came out carrying trays of drinks and cakes and fruit.  “If you wish it,” he said, gently.  “It’s a sad story, though.  Much of it I learned as a child, and more from Aragorn and Lord Elrond while we waited in Rivendell for word it was safe to go on with our journey.  But Bucca left a bit of a record of his part of it in the archives in the Great Smial, and my Uncle Bilbo read it when he would visit there.”

            The maids quietly served their mistress’s guests, then stood aside as Frodo began his story, telling how word came that Angmar was coming South into Eriador proper to assault the King’s city on the shores of Lake Evendim, how Arvedui’s folk were eventually forced to flee Southward toward the Shire, how Bucca and his brother led forth a troop of archers but only Bucca returned again to the Shire to become Thain.

            “Our people couldn’t hide the Men of Arvedui in our holes,” he explained as the story unfolded, “but we could aid them to go by hidden ways to the Western Marches and beyond to the safety of Mithlond and what remained of Lindor.  His wife and his remaining heir went that way, until the day finally arrived that Eärnur led reinforcements to the aid of Arnor, and Angmar was at last defeated and it’s fell lord fled back South to Mordor, where he hid in Minas Morgul until Eärnur answered his challenge and disappeared into the dark vale.”  He now stopped, his face still and solemn.

            Throughout the children and the Pheriannath ate and drank, although Frodo did less so than his fellows.  He now took up the glass before him and drank deeply from it.  It was then that it could clearly be seen he had lost the ring finger on his right hand, and Elisien understood which one this was.  Elisien realized that the food was all gone, and signed the two maids to come near, sent them off to fetch more, for she could see how Frodo had realized he’d had barely any of its bounty while he’d talked and that he was hungry.

            “Do you really know the King?” asked Arniel.

            “Oh, yes, we do,” Pippin assured her.  “You can’t travel as far with a Man as we did with Aragorn and not know him somewhat, at least.”

            “How did you meet him?”

            And again Frodo was prevailed upon to tell the story.

            The maids returned in record time, and Elisien realized the trays had been hastily refilled this time in the eagerness the two had to come again to hear what was next.

            The peacocks had found them now, and the two hens settled down near Lord Frodo’s chair while the cock walked back and forth about it as if on guard for the Ringbearer, now and then pausing to display his glorious tail with its multitude of eyes upon it.

            The children laughed as the meeting with the ragged wanderer Strider was told, and as he offered to serve as their guide.  But as Frodo explained how as they spoke the mysterious Ranger straightened to his full height and dignity, how his voice changed, how his authority could be more clearly discerned and the Light of Stars could finally be seen about him they grew quiet and respectful.

            “And now he’s our King,” Valdarion said quietly when the tale was done.

            “Yes,” Frodo agreed as he drank from his glass again and took up one of the cakes that this time Master Samwise had seen to it made their way onto the plate set before him.  He ate and drank some more, and at last looked up at the lie of the shadows across the garden.  “We must go now,” he said quietly.  “Thank you again for your courtesy and hospitality, my lady, children,” he said, rising and bowing deeply.  “And thank you for allowing us to see your beautiful birds,” he added as the cock rubbed itself against his maimed hand.  He stroked it gently.

            At that moment there was a flurry from an area fenced with wire mesh further down the way, and soon the third peahen emerged, proudly, watchfully leading a small brood forth for their first foray into the gardens of their home.  All stood quite still as the hen and eight chicks came near.  Spots of color could be seen on the fair cheeks of the Pherian as he watched them come, delighted.  “Oh,” he said gently, “oh, how wonderful!”  He looked up to Mistress Elisien’s eyes.  “It appears that the eggs were fertile after all,” he said.  “Such hope for continued beauty they are.”

            Valdarion went to a covered pot nearby and lifted its lid, took out a handful of cracked grain, and scattered it for the peacocks, at which all came rushing round to share in the bounty.  He reached in a second time and brought a handful of it to Frodo, who took it in the palm of his right hand then knelt gracefully to hold that hand out until four of the eight chicks crowded about it, taking the grain greedily.  Again they could all see the place where a finger was missing.

            At last all was gone and again he rose, somewhat reluctantly, wiping his hand on his trousers.  “Thank you,” he said, “thank you so very much for adding to the beauty of the day.”  He nodded to the others, and Samwise came near as if to offer the support of his shoulder if it was needed.  Frodo gave a smile and the slightest of shakes to his head, and they turned to leave.

            Now Elisien and the children escorted them around the house to the trees at the front, further escorted by the peacock and the two hens who remained yet chickless.

            “You stay in the Citadel?” Elisien asked.

            “No--we of the Fellowship have been granted a guest house in the Sixth Circle, on Isil Lane,” Frodo said.  “It’s a fair place, and quite comfortable, but not home if you understand.”

            “You look to return to your own place soon?” the woman asked.

            “Aragorn wishes us to remain for something, although we’re not certain just what,” Pippin explained.

            “It’s his hope, it is,” Sam said solemnly.  “Whatever his hope is, we’re waitin’ for that to come to him afore he’ll let us to go home.  And at this point I’m full ready, I must say.”

            “Where your own hope awaits you,” Frodo said, his eyes lighting for his friend.  Samwise blushed and the others gave soft laughs.

            “Rosie’d wait to the end of Arda for you, Samwise Gamgee,” teased Meriadoc.

            “Well, next time you’re homesick for your own gardens, do feel free to visit again,” Elisien said as Valdarion stepped forward to open the gate.

            “Wait!” Arniel said.  “Just a moment.  I have something for you!”  And she turned to gallop back to the house, threw open the front door, and disappeared inside.  All watched after her curiously.

            In moments she returned again, carrying with her a bunch of feathers from the peacock’s tail.  Smiling with accomplishment she swiftly gave one each to Pippin, Meriadoc, and Sam, and then thrust the rest at Frodo.  “I know how beautiful you find them,” she said.  “We have lots, after all.  Take them and be welcome.”

            All could see the look of pleasure on Frodo’s face as he accepted the gift, his pale cheeks now pink with the unexpected joy of possessing such things.  He looked from the feathers to Elisien’s face and the faces of her children.  “Thank you again,” he said falteringly as he saw the gift confirmed by all of them.  “Oh, I do thank you so.”

            The four Pheriannath bowed deeply, and turned to Valdarion, who opened the gate to allow them to go.  But at the last moment Meliseth reached forward to hug Frodo.  “I wish you could stay here forever,” she said, “forever and ever, here in the garden with the peacocks about you, here where you could have beauty always there for you.”

            Frodo looked startled.  Finally he reached down to tip her face up so she could look into his.  “I’ll never forget the beauty of this day,” he said, “and I’ll carry these to remember it with,” he added, indicating the feathers.  “Thank you so for your wish.  But wherever Sam cultivates his garden, that’s home and full beauty for me.”

            He leaned forward to kiss her hair, then pulled back, and with mutual nods the four of them turned to go back the way they came.

*******

            The day came when the Lady Arwen arrived from Imladris to marry the King, and on that day the family of Valdamir and Elisien saw them again during the evening procession back up through the city.  Many stepped forward to offer flowers and greenery to those who took part in that procession; the family of Valdamir gave each they could reach flowers and a brilliantly colored feather.

            And among the wedding gifts to King and Queen were a pair of young peacocks.

In Memorium

        Dawn broke over the distant Ephel Duath, there on the East side of the River Anduin.  Ruvemir son of Mardil left his house in the Sixth Circle, the guest house where once four Hobbits, an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Wizard dwelt for a season, until the time came for each to depart to his own place once more.  He was thinking on that as he headed for the ramp up to the level of the Citadel, on how in so many ways he had followed the footsteps of the Ringbearer and his companions through the wilderness and the twists of this city.

        It was March 25^th, the anniversary of the day on which Sauron was cast down so many years past.  Today at noon there would be the customary ceremonies before the memorial to the four Pheriannath who had come from their small, fertile land far to the West and North, bringing out of it the Enemy’s Ring to Its destruction, going from danger to danger, little understanding just what it was they did until all was almost done.  And among the four of them far more was accomplished than any had ever dreamed of foreseeing—Saruman unmasked and deprived of power and authority, the Witch-king of Angmar destroyed on the Field of the Pelennor, a great troll slain and the lives of many Men saved before the Black Gate, and the great Ring of Power at last brought back to the place of Its making so that in the end It might be unmade and the tyranny of Mordor overthrown.

        Once he had reached the top of the ramp the mannikin sculptor turned toward the end of the keel of rock that reached out from the flank of Mount Mindoluin toward the East.  He was not the first, he realized; the King and Queen were before him, guarded this morning by Lord Eregiel, Thain Peregrin Took standing beside his liege on one side, Master Bard Faralion beyond their Lady Queen, all singing to greet the dawn.

        He recognized the words sung this day—not the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers this time, but the song sung by Samwise Gamgee as he fought off despair, having searched through the orc tower vainly for his beloved master.

        "In western lands beneath the Sun

         the flowers may bloom in spring,

         the trees may bud, the waters run,

         the merry finches sing.”

Ruvemir moved to join the others, adding his own voice to the song.

        “Or maybe there ’tis cloudless night,

         and swaying beeches bear

        the Elven stars as jewels white

        amidst their branching hair.”

        Others were coming now, converging on this spot to join the singing.  He could hear Gimli’s rumble, Legolas’s clear tones, Hardorn’s rarely heard voice, Pando Proudfoot’s singing.

        “Though here at journey’s end I lie,

         in darkness buried deep,

        beyond all towers strong and high,

        beyond all mountains steep,

        above all shadows rides the Sun

        and stars forever dwell. 

        I will not say that day is done,

        nor bid the stars farewell.”

        All stood and looked Eastward, where once two small Hobbits had travailed, persistent, stubbornly clinging to life and purpose when all stronger folk would have gladly laid themselves down and died, bringing triumph out of near destruction.

        At last the King spoke, his eyes focused on what had been the Enemy’s stronghold, the place of torture and near-death for the one he thought of as his small brother.  “Eglerio, Frodo, Samwise.  Eglerio; a laita te.  I praise you with great praise.”

        Ruvemir smiled as he joined the rest in a deep bow Eastward, then as they turned West and bowed again.

         For the Ringbearer, he thought, smiling.

Ernil i Pheriannath

       "Look, Naneth," Andrien said suddenly, "It’s the Ernil i Pheriannath!"

       Mistress Lindirieth looked the way indicated by her daughter, and sure enough there walked the Pherian in question dressed in his uniform as a Guard of the Citadel, the black and silver of his surcoat appearing odd on one so small. "I see him, dear heart," she responded.

       "Is he truly the prince of the Halflings, do you think? And did he truly offer the services of the men of his people to the needs of Gondor?" the younger lady wondered.

       "I have no true idea," her mother answered. "After all, we’ve seen only the four since we returned from the place of refuge and the army returned from the Black Gate. But certainly it is a great honor to have such a one swear service to Gondor as this one has."

       The Ernil i Pheriannath, they realized, was not alone. Behind him walked a Dwarf with his russet hair and beard braided with golden ribbons and finished with elaborately wrought gold beads, Lord Elphir of Dol Amroth, a captain from among the forces of Rohan, one of the northern Dúnedain warriors wrapped in a stained green cloak, and the remaining three Pheriannath, the group followed by a personal guard in the blue and silver of Imrahil’s service and a Rider from Rohan in green and golden brown over silver mail, apparently attendant on the captain from among his people.

       The attention of the two ladies of Gondor, however, was now on the three Pheriannath who walked with Prince Elphir and the others. These three were dressed in what must be the clothing of their own folk, in trousers, open jackets and a second, shorter garment over cream-colored shirts with embroidered collars, and no shoes on their hairy feet. Almost like children did they appear, save no child looked precisely as the faces of these did. The taller one with the curls of warm brown said something to which the others responded with amusement, the Dwarf guffawing, the Pherian with hair of dark gold chuckling throatily, the three Men laughing openly, and the Pherian with the dark curls smiling as he rubbed absently at his left shoulder. It was the closest any in Mistress Lindirieth’s family had seen any of the Halflings, for they’d watched the coronation of their new King from the city walls behind their home in the Third Circle, and the procession of the King’s party up through the city from the upper story of their house. Then the Ernil i Pheriannath had walked before the King as guard of honor, followed by two others of the Pheriannath on ponies, the fourth Halfling walking as guard to Éomer King of Rohan. Lindirieth wasn’t certain which was which as she looked on them now, and had only the vaguest sense of what had been done by them. It was said that two of them had walked openly through Mordor itself to throw down the Black Tower, although she found the tale that they’d done so by carrying the Enemy’s Ring to Orodruin itself barely credible.

       The party from the Citadel was headed for the Lady’s Garden, apparently for the noon meal, as were Lindirieth and her daughter. The broad one with the dark gold curls looked up at Lord Elphir and asked, "You say as they make good egg dishes here?"

       "They are famous for them, and for their sliced cold meats and vegetables between bread rolls. I believe you and Lord Frodo will be well impressed. And the light ale they serve is excellent."

       The Halfling who’d spoken flushed and cast a quick glance at the one with the dark hair, whose pale face had spots of pink on his cheeks. "Master Frodo if you must give me a title of any sort, please, Lord Elphir," the one with dark curls instructed him.

       Lord Elphir looked at the older northern Dúnedain warrior in question, and that one gave a slight shrug. He looked back to the Pherian again and gave a small bow. "I stand corrected, small Master," he said, obviously amused. "Please forgive me the impropriety."

       The cheeks of the one with dark curls grew a bit pinker, but he simply gave a slight nod and turned to examine the eating establishment with interest before he followed the Ernil i Pheriannath and the Dwarf inside. Lindirieth and Andrien followed them, and after a few moments were shown to a small table on the eating terrace on the far side of the building where they could look down on the Pelennor. Their table was close by that at which the Pheriannath and their companions now sat.

       The one called Frodo sat opposite them with the one with dark gold hair beside him on his left and the northern Dúnadan on his right. The one with hair of warm brown sat on the end of the table opposite the Dwarf, while Lord Elphir and the Rider from Rohan sat with their backs to mother and daughter. "The chairs aren’t too low, are they?" the tall warrior was asking the Halflings.

       The two guards sat at a nearby table alongside the Ernil i Pheriannath, the three of them watchful for possible dangers to those at the table with the other Pheriannath. Lindirieth knew that both Lords Boromir and Faramir had served for a time in the Guard of the Citadel and had stood duty by their father and other notables visiting the city; that the Prince of the Halflings should serve the same duty seemed both right and proper. The Halflings apparently knew that the sons of their rulers must learn to serve their folk from within the ranks. Lindirieth approved of the sense shown in this.

       One of the servers approached the table for the mixed group, and soon had his tablet full. A single mug of light ale was brought to each of those on guard, although they took it in turn to drink.

       Once those at the main table had been served their drinks and the server was gone, the one known as Frodo gave the Man in the green cloak an inquisitive look. "They are almost fawning over the three of us, Strider; but although they are courteous enough to you they barely give you a second glance."

       "It’s the northern Ranger garb, I think," Lord Elphir commented. "Had he worn anything else I suspect they’d have been falling all over themselves seeking to serve him."

       "Yet our Lord Éomer found him worshipful enough in such garb from the time we almost rode over the three of them in the tall grass of our land," the Rider interjected, eyeing the Northerner carefully. "There he was no better dressed than now—indeed he was in need of a sound washing."

       The tallest of the three laughed. "I have little patience with witless service, as you should have learned by now. And to be the focus of attention at all times becomes wearing, as you well know, Frodo. I’m happy enough to see you get the respect you deserve."

       "Deserve? And for what? I was born with no status to speak of—merely a Hobbit of the Shire. Certainly growing up just another dependent relative of the Master’s in Brandy Hall prepared me for no place in the leadership of any land, much less my own. That so many have tried to make me more than I am is outright embarrassing."

       Lord Elphir smiled at the Halfling. "It is not by virtue of birth that any seek to honor you, Master Frodo, but by the great expression of personal responsibility displayed by you. Too many born to great houses show little or no sign of appreciation for the fact that in the case of those to whom much has been given much is expected in return. You appear to know this instinctively, and this must be part of the reason your kinsman raised you to the status of his heir."

       The pink spots on Frodo’s cheeks were once more brightening in color as he rubbed again at his shoulder. "And what did that confer on me, other than the ownership of Bag End when Bilbo left? Yes, he made me also the Baggins family head, but considering how few Hobbits of the name there are left, that’s nothing to brag about."

       The one with the dark gold hair snorted. "As if Will Whitfoot hadn’t been tryin’ to get you into the Mayor’s office for the last two terms."

       Lord Elphir asked, "And what is it the Mayor does for the Shire?"

       Frodo looked from the one of his fellows to the other, shrugging. "Not a great deal, I suppose. The Mayor officiates at banquets, is one of those who performs weddings, oversees the filing of legal papers, opens the Free Fair."

       The Northerner smiled. "While Sir Meriadoc there will be Master of Buckland one day, and Captain Peregrin is the Thain’s heir."

       "Which mean what?"

       Sir Meriadoc looked at Frodo. "You tell it—you explain better than I do."

       Frodo sighed, then looked back to the heir to the lord of Dol Amroth. "The Thain is the traditional leader of the Shire, while the Master is the leader of Buckland. The Thain has served in the stead of the King since the days of Arvedui Last-king, and is expected to serve as the liaison between the folk of the Shire and the King if the King ever returns, which I must admit is never expected to happen at this point in time. When we return with the news there is again a King over Arnor and thus over the Shire as well, there will be very few who will believe us—or at least not at first. It’s going to take a good deal of convincing to get most in the Shire to accept that there is indeed a King over Arnor, much less that he’s King of Gondor as well. In fact, the number of Hobbits who are aware there is such a place as Gondor is very limited."

       "And is the Thain not the ruler of Buckland as well?"

      Frodo and Sir Meriadoc shared another look before Frodo explained, "The status of Buckland is somewhat difficult to describe. King Argeleb the Second gave our folk title to the lands we hold west of the Brandywine River, where most of our people live. But centuries ago the Oldbucks, even then a numerous family, decided to develop their own territory, and settled the abandoned lands east of the Brandywine between the river and the Old Forest. They changed their family name from Oldbuck to Brandybuck, and called the lands they claimed Buckland. Buckland isn’t specifically a part of the Shire, and yet it is at the same time. The Master of Buckland has over time come to also lead the section of the East Farthing along the west bank of the Brandywine known as the Marish, one of the most fertile farmlands in all of the Shire.

       "The Thain and the Master have always been allied. The Thain holds more status than the Master, although he holds little direct authority over those lands the Master has come to head. I must assume it is somewhat similar to the relationship between the Prince of Dol Amroth and the King or Steward of Gondor. Thain, Master, and Mayor are the most influential individuals in all our lands."

       "It works well enough for the governance of the Shire," grunted the Dwarf. "Our folk have ever traveled through the Shire going east and west, and have always got along well enough with the Master’s folk and the Thain’s people, not to mention the common Hobbits throughout the land. That the current Master is married to the Thain’s sister perhaps helps matters at this time. Both Merry and Pippin are descended from the Old Took, as are both Bilbo Baggins and Frodo himself. The Bagginses used to be a prominent family; but with most of the children of the name being born daughters in the last few generations it has diminished markedly since Bilbo traveled abroad with my father and Thorin Oakenshield. My kinsman Dorlin son of Dwalin has met Thain Paladin and holds a great deal of respect for the leadership he’s shown; and those of my folk who’ve sold tools at the Free Fair have had only good to say about Mayor Whitfoot."

       The one called Sir Meriadoc was nodding. "The first Thain was Bucca of the Marish, one of the ancestors to both the Brandybucks and the Tooks, who accepted the title when he led a troop of archers out to the support of Arvedui Last-king and was the only one of them to return. The forces of Angmar destroyed the rest. Bucca reportedly spent some time with King Arvedui before they marched out to the defense of Arnor; he was evacuated with the survivors of the King’s forces, his wife, and his surviving son to Mithlond and saw the arrival of Eärnur’s fleet from Gondor. Once the army of Angmar was broken and the—the Witch-king fled south to Mordor, Bucca at last returned to the Shire." There was the slightest of hesitations before he named the Witch-king of Angmar, and both he and Master Frodo paled a bit.

       He continued, "The Thainship passed in time into the Took family, and there it’s remained ever since, not that my family has ever regretted that. We’re happy enough to let the Tooks get on with providing the Thains. Great-grandfather Gerontius, whom we call the Old Took, made a fine Thain, although Cousin Ferumbras, who preceded Uncle Paladin, was often resented, although that’s perhaps mostly due to the dislike most felt toward his mother Lalia. Cousin Lalia did her best to hold all power to herself as the Dowager Took and widow of Thain Fortinbras the Second. I remember when she finally died and how much relief all appeared to feel, even if Pearl bore the brunt of a good deal of gossip afterwards."

       Master Frodo spoke next. "At this point my main claim to fame within the Shire rests on my being first cousin to the Master and second cousin to the Thain—and adopted heir to Old Mad Baggins as they commonly refer to my Uncle Bilbo. Although, strictly speaking Bilbo isn’t my uncle—he’s really my first cousin once removed on my mother’s side and second cousin once removed on my father’s. But he decided he’d far rather see me as Master of Bag End and family head to the Bagginses than his closer cousins Otho or Lotho, so he adopted me when I was still a lad. He was quite close with my father, and I know both Dad and Mum thought the world of him. I remember how we’d visit when I was quite small, before Mum refused to allow herself or me to be subjected to Cousin Lobelia’s poisonous tongue any more. He’d visit us often when we lived in Buckland and then in the Eastfarthing. After my parents’ deaths the idea of his visits probably kept me from losing myself completely. I know I wasn’t alone, but I still often felt so isolated, even surrounded as I was by our Brandybuck relations there in Brandy Hall. Oh, I loved Merry here as if he were my own younger brother; but it certainly wasn’t the same as having my real family by me. I know I was quite a trial on Uncle Rory and on Merry’s parents, who fostered me until Bilbo took me back to Hobbiton and adopted me."

       "They still think of you as primarily theirs, you know," Sir Meriadoc said.

       "Oh, yes, I know," Frodo sighed, "and certainly your mum is the closest I have had to a mother since my own died. I love her for it, but can’t ever put my own out of my mind."

       "Bilbo certainly never gave over his love and pride for you," the Northerner said.

       "Bless him for it," Frodo said, smiling. "And you know how much I love him in return."

       At that moment a uniformed Guard of the Citadel emerged from the building and approached the table at which the three serving as personal guards sat. The Ernil i Pheriannath rose as he approached, and the two exchanged salutes. "I thank you, Captain Peregrin," the Man said, "for extending your duty until I could finish my own business before relieving you."

       "It was my honor," the Halfling responded.

       "Good, for now you can join us," the Northerner commented. "Bring your ale." He turned to the server who approached with plates for those preparing to eat. "The Ernil i Pheriannath will be joining our table as his duty is now over. If you could see to accepting his order and serving him as rapidly as possible that he not sit and wait too long watching the rest of us eat, we would appreciate it. Hobbits don’t take such situations well."

       "Oh, my lord, but it is our great honor," the server answered him. He turned to where Captain Peregrin now sat himself in the empty chair between the captain from Rohan and the Dwarf and described those dishes that could be most quickly prepared, and the Halfling gave his order and then lifted his cup of ale.

       "I find I like these mugs intended for Men," he commented as he took a deep pull. "They certainly cut the number of refills required considerably."

       "It’s not as if they were new to you," the Northerner said thoughtfully. "You were happy enough to drink from Men’s mugs in Bree and Edoras."

       "But of course! Men’s mugs are wonderful, although we find your plates rather small."

       "Small?" asked Lord Elphir.

       "Oh, yes, definitely on the small side. If you hadn’t realized it as yet, we Hobbits take our meals very seriously—seriously and often."

       "Hobbits can out-eat even Dwarves," the Dwarf laughed.

       "Well, if I’m to be Thain one day I ought to try to look as substantial as I can. After all, it’s expected of me!"

       "Not that your father is the least bit heavy," observed Frodo.

       "That’s because of the years in Whitwell," Captain Peregrin answered. "But I can at least aspire to follow the example of Will Whitfoot. Now there is a Hobbit who looks every inch—and pound—a Hobbit."

       "You allow yourself to get into Fredegar Bolger’s shape and I shall be forced to speak with your mother," Merry said acidly. "I refuse to set out to carouse with a cousin who looks as if he was intended to be kicked around a playing field. Aunt Lanti will listen to me, you know."

       "You wouldn’t!"

       "You know full well I would, cousin. I doubt, however, you’re in much danger of such an event. You’re too active to put on that kind of weight."

       Captain Peregrin looked down on himself, and his voice sounded truly mournful as he examined his figure. "If you’re certain I’ll remain as slender as my da and Frodo…."

       "I certainly hope you don’t ever become as slender as me," Frodo said, shaking his head. "I’ve always been too thin, and am now absolutely stick-like."

       "Slenderness isn’t admired amongst Halflings?" asked Lord Elphir.

       "Not in most Hobbits," the one with dark gold hair said. "Not that any of the lasses has ever been put off admirin’ Mr. Frodo here by reason of his build."

       "You see," Captain Peregrin explained after taking another drink from his mug, "Sam here has what most consider the proper build for a Hobbit. Frodo, Merry and me, descended from the Old Took as we are, all appear to be more slender than the average, although I must say that Frodo’s always taken the idea of slenderness a good deal further than the rest of those of us descended from Great-grandfather Gerontius. Now, he’d begun to finally put on weight before we left the Shire, but has lost a good deal ever since. As Sam has said, however, that’s never deterred the lasses any. Most of the lasses appear to find his slenderness just another thing to admire, and a good many of them hope to be the one to feed him up to a more respectable weight."

      "Not that such a thing will apparently ever be possible now," muttered Frodo darkly. "I’m personally tired of not being able to eat as well as a Hobbit ought to be able to do."

       "Certainly you are handsome enough by the standards of any folk of which I have knowledge," the captain from Rohan said, pausing in the enjoyment of his roll stuffed with greens and sliced pork. "And according to both Sir Pippin and Lord Samwise here you’ve been regularly admired by the women of your folk in the past. Do you think this will change in the future?"

       "It certainly won’t change for Narcissa Boffin, Frodo," commented Sir Meriadoc.

       "That it won’t," agreed the one identified as Sam. "She’s rather like my Rosie—has known about all her life as Frodo’s the one she’s wanted, and won’t be put off on anyone else, if you take my meanin’."

       "You’re certain they aren’t related?" asked Captain Peregrin. "Although I must say Narcissa’s been far more constant than my sister Pearl, for which I’m grateful. Not that Pearl went wrong marrying our cousin Isumbard, mind you."

       "And fine children the two of them have produced, Bard and Pearl," added Sir Meriadoc. "Pansy is a lovely lass, and young Brand is absolutely a joy."

       Captain Peregrin gave Frodo an evaluative look. "I find myself trying to imagine what kind of children Pearl might have had if she’d indeed married you, Frodo. I suspect they’d have shown a good deal more curiosity than Pansy ever has, although I doubt they could outdo Brand for questions."

       "The quality of the questions would perhaps have been different," Sir Meriadoc agreed. "But everyone who remembers him as a child insists that there was never anyone like Frodo for asking questions and then demanding honest answers. Dad always said trying to find a proper tutor for him was a challenge, for with all of his reading of the books Bilbo sent to him and Brandy Hall in general Frodo often knew far more than those who would have liked to think themselves his teachers. It’s undoubtedly for the best he went with Bilbo after all, for Bilbo had more resources to help in answering Frodo’s questions than anyone else in the Shire."

       "Mostly Bilbo taught me how to find the answers I desired to know myself, either by devising tests to find out in matters of natural history or in using techniques to search his library for other questions—when he didn’t suggest I think of the one person I could ask who’d most likely know the answer," Frodo said. He sighed. "I’d always hoped to prove as good a teacher for my own children as Bilbo was for me—and then who is it I ended up teaching in the end? Only a group of miscreant younger cousins!"

       "Meaning us, Fatty, Folco, and Berilac, I must assume?" asked Captain Peregrin.

       Frodo laughed briefly as the server came with the meal for the Ernil i Pheriannath. "You lot were the Creator’s revenge on me for my misspent youth," he said. "I know I tried the patience of your parents and Uncle Rory and Aunt Gilda the years I spent running wild throughout the farms of the Marish with the other lads from the Hall, Merry."

       Lindirieth found herself examining what she could see of Master Frodo. He was indeed slight in build compared with the other Halflings, and his age compared to them was difficult to gauge. His features were very fine and as youthful as were those of the others—if not more so, she thought. Yet she could see fine lines about the eyes and mouth that spoke of a hidden maturity and painful experiences, and noted a sense of restlessness about him. He lifted his mug, and she realized he was missing a finger on his right hand. He winced as he set the mug back down on the table, and the Man at his side was immediately reaching to take his hand and to massage it briefly before Frodo’s face appeared relieved and he gently pulled it away with a soft "Thanks, Strider."

       Those at the next table now became quietly attentive to their meal, and remained so for some moments until another Guard from the Citadel bustled out onto the terrace from the building and approached the table, bowing respectfully before stepping to the Northerner and speaking quietly into his ear. There was a whispered interchange between the two Men before the seated Dúnadan gave a nod and a sigh, then said more loudly, "Then of course I shall come at once. Go and advise them of that, please." The Guard saluted and bowed, then turned and hurried off back through the building. The Man at the table quickly finished his ale, picked up the remains of his bread roll, and said with regret, "It appears a deputation has just arrived from the Dunlendings, and I am called back to my service to the realm. Captain Elfhelm, I fear I must ask you to return with me, for I will need to know first if you recognize any in the embassy and then would be relieved to receive any advice you can give me as to how to respond to what they might have to say. After all, the Dunlendings are your closest neighbors."

       The Dwarf nodded. "I’ll remain and finish my meal then, and see to these four for you.".

       The Northerner nodded his appreciation, and was rising and reaching toward his belt purse when the Pherian Frodo rose beside him and stayed his hand. "No, Strider—I told you that today’s meal was my affair, and I meant it. Too much have we been given beyond our deserving—or at least beyond mine. Now, hurry off and see to the business of the realm, and we will entertain ourselves, and see you perhaps this evening if time permits." All rose, and led by the Guard from the Citadel who’d taken the duty from Captain Peregrin and followed by the two other personal guards, the three Men strode swiftly toward the doorway. The regret on the face of Frodo as he watched them go was clearly seen before the four Pheriannath and the Dwarf resumed their seats.

       A server from the inn approached the table with questions written large on his face, looking at the four Halflings before Frodo spoke for the group. "Our companions were summoned back to the Citadel on the King’s business," he explained. "Please bring the bill to me when all is finished, for this meal was at my suggestion and invitation."

       "If that is your desire, small master," said the server with a bow, and he then asked if there was aught else the five remaining guests required, appearing surprised when he was immediately answered with requests for more victuals by four of the five, including a request given by the one known as Sam for a plate of fresh vegetables and fruits and a goblet of water "for Mr. Frodo here" with an indication they were to be placed before the one of the four Hobbits who’d not requested anything for himself.

       The Man’s face grew still with deep respect. "You are the Lord Frodo, then—the Cormacolindo?" he asked in quiet awe. "It is our great honor to host you today, my lord. My brother fought before the Black Gate and brought back the report of your great service to the whole of Middle Earth, you see, and saw the great Eagles who brought you and Lord Samwise out of the ruins of the Mountain. He says he would not have returned had the two of you not reached the Sammath Naur when you did. We of the Lady’s Garden are indeed proud to have you grace our establishment."

       Frodo’s face had paled, save for the spots of color in his cheeks which grew a stronger pink. "It was little enough I did," he said almost defensively. "Sam was perhaps more responsible than I to see it all done properly."

       As the server, obviously confused, retreated, the looks of exasperation to be seen on Sam and Sir Meriadoc’s faces, not to mention on the face of the Dwarf, were palpable. Captain Peregrin’s concern could be heard in his voice as he said, "Oh, Frodo Baggins—what are we to do with you? You can’t continue undervaluing what you accomplished the way you insist on doing. Now, eat up the remainder of your eggs, and then whatever fruit and vegetables you can get down you."

       Sir Meriadoc gave a laugh. "You hear that, Frodo? It appears the Prince of the Halflings has spoken then. You’d best follow his commands."

       Frodo fixed Captain Peregrin with a stare. "Shall it be as you command, then, Pippin?"

       "Of course, minion."

       Sam looked at Pippin somewhat sideways. "The lad’s been readin’ too many of old Mr. Bilbo’s adventure books, I think," he said rather quietly to Sir Meriadoc. "Not but what he’s right about Frodo eatin’ more, of course."

       "And the rest of you should all keep in mind my rank as understood here in Gondor," continued Captain Peregrin. "I can be magnanimous, you know."

       "How about shutting your mouth and eating your meal?" asked Sir Meriadoc.

       "Now, which is it you want me to do, then, Merry—eat or close my mouth? I can’t do the former and follow through on the latter at the same time."

       "Pippin," said Frodo, "let’s have a bit of peace so we can finish our meal! No pointless arguments."

       "Frodo Baggins," said Captain Peregrin icily, "I could have you flogged for that disrespect, you know."

       "Then take it up with your father the Thain when we get back to the Shire, youngling. Eat!"

       "All right," said Captain Peregrin, suddenly cheerful. "Ah, here comes our seconds. Eat up, Frodo."

       "Actually," Sir Meriadoc said some moments later after he’d swallowed a good deal of his second bread roll filled with sliced lamb and cress, "I think the last time a Thain had someone flogged was under Ferumbras, early on. I think it was a Hobbit from the East Farthing who’d stolen three sheep and a wagon with a broken wheel from a Bracegirdle from Hardbottle—from Lobelia’s uncle Bendoro, if I recall correctly. I think the report I read in the archives of the Great Smial said it was one of the Broadloams who was flogged."

       "That would fit," Frodo commented as he moodily moved slices of apple and segments from one of the orange fruits about his plate. "The Broadloams live in Whitfurrow and have always considered themselves ‘salvagers.’ If something is broken folk usually prefer to have it have it hauled off and don’t seem to mind if the Broadloams take it. That anyone would have something broken and wish to repair it, or might wish to be asked before anyone takes it is not something a Broadloam might understand." He lifted a piece of celery and nibbled it briefly. "And from what I remember of Thain Ferumbras and Mistress Lalia, they would indeed at one time have favored such a punishment, particularly Mistress Lalia. She was a vindictive sort." He took another bite from the stick of celery and set it down again. "Guido Broadloam’s father Gerdo wouldn’t have balked at trying to take an entire wagon; nor a sheep or two. I can’t imagine, however, he’d have dared to take three and a wagon at a single time, though. It sounds a bit much, even for Gerdo."

       "You’d best try to eat what you can, Mr. Frodo," suggested Sam. "You knew these folk?"

       "I lived in Whitfurrow for several years before my parents died, you’ll remember," Frodo said. He chose a piece of apple, held and turned it between his fingers. "Guido Broadloam fascinated me when I was a little one. He told wonderful stories." He took a bite of the apple slice, made a face and put it down.

       "I certainly can’t see my da ordering anyone flogged—save perhaps me," Captain Peregrin said. "I’m not looking forward to facing him and Mum when we get back."

       "It’s Pervinca who’ll give you the hardest time, I think," Sir Meriadoc said. "She’s always been the one to make your life difficult, after all."

       "Sisters," agreed his friend.

       "Are the apples dry, Frodo?" Sam asked.

       "No, actually they’re quite good for the winter’s store," Frodo answered. "I just can’t eat any more, I find."

       "You’re not goin’ to get all your weight back if’n you can’t eat, you know."

       Lindirieth and her daughter finished their own meal as Master Frodo began fishing in a pocket in his trousers for a money purse. Master Marendil, the owner of the Lady’s Garden, came out of the building with the one who’d served the Halflings, and at a nod from the server crossed the terrace to their table, giving the Pheriannath and the Dwarf a profound bow. "My lords," he said reverently, "we of the Lady’s Garden are heartily proud to have you patronize our dining terrace. However, considering the service each of you has given our land and especially our city, we cannot accept any payment from you."

       Frodo’s face went colorless save for his cheeks, which flamed. "If you will please pardon me, Master," he answered, "this meal was to be a gift of sorts to my friends, including three who have had to leave early to deal with the King’s business. It is a poor gift if I am not allowed to pay."

       Master Marendil and Frodo Baggins found themselves each trying to stare down the other. Finally the Man said gently, "You are the Lord Frodo?"

       "I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire," the Halfling answered, raising his chin proudly.

       "Small master, you cannot know what the long war with the Dark Lord has cost us here. You and all you would host are ever welcome at the Lady’s Garden. My son was lost four years ago, and my daughter’s husband died under Lord Faramir’s command in the retreat from Osgiliath. But my brother’s son lives, as do many others related to all of us, all of whom survived only because you and Lord Samwise completed your quest when and as you did. That you survived that we might show you honor is a grace given us by the Creator. Please do not spurn the offerings of a grateful nation, my lord."

       The other three Halflings had gathered with the Dwarf at the end of the table closest to Lindirieth. Captain Peregrin cast a swift glance at Frodo, and said quietly to the others, "I hate when they do this—it always causes Frodo so much distress when he isn’t allowed to pay his own way."

       The one called Sam began, "Well, if’n old Strider had only…."

       Sir Meriadoc interrupted in an intense whisper, "Well, that was the point of the entire excursion, you know, Sam—to give him a day as a person." When Sam gave a snort, he continued, "Think about it—we’ll go home probably within a month or two—once Frodo is fully able to travel; and once we’re home, Frodo will go back to being no more than Mr. Baggins. But there’s no going back for Strider, and you know it. When he goes back North he’ll never be just Strider again, and will never be allowed just to wander alone through the wilds any more."

       "He ought not to go back to be ignored, Mr. Merry, sir."

       "Well, he will, and you know it, Sam. He’s not a Dúnadan like Strider but a Hobbit of the Shire, after all; and Hobbits of the Shire for the most part don’t know from Rings or Morgul wounds, and that’s just the way it is. And for the moment at least that’s the way he wants it. If you think he wants the likes of Lotho, Ted Sandyman, and Odo Proudfoot appreciating what it means to have been the Ringbearer, you’re crazy."

       "What about your folks or Mr. Pippin’s?"

       Sir Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin exchanged looks. "I suppose in the end he’d appreciate them realizing what it all has meant, but that’s about all he’ll want to have understand. But then, we’re the closest he has to family and parents, after all."

       The argument between Frodo and Master Marendil appeared to be over, and it was plain that the Pherian had lost it. Master Marendil and the server retreated, both looking satisfied, while the Halfling was plainly trembling with emotion. "Pippin," Frodo said through gritted teeth, "Slip two gold pieces into the bread basket." He handed the indicated coins to his companion, closed his money purse, and put it back into his pocket.

       "We always do two gold pieces. Seems to me it would be cheaper to just pay the bill," Captain Peregrin pointed out.

      "Maybe it would, if we had any idea what anything in this city costs!" Frodo growled. "Let them realize who we are—not that we have any choice in the matter—and they always want to give it to us! That’s no way to live!"

       "Maybe," the Dwarf pointed out, "you should just shrug your shoulders and let them do as they wish. They’re not losing from the transactions, for folk are flocking to the taverns and eating houses where you stop to eat, you see, for the pleasure of knowing you enjoyed the hospitality there."

       "Well, that’s not the way I want to live. Did you spot where the privy might be, by the way, Gimli?"

       "Yes—over that direction and through the passageway," the Dwarf answered, indicating to the left.

       "I’ll go with you," Sam said.

       With a disgusted noise Frodo turned the indicated way and headed off to the facilities with Lord Samwise in tow. The Dwarf and two remaining Pheriannath watched after him. "Very much on his dignity, Frodo is," the Dwarf commented in low tones.

       "He’s been like that since he lived with us before Bilbo took him to Hobbiton," Merry explained. "He always felt as if my parents and grandparents didn’t let him pull his own weight, and hates feeling as if he’s a charity case. No matter how much he loved Mum and Dad and Grandmum Gilda and Granddad Rory, still the fact they coddled him past bearing drove him mad with frustration. From the moment he went to Bag End that all changed, for he was expected to help with chores and assist Bilbo in copying and binding books and was allowed to work with the Gaffer and Sam and to do the marketing and help any and all as he wished, and he never felt useless. He hates feeling useless more than anything, you see."

       "He’s been anything but useless since he left the Shire," the Dwarf pointed out.

       "You know it and we know it, but you’ll never convince him. His sense of responsibility is far too highly honed, you see."

       "When I’m Thain I’ll have to make him one of my primary advisers," Captain Peregrin said. "Although I find myself wishing he’d just agree to remain here by Aragorn."

       "Why stay here?" Sir Meriadoc asked.

       The Halfling with the auburn hair shrugged. "I just feel in my bones it would be the best for him, somehow. Here or perhaps Rivendell. The Shire won’t be kind to him once we get home, I fear."

       "We’re getting Bag End back for him," Sir Meriadoc said as if reminding his kinsman of a decision already made. "And now the Ring is gone Narcissa finally has a chance, I think."

       Captain Peregrin shook his head. "No, Merry, I doubt she has any better chance now than before we left the Shire." He looked off the direction the other two had taken. "I feel it in my bones," he repeated.

       The server for the table where Lindirieth and Andrien sat returned to settle their bill, and they left the Lady’s Garden just as Frodo and Sam returned from the privy to rejoin their friends. Mother and daughter were quiet as they left the place, and it was as they were going through the marketplace in the Fourth Circle they finally began to discuss what they’d overheard. "So," Andrien said, "the ones called Frodo and Sam did indeed go into Mordor, and took the Enemy’s Ring."

       Her mother nodded. "Apparently," she agreed. "I’d not have believed it had we not heard the talk today."

       "And the others will be great ones among their own folk one day." The two women examined fabrics together. "What made them leave their own land, do you think?"

      "What I’d like to know," Lindirieth said softly, "is why anyone would ask that small one to carry such a thing as the Enemy’s weapon. I can’t begin to imagine why the Wise would allow it."

       A bustle toward the entrance to the market caught their attention, and they realized that the Pheriannath and the Dwarf had also decided to check out the goods offered for sale, and all were turning that way, seeking to catch a better look at the five strangers in their midst. "It’s the Ernil i Pheriannath!" they heard from several sides. "The Cormacolindor are here!" "The King’s friend," they heard whispered. "The Esquire." "He slew the Witch King!" "The Holdwine—do you see him with the horse heads of Rohan on his sword?" "A Dwarf lord here in Minas Tirith!" "They fought for our city…."

       A member of the City Guard saluted Captain Peregrin, who saluted solemnly in return; the keeper of a stall of woven straw goods greeted Sir Meriadoc in Rohirric, and that one returned the greeting in the same language (if heavily accented with Westron). A girl approached the Lord Frodo with a spray of flowers and presented it, and a Man offered the Lord Samwise a potted plant. "I understand," he said, "that in your own land you are a keeper of gardens. I hope you will accept this lily, for it is full of beauty."

        "Thankee," Sam said with considerable dignity. "I only hope as when we’re ready to return to the Shire I’ll be able to carry all as I’ve wanted to take with me of plants and cuttings and seeds and all." He gave a respectful bow, delighting the Man.

       Nearby the stall where Lindirieth and Andrien were examining fabrics were those of a fruiterer and one of a seller of second-hand books, and the Halflings were drawn to them. While Captain Peregrin looked to purchase a surprisingly large order of strawberries and Sam was commenting under his breath on the lack of sufficient mushrooms, Sir Meriadoc and Frodo were going through books.

       "Ah, Frodo," Sir Meriadoc said, "here’s one in Sindarin."

       Frodo turned from his examination of a collection of stories from Rhûn to take the volume being held by Sir Meriadoc, opening it and examining it carefully. "No, Merry—not Sindarin—this is written in Quenya. It’s from Rivendell, from what I can tell, and was apparently copied by Lord Erestor—I recognize the writing. It’s a description of the arrival of Eärnur’s fleet at Mithlond and the final victory over the forces of Angmar. I wonder if Bucca’s troop is mentioned at all?"

       The stall keeper leaned over the two Pheriannath with interest. "You are a scholar, small lord?" he asked. "You have had dealings with the lords of Imladris?"

       "Our Took forebears have had sporadic dealings with Lord Elrond’s people for centuries, and certainly we five here came by way of there. Also, my uncle has dwelt there for the last sixteen years or so."

       "You know the high language?"

       "I read it better than I speak it—Bilbo saw to it that I was familiar with it." He leafed through the book, then gave a small cry of triumph. "Pippin," he called, "I’ve actually found reference to Bucca’s archers here!" He paused. "This section is in the hand of another. I wonder if Lord Elladan or Lord Elrohir might have written it. I don’t know enough to recognize their hands as yet. But to actually find a reference to Bucca of the Marish…."

       The Dwarf came from his examination of an ironmonger’s stall. "What is it, Frodo? You look as if you’ve just found a vein of pure gold in what you’d expected to be a tin mine."

       "I feel as if I have, Gimli." The Halfling lifted his eyes from the volume. "This book actually makes reference to Bucca of the Marish."

       "And what would a writer from Gondor know of Hobbits of the Shire?"

       "It wasn’t written here—it was written in Rivendell." The Hobbit placed a finger to mark the reference, then quickly paged to the beginning to search for an inscription. He smiled. "This was written for one of Aragorn’s ancestors," he said with satisfaction. "I’ll have to ask him which one was named Araglas."

       Captain Peregrin was thrusting his basket of strawberries at Sam, and hurried over to examine the find. "This was written for one of the line of Kings from Arthedain?" he asked.

       "Yes, for Araglas son of Aragorn—that must have been Aragorn the First, then." Frodo looked up. "I wish to purchase this as a gift. How much do you wish for it?"

       Lindirieth and Andrien stood with their swaths of fabric forgotten in their hands as they watched the bargaining in the next stall with fascination. First Frodo had to insist he would not under any circumstances accept the book as a gift; and then he had to convince the Man to put a decent price on the volume. Once that was finally established, the actual bargaining began, and it was soon obvious that Frodo Baggins was a consummate bargainer. His eyes lit with pleasure as he and the bookseller haggled, and at last settled on the price both had obviously intended to see paid to begin with. At last Lord Frodo gave the book into Sir Meriadoc’s hands and pulled out his money purse to pay for his purchase.

       "One thing," asked the bookseller when all was done, "who was Bucca of the Marish?"

       "One of our ancestors," Frodo said, taking back the book and opening it again. "He led out archers to the support of Arvedui Last-king."

       "But how would this book, written in the north kingdom obviously for one there, have come here?"

       "It was probably carried here by one of the Northern Dúnedain who served in the armies of Gondor. I’ll ask the King who might have brought it south and then lost it." He held the volume with obvious pleasure. "Now, this makes the entire day worthwhile, even the debacle of the luncheon I wasn’t able to pay for."

       "And did you purchase it for me?" asked Captain Peregrin.

       Frodo glanced up with a look of disdain. "For you, Pippin? Whatever for? You don’t read Quenya and aren’t likely to become proficient at translating it in your lifetime."

       "You getting’ it for Strider, then?" Sam asked.

       "Don’t you think he’d appreciate it?"

       "Well, of course. He’s fluent enough in Quenya and all."

       Captain Peregrin said loftily, "Well, you ought to have purchased it for the Thain’s archives."

       "I’ll ask if we can get it translated and copied for the Great Smial; but as it is it’s useless for Shire purposes. I doubt any Hobbit save Sam, Bilbo, and I have known any Quenya whatsoever in the history of the Shire, not even Isengrim." Frodo slipped the flower he’d been given into the pages to mark the reference that had caught his attention. He looked at his companions, then focused on the basket of fruit Sam carried. "Didn’t Pippin buy those?" he asked.

       "Well, yes, I did…" began Captain Peregrin.

       "And now you’ll let Sam carry them home for you? Really, Peregrin Took—you’re letting this ‘Prince of the Halflings’ idea go to your head. You carry your own berries home, do you hear? Let your own princely little fingers do some honest work!"

       "Work? Me, Frodo Baggins? The Great Smial would fall down in a faint of surprise if it saw me working!"

       "Perhaps your father should have shipped you off more summers to the farm at Whitwell, then. Let’s go back up to the house. I need a rest."

       Merry caught the expressions on the faces of the two women who’d been following the interchange from its beginning, and nudged Pippin to indicate the audience. "Actually," Merry said in a low voice to Lindirieth and Andrien, "being the Thain’s son doesn’t give Pippin much of an advantage at home in the Shire, either, except among those Hobbits near his own age or younger."

       "I’m in uniform, Merry," Peregrin said in a wheedling tone. "Will you carry them for me?"

       "You heard Frodo—you can do your own carrying today. After all, being in uniform didn’t stop you from eating with Strider or from shopping for those berries, you know. Come along, then." And in moments the Pheriannath had disappeared back toward the gate to the next circle of the city.

******* 

       The family of Lindirieth and Andrien saw the Hobbits a few more times during their stay in the city, but always, it seemed, from a distance. Not until the day they left for the north kingdom again did they get close enough for their faces to be clearly seen. Now Sir Meriadoc, dressed as a Rider of Rohan and Esquire to their King, rode on the wain that carried the body of Théoden King back to Rohan, while Peregrin Took looked and acted every inch the Captain of the Guard he was as he walked by their Lord King and his bride. Lord Frodo, the King’s Friend, rode on a lovely pony, his esquire Samwise riding by him, much as they’d done entering the city. The Dwarf was in the company as the King’s party went down the main way to the barrier where the gate had stood, walking in the party of Elves, speaking familiarly with those about him, all of whom treated him with the greatest courtesy. The great wizard Mithrandir walked near the head of the pony on which Lord Frodo rode, speaking with those who would make up the party going to Rohan and beyond, but ever watching the Halfling with concern.

       The face of Lord Frodo was, Lindirieth realized, very attractive indeed. Certainly the captain from among the Rohirrim had been correct when he’d indicated that the Pherian was remarkably handsome according to the standards of any race or people. He accepted the tribute of sprays of flowers and greenery with grave courtesy, but she sensed in him a level of remoteness that touched her. He had the face of one who’d once been given to humor and smiles; but now she realized that under the surface was an impatience bred by discomfort. Again she saw the restlessness, and thought she perceived even signs of querulous tendencies being made manifest. He was, she realized, not as well as he would like to appear.

       The party was well past Lindirieth’s position before she realized she’d still not seen the face of their Lord King Elessar as well as she would have liked to do. For now, she sighed to herself, she’d have to do with the brief glimpses of a tall Man with a bearded face and clear grey eyes walking beyond the shining beauty of his wife. Her attention at the last, before the procession passed from view, was caught once more by the upright form of Frodo Baggins on his pony, turning briefly to smile at something said by Lord Samwise, rubbing absently at his left shoulder with his right hand.

******* 

       Two years passed. In the fall Andrien married a saddler who’d fought before the Black Gate among the Men of the City, and two years after the marriage gave birth to their first child. When only a few months old, however, small Sendrion developed a high fever, and was carried to the Houses of Healing in the Sixth Circle for whatever aid might be available to him. Lindirieth accompanied her daughter and son-in-law, and after seeing them in consultation with one of the healers who specialized in the illnesses of children she excused herself to go out to walk in the gardens for a time.

       It was February, and the weather was remarkably fine that day. Already many of the trees and bushes were showing a pink blush as the sap began to rise and they prepared to put forth budding leaves; and in several of the formal beds the tips of leaves were beginning to push through the warming soil. A gardener knelt over one bed, smiling to see how much more growth there was from what had been visible the previous day; and a Guardsman in the black and silver of the Citadel stood on guard near a garden bench on which a tall Man sat reading a book.

       She recognized the Man immediately. "Lord Strider," she said, giving a deep curtsey.

       He looked up, apparently somewhat surprised at being so addressed, although he did not appear disturbed by the familiarity shown him by this woman he obviously didn’t know. "Mistress," he responded, rising and bowing, closing the book with one finger in it to keep his place.

       She recognized it immediately. "Then Lord Frodo did give you that after all," she said, smiling. "My daughter and I were in the marketplace when he found it, and he indicated then he desired to give it to you."

       "Oh, yes, he did. It was rather like finding an old friend here in the White City, finding it in my hands once more." He indicated the bench, and once she was seated sat beside her.

       "You recognized the book?" she asked.

       "Oh, yes, I certainly did. It was one of the books written at Lord Elrond’s direction for the instruction of one from the line of Kings of Arthedain, and which was subsequently used by many of the lords of the Dúnedain of Arnor. I think I read it the first time when I was about fifteen years of age."

       "How did it come here, then?"

       He smiled as he examined the book’s cover. "It was last given to a younger kinsman of mine who was coming south to serve here among the forces of Gondor. He was captured by the people of Rhûn and was held captive for several years. His fellows in the Rangers of Ithilien feared he was dead, and many took mementos from among his goods. Apparently the one who took this died a year before the battle of the Pelennor, and his widow sold it. That Frodo would find it was, I suppose, only to be expected." As he spoke Frodo’s name his face became somewhat solemn.

       "Actually, as I remember it, it was Sir Meriadoc who actually found the book and pointed it out to Lord Frodo, believing it was written in Sindarin. Lord Frodo realized it wasn’t written in Sindarin but in Quenya, and found a reference in it to Pheriannath who had marched out to fight for Arvedui."

       "Yes, I know. It was when Eärnur’s fleet returned from Arnor that the first stories of Halflings began to be told here in Gondor; but in actuality only a relative few of his troops actually saw Bucca. The archers from the Shire were all slaughtered by the forces of Angmar save for Bucca; but his people led the forces retreating from Angmar’s might across the Shire to the western marches where Lord Círdan’s people offered them protection until the fleet finally arrived. Bucca returned to be the first Thain of the Shire, with the praise of the remains of the armies of the Dúnedain of the north. For his sake our folk have ever protected the borders of the Shire, and we have ever respected his people. And now with these four, all throughout the free peoples of Middle Earth realize just why we of the northern Dúnedain have ever honored them."

       "Do you hear from the four of them, Lord Strider? Since they returned to their own place, I mean?"

       "From the Hobbits? Oh, yes, frequently." But an overwhelming grief could be seen on the Man’s face, and he held the book more tightly as he looked down on it. Then he raised his grey eyes to meet hers. "I even met briefly with Sam, Merry, and Pippin in early October."

       "I’d not heard they came here."

       "They didn’t come here—I went north for a few weeks’ time, although few know it." He searched her face. "How is it you know this name for me, for few call me by it save the Hobbits themselves?"

       "Well, my daughter and I were going to eat also at the Lady’s Garden that day, and were led to the table beside the one at which you sat, my Lord. The Pheriannath spoke of you by that name throughout the time we were near them. I remember that Lord Frodo was disappointed that he was not allowed to pay for the meal, for he said it had been his intent to give you a day just as a person again, for you would have few of them now."

       "Who was it that refused him the right to pay for the meal?"

       "Master Marendil, who owns the Lady’s Garden. He said a free meal for the four Halflings and their guests was the least he could offer them in return for all the four had given Gondor."

       The tall Man’s face twisted. "And I must imagine that Frodo’s face went all pale save for his cheeks, and that he argued for some minutes."

       "Yes, it was so, my Lord."

       He nodded and sighed. "Yes, that was Frodo for you." He looked away toward the city walls and beyond it to the glimmer of the Sea in the far distance to the southwest. "Oh, my sweet, small brother of the heart."

       "When did you first meet them, my Lord?"

       "At the end of September of the year before the War of the Ring. Gandalf--Mithrandir--had charged me to watch for Frodo and Sam as they came out of the Shire with their burden, and in the end I found not two but the four of them. Merry and Pippin refused to allow Frodo to leave the Shire without them as well as Sam, fearing perhaps rightly that Frodo would die or otherwise lose all without their companionship and aid." He straightened somewhat. "I led them to Imladris, then was named part of the company that accompanied them south and east until we were parted at Amon Hen. It was to me that Frodo and Sam were brought after the destruction of Mordor, and I oversaw their recovery—such as was given them, at least. Oh, Sam has made an almost complete recovery, but not so Frodo."

       "Is Captain Peregrin now the Thain of the Shire?" she asked.

       He smiled more freely. "No, not as yet. His father Paladin remains Thain as of this time, and will remain so for some more years, I think. And Saradoc Brandybuck remains yet the Master of Buckland. Let Pippin at least come of age before he is made Thain."

       "You mean that—"

       He nodded, his smile now wry. "Pippin was still considered little better than a child by his own folk when he came out of the Shire, for all he was older than Éomer of Rohan at the time. Indeed, he still isn’t an adult in the reckoning of the Shire. Hobbits are not considered adult until they reach the age of thirty-three."

       "So," she said slowly, "that was why they were constantly reproving him."

       "Oh, yes. All four found the fact our folk named him the Ernil i Pheriannath highly amusing at the time. And certainly when they returned Pippin’s contribution to the defense of the free peoples of Middle Earth was not recognized by his own people, not even his parents, who refused to believe one so young had accomplished all he did. It took Frodo’s intervention to bring about reconciliation between Pippin and his parents." Again his face grew sad.

       "Why did you go north in the fall, my Lord?"

       "In hopes of bidding those I love there who were leaving Middle Earth goodbye."

       "So many died there?"

       He sighed and shook his head. "No—not death, although I will see none of them again. Lord Elrond, Lord Erestor, Lord Gildor, Lady Galadriel, Gandalf, and many others I knew among the great ones of the Firstborn—they chose at last to abandon Middle Earth and to go to Tol Eressëa and the Undying Lands. And they took with them Frodo Baggins for such time as is granted to him." Again he met her eyes. "If he’d not gone, the probability was he would not have lived long. Carrying the Enemy’s Ring as he did cost him much—far more than most can appreciate. That Frodo was granted this grace was far more than we’d hoped for him. The quest emptied him so, and few recognized how much pain he felt."

       "You did not see him before he left?" Lindirieth was surprised at how much grief the news gave her.

       "No, I arrived to late to bid him or my Adar or Mithrandir farewell."

       "I am sorry, my Lord."

       The two of them remained silent for a time, thinking on the fair face of Frodo Baggins.

       There was a stir at the door to the Houses, and after a few moments they were approached by one of the healers, who bowed deeply. "My Lord Elessar," the Man said, "we have an infant newly brought to us whom we believe will benefit from your attention."

       The Man by her rose. "Then I will come immediately." He turned to the woman. "Please pardon me that I must leave you, but he who was as a father to me saw to it I was trained as a healer as well as a warrior and leader, and it is with more pleasure I serve our lands here than on the battlefield or in the Hall of Kings. And feel free to approach me should you meet me here or on the level of the Citadel. Your name, Mistress?"

       "I am Lindirieth daughter of Annen and Belfamir of this city, my Lord," she said automatically, suddenly realizing the identity of the one with whom she’d been speaking. "My family lives in the Third Circle." She rose, feeling quite flustered and overwhelmed. "Please, my Lord King, forgive me the familiarity. I had no idea…."

       He gave a short laugh. "I see that on the day you first saw me closely the anonymity offered me by Frodo’s invitation worked far better than we’d realized. No, do not feel distressed. It is stressful ever being bowed and scraped to—it is one of the reasons I love the Hobbits so, for they are not given to the dreadful formality of Men. Again, should you find me abroad again feel free to approach me. It is pleasant to simply speak with others as with a near equal." He gave her a short bow and turned into the Houses of Healing, followed by the personal Guard and the healer. Still feeling shock, Lindirieth looked after him.

       Two days later her grandson was released from the Houses, fully recovered. Lindirieth hadn’t returned to the upper levels of the city, still feeling a great degree of embarrassment at having realized she’d approached the King as if he were a mere anonymous northern Dúnedain lord.

       "Ada, Nana," called Andrien from the entranceway, "he is well again. And the King himself told us he was free to go today." Together with her husband she came down the hallway toward the solar, carrying Sendrion tenderly.

       "A new blanket?" Lindirieth said, briefly accepting the baby from her daughter and realizing the softness of the child’s wrappings before relinquishing Sendrion to her husband.

       "Yes, a gift from our Lady Queen," she was told. "We are told she and her maidens give a portion of the cloth they weave to the Houses of Healing for the needs of those who are ill. And yesterday she accompanied our Lord King Elessar when he came through the Houses on his rounds. Who would have believed how the King Returned would indeed have the hands of a healer, Naneth?"

       Her husband fumbled with a small basket he carried. "And the Lord King sent this for you, Nana Lindirieth. I didn’t realize you’d had the chance to speak with him that first day." He handed the basket to her.

       Inside were two small ceramic jars, one blue-grey and the other ocher in color, each with a portion of white cloth covering its mouth, one marked with a C glyph and the other with an S. Included was a folded note sealed in black wax shot with silver, an A glyph and eight-pointed star impressed into it. Lindirieth slipped her finger beneath the seal and lifted it, then unfolded the short missive.

To Mistress Lindirieth, I give you my greetings.

       Again, I beg you not to feel embarrassed regarding the nature of our meeting in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. Obviously this was the first chance you’d had to see me up close as the King of Gondor and Arnor, and I treasured that you spoke with me openly. Such occurs sufficiently infrequently that I am overjoyed when such encounters do happen.

       While they lived in the guesthouse in the Sixth Circle Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin had an occasion to make jam, and most of it they left in my keeping as they couldn’t carry it all home with them. I hope you will accept this gift of cherry and strawberry jam, and that as you and your family enjoy it you remember your encounters with Hobbits and King fondly. I assure you it is quite good—Hobbits are fine cooks, you will learn.

       I rejoice to return to you your grandson, well and whole. May he give you years of joy.

                            Yours under the Valar,

                            Aragorn son of Arathorn

(also known as Strider—now you can perhaps better appreciate the name I took for my house as Lord of Gondor and Arnor)

       And as they enjoyed bread spread with strawberry jam the family of Mistress Lindirieth agreed that indeed, Hobbits were excellent cooks.

The King’s Prayer

       Where are they? It is five days since they left us, since I learned Boromir had been taken by It, and so had tried to take It from Frodo. Are they still lost in the ridges of the Emyn Muil, or have they fallen to their deaths? Have they reached the Dead Marshes? If so, what is the horror of the place doing to them? What is it costing Frodo, looking down on the faces of those three thousand years dead—Men, Elves, orcs, trolls, knowing that what he carries helped bring about that destruction of life?

       For all the fruitless running across Rohan, yet we have had the easier way in the end, I think. Our way has been well marked by the trampling of orcs, by iron-soled boots and the crushing by them of fruitful things. We even have had reassurance those we sought were yet alive in the fallen brooch, in footprints left in mud, in signs left on the battlefield. And we have had the unforeseen reunion with Gandalf, past all expectation or hope.

       What reassurance do Frodo and Sam know? What guides them in the wilderness, or hides them from the horrors of Eye and Nazgûl, orcs and wargs? What reassurance have they that they can slip through the fences of Mordor? What do they know of any routes other than the Black Gate?

       We have run fueled by lembas and what water we can snatch from streams and rivers along the way. Did Frodo and Sam take enough water bottles with them to take them through the stony waste and the polluted ways around or through the Marshes? We are not certain how many bottles they might have had with them. Where will Sam find clean water to aid them to cross the blasted lands before the Morannon, or food to supplement their supplies for the push through the plain of Gorgoroth?

       Oh, Frodo, my small brother of the heart, how I worry for you and pray for guidance for you and Sam along the way. How I hope that the sharp eyes of orcs are defeated by Elven cloaks and natural Hobbit wariness. How I pray that the fell beasts that now carry the Nazgûl do not notice you cowering against the ground, under tilted rocks or in pits, or in the shadows of what trees and shrubs you might find along the way.

       What secret way might you find to cross the Ephel Duath or climb through the northern fences of Mordor? Will cloaks from Lorien allow you to slip through the Black Gate or the Morgul Vale? How I pray you are not forced to look upon the corrupted city of Minas Morgul, that dread place where so long ago Eärnur was lost. As for what creatures might guard the way besides orcs—that is a question I do not wish to even think on for myself, much less for you.

       O Manwë, I beg you to send them guidance and wisdom. O Varda, light their way. Lord Ulmo, grant them what drink and refreshment they need. Sweet Lady Yavanna, sustain these, your special children, as they learn to tighten their belts against the barrenness of so much of their way. Nienna, wash away the horrors of their journey with your tears. Estë, you whom I’ve learned to honor so well and whose gifts have ever been given to those of my lineage, I must surrender them to your care as I cannot come to them myself.

       And Eru, hold these dear ones of Your children in Your hands. Bless and hallow them to their task. And if it is their fate to die upon their journey, I beg You to lead them into Your Presence that I may find them easily when I must follow them at last.

       I can ask for little for myself, save for wisdom to choose the way best suited for the needs of the free peoples of Middle Earth. But then, I am guided along the way by your faithful servant and have had years of blessed preparation for this time. For Frodo and Sam it has been so very different. Where I have known tutelage in defense and travel through the waste places of the world, these have known instead the love of family and friends, full bellies, rich fields, and the joy of living fully. Perhaps this is needful for them to sustain them through the lure of the Ring and the deprivation they now know—I know naught of it, I suppose. But I do ask that they do find sufficient reminders of beauty and honor and sufficiency to aid them through the bad times.

       One more thing I ask, O Námo—should they come your way, let your gates open for them easily, and let them know rest in your halls if they find themselves needful of it.

       I am not yet the King of Arnor or Gondor; but my ancestors stood between you and our peoples both in Númenor and here in the twin realms. I beg that my prayers for these my small companions be acceptable in the sight of Valar and Creator. I know that these two are already blest by all; if by my life or death I might aid them in any way to accomplish their quest and return, I offer myself freely for them. For, in the end, theirs is the hardest road. 

       "You have been quiet, Aragorn."

       "I have been thinking on the other roads our fellowship travel."

       "Know this, my friend—Frodo and Sam are not alone—are never alone."

       "You reassure me, Gandalf."

       "Behold—the golden hall of Meduseld!"

*******

       Look upon me, Lord Manwë, as I ride to battle this time not upon a horse, but on the wings of the South Wind. Shortly I shall unfurl the banner my beloved Undómiel has sent to me, declaring at last before all the peoples of Middle Earth my heritage, and claiming for myself the lordship of both Gondor and Arnor, and in so doing laying claim also to the one, the only treasure I have ever wished for myself.

       I will fight this time with the Elessar stone upon my breast, the sword of Elendil in my hand, the Elendilmir upon my brow. Halbarad shall ride beside me, the banner of Elendil in his hand, making himself a target for all in so doing. I grieve for this, for I have foreseen that at least once shall the banner bearer fall, although it will never be allowed to touch the ground; but he will not allow any other to bear this for me.

       Yet, even as I go to fight before the White City, my thoughts dwell on Frodo and Sam, wondering if they have managed to breach the walls of Mordor, if they have found food and water along the way, if they have managed to evade capture and torture.

       Pippin and Merry you have brought through capture and an evil march to safety, and even now Pippin is within Minas Tirith with Gandalf and Merry is left, I hope well guarded, amongst the folk of Rohan. I cannot foresee what they will do to win renown—I can only see that they will do so.

       But I cannot see what Frodo and Sam do, where they wander. My few glimpses of them in dreams are of Frodo lying, senseless or dead, here or there in sere landscapes, usually Sam sitting by him, his face stripped of hope or joy, his expression fixed in purpose.

       I beg you, Manwë, send them guidance. Lady Varda, let your stars shine upon their path and offer them hope. Lord Ulmo, if you can offer them any aid within that dead land, I pray you do so. Lady Yavanna, these are your children if they are those of any of the Valar—sustain their hope and their joy that these two might find them again when the quest is done with. Oromë, hunt the orcs, wargs, Nazgul, and all others who would endanger them off their path. Lord Aulë, guard them in the dark places and allow your soil to be softened under them as they rest. And Námo, if my small brother of the heart is indeed destined to enter your halls, welcome him gently, I pray you.

       I have been ever a Man of war and guard. Frodo and Sam have known but peace until now. Beloved Creator, encompass them about with Your Love.

       Go well, Frodo, Sam. Go well and return to me if you can.

       "Ah, Aragorn, we approach the quays below the city."

       "So I see. Prepare to disembark. Halbarad, I charge you to keep yourself as safe as you can."

       "Do not worry for me, cousin. If this is my day to die, it will be a worthwhile sacrifice to see you through to your destiny."

*******

       O Lord Ulmo—this night I must trust so many I love and honor to your caring. Bear my adar, my beloved’s daernaneth, Lord Erestor, Gandalf, Bilbo, and these others safely to Tol Eressëa, and particularly my small brother Frodo. Carry them softly to their destination. Grant the aid of the rest of the Valar to come to Frodo’s comfort and strengthening and healing. Let him see your might reflected in the beauty of your realm. Let him find peace surrounded by your waters. Let him find again his laughter and purpose surrounded by your creatures. Wash away from him the feelings of guilt and inadequacy with your cleansing waves. Bear him well, and restore his buoyant spirit.

       O Yavanna—your gift of lembas sustained him in his darkest hours—now restore his humor and delight with the bounty of the Undying Lands. At least for Frodo, and perhaps one day for Sam, the sea longing is now assuaged. Let the beauty of your gifts delight him and bring him back to balance.

       Sweet Nienna, too many tears has he shed with little relief. Let those he sheds from now on be the tears of healing to wash away the grief and loss; and the tears of joy and delight for which he was created.

       My Lady Estë, I have done all for him I can. Grant him healing, and relief from his bodily and spiritual pain.

       Manwë, your Eagles drew him and Sam from the ruin of Orodruin, and I praise you for it. They have carried the news of the grace offered them to us. They have offered us guidance and comfort. I can but praise you and thank you for these graces expressed.

       And our beloved Lady Varda—your stars have ever sustained him. Let them continue to shine upon him, and may he find his ending in peace under them when the time comes at last.

       Eru, thank You for Your gift of love You have expressed in so many who now leave the Mortal Lands; and I beg You continue to encompass my small brother about with the Love and Mercy You Yourself have ever shown him. Again, I ask You hold him safely in the palm of Your hand, and let him never forget how much love and honor all feel toward him.

       And when my own time comes, bring me again to his side in Your Presence. I can ask no more than this for myself, that when it is right I may again find my small brother.

       And when at last the King saw the flash of light indicating the grey ship on which Frodo had left Middle Earth had indeed found the Straight Path, he could hear the Song of Elbereth’s stars rejoicing that the Ringbearer at last found his way home, and his heart lifted even as he wept at the loss of so many he loved.

With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Rowan Mine

Quickbeam strode steadily toward the borders of Fangorn Forest closest to Isengard, intent on learning who it was that was reported to be digging holes in the ground on a rise there. Once that rise had been the site of a rowan grove of great beauty. The slaves of Saruman had cut down the trees, dragging most off to feed the wizard’s furnaces but leaving the younger trees to rot upon the ground. Since the destruction of the Ring of Isengard grass had been allowed to grow there, and recently a few shapely young larches had taken root on it.he asked himself. Well, I shall sort them out in short order.

Must Men cause more damage there where once my beloved Callamistë lifted her beautiful crown?

But as he approached the rise in question he could hear voices that sparked memories.

"You think we should do this one or that one, Merry?"

Merry? Did this mean…? Quickbeam paused for a moment, listening more carefully.

"Oh, that one, of course, Pippin. It has to be that one."

The Ent began to smile. He placed a hand against the bark of the nearest tree, a great elm, communicating his pleasure to it, and reassuring it that these visitors would mean no harm.

Another voice spoke. "Well, this one is quite happy right here, don’t you know. It was most distressed when I took it out of its box until it felt the good soil about it and knew as this is soil as has known its kind afore."

A far deeper voice, that of a Man, answered. "Well, now I certainly understand just why you wished these young ones brought here. This hill will look lovely in a few years."

Two voices were raised in song, a hymn to Yavanna, the Ent realized—sweet Elvish voices. He now knew indeed the nature of the company that was occupied on the rise, and indeed he knew the identity of several of its members. Now his curiosity was roused indeed as he finally stepped out of the forest to learn why the High King of the Men of the West had come here accompanied by Hobbits and his wife and companions from among Elves. The voices of Hobbits joined those of Elves, and then the deeper voice of Aragorn son of Arathorn, the King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor, as the Ent finally came in sight of the party.

There was a grunt from the Dwarf Gimli, that most unusual Elvellon, as he pressed the blade of a spade into the ground and dug deeply, beginning another hole. Two wagons stood at the bottom of the rise, and Hobbits Quickbeam didn’t recognize were lifting out of one a wooden box in which grew a small tree. In the distance two tall figures were returning from the Entwash carrying buckets of water, and behind them came Men in the garb of Guardsmen from Gondor carrying still more. Quickbeam stopped once more, in surprise at the sight of the strange party and its activities. He heard a shrill cry of surprise from a very small Hobbit, a girl-child, he thought, and realized there were several Hobbit children and women at the foot of the rise, apparently setting out food for the company.

"It’s all right, dearling," a Hobbitess reassured the child. "That’s an Ent, and is likely a friend to your Uncles Pippin and Merry."

Another came forward, a smile on her face. "Are you Treebeard or Quickbeam?" she asked.

"Yes," the Ent replied, surprised at all the activity he saw. "I’m indeed Quickbeam. And what is this?" But as the two Hobbits carrying the box approached he realized precisely the intent of the party, and he held out a hand to stay them as he examined the small tree they carried between them. Even as small as it was, the sapling was clearly that of a rowan.

Merry and Pippin finished the tamping of the soil they’d been effecting about the bole of a smaller tree. "Quickbeam!" Pippin called out as they rose, his voice filled with delight. "We’d hoped to see you during this visit, you know!"

The one who’d been the companion to the Ringbearer looked up from where he was working about the trunk of another newly planted sapling, smiling briefly, but not pausing in his singing of the hymn, a hymn sung also by Legolas Greenleaf, the Lord Elessar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor, and his wife Arwen Undomiel. Only when the hymn was done did these pause in their work, rise, and bow deeply toward the Ent.

A questioning call came from deeper in the woods, and Quickbeam turned to give an answer back, explaining as swiftly as he might the intent of this party. At last he turned back to the mortals who’d all risen and turned toward him. He stepped nearer those carrying the boxed tree, and they gently set the box down on the ground and stepped away. He leaned over the box and reached down a twiggy finger to softly touch the slender stem, the quivering leaves, and felt the delight of the small tree as it recognized his nature. He straightened enough to examine the faces of Merry, Pippin, and the Lord Samwise, then that of the King Elessar.

"Rowans?" he asked. "You have sought to plant rowans here?"

"Oh, yes, Quickbeam," Pippin answered him. "We remembered when you told us of how Saruman’s folk had destroyed so many of your groves, and we thought to do our best to restore one of them. We hope you don’t mind."

"We’ve been growin’ young rowans in my brother’s nursery for some years, and Lord Strider here agreed to do the same in Gondor. Then, as we was comin’ down for a bit of a quick visit, like, we brought the trees with us and he met us with the rest. I’ve not felt any animosity between our trees and his, and it appears as all is glad enough to be planted here on this hill." Lord Samwise turned to examine their handiwork with an obvious feeling of satisfaction.

There was movement on the edges of the forest, and a few more of the younger Ents looked out to reassure themselves that Quickbeam’s report was accurate.

A young male Hobbit came up and bowed deeply. "Mr. Quickbeam?" he asked. "It’s an honor, sir. I’ve read about you in Uncle Frodo’s book and all."

Lord Samwise introduced the lad. "This is our oldest son, Rosie’s and mine. This is Frodo-lad. Elanor members you, she does," he added, indicating the older Hobbit girl-child, "but I fear Daisy there was took by surprise. She’s been findin’ even Men a bit on the tall side and overwhelming."

Amused, the Ent bowed deeply toward the tiny child. "I am sorry I startled you, small one," he said. He looked back toward the King. "And you, also, are a party to this, then?" he asked. "I am deeply honored, Lord Elessar. Full worthy did Treebeard name you, and I see he was indeed right." He looked down on the small tree in its box, again smiling.

"It is far later than we’d intended when we first discussed this plan," Aragorn answered him. "But it’s the first time Sam’s been able to make the journey in many years, and we did so wish him to be a part of the replanting. It is long since we’ve seen any of your people as we’ve passed the Tree-garth or traveled the road toward the North. But it is little enough we’ve done to repay your aid and service to the Free Peoples of the West. I only hope that this gives you pleasure."

"Indeed it does," Quickbeam said gently. "It isn’t our way to purposely plant specific trees as you are doing; but I can only rejoice to see how all of you have sought to do us honor."

The strange Hobbits retreated back to the wagon as Quickbeam examined the work already done. So far eight rowans had been planted, and twelve more waited their turn. As they passed the blankets spread by their womenfolk, the Hobbits would take a roll or pasty or other item, continuously eating as they could as they labored. Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris and Men of the King’s guard brought countless buckets of water from the Entwash to water the trees as they were planted, and eventually Ents joined them in this labor.

At last the final tree was brought out—this last one not a rowan but an oak. With Quickbeam’s advice they took it to the top of the rise, and one last hole Gimli dug. When at last Quickbeam indicated he felt the hole was deep and wide enough, the King and Sam carefully removed it from its box and respectfully held the ball of earth holding its roots in place as Pippin and Merry and their sons began shoveling the loose dirt back into the hole to refill it as Elladan and Elrohir poured in buckets of water. As the remains of the soil was tamped down, at last Hobbit and Man withdrew their hands.

Sam looked up to meet the Ent’s eyes. "This one was intended to honor both our Frodo and Treebeard, you see. It’s an oak as has always growed atop the Hill where Bag End is dug, and we wanted to bring a memory of what was Frodo’s beloved home here. This one grew from an acorn as fell from the old oak, one he picked up and had put in with a collection of pine cones and chestnuts and hazelnuts and acorns as he’d been gatherin’. I hope as this pleases your folk, and that when you tell Treebeard he’ll be glad of it."

"He rarely leaves the depths of our forest," Quickbeam said, "for although the people of Gondor and Rohan are respectful enough, those of other folk do not appear to understand the need for trees and wild places. But I will tell him. And again I thank you—all of you, Hobbits, Elves, Dwarf, and Men, who have sought to restore the beauty of the lands. And that we have an oak here fathered by a tree beloved by the Ringbearer himself does us great honor."

The party left at sunset, riding eastward into Rohan where a company of Riders awaited them, driving the two wagons that had carried trees south from the Shire and west from Gondor. Quickbeam remained on the rise, in the midst of the small rowans and standing near the infant oak, reassuring the saplings that they were not now abandoned but would be well cared for.

As the night advanced other Ents came to join him, and near dawn Treebeard himself came out of the forest. He heard Quickbeam’s story, and walked softly about the hill, approving the planting in the growing light of morning, finally climbing to examine the small oak.

"Hoom, hom," he said, "every time I almost give up on the hope mortals can learn, we are shown some sign that there is yet integrity and understanding among them. And as long as the likes of King Elessar and the Hobbits of the Shire remain in this world, there remains also at least a respect for what was and ought to be. I think we can take heart that Fangorn and the Old Forest will be allowed to grow and prosper." And gently he caressed the small oak, and delighted in the pleasure Quickbeam showed as he once again reassured the small rowans that they were well placed and would remain beloved.

Inspired by Dreamflower's Miss Dora Baggins' Book of Manners

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=4819

Thanks for the inspiration, Dreamflower!

Decorum

       Dora Baggins looked on her nephew and her cousin with approval. Today, at least, these two indeed appeared the Master of Bag End and his adopted heir--each attired neatly in good cloth; no fraying on Frodo’s cuffs; all buttons present, accounted for, and properly fastened on Bilbo’s waistcoat; collars neatly folded over; Frodo’s dark curls at least obviously recently brushed. Perhaps the wine-colored brocade of Bilbo’s waistcoat was more ostentatious than good taste called for, and she suspected that Frodo had a book of Elvish poetry tucked into the rear pocket of his trousers that would be causing an unsightly bulge if one looked at him from an unfortunate angle; but when all was said and done the two of them were worthwhile acknowledging as her relatives.

       "You tell me that all are indeed ready?" she asked, feeling even more pleasure in their company at present.

       "Well, of course, Dora dear," Bilbo assured her. "We finished binding the last of them this morning. Frodo, be a good lad and go fetch the lot."

       "Certainly, Uncle," the younger Hobbit said as he turned toward the storage room where he and Bilbo worked on adding bindings to the books they copied and prepared for inclusion in libraries around the Shire.

       "I must say," Dora said as she watched the tween hurrying off obediently and noted her guess about him having a book tucked into his pocket had indeed been accurate, "you’ve done wonders with the child, Bilbo. Color in his cheeks, his eyes bright and observant, some weight at last on his bones, his expression cheerful, his attitude alert and biddable—he’s becoming a Hobbit of substance, you know."

       "I told you he had it in him, did I not?" Bilbo answered smugly. "Ah, yes, he’s my dear boy, and was well worth bringing here from Buckland."

       "Well, I must say that he’s a polite lad, far more so than some I could mention," Dora commented. "I had the mischance to nearly stumble across Lotho on my way here, and I’ll tell you I mean that literally—quite literally, in fact. The foul child was kneeling down behind my gate with a mirror upon the ground so fixed that it could reflect back to him what could be seen under the skirts of the lasses passing by. I didn’t see him until I’d trod upon his leg, and the resulting scream was quite unnerving. He leapt up, and the words that he uttered forth—I’m certain that had Lobelia heard them even she would have been ashamed of him, for not even she could have doubted he was the source of them. Now, young Lotho—there’s a prime example of what comes from spoiling a child, you know. I’m quite ashamed to have him accounted a Baggins, for he’s far more a Sackville and a Bracegirdle."

       "Oh, I can’t help but agree," Bilbo said as he saw her into the most comfortable chair in the room after his own and brought over the tea trolley so she could do the honors for them. "That is precisely why I decided that I should prepare Frodo to follow me, you know. Intelligent, compassionate, far too responsible for his own good—he’ll do us proud when his time comes—mark my words."

       "At least he behaves now with decorum, far more than does young Pimple," she said. "And he’s polishing up so nicely indeed. There’s little enough to show for the years he ran so wild there in Buckland…."

       "Dora, must you keep harking back to that? You must realize—Gilda’s insistence on treating him as if he were made of the most fragile of glass was driving the poor lad to distraction. He was discouraged from all sports save swimming and walking out with me, which alone the other healers were able to convince her would strengthen his heart; he wasn’t given responsibilities appropriate to his age or activities enough to release his nervous energy. When the only skills he was allowed to exercise were his cleverness and inventiveness, of course he was likely to become the rascal of Buckland as a result."

       "You’re certain his heart is quite recovered?"

       "Dora, you were here much of the time while he was recovering from the lung sickness last fall—Laurel is quite certain he’s long outgrown the whispering, and should not be restricted from any physical activity. I watched him last summer, allowed to play at ball down on the field below the Hill and running at races and all—he’s all the better for having normal exercise now. And I’ll be seeing to it he is taught to ride soon. It was a mean trick to have him there amongst some of the best ponies in the whole of the Shire and keep him from learning to ride."

       "Not that Buckland is properly part of the Shire, after all," she muttered darkly. For Dora Baggins the proper eastern boundary to their land was the Brandywine rather than the High Hay and the Old Forest.

       "I saw Sandyman the Miller yesterday," she said, changing the subject as she handed him his cup of tea. "Was coming out of the Ivy Bush, already deep in his cups in spite of it being mid-afternoon. I’ll be wagering his wife and poor young Ted were suffering for it last night."

       "Dora Baggins—you would wager? You, the writer of such a book as you’ve just had young Frodo and me a-copying out for you? Really, my dear cousin—you astound me!"

       Dora flushed prettily—Bilbo had always felt that was one of her most attractive features, how she looked when she colored. It was really too bad, he’d always felt, that she’d never accepted any of the suitors who’d looked her way when she was younger. And Dora, who knew her cousin all too well at times, had a good idea of what he was thinking of her right now, for he’d never been shy of expressing it when the two of them had been more youthful companions. "You know precisely what I meant, Bilbo Baggins. Speaking of rapscallions—the Shire has never seen such a one as you. Between you and Sigismond Took you must have managed to scandalize the entire family in your time."

       "Back before I began hiding behind my Baggins sensibilities, you mean?" He shook his head. "I was far, far too stodgy once I approached coming of age. I truly needed a wizard and thirteen Dwarves to shake me out of my rigid respectability." He gave her a thorough examination. "What happened to us, Dora, that in the end neither of us found someone we felt worthwhile marrying? This book of yours—it’s quite full of highly worthwhile observations and all. You’d have made a wonderful wife and mother, you know."

       "And considering how well you’re doing by young Frodo, you’d have made an excellent father. You ought to have had a full brood of seven or eight about you, Bilbo Baggins. That you’d have to wait to this late date to find yourself raising a child, and doing it so well, is amazing and a waste of your talents."

       "I so wish Drogo and Primula had managed to keep the others, too," Bilbo murmured. "I’d have taken in all five of them years ago if they had, I think. Primmie used to say that as delightful as it was raising Frodo, it would have been even more so had they managed to have more living children. You should have seen him then, Dora, when he was there with his parents in Buckland and then in Whitfurrow. Always active, his eyes alight with cheerfulness and delight, full of the most interesting questions."

       "At least he’s past that," she sighed. "Really, the things the child would ask when he was young! ‘Do you know, Auntie Dora, if the stars shine also when the Sun is out but we can’t see them for her light? Do you think a sheep likes or hates being sheered?’ How was anyone to answer such questions, do you think?"

       Bilbo laughed as Frodo returned with the books in hand and set them on the drum table beside her chair. "Here, Aunt Dora—but be careful, for the glue of these two with the green bindings is not completely set as yet. They were the last ones I bound this morning. I’m sorry they must be bound in green, but we were out of the oxblood leather with which we bound the rest."

       Dora took up one of those bound in the reddish brown and opened it. Frodo had copied this, she realized, for the script was clear and beautiful and remarkably graceful. There were her words in that lovely script…. She smiled in satisfaction. She set it down and picked up the next. This held the original manuscript, she realized. The next one was in Bilbo’s hand, a bit on the spidery side, she’d always felt.

       Each was properly finished and had been copied with a minimum of scrapes or blots, and she was well pleased as she set down the last and poured out a cup of tea for Frodo and presented it to him. "These are very nicely done, dearling," she told him fondly. "Very nicely done indeed. I am well pleased. And to have them finished by such a fine specimen of decorum as you’ve become is very satisfying. I’m certain that our various relatives I’ve decided to gift them to will be suitably impressed."

       "I’m so glad they meet with your approval, Aunt," Frodo assured her. "And I hope you’ll never be ashamed of me in the future."

       "Well, other than your lamentable habit of stuffing books into your rear pockets I’ve found almost nothing to criticize you about, Frodo dear." She ate a cake and finished her tea. "Did you enjoy copying this book?"

       He carefully swallowed his biscuit before answering, "Oh, yes, Auntie Dora. It was a wonderful work to copy. So much of it is common Hobbit sense, I think, and I believe Aunt Esme and Aunt Lanti will love the copies you’ve had prepared for them."

       "Which part did you appreciate most?" she asked.

       "Oh, but it was all so good…." Frodo sought rescue by his uncle, but Bilbo was wisely keeping his own attention on the biscuit he was methodically eating by taking small bites all about the center. Left on his own, Frodo quickly thought about all the sections. What she’d written about raising children had been interesting only inasmuch as it confirmed much he’d noted of how his relatives in Brandy Hall generally kept control of their own offspring; Dora’s assertion that Hobbits needed to be guided by courtesy and kindness appeared self-evident in Frodo’s eyes, while her blunt statement that Hobbits needed to be predictable he felt to be appalling. He took a deep breath, then remembered that her own advice was that proper conversation for a meal should be focused on the meal itself, and his lip twitched. He realized Bilbo was now watching him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, and decided to take a jibe at his guardian as punishment for leaving him to his own devices in answering the question.

       "I think the section on meals was best, Aunt Dora, and particularly on proper attire and behavior for them. I’d not truly thought on it, you know, just how slovenly it is to appear at first or second breakfast in one’s dressing gown; nor how rude it is to read at a meal, or to speak with one’s mouth full." He opened his blue eyes to their most innocent extent, patently ignoring the spluttered laugh Bilbo was seeking to suppress.

       Dora was most gratified. Ah, yes, she thought, Frodo had indeed taken it all to heart, particularly if he realized the bachelor lifestyle affected by his Uncle Bilbo wasn’t always particularly decorous. "That is wonderful, dearling," she told him. "How very responsible of you to focus on that section."

       She failed to note when Bilbo elbowed Frodo’s ribs while Frodo kept a self-righteous expression on his face in response to her praise.

       At last tea was finished, and Frodo escaped to the kitchen with the tray of used dishes, and Dora carefully lifted the stack of slim volumes. "You’ll send me the bill for the copying and binding on Quarter Day?" she asked, referring to the day in mid-season when such accounts were usually settled.

       "Certainly, my dearest cousin," Bilbo assured her. "And if we can do anything else, please let me know."

       Feeling well pleased, Dora Baggins accepted Bilbo’s aid to resettle her bonnet and shawl, arranged her stack of books in her basket, and set off for her home in Hobbiton proper.

       That night she went through the stack again, and began deciding which copy would go to which intended recipient. The one in green copied by Frodo would go to Eglantine Took, she decided, while the one in the darkest oxblood copied by Bilbo would go to Mistress Lalia in the Great Smial, who after all wouldn’t bother reading it but would be highly insulted not to get a copy. Methodically she ticked off in her mind the other intended recipients, then realized she’d forgotten the other individual she’d originally intended to give one to—Ivy Boffin. She very much liked Ivy and her daughter Narcissa—not to see a copy go to them would be a terrible injustice, she thought. Well, in the morning she’d pop by Bag End and speak to Bilbo about it and have one more copy made—and, considering how smitten by Frodo young Narcissa was, she’d insist that Frodo do the copying of this one. Ivy would appreciate the practical advice on manners, and Narcissa would read it, she knew, just to rejoice to see Frodo’s writing. With a smile, Dora Baggins extracted the original from the stack of finished volumes, and set it on the side table in the entranceway ready for her to take with her in the morning.

*******

       "Morning," Bilbo said as Frodo, attired in his striped dressing gown over his favorite worn nightshirt from Brandy Hall, stumbled into the kitchen for elevenses and sat down at the table. "You were up quite late, you know."

       "I found one word in the book I was reading in Sindarin whose meaning I was having difficulty with, Uncle Bilbo. I think I went through about every Elvish dictionary and glossary you have trying to pin it down." Frodo gave a profound yawn which he didn’t cover, as by this time both hands were involved in buttering a piece of toast Bilbo had just taken from the fork and set before him. "Have we any of May Gamgee’s currant jam?" he added, hopefully.

       "On the shelf there," Bilbo told him, indicating the location with a casual wave of his hand. "What word was it?"

       "Well, I’m not certain if it’s truly Sindarin in nature. I suspect it might indeed be Quenya. It’s estel, which you’d always told me meant hope. However, from the context of the word it appears to have a deeper meaning than just hope, for one wouldn’t use it, for example, in translating the sentence I hope to see my friend next week. Nor have I as yet seen it used in any statement such as It was his great hope to be allowed to follow his father as lord of their people."

       "Very astute of you, Frodo," Bilbo responded approvingly. "Let me go off and get one of the commentaries on the use of languages sent by Lord Erestor of Imladris."

       In minutes Bilbo was back with three volumes that he set on the edge of the table. Frodo had taken over the watch on the potatoes being fried with bits of bacon and onion while his uncle absented himself from the kitchen, and he now lifted the skillet from the fire and set it on a folded towel on the table with a large wooden spoon thrust into it so they could serve themselves.

       Bilbo himself was also still attired in his own dressing gown, although he’d managed to put on a pair of trousers under his nightshirt, the braces at the moment slapping at his upper legs as he’d not yet pulled them over his shoulders. The older Hobbit served himself some of the potatoes from the skillet, popped a large bite into his mouth, and opened the topmost volume. After several minutes of leafing back and forth through it, he finally found the section he’d been searching for, and not bothering to fully swallow what he had in his mouth he began reading aloud.

-

       "Mornin’, Miss Dora," Hamfast Gamgee welcomed Mr. Bilbo’s cousin as she entered the gate. "Come to see the Master, have you?"

       "Yes, both Bilbo and young Master Frodo as well," Dora assured him. "Are they in?"

       "Yes, back in the kitchen from what as I could tell when I come by there a few minutes past," the Gaffer answered her. "Eatin’ their ’levenses, they was. Tell you what, Mistress, why’nt you just go back along the path like and knock on the kitchen door, and they won’t have to leave their food to get cold, like, as they come to the front."

       Dora thought briefly, then gave the gardener a bright smile. "Very practical, Master Hamfast," she said. "Yes, I’ll do just that, I think."

       She smiled as she walked down the garden path toward the back door to the hole, remembering the section of her book that Frodo had indicated was his favorite. Frodo had specifically stated he’d been impressed by her noting that appearing at breakfast, particularly second breakfast, in ones dressing gown was slovenly. She looked forward to seeing him again as neatly dressed as he’d been the previous day. She noted young Sam kneeling by the kitchen garden weeding between the rows of herbs, and smiled at the lad. He knuckled his forehead in response, leaving a small dirty spot on it from his work, and she suppressed an amused smile, nodded graciously, and went on.

       She heard the two voices raised, both excited and growing more so as each tried to force the other to listen. "Now it says here…." Frodo’s voice began as Bilbo’s noted,

       "According to this…."

       Now, good manners dictated that one coming to visit others should knock at the door and await admittance by the inhabitants of the home being visited. However, this time something compelled Dora to go against those good manners she’d so assiduously urged on others for years, and she turned the knob and went in….

       There at the table sat Frodo and Bilbo, the former’s dressing gown not even tied neatly, revealing the most disreputable nightshirt it had ever been her misfortune to see, worn and with a seam between yolk and front that gaped open for a good two and a half inches, the fabric rubbed shiny and thin; the latter seated sideways on his side of the table, one foot up on the bench beside him and a book resting against his knee, braces dangling, wearing an old dressing gown that must have been given him at least forty years previous of a most unsuitable rose color, now faded and dirty looking. Neither had brushed hair on head or feet—indeed as he spoke and read from the book laid by his plate, pages held down by the butter dish, Frodo was running his left hand repeatedly through his hair and making it stand right up, while in his right hand he held a piece of toast dripping in currant jam, jam that at the moment was splattering the table cloth.

       At the opening of the door Bilbo went quiet as, startled, he turned, his eyes widening under his tousled silver-gilt curls, his lips thinning in dismay at having been caught so attired. Frodo, blithely unaware as yet, continued on, rattling off in a loud tone a series of words and syllables she must assume were Elvish of some kind, pausing only most briefly between phrases to take a large bite of his toast and continuing on before he’d had a chance to chew, much less clear his mouth.

       A skillet of fried potatoes and other unidentified foodstuffs lay somewhat askew on a hastily folded tea cloth, with not a decent serving spoon but a worn wooden one she could swear she remembered having seen used by Aunt Belladonna when that worthy Hobbitess was mistress of this smial. The cloth decorating the table was damp around the milk jug, and stained under the second jug of apple juice, as it was around the half-empty glass sitting by Frodo’s plate, the rim marred by greasy mouth prints and adhered crumbs.

       Frodo, obviously focused on what he was reading, went on to the end, then looked up triumphantly as if he’d proved a hard-contested point, smiling broadly until he realized Bilbo wasn’t paying him the least attention, then paling far beyond his usual as he realized they were no longer alone in the smial. She looked at the blanched lips and the flaming cheeks and felt a surge of satisfaction. Well, at least he was well aware of the impropriety of his appearance.

       "Well," Dora Baggins pronounced stentoriously into the now heavy silence, "I see for myself just how much of an impression my book has truly made on the two of you!"

*******

       Years later, Dora, still recovering from the shock of the flash that had accompanied Bilbo’s disappearance that night, sat examining the face of her nephew as he fended off the intrusive questions and offended (and offensive) comments of those approaching him for answers, and saw that Frodo was doing his best to hide his grief, was being unfailingly polite and—and kind—as he dredged up answers and acknowledgments to the concerns and protests offered him.

       He was most neatly dressed in a brown suit over a green, figured waistcoat, a waistcoat as rich as any worn by Bilbo in the past—if in far better taste. His hair had been neatly brushed, but not even Dora could fault him as he began running his fingers through it with growing agitation as the questions failed to stop, as the others failed to realize that Frodo was as upset as any of them.

       Then his cousins Meriadoc and Peregrin moved in to offer him some protection; and she saw Samwise Gamgee speaking to the uncertain servers, apparently indicating they were to pass out so far withheld cakes and ale to distract the guests, before he moved to intercept a most vociferous Odo Proudfoot and offer the old Hobbit a courteous suggestion that he come by in the morning to meet with Master Frodo, who was obviously overwhelmed with the questions he’d already been fielding. Even young Pippin was managing, in spite of his extreme youth, to distract those moving in on his Baggins cousin, reminding them that politeness demanded they give Frodo time himself to be accustomed to the new state of things. Something in the eyes of Paladin Took’s son made adults take the child seriously, and they began to fall back, clotting into groups to discuss the happenings of the evening amongst themselves.

       Apparently something in Dora’s expression reassured Meriadoc Brandybuck and led Samwise Gamgee to step aside as she approached her nephew.

       The wariness she’d not seen in the lad’s eyes in years could be detected in them now as he watched her approach. But instead of berating him, she reached out her arms and hugged him in comfort, murmuring into his ear, "Sweetling, I want you to know that throughout the night you have behaved yourself with only the utmost of decorum."

       She felt him melt against her in relief, and he hugged her fiercely for a moment. Then, as she pulled away, he looked into her eyes and she could see the tears he was keeping most carefully under control and not allowing to fall. "I love you, too, Auntie Dora," he said very quietly as their eyes met. "I love you so very much. Thank you." And he gave her his brilliant smile, causing her heart to lift.

       As she finally retreated to her remaining brother’s side and she realized he, too, was intent on approaching their nephew, she whispered, "Be kind, Dudo—be very kind, please."

       He gave her a look, and then the briefest of nods of understanding. After all, his late wife Camellia had also been a recipient of a copy of her book.

In honor of Queen Galadriel's birthday.  Enjoy!

Of Courtship Rituals and Wizards

       "I’m grateful for you inviting the lads to your place for the next two nights, Gordo," Aster Sandheaver told her cousin. "Dorno and Cando have been lookin’ forward to this for days, you know." She turned to her sons. "Now you two be good, and try not to eat more than all your cousins put together, hear?"

       "Mum!" objected Cando, but he and his brother each accepted their parents’ parting hugs and kisses, shouldered their packs, waved goodbye to their sister Dianthus and Cousin Frodo who sat near the fire in the parlor, and followed Gordolac and his son Grado out into the chilly darkness.

       Dianthus watched after them discontentedly as her mother came back into the room and stood near the fireplace to get warm. "I still don’t see as why I couldn’t go with them, too," she complained.

       "Perhaps you might have done so if you hadn’t caught the sniffles, lass. But you’ll have to admit it wouldn’t have been a lot of fun for you bein’ the only lass in the house, for you know as your brothers and Grado would have left you out of all their plans, and would have crowded into the corners to tell stories between them and would have only barked at you any time you tried to join them. You would of come back all discontented and tellin’ tales on them, and you know it, for that’s what’s happened every time you went with them to Grado’s in living memory." Aster smiled ruefully down on Dianthus.

       "And you know as that’s the honest truth of it," added her father from the doorway to the room. "Ye'll be havin’ a far better time stayin’ here with Mr. Frodo, and, after all, ye'll be a-havin’ him all to yourself, him’n his tales." Bucca Sandheaver smiled fondly down at his one daughter. He looked at where Frodo sat with a wooden tray across the arms of his chair and asked, "You’re certain as it’ll be no bother watchin’ the bairn for the evenin’, like?"

       "Oh, no bother at all," Frodo said, his smile unfeigned. "We’ll toast some bread and mull some cider and keep ourselves entertained while you two, Will, and Mina enjoy yourselves at the dinner party." It was a birthday for close friends of the Whitfoots in Michel Delving, and the Mayor, his wife, daughter, and son-in-law had all been invited to dinner. Frodo, who barely knew the Cutlers, had begged off his own invitation, knowing it had only been extended to begin with out of courtesy to him as a roomer of the family and as the deputy Mayor. "Besides, it will allow me to finish up going over this contract Lotho had presented to the Hornblowers of Hardbottle." His expression as he looked back to the thick document on the tray had become stern again. "I still can’t believe all of the hidden clauses folk don’t appear to have noticed until long after they signed the contracts he and Timono presented them."

       Bucca nodded his agreement, then turned as they heard the thump of Will’s crutch and the talk between Will and Mina as they came from the kitchen at the back of the low house. "Well, looks as if we’re ready to leave, too," he said, and he came over to where Dianthus sat in her swaddle of blankets, leaned over her, and kissed her gently. "You be good, lass, and don’t devil your cousin too much with questions, hear?"

       "I promise, Da," she said, kissing his offered cheek.

       "I left a supper for the two of you in the kitchen, and there’s soft cider in the brown jug in the cold room and bread and a knife to slice it on the dresser in the kitchen, and the toasting fork and poker are on their hooks by the hob. And certainly there’s butter and the jam as Frodo received the other night in the cold room, too." Mina Whitfoot looked at her cousin’s son and her granddaughter from the doorway. "Are you warm enough, Frodo, Dianthus?" she asked.

       "The fire’s definitely warm enough," Frodo assured her, "and Bucca’s seen to it there’s plenty of wood to build it up more if it’s necessary. No, you don’t have to worry about the two of us. Dianthus and I’ll be well enough for the evening, and I can see the fires here and in the kitchen properly banked if we decide to go to bed before you get back."

       Mina searched Frodo’s face, but saw no sign that anything in particular might be bothering him this evening. "All right, then," she said, smiling with relief. "You two enjoy yourselves, and we’ll be off."

       Aster leaned over Dianthus and embraced her and whispered her last admonitions into her ear while Bucca stopped to lay his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. "We’ll try not to stay out too long," he said quietly. "You take care, Mr. Frodo, sir." And he hurried to the door to slip on his own cloak and to get that for Aster ready to help her into it.

       Will contented himself with leaning against the archway into the parlor and giving his deputy Mayor and granddaughter a nod and wink before he accepted Mina’s assistance in wrapping his own cloak about himself. Soon the four of them were off, and the door closed firmly after them.

       Dianthus picked up a fresh handkerchief and wiped her nose. "I wonder what they’ll have for supper," she said.

       "Well," he answered her, "what would you like it to be if you were going?"

       "Oh," she said thoughtfully, "bubble-’n’-squeak, roast lamb, mashed taters and plenty of drippings, brown bread and butter...." Her list went on for some minutes, and Frodo’s brows rose as she continued listing her favorite foods.

       "Is that all?" he asked when she finally paused for breath.

       "Well, it’s enough to get on with," she said, sounding at the moment just like her grandmother. They both laughed. She looked up at him, smiling fondly, for she found she quite liked him. "Are you really a cousin?" she asked.

       He shrugged slightly. "Well, my mum and your gammer were first cousins, so that makes your mum and me second cousins, and you my second cousin once removed," he explained.

       "Good. I like being related to you, Mr. Frodo." She stared at him thoughtfully. "What was it like when you were where the King is now?"

       He looked off thoughtfully in his own turn. "Like? Oh, in some ways much like here, and in others very different."

       "Do folks live in smials there?"

       "Smials? Oh, no. Men don’t particularly like living underground, although I did get to see the inside of a cavern behind a waterfall in Ithilien where the Rangers of Ithilien will live for a time while they are patrolling for orcs and other enemies along the Mountains of Shadow. Men prefer to live in houses, and the folk of Gondor love tall houses, two and three stories tall, sometimes higher."

       Dianthus shuddered at the thought of such things. "Why would they want houses so tall?" she asked, fascinated.

       He shrugged, but smiled gently. "Perhaps because their houses must be so close together--at least there in the King’s city of Minas Tirith. In some streets the side wall of one house lies right against the side wall of the next one, making rows of houses all along the way. Some of the homes, though, do have actual grounds around them, and even gardens."

       "Why didn’t you live in the house where the King lives?"

       "Oh, my, but you never saw it! The Citadel is huge--perhaps larger than the ridge into which the Great Smial is dug. There is no place in the whole of the Shire as big as the Hall of Kings where Aragorn’s throne sits on its high dais. Not even the banquet chamber in the Council Hole is as large. But it’s only one part of the place.

       "Off the back of it are four wings. The first one is the Steward’s Wing, in which the Steward and his family and body servants and personal guests are meant to live when they are resident in the city. The second is the Royal Wing, for the King’s family. No one lived in that at all for over a thousand years, since King Eärnur left to answer the challenge of--of Minas Morgul and never returned. The third is the guest wing. The rooms on the upper of the two stories on that wing are saved for the King of Rohan and his family and attendants when they come to Gondor. The rooms on the lower floor are offered to the most noble guests who have no place to live themselves when they must reside in the City. The King of Dale in Rhovanion stayed there with his cousin, his Seneschal, and their attendants during their visit, as did the embassy of Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain. On the lower floor of the fourth wing are the rooms for visiting minor nobles and their parties; on the upper floor are the dormitories for many of the unmarried servants who don’t live in their own homes. But then there are the kitchens, larders, cellars, laundries, dining halls, armories, offices, audience chambers, and so on. I never looked into more than the Royal Chambers and the two rooms Aragorn had prepared for Sam, Merry, Pippin, and me on the lower floor of the Royal Wing--other than the reception room at the end of the hall and a brief glimpse into the King’s kitchen. There are rooms for the servants attendant on the King near the doors from the great hallway, and stairs to the upper story--I never went there at all. Then there are other buildings that are considered part of the Citadel--barracks for unmarried guards, the glass houses, workshops, storage warehouses, the prison, the Halls of Memorial, the Feast Hall of Merethrond, the Tower of Ecthelion.... And there are the gardens, which are beautiful beyond telling.

       "There are hundreds of servants--housekeepers, maids, valets, guards, groundskeepers, artisans who see to the upkeep of the place. Aragorn tells me that when he tried to meet with the staff on his second day as King, the Hall of Kings was full, and he was told a goodly portion of the staff didn’t attend even then, for too many were needed to keep working. I don’t think there is a time when there isn’t some activity going on somewhere in the place.

       "Can you imagine how difficult it would be to live there? They prepared a single room for Sam and me, and a second one for Merry and Pippin, and a bathing room for each bedroom. Each of the bedrooms was larger than your grandfather’s whole house! It was totally overwhelming. When Aragorn offered us the choice to stay with him in the prepared rooms in the Citadel or in a guest house in the Sixth Circle, all of us agreed we’d take the guest house. Even Aragorn would have preferred it, had he been allowed. But he’s the King now, so he’s stuck in the Citadel, although he spends a good number of nights wandering the upper levels of the city when he can’t sleep for the sense of enormity about him."

       Dianthus tried vainly to imagine such a place, and gave up with the description of the rooms prepared for the four Hobbits.

       "So we stayed in the guest house. It had two stories for living quarters and a lower level beneath it with the storage rooms, cold room, and larders. There were two bathing chambers and privies, one upstairs and one on the main floor. Originally the upper floor was intended for sleeping, so that was where the proper bedrooms were. On the main floor were a large day room, dining room, kitchen, entrance hall, bathing room and privy, two smaller parlors, and a private study or library off one of the smaller parlors. I slept in the study amidst the bookcases, Sam was given the parlor one must pass through to get to the study, and Merry and Pippin shared the other smaller parlor, which was a bit larger. Upstairs at the back of the house over the day room was a large room that was sort of a sitting room with a sleeping alcove at each end of it that was given to Gandalf and Pippin to sleep in during their earlier stay, and now Gandalf had for his own; another bedroom on the front looking down on the street with a large bathing chamber and privy next to it, and large bedrooms on each end. Lasgon, the boy assigned as our page, slept in one, and Legolas had the other, while Gimli slept in the room at the front. Lasgon stayed with us six nights a week, and Mistress Loren, who was assigned to us as our housekeeper, would sleep in his room the one night a week he had free to spend with his own family. Gandalf’s room was huge, and the other three were still large ones. Perhaps Gandalf’s had been intended as a nursery, or as the private quarters for the servants--I never figured out which, I’m afraid.

       "Mistress Loren was appalled when we were granted the rooms on the lower floors to sleep in--I am certain she was just as affronted by the idea anyone would sleep on the ground floor as my Aunt Dora Baggins would have been had anyone suggested bedrooms be placed on the upper story."

       He paused as she laughed, and she could see his eyes were twinkling. "Should we go eat our meal now, do you think?" he asked her.

       "Yes, let’s," she answered as she took another handkerchief to blow her nose.

       Together they walked into the kitchen. The table was already set for the two of them, and Frodo soon had both plates filled from the pans and bowls set on the stove and kitchen dresser. Once these were on the table he paused as he usually did and looked westward for a moment, and his face went quite still. Dianthus felt a bit uncomfortable with this, for it seemed at the moment he was seeing and hearing something only he could be aware of, and it almost appeared his face was lit, as if a secret candle shone on it.

       At last he came back present, more than a trace of sadness--or something like it--on his face. He sat and began eating, quiet and distracted, his thoughts too far away from this house in Michel Delving.

       "Why do you do that?"

       Frodo lifted his face, startled, appearing surprised to realize he wasn’t alone. "What?" he asked.

       "Why do you stand for a moment before you eat, facing that way?"

       He looked down at his plate and shrugged. After a moment he said quietly, "It’s called the Standing Silence. It’s what they do in Gondor before meals. They face the West, toward where Númenor was, where the Undying Lands are, in honor of the Valar and the Maiar and those beyond our world in the Presence of the Creator."

       "Why does it make you sad?"

       Frodo glanced at her, then away, seemingly focused on his plate as he pushed his food around it. Finally he said so softly she had to listen carefully. "I’m not sad--not really, Dianthus. It’s just that--that sometimes I feel--that----" He went quiet again, and shook his head.

       "That what?"

       "That I’m being called."

       "Why?" And after getting no answer she asked, "Who’d call you?"

       He looked at her sideways, then back again at the plate. He stopped pushing his food around, and instead held the fork between his hands and turned it. He gave a sigh and straightened. "I almost didn’t come back, Dianthus. I was--badly wounded--several times. Aragorn was able to call me back the last time, and sometimes--sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I’d not turned." He looked at her directly, then gave a slight, somewhat apologetic smile.

       "Let’s see--where was I? Oh, yes, I’d told you about the house and how upset Mistress Loren was to learn we Hobbits were going to sleep downstairs." He took a bite of salad and chewed it, then swallowed. His fuller smile returned.

       "Mistress Loren was a young woman, not long an adult in the reckoning of Men, being in her early twenties. She was of mostly Dúnedain descent, rather tall, her hair dark, her eyes grey, her carriage tall and proud. Her family had served the Citadel for many generations, as was true also of young Lasgon, who was about fourteen, which would be similar to being a Hobbit of about eighteen to twenty.

       "Mistress Loren was very attractive, and one of the first women we’d been near for some time, plus she was an accomplished cook. From her first batch of nut cakes Pippin was lost; and when she made her thin griddlecakes filled with sweetened creamed cheese and fruit and covered in syrup and clotted cream all of us found ourselves in love with her." His smile became somewhat rueful. "I found those too rich for me, and would have to ask for lighter fare for myself when she made them on the mornings after she’d stayed the night. But we all loved them. All of us were eating extravagant amounts of fruit, although I soon found I had to be more moderate than the others. She had a recipe for sweet cakes to pour fruit over that was marvelous; and what she could do with thin strips of beef, vegetables, and oil of sesame cannot be believed!

       "One thing of which we remained unaware--that among Men the sharing of family recipes does not mean what it means here. It is a matter of pride there as it is here to be asked to share a recipe, and a cook may or may not choose to share one when asked. But when Pippin, joking, asked her recipe for her onion soup and she gave it to him--you can imagine how shocked he was!"

       Dianthus’s mouth dropped open. "You mean that Mr. Peregrin is betrothed to her now?" she demanded, as that was the common meaning of an unmarried lass sharing family recipes with an unmarried lad within the Shire.

       "Oh, you can’t imagine what confusion there was, for Pippin indeed thought she fancied him. He was immensely flattered, of course, and began bringing her small gifts--a fruit he purchased from a merchant sailor who’d brought it from a land far across the southern sea, one with a peel with thick hairs upon it and that had a green flesh and many seeds; another called a pomegranate that has a thick peel and is filled with seeds, each in its own sac of juice; the feather of a fantastic bird called a peacock--there’s a family in the Fifth Circle that’s successfully bred them; a figure of an owl carved from a clear stone crystal. It was rather sweet, actually, watching him pay court to her.

       "And then Merry, meaning to tease Pippin, asked her for her recipe for ginger biscuits in front of Pippin, and she gave it to him--stood right there and wrote it out on a small card and insisted he put it into his pack so he wouldn’t forget it when we left the city, right there in front of us all. Merry had to pick his jaw right up off the floor, and Pippin went very white.

       "Then one day when she made a sort of sour jam she called marmalade from the rind of the orange fruits, a jam Sam adored although I can’t abide it--how something so sweet as the orange fruit can produce something so bitter is something I can’t understand--Sam stood in the kitchen after she’d left it commenting to Pippin he’d love to have that recipe, and she overheard him, came back in, started writing it out for him and told him where he might purchase the special device for slicing the peel thin enough to make it. Sam went all kinds of red, for there’s never been any question that he and Rosie Cotton have had an understanding since their childhood. He was all but sputtering that he couldn’t accept a recipe from her, and she was totally confused as to why not!"

       "She’d lead them all on?" asked Dianthus, scandalized.

       "Oh, no, not that at all. Aragorn arrived just then with Gandalf--poor Aragorn, he’d slip away from the Citadel at times when he could and the protocol had become too stringent and heavy for him--and came in to find the house in confusion. Sam was terribly embarrassed and almost insulted, Pippin was stricken, and Merry was about to take up arms to protect his cousin’s feelings. ‘You can’t do this, you know, Mistress Loren,’ he was telling her as the King entered, ‘toying with a lad’s affections as you are!’ And it was obvious to me she hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about.

       "I was beginning to realize that she’d not actually been trying to indicate she was interested in Pippin--in fact, I’d been shocked when she first gave Pippin the recipe, for both Sam and I were certain she was most fascinated by Merry of the four of us. When she gave the one for the ginger biscuits to Merry I’d figured she’d given the recipe to Pippin to make Merry jealous but was now declaring herself properly. Now I realized it was quite different, and that she wasn’t drawn to any of us at all.

       "Mistress Loren was all in tears at that point and turned to the King to indicate that somehow she’d appeared to have insulted us and perhaps another should be chosen to serve us, Strider was standing there also all bewildered, and Gandalf just looked at the situation and demanded to know what precisely had happened. I started to explain, and was interrupted frequently by Sam and Merry, both of them most indignant; but it didn’t take a great deal for Gandalf to figure it out--and how he laughed!

       "Sam had commented to me that since his return Gandalf had become like a fount of humor and joy, enough to set whole kingdoms laughing; and that afternoon he did just that. All of a sudden Aragorn began to laugh, and when he truly laughs it is a rolling laugh! 'Oh,' Aragorn kept repeating, 'Bilbo and Meliangiloreth! Bilbo and Meliangiloreth!' And then I began laughing as I realized I was right, and then Sam because he couldn’t help it, and then Merry and Pippin because I was laughing so hard. Only Mistress Loren wasn’t laughing at that point, being even more bewildered than any of the rest.

       "Then Legolas and Gimli came in, and immediately Gimli wanted to know what was happening. Aragorn tried to explain, but was laughing so hard he was barely understandable. Both he and I were collapsed onto the floor holding our knees by that time. Gimli figured it out and then he began to chuckle, too--and his laughter is rich and full. Legolas hadn’t any more idea what was going on than Mistress Loren, so he went to her and tried to soothe her, although he was smiling because he couldn’t help doing so, as much as the rest of us were laughing.

       "At last Aragorn got control of himself, although he continued grinning from ear to ear. ‘The problem, you see,’ he explained to Mistress Loren, ‘is that for a lady among Hobbits to give a recipe to a gentleman among Hobbits has a far deeper meaning than it does among Men. Shortly after he came to Rivendell to live, Frodo’s Uncle Bilbo made the comment to Meliangiloreth, one of the healers who also likes at times to help in the kitchens, that he liked her thin griddle cakes she’d roll around a cone and fill with fruit and cream. When she offered him the recipe he got all flustered and explained that, as old as he was it wouldn’t be proper to accept her regards, and we realized that the sharing of recipes between male and female is part of courtship among Hobbits.’

       "‘Then, it doesn’t mean anything among Men?’ Pippin asked.

       "‘Nor among Elves or Dwarves, although, Mistress Loren, I strongly advise you not to ask to borrow Master Gimli’s knife or any of his tools...’."

       "I don’t think I have ever seen anyone who ever laughed as much as Legolas did at that, and next thing you know we were all roaring again."

       Frodo ate, although not as well as he ought to have done, Dianthus thought. Afterwards she helped him clean the kitchen, and he put a couple extra logs onto the kitchen hearth to keep it warmer until the rest returned. Then, with mugs of cider and spices, sliced bread and cheese, the mulling poker and the toasting fork, and a couple of plates, the butter crock, jam, and a knife, they repaired to the parlor once more. As Frodo heated the poker, Dianthus carefully positioned bread on the toasting fork to heat.

       Finally she asked, "What did you mean, Gandalf’s return?"

       Frodo paused and straightened, then said quietly, "I know this is difficult to understand, but during our journey south Gandalf died. He fell into a deep chasm, and died. He told Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli he was sent back to finish his task, for he was intended to be the enemy of Sauron; and until Sauron was cast down forever he was needed here."

       "Who sent him back?"

       "The Valar and the Creator." He twisted his head to look at her. "That’s why the Wizards were sent to Middle Earth to begin with, to teach all of us who live here to oppose Sauron. That’s what made it so terrible when Saruman--Sharkey--fell and betrayed all of the Free Peoples--that he, too, was meant to oppose Sauron, but instead began helping him and apparently tried to take his place. If he’d managed to get--It--he would have been just as bad as Sauron, if not worse."

       He looked away again, watching the end of the poker inside the flames. When he spoke again, once more it was as if he were explaining things more to himself than to her. "The first time we met Gandalf, Sam and me, it was just after I came to Hobbiton to live with Bilbo. He’d just come from Rivendell, and Lord Elrond had sent books with him about the first encounters the Elves of Imladris had known with Hobbits, those who came over the passes of the Misty Mountains from the valley of the Anduin into Eriador. Bilbo set me copying out one of Lord Elrond’s own journals. I didn’t begin to understand it all--I wasn’t very good with Sindarin then, much less Quenya. But the earliest part wasn’t about Periannath--about Hobbits, at all; it was about the coming of the last of the Istari, whom the wandering tribes called Gandalf, which means the Man with the Staff.

       "There were five Wizards then--Saruman the White, Radagast the Brown, the two Blue Wizards who came together and disappeared into the East and were not seen again, and at last Gandalf the Grey. Saruman was the first and was acknowledged the chieftain of their order by the others. But in spite of appearing to be elderly Men, they obviously weren’t, for after several lives of Men neither Saruman nor Radagast had aged at all by the time Gandalf arrived."

       "If they aren’t Men, then what are they?"

       He placed the heated poker into her mug to heat the cider, shrugging as he did so. "The Elves," he said, "call them the Istari. I still don’t have a good understanding of what Istari means, but it seems to indicate a special class of servants. What Lord Elrond’s journal indicated, however, is that according to what he learned from the Elves of Lindon and Mithlond was that they all arrived in grey boats from the west, from the Sundering Sea."

       He checked the temperature of the heated cider, then removed the poker and set it to heat again. As she blew her nose he accepted the toasting fork and balanced its burden over the flames by leaning it over the fender. He handed her the heated mug and turned his attention back to the toasting bread and cheese. "When mortals--Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits--die, our spirits leave the Bounds of Arda. Many among the Dúnedain believe that they can rest, at least for a time, in the Halls of Mandos before they go on if they wish. But once we’ve died our spirits go on, and don’t come back.

       "Elves don’t die as mortals do. They stay in their bodies unless their bodies are killed or unless they suffer extreme grief, and then their fëar or spirits pass into the Halls of Mandos until their spirits are sufficiently recovered to be put back into bodies again--what they call being rehoused. I used to think that was just a story, until I met Lord Glorfindel. It happened to him. He died fighting a Balrog--one of the Maiar or servant spirits who followed Morgoth and took the shapes of demons of fire and shadow. He was not only rehoused, but was sent back to Middle Earth again, this time to aid in the fight against Sauron, just as was true of the five Istari."

       "Then Gandalf’s an Elf spirit?" Dianthus asked.

       He removed the toasted bread and placed it on one of the plates, then took the poker and held it in his own mug, shrugging. "I suspect he’s something more--that all of the Istari were something more. But he was sent back, and he was changed. He has a new staff now, a fine one of what appears to be ivory. It’s top reminds me still of a flame, but also of the arched windows of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. He is clad now in the finest white garments, far more beautiful than those worn by Saruman before his staff was broken, or so Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn, Merry, and Pippin tell me. He is filled with the greatest joy and delight, although all tell me that during the final weeks of the war he often appeared exhausted, grim, and even at times filled with grief. They said when my mithril shirt and cloak from Lorien and clothing and Sam’s sword were brought out to them by Sauron’s creature he looked stricken with grief and near despair, and all about him looked grey as ash. For an exceedingly brief time they all thought I’d been taken and was even then being tortured in the dungeons of Barad-dur. But both Aragorn and Gandalf realized that, from Sauron’s point of view, only one Hobbit had been found, not two, so they believed one of us, Sam or me, had taken the--had taken It on to the Mountain, even if one of us had been captured."

       He removed the poker and set it down with a clank on the hearth, lifted the mug, and stared down into it. Dianthus could see where his finger was missing, although she didn’t like to think on how it was lost.

       "But neither of you was captured," she prompted.

       "Actually," he sighed, "I had been captured, but Sam had rescued me. They had no idea who we were or why we were trying to get into Mordor. But that’s how they got my clothes."

       She began to giggle. "You mean you were--" she whispered, "naked--with no clothes on in Mordor?"

       Suddenly he was giggling, too, and the giggle turned into a true laugh. "Yes, I started out that way, although Sam quickly found some orc clothes I could wear, at least for a bit. Then I couldn’t stand them any more, and he wrapped me in his Lorien cloak as a robe." He smiled at her fondly. "Trust you to realize how ludicrous I must have looked at the time."

       She started to drink some of her cider, found herself laughing again and snorted her drink out her nose. Frodo was laughing also as he sought to help her clean herself up. At last she managed to gasp out, "He didn’t know that the one as he needed to watch out for was the Hobbit what didn’t have no clothes on, did he?"

       Frodo lost it completely, and laughed helplessly, drawing his knees up to his chest. Dianthus watched, feeling triumph.

       At last Frodo drew her up into his lap, forgetting the troubling contract he’d been reviewing earlier, forgetting his solemnity. "Thank you, Dianthus," he whispered to her, "for a most entertaining evening."

       She smiled as she snuggled closer to his chest, and smiled as he rested his cheek against the top of her head.

      When at last her parents and grandparents returned, that was how they found them, Frodo asleep with a smile on his face, holding Dianthus in his lap, snoring softly against his chest.

       As her father gently disengaged his daughter so he could take her to her bed, she awoke. She looked back at the Hobbit who slept in the chair and smiled. "Look, Da," she murmured, "his secret candle is lit again."

       And indeed it did appear that Frodo was somehow glowing softly in his sleep.

       Afar off in Rivendell Olórin was watching over the Ringbearer’s dreams. Frodo dreamed he was at a great picnic with his parents, and with the brothers and sister who’d been lost to him around them. And if his brothers had been increased in number somewhat and resembled Aragorn, Sam, Merry, and Pippin and the sister he swung about in circles looked like Dianthus Sandheaver, no one would fault him.

       The Wizard smiled as he called blessings down on his friend.

Requesting Mercy

       Lub dub.

       Sam could feel the heartbeat, slow and laborious, against his arm as he lay, bare-chested, by his Master, hoping against hope to warm the frigid arm and shoulder with his own body heat, half covering Frodo’s left shoulder with his own torso. They lay on two blankets, and had two more covering them, plus both Sam’s and Frodo’s cloaks as well as Pippin’s. Frodo lay still, hopefully asleep. Certainly Pippin, who lay crowded against Frodo’s right side, was snoring softly.

       The heartbeat was better now than when they’d first made the nest of blankets and piled bracken and laid Frodo in the midst of it. Then it had been rapid and thready; at least it had slowed and grown more steady.

       "Will it work, do you think, having Sam take off his own shirt and lying against Frodo’s chest that way?" Merry softly asked Strider from where he sat his watch at the edge of the small hollow where they’d camped for the night.

       "I don’t know whether or not Frodo will take the warmth, for I don’t believe anyone has tried this technique against a Morgul wound." The Ranger’s voice was also low but steady as he set the rocks Pippin had gathered before he joined Frodo and Sam in the bedding among the coals of their fire to warm them. "I do know that it works with those who have suffered loss of body heat due to having fallen into frigid waters or having been buried in snow drifts."

       Lub-dub.

       Sam could hear Strider pouring water from one of the water bottles into his smaller pan, then the clink as he set it over the low flames to heat, balancing it on three strategically placed stones. Would he be planning on another poultice or a warming tea this time? Sam wondered. Very probably both, he knew.

       Lub dub.

       Lub dub.

       As long as he could feel that heartbeat Sam knew there was hope they would make it in time. He was grateful for the long walk and the extended scramble they’d gone through today, as it had so tired Pippin the lad was lying still in utter exhaustion for a change as he slept. It had to be helping Mr. Frodo--it had to, to have the two of them lying so close, sharing their own bodies’ warmth with him. He had to make it to Rivendell!

       Lub-dub.

       The sound of branches being broken against Strider’s booted foot, then being fed to the coals to keep them going, to increase the height of the flame. The soft noise of Strider opening his pack and pulling out his healer’s kit, untying the knot, finding the right pouches by means of the patterned knots on their drawstrings, the feel of their contents, their relative weights and bulk. The snap of a twig as it burned.

       Sam wondered how Strider did it--kept going the way he did. He didn’t think the Ranger had slept more than a couple hours at a stretch since Frodo was stabbed back there below Weathertop. Mostly he seemed to catch small catnaps taken sitting up by whatever fire they’d have, waiting for the fire to warm water or stones, or to cook whatever foodstuffs they had produced or found that could be fed to Frodo. Sam was grateful that old Mr. Bilbo’s library had held in it two books that described edible and medicinal plants to be found in the wild and how to prepare them, and even happier that he’d studied both volumes when he was younger. He’d been unsurprised that Strider had proven knowledgeable of edible plants, also, although the revelation that the Man had known training in healing and was well versed in the lore of medicinal herbs had come as a shock to all of them at first.

       Lub dub.

       Still alive--Frodo was still alive. They had to hang onto that--the fact Frodo was still alive! It was difficult to feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breathing was so shallow. Sam wasn’t certain if it was worse when it was shallow but quiet as it was now, or when it was ragged and rasping as it could get in those times Frodo rode on Bill over rough ground or when he must dismount and crawl up a particularly rough rock wall or over especially loose and treacherous scree. Even with Strider and Sam beside him to support and aid him as they could it could be additional torture to Frodo, having to move like that while fighting to keep that thing at bay as it sought out his heart.

       He heard at last more movement from Strider as he wrapped up warm stones in Pippin’s spare shirt, ready to bring them to place them about Frodo’s upper shoulder. He’d take away the ones already there, wrapped in Frodo’s own spare shirt and put them back in the fire again. Then he heard the pouring of liquid into one of their tin cups, and at last the scrape of cloth and boots as the Man rose. Strider was noisier when he moved than any Hobbit could be, although from the little Sam had noticed in Bree he appeared particularly quiet for a Man. Sam followed the Man’s footsteps as he approached, then was surprised when he heard and felt his Master’s voice, as labored and low as it now was, vibrating against his skin as Strider knelt over them.

       "I don’t know if I can keep it down, Strider."

       "You need to try, Frodo. You need as much warmth within you as you can get, and as much food as you can retain."

       Sam gently and reluctantly rolled aside, revealing he was indeed awake also, as Strider removed the shirt filled with now cooled stones. Sam took the toweling that he’d been lying directly on and wrapped it about Frodo’s torso before he and Strider raised him up between them, supporting him so he could drink from the cup the Man had brought. Frodo proved able to drink most of it before he pursed his lips and shook his head, indicating his surety he’d lose it all if he tried to drink any more.

       "Do you need to relieve yourself, Frodo?" the Man asked as he and Sam laid Frodo back down again and Sam unwrapped the toweling and laid it where his body could warm it.

       "No," Frodo whispered, shaking his head slightly. "At least I’m--I’m spared that humiliation for--for now." Again his breathing was labored, as was his heart as Sam again laid his own shoulder over that of his Master. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub-a-dub, lub-dub, went the quickened and sometimes irregular beating under Sam’s arm.

       Strider placed the new batch of warmed stones against Frodo’s shoulder and straightened the stack of coverings over the three Hobbits, making certain Pippin was also covered and encouraging the young Hobbit to roll closer to Frodo.

       "Strider," Frodo whispered, and the Man went still, listening intently. "Strider, what is it--what is it doing to me?"

       At last Strider asked, "What do you find it’s doing to you?"

       Sam felt the brush of Frodo’s hair against his cheek as he shook his head. "I mean, the end, Strider. What will be the end?"

       Lying face down as he was, Sam couldn’t see the Man’s face, but apparently the Ranger had just pursed his lips and shaken his head, insisting Frodo answer first. He felt the sigh of frustration Frodo gave before he finally whispered, "It’s affecting my sight. It’s as if there’s a grey fog between the rest of the world and me, especially when I’ve been still for a time. I can’t see colors unless they’re vivid. I could barely see the stone trolls at first when we were there by them. Now I can barely see your face, and--and it’s grey." Then, in a softer voice, "No, not grey--silvery, a soft silvery shine. And when Sam walks by me there’s a soft golden glow, as if there was a warm fire burning in--in his heart. I’ve been seeing mostly shadows when I see the others, although today I’ve noticed that--that I see a green flame when it’s Pippin, and a warm brown cast to the shape when it’s Merry. And there’s a very soft golden brown when I look at Bill." He went still for a time. "I don’t think I’ll--I’ll be able to--to keep fighting it that much longer." He took as deep a breath as he could and held it a moment before whispering, "My shoulder--the ache is getting so deep sometimes I--I don’t even feel it any more. It’s all going numb."

       "Can you move your left hand?"

       "Barely. Mostly, though, if--if I fix my fingers around Bill’s reins I can keep my grip. But I can’t hold anything of any weight." He shifted weakly under Sam’s warmth. "Please, Strider," he whispered, "I have to know--I have to know what I’ll come to when it--if it hits my heart. Please, Strider."

       "You don’t want to know, Frodo," the Ranger said, his own voice strained.

       "I have the right to know." There was such a note of authority in the Hobbit’s voice that Sam was surprised, and he could hear a change in the Man’s breathing.

       "Oh, Frodo...." But at last he began to tell. "Your fëa will be drawn increasingly into the Shadow World. If the shard reaches your heart, you’ll become a wraith like them, but without all their power. You’ll be under their domination. You’ll lose your ability to know yourself. You’ll probably remember what you were like before at first, but then...."

       Neither Sam nor Frodo could keep their gasps of horror under control, and Sam wrapped his left arm about Frodo’s shoulder. Sam could barely see Strider’s face pull up and away as he straightened up, sitting back further on his haunches. Frodo was stretching under Sam’s protective embrace, and his body was tensing.

       Lub-dub--lub-dub--lub-dub 

       Frodo’s heartbeat, that had been gradually slowing, again had begun racing. "No!" he whispered from between gritted teeth. "I wouldn’t want that--you know that, Strider."

       Lub-dub.

       Lub dub.

       Lub dub.

       "No rational individual would," the Man said softly, his voice filled with compassion.

       Sam asked, speaking against Frodo’s cold shoulder, "How is it as you know all this?"

       He heard Strider shifting his position uncomfortably. "There was an attack--from Angmar. Someone had come from Mordor, possibly from Minas Morgul itself, armed with a Morgul knife. He stabbed Avramir with it. Avramir had ridden with my patrol and had ridden out as a scout. We heard the assault on him, and we went to his assistance--he’d already been stabbed. And my--Lord Elrond has dealt with two or three who’d been so wounded. He knows how to deal with it--now. It’s why we are trying to get there to Rivendell as swiftly as we can."

       Frodo forced the question, "What happened to Avramir?"

       "He didn’t survive."

       "He--didn’t--didn’t become a wraith?"

       "No. He--died just before he could quite get that far."

       "How did he die?"

       After a long pause, Strider answered in a tight voice, "I won’t tell you, Frodo. Don’t ask me. Sleep, if you can." Sam could hear Strider rise and draw away. Sam turned his face downward, into the hollow of Frodo’s neck.

       Lub-dub, lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

       Frodo’s heartbeat was slowing. He finally turned his head back, whispered into Sam’s ear, "Sam, will you promise me something?"

       "What?" Sam answered.

       Frodo’s whisper was insistent. "No, promise first, Sam. You have to promise--to promise to do what I ask of you."

       "And if I can’t?"

       "You have to, Sam."

       After a moment Sam whispered into Frodo’s hair, "Strider’ll do it, if’n it becomes necessary, Mr. Frodo." He felt as if his chest was being painfully squeezed.

       "I can’t let him do it. If word got back to the Shire--that a Man killed me, no matter under what circumstances, it would--" Sam felt him swallow. "If a man killed me, it would destroy trust between Hobbits and Men. Forever. We can’t let him do it." He sighed. "You have your sword from the barrow...."

       "You can’t ask me!" It was all he could do to speak at all.

       "I’d rather...." Frodo swallowed again, and lifted his right hand to Sam’s head, slowly ran his fingers through Sam’s hair. "We can’t let them turn me--turn me into--into one of them, Sam. We can’t! Please, Sam! Please! If it--if it has to be done, I want you--I want you to do it."

       When Sam only shook his head, Frodo whispered, "Better someone I know loves me, Sam. Please don’t make me ask Pippin."

       Sam was shocked. "You’d never--he’s but a lad yet, and he’s never----"

       "He grew up on the farm, Sam, and he’s helped with the autumn slaughtering. Not like Merry and me, growing up protected. After--after I learned where lamb chops came from, I didn’t eat meat again for better than a month. Made me ill--I had to be force-fed liver for three weeks."

       Why that made Sam want to laugh he couldn’t imagine, and when he realized the hitches in Frodo’s breath indicated he was doing so he turned his head in surprise to look into the older Hobbit’s eyes. He saw the pain and the determination in his Master’s face alongside the fleeting laughter. Frodo’s laughter faded, and he sighed, turned his face to look up toward the sky. Finally Sam asked, "What makes you think as Strider’d be blamed like that?"

       When he answered, Frodo’s whispered words were slow with much thought. "You don’t understand--the Ring--It wants him to do it for me. It wants him to be blamed. It foresees Strider and Men and--the Elves Strider consorts with--they’ll be blamed. That much more distrust It would sow. Of course," he murmured, turning his head again toward Sam, "It would rather the shard finishes its work." He lay still, and for several minutes both his heart and his breath were labored. Finally he whispered again, "Please Sam. For the sake of my soul...."

       Sam squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. At last Frodo said, in a very still voice, "It would break Merry completely to do it, and Pippin’s still so young."

       "What makes you think as I could do it?"

       "Because you’re strong. You’ve had to help with slaughtering, too, on the Cotton’s farm. You know sometimes it’s necessary. You’ve snared conies and pheasants, and have prepared them for the pot. You even--you even helped put down Nibs’s pony last year, after it fell and broke its leg. You know where--where to hit me--I know you looked at those drawings of how the body’s made in Bilbo’s anatomy book. You would do it, swift and sure."

       "And you’d have me be a murderer rather’n Strider?" Sam turned again to look into Frodo’s face, saw the growing weariness.

       "Uncle Sara--he knows how much, how very much, you love me, Sam. He’ll know--you’d only do it if there was nothing else to be done."

       At last Frodo looked back upwards and closed his eyes, covered them with his right hand. Sam saw that weary tears were now working past Frodo’s fingers, running back into his dark hair. At last Sam said, "Don’t feel comfortable with this sword, you know. But I have my skinnin’ knife, there in my pack."

       He felt Frodo’s body relax in relief. There was the slightest nod of understanding, then, barely to be heard, "Then keep it by you, till this is over, please. Thank you, Sam."

       Lub-dub. Lub-a-dub. Lub-dub.

       Lub-dub.

       Lub dub.

       Lub dub.

       Lub-dub.

       Lub dub..... 

       Heart and breathing slowed, grew more regular, once again.

       Sam lay with his chest pressed to Frodo’s wounded shoulder, where the skin had knit almost completely, only holding in something worse than infection. And he felt himself hating them both, the shard and the Ring, hated them for what he’d been forced to promise.

       He wasn’t certain whether Frodo was asleep or not, but knew that for the moment at least he knew some peace of mind. His own emotions might be seething like a maelstrom, but Frodo had a bit of peace he could hold to him, a bit of surety in a suddenly deadly world. He stayed as still as he could, willing his own warmth and strength into his friend’s form.

*

       The Man sat by the fire pit, rolling the heated stones into Frodo’s extra shirt when Merry left his post to take his place with Frodo, Sam rising and already donning shirt, jacket, and cloak before Merry’d even knelt by the pile of coverings over the Ringbearer. Again the Ranger pulled away the cooled pack and pressed the warmed roll of heated stones against Frodo’s upper shoulder before Merry was through removing his own shirt and laid his cloak over the blankets and other cloaks in place of the one Sam had removed. He saw Merry, Frodo, and Pippin carefully covered, then walked across to the place where Sam knelt, rummaging in his pack before heading for the rock from which Merry’d kept his watch. He briefly laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder, but the Hobbit shrugged it off, shaking his head.

       Strider saw Sam go still as he apparently found what he was looking for in his pack, and then the gardener pulled it out, glanced briefly at it, and stowed it in his pocket. He methodically refastened the pack and put it back into its place, and finally went to take his guard.

       Sam and Frodo had been discussing something in whispers after he’d left them. Strider hadn’t known what the subject of the conversation had been, but as he watched the stiffness of Sam’s posture as he sat his rock facing out into the darkness he was coming to realize what it had probably been about. He thought back to what he’d seen Sam take from his pack--a folding Hobbit knife--a skinning knife, he judged. As he saw Sam’s shoulders begin to shake with silent sobs, the Man knew for certain, remembering to the patrol with Avramir, and how Avramir had made a request of him.

       And the Ranger found himself hating both the shard and the Ring, realizing how both had brought love of one by another to such a pass, remembering the love that had guided the knife that had freed Avramir before the Morgul shard he’d carried had taken him completely.

       Frodo had already carried that shard ten days. He couldn’t hold out that much longer, Strider knew. If only the Creator and Valar would send aid to make certain they made it to Elrond’s side in time, then Sam could keep that knife in his pocket, and eventually return it to his pack.

       He returned to kneel by Frodo’s head, watched his apparently sleeping face, began singing the ancient healing invocation he’d learned as a child, offering it for the peace of all four Hobbits. He knew Sam, at least, was as wounded tonight as was Frodo....

Unbelief

            “Valdarion!” called Arniel.  “Valdarion!  Hurry!  Uncle Marc and Margil are here!”

            Valdarion dropped his book on his bed and straightened to his full height.  “Uncle Marc and Margil?” he called back.  “At last!  At last!  It’s been so long since they were here before!”  The book forgotten, he turned to hurry out of the room and down the stairs.

            Uncle Marcarion was with Nana in the back parlor.  “I couldn’t believe the destruction!” he was saying.  “The Pelennor looks terrible, with all the trenches cut across it and the orchards burned down and the farmsteads demolished.  I’ve never seen the like!  And so many buildings destroyed in the lower city....”

            “ I know,” Elisien answered.  “Hardly anything in the First Circle remained undamaged, it seems, and they even managed to damage the watchtower and Serandor’s house on the walls of the Third Circle.  And there was ash everywhere from Mount Doom and the darkness that covered the land--everywhere.  We had to clean all the windows and sweep the porches and the pavements.  It even got into the house!”

            “And so Narieth and Popea have found with our own house within the city--they remained there to see the ash removed while I came with Valariel and Margil.  Where is Valdamir?”

            “Down in the First Circle with several others of the guild masters and engineers and masons and Lord Gimli the Dwarf, discussing how the guild halls should be rebuilt.”

            “Dwarves in the city,” Uncle Marc murmured, shaking his head not in disbelief but awe.  “Dwarves and Elves.  Who would believe it?  When we saw the company riding through the town followed by the army of the Dead, all cried and covered their heads--but they saved the realm for us.  And the King has returned!  Legends walk abroad in the land.”

            Margil, who had been standing to the right of the doorway, turned to his cousin as Valdarion entered the room.  He reached up to take Valdarion’s shoulder, pulled him down so he could whisper into his ear, “I didn’t cover my head--I was peeking out the window to see, until Popea realized what I was doing, and hurried back to pull me inside and slammed the shutters closed.”

            “What was it like?” Valdarion hissed back.

            “There were figures riding through--a group of Men on horseback followed by a dark shadow.  The Men were all very tall, save for one who rode on the same horse as another.”

            “That would be Lord Gimli riding behind Prince Legolas, I think,” Valdarion answered somewhat more loudly.  “We see them riding sometimes together through the city.”

            Uncle Marc appeared to hear him.  “Lord Gimli?  Prince Legolas?”

            “Prince Legolas is an Elf, the son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood; and Lord Gimli is a Dwarf from the realm of Erebor.  They came as two of the King’s companions,” his mother explained.  “And two other Elves came also from Imladris in Eriador.  The King speaks of them as his brothers, and certainly he does somewhat resemble them--but then so do all of his kinsmen who came with him, it appears, all of whom are of strong Dúnedain blood.  But Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas appear to be great friends, as if they, too, were brothers.  Each has pledged the aid of his people to their friend the King in the rebuilding of the city.”

            “And he is a good king?” Marcarion asked.

            “All speak of the great wisdom he shows in his judgments, and of the courtesy shown even to the least of those who come before him.  Prince Imrahil has been constantly by his side, and Prince Faramir----”

            “Prince Faramir?”

            “Oh, yes, brother, for the King has made him Prince of Ithilien, which he intends to see once more the garden of the realm.  Prince Faramir grasps the King’s wrist as he did that of Lord Boromir, and smiles with pleasure when the King approaches him.  And the King serves daily in the Houses of Healing.  It appears Lord Elrond of Imladris himself saw his healing hands trained....”

            “Lord Elrond yet lingers here in Middle Earth?”

            “Apparently so.  It has been said our Lord Elessar grew up there in Rivendell, in hiding from the Enemy, which is why he deems Lord Elrond’s sons his brothers.  Or at least Val has been told that Lords Elladan and Elrohir are the twin sons of Lord Elrond.  That they are twins is inescapable--I saw them three times about the city ere they left to return to their father’s side, and could not tell one from the other.”

            Margil was growing bored with the talk and again drew down his cousin’s ear to whisper into it.  Valdarion shrugged, then turned to his mother.  “Nana, may I take Margil out to show him the chicks?”

            “Of course, beloved.  But do not seek to handle them overmuch.”

            “I’ll go out with them,” Arniel announced.  Her brother smiled, but her cousin shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes, for he had little use as yet for girls.  The three children quitted the room, and soon they could hear the door to the back garden open and close, and saw them cross to the low table Valdamir and Elisien had arranged to be placed on the starburst pavement for their children’s use when they were younger.

            Meliseth and small Hirgon were there already with their cousin Valariel, who at seventeen had recently discovered an appreciation for her youngest relatives and their comparative innocence and had already gone out with them.  Meliseth was sitting on Valariel’s lap, and Hirgon sat on the ground before her with his wooden sword across his knees.  Margil sat at the table while Valdarion crossed to the pot where cracked grain was kept, taking out some and scattering it about the ground and making a peculiar cry.

            “So, you still have the great birds?”

            “Oh, yes, we do.  There are now twelve, the cock, three hens, and eight chicks hatched three weeks past.”

            “And are their cries still enough to chill the blood?” her brother teased her.

            An ear-piercing scream from the pen where the birds rested at night answered his question.  Elisien laughed.  “You almost leapt from your seat that time,” she said accusingly.

            “Your neighbors must hate you and Valdamir.”

            She shrugged, smiling.  “Armention is not particularly happy with us, but none of the rest have complained.  The peacocks have always been quiet at night, at least.”  They watched as the birds came in procession to peck at the scattered grain.

            “You surely won’t try to keep all of them?”

            She shook her head.  “We’ve determined to gift the King with at least two should a suitable occasion presents itself, and once Belmarvor’s farm has been reestablished on the Pelennor he’s agreed to take four of them, for he loves how they help guard our yard.”

            Marc looked out at the six children.  “Valdarion has grown so much in the past few months, and looks so much one of the Dúnedain himself.  He’s a full head taller than Margil now, and far more slender--but then Margil’s always been broad in the chest.  Will he follow his father as Master of the Merchant Adventurers, do you think?”

            “We are not certain, for he has always preferred study rather than the ways of boats and trade.  He might choose to follow Val, but then he might decide to serve the King as he can.  He’s much taken with him--went down with his adar two weeks back to the First Circle to hear the King address those taking part in the memorial to those who died protecting the city and fighting the fires during the siege.  Both returned much impressed both with the King and his companions.  Valdarion was much flattered to be addressed by the Cormacolindor.”

            Marcarion straightened with surprise.  “He has met them?”

            “Oh, yes, the day the chicks hatched, about three weeks after the coronation of our Lord King Elessar--Captain Peregrin had heard of the peacocks and brought the other three to see them, for such things are unknown in their own land.”

            “I was told only two passed through Mordor....”

            “Only two did.  Captain Peregrin arrived with Mithrandir and served here in the city and swore himself to Lord Denethor’s service, and now continues to serve our King; Sir Meriadoc arrived with the Rohirrim, riding along with the Lady Éowyn, sister’s daughter to Théoden King of Rohan and younger sister to their new King Éomer; and then the two actual Cormacolindor were brought to the city after the defeat of Mordor.  I am told Mithrandir and the great Eagles brought them out of the ruin of the black land.  But the four traveled south from their own land of the Shire at the King’s side until the Cormacolindor left the rest to travel alone into Mordor.”

            “I am amazed the peacocks survived the battles.”

            “We were forced to leave them here, although Valdamir came up several times when he was relieved from guard duty to see to it they had food and water.  Were we in the lower levels of the city they might well have died of the smoke or of the missiles sent over the walls by the enemy.  Val won’t speak of that time, simply shudders when Hirgon would question him about what it was like to defend the walls.  From the little said by others, the Enemy did unspeakable things to dishearten our folk.  Val says that he knows Belmarvor’s older son Belterion is dead, but will not tell us how he learned this.”

            “And the Cormacolindor spoke courteously to Valdarion?”

            “They have spoken courteously to all of us, including  Teresel and Marilien.  They are a fair-spoken people, we’ve found, and considerate of all.  Lord Samwise is most courteous when he comes to call....”

            Marc straightened again with surprise.  “Lord Samwise comes to call?”

            “Yes, for he loves the garden.  Lord Frodo has come one more time with him, but attends much on the King, who counts deeply on Lord Frodo’s counsel and his perceptions on those who come to gain an audience with him.  The peacocks all will gather about Frodo, and will eat from his hand as they do with Valdarion, Valdamir, and myself.”

            Margil had taken some of the grain in his hand and was trying to entice the chicks to him, but they shied away from him.  He was clearly growing impatient, and at last threw the grain from him, at which all the birds hurried to where it had landed.  Arniel shook her head, got some grain herself and knelt down, holding still.  After some minutes of patience at last two of the chicks approached her, cautiously feeding from her hand while she remained still, followed by three others.  Margil, reddening somewhat, said something that was apparently rude, and his sister turned toward him and spoke his name so loudly and decisively she could be heard within, at which he pulled a face at her.

            Valdarion could be seen trying to appease him, and surprised at what his taller cousin was saying Margil turned to him and spoke with him for some minutes.  It was quickly seen, however, that he was still managing to be rude, for Hirgon leapt to his feet after a moment, his brows lowering in a frown that looked funny on the child’s face; and then Arniel rose suddenly and also turned on him, after which he and Valdarion exchanged some very heated words.  They couldn’t tell what the quarrel was about, but Arniel had pulled back somewhat to watch the two boys verbally battle it out, although Hirgon, his wooden sword tentatively raised, stepped closer to his big brother’s side.

            “Take that back!”  Hirgon’s words could be heard even through the closed windows as Teresel arrived with a tray of cakes and wine for the mistress and her brother.

            They couldn’t hear Margil’s response, but saw as Valdarion, quiet fury in his eyes, drew his little brother to him protectively and answered in words that were obviously being bitten off.  Margil made some retort that managed to destroy Valdarion’s patience completely.

            “You haven’t the slightest idea what they’re like, for you haven’t even seen them.  Well, we have, and more than once.  And you might think of that before you make such foolish statements in the future!”  So saying, the taller boy drew back, glared at his cousin as he patted his brother on the shoulder, then turned away and went off in a carefully controlled temper around the house.

            Elisien, Marcarion, and the maidservant watched after with surprise, for usually Valdarion was a most calm individual who almost never became truly angry.

            “Set the tray there, Teresel,” Elisien said absently.  “We’ll be back in within the moment, but I think we’d best find out what the boys have been arguing about.”

            “Margil has been growing increasingly contrary in the past year,” commented Marc as they headed for the door to the back garden.  Before they’d reached it, however, Meliseth had thrown it open rather dramatically.

            “Nana,” she said, “Margil and Valdarion have quarreled, and now Valdarion has gone off, for he says if he stays he’ll strike Margil and he’s too much of a gentleman to do so.”

            “What are they arguing about?” her mother asked.

            “Margil refuses to believe the Ringbearers have visited here, and that the peacocks will eat out of Master Frodo’s hand, and that they are Pheriannath.”

            Again Marcarion was startled.  “Halflings?  The Ringbearers are Halflings?”

            Elisien turned to him, herself surprised.  “Well, yes, didn’t you know?  Didn’t the word reach there near the wharves of Pelargir, that the Cormacolindor and their companions are Halflings from Eriador?”  From the distance at the front of the house the gate could be heard clanging violently shut.

*******

            Valdarion couldn’t understand why Margil was refusing to believe them about the four Hobbits.  Margil didn’t used to disbelieve what was told to him; but now he seemed bent on seeing a quarrel started and goading others into losing their patience.  To realize he’d lost his temper so disturbed Valdarion, and without conscious decision he headed to the one place in the city he’d found over the years always seemed to calm him--the gardens surrounding the Houses of Healing, one truly green place within the walls where one could, at times, imagine one was outside them, out where there weren’t houses on each side.

            The guards on duty at the gate to the Sixth Circle made no move to deter him, not that they had any reason to do so.  Save in the worst days before the women and children and others unsuitable to guard Minas Tirith were sent to the places of refuge, none had ever been refused passage between the levels of the city to Valdarion’s knowledge.  The boy inclined his head respectfully as he passed the guards, and on entering the main way turned to the Houses at the southwest extreme of the circle, near the way to the Rath Dínen.  He quickly found his favorite spot beneath a yew tree whose lower boughs formed a sort of tent and crawled into the tented hollow provided, only to find he was not the first that day to seek out that private space.

            Two boys already occupied the tented area, both as obviously of Dúnedain extraction as himself, their hair dark, their eyes grey, taller and more slender than the other Men of the western lands.  One was only a couple years younger than himself, and the other about the age of Meliseth.  They were both seated with their knees drawn up before them, and had obviously been speaking quietly with one another.  The older boy examined him closely, and his face became compassionate.  “Mae govannon,” he said.  “Someone has been giving you difficulties this day?”

            Realizing these two didn’t resent his intrusion, Valdarion pushed past the last branches.  “Yes,” he admitted, “although it matters not, now I am away from him.”

            The younger boy looked at him with interest.  “Not your ada?”

            “No, not my father--my cousin Margil.  He’s being a wooden-head for some reason.”

            The older boy raised his eyebrows.  “My uncle hasn’t married, so I have no cousins as yet.  What’s he doing?”

            “He refuses to believe we have hosted the Pheriannath.  In fact, he refuses to believe there are such people.  He says no folk as small as we say they are could have gone through Mordor.”

            “He doesn’t believe Captain Peregrin and the others are Pheriannath?  That will make Pippin laugh, I must say.”

            “You know them?” Valdarion asked.

            “We both do,” the younger boy said.  “The four of them live in the guest house next door to my family in Isil Lane along with the rest of the Fellowship, save for the King alone, although he visits them frequently.  All are much devoted to one another.  And he and his father have known Captain Peregrin since he first came to the city with Lord Mithrandir.  Captain Beregond was then a man at arms in the Guard of the Citadel, and was assigned to teach Captain Peregrin the ways of his new service.”

            Valdarion looked at the older boy with surprise and respect.  “Your father is Captain Beregond, and saved the life of our Lord Faramir?”

            The older boy nodded.  “I am Bergil son of Beregond, and this is Tergil son of Elvamir, whose father serves in the Houses of Healing.  His grandparents both serve in the Citadel.  I had a message from my father to deliver to Prince Faramir, who attends the King Elessar today in the Houses of Healing, and Tergil had brought something for the noon meal for his father, and waits until his father finishes before he returns the dish to his home.  My father has told me I might stay in the city for a time, and I will go back to the house in Isil Lane with Captain Peregrin, for I’ve barely seen him since the day of my father’s judgment.”  He laughed.  “When I first saw him I thought him but another boy like myself and----”

            “And offered to stand him on his head--yes, he told us.  But I doubt you thought the Ringbearer a child.”

            “Oh, no--never Lord Frodo.”  Bergil’s face grew solemn and proud.  “He’s a special one, our Lord Frodo, he and Lord Samwise.  Lord Samwise is a marvel.  Would you like to go with us?”

            “Why not?” Valdarion said, but then paused.  “No,” he sighed, “I’d best not.”

            “You’d best not do what?” asked another voice from behind him, and Valdarion turned in surprise to see Captain Peregrin pushing through the branches.  He looked about himself with interest and approval.  “This does indeed make a good private place, Bergil--I can see why you thought I should see it.  I’ll have to tell Frodo about it, for there are a few times when he would appreciate feeling hidden away, I think.  Hello, Valdarion.  Fancy meeting you here!”

            “I rejoice to see you, Captain,” Valdarion said, feeling a bit shy at seeing Pippin in his uniform.

            “Well, Hardorn has just relieved me of duty, so I thought I’d check into the space under the tree and see if it was as wonderful as Bergil and Tergil have told me.  So you, too, know of this place?”

            “Yes, although I’d not expected to meet others here, particularly so many at once,” Valdarion said wryly.

            “Does take a bit away from the hidden feeling, doesn’t it?  But I suspect it’s usually empty.”

            “Usually.”

            “And what were you wishing to hide from?” Pippin asked as he finished pushing himself into the hollow about the bole of the yew.

            “My cousin Margil.”

            “An older cousin, then, a bit pushy and overbearing?”

            “No, actually almost my own age, really.  And usually he’s a fine enough fellow, but today he’s being particularly--particularly----”  Valdarion shook his hand with frustration at not finding the right word to describe his cousin.

            “Obtuse?” Pippin suggested.  “It’s how Frodo usually describes Lobelia and some of our Bracegirdle relatives when they’re at their worst.”

            “That sounds like a good word for him,” Valdarion said.

            “What’s the problem?”

            “He doesn’t believe in Pheriannath, you see.  He’s just come to the city from the Pelargir, and he says he watched the King ride through followed by his kinsman and Prince Legolas and Lord Gimli and the Army of the Dead, so he feels himself to know all.”

            “Well,” Pippin sniffed, “I have it on the best of authority that Hobbits do exist, you know.  Why is he here in Minas Tirith?”

            “His ada, my nana’s brother, came to attend the trade council meeting tomorrow.”

            “The one at the Potters’ Guild Hall in the Third Circle?  He’s a merchant, then?”

            “Uncle Marcarion captains the family trading vessel.”

            “Excellent.  And will his family attend the banquet tomorrow noon?”

            “I think so.  Arniel and I have been fitted with new garments so that we might attend, although Nana says Hirgon and Meliseth must stay at home, and the two of them are very rebellious.”

            “I can imagine, although they’d find the business part of the banquet quite boring, I believe, remembering how bored I’d feel when I had to attend Took convocations when I was a small lad.”  Pippin looked thoughtful, and then smiled wickedly.  “Well, if your cousin doesn’t believe in Hobbits, he’ll have his beliefs blown apart like the seeds from a dandelion clock tomorrow, for we are all to attend.  Sam doesn’t wish to go, but Strider’s insisting Frodo must, and so Frodo is insisting in turn Sam must.  Frodo’s a firm believer in misery loving company, you know.”

            Valdarion laughed.  “Then I don’t think I’ll tell him.  Let him find out at the banquet!  That would serve him right, I think.”

            Pippin thought for a moment, then laughed again.  “I have an idea that might add to the impact.  I’ll suggest it to Strider tonight, then.  Just don’t be surprised at how we appear tomorrow.  Frodo will be most upset, but now and then it’s fun to force him to appear in his full glory.”  He carefully led the way as the four of them exited the haven under the lowest boughs of the yew tree.  “I’ll not tell Frodo about the hollow under the yew until after the banquet, for it may distract him from seeking my head, and will perhaps serve as a reward for looking his new rank.”  He gave a slight bow.  “Until tomorrow, then, Valdarion.”

            Feeling considerably better than at his arrival in the gardens, Valdarion bowed to the other three and wished them a good day, then turned back toward the gate back down to the Fifth Circle.  He wondered what Pippin had in mind, but decided to wait to see until the following day.  It should prove amusing, he thought.

            His parents were out in the front garden with Uncle Marcarion when he arrived home.  Elisien looked up at her son, and was obviously relieved to see his anger had dissipated.  “Ada, Nana, Uncle,” he said, pausing and bowing politely.  “I am sorry I left as I did, but I was truly afraid I might try to strike Margil if I stayed to hear more of the argument.  I ought not to have allowed myself to be provoked.”

            “Your cousin,” his uncle commented, “is not finding growing up as enjoyable as he’d looked for it to be, I fear.  And it is a wise Man who knows when to withdraw to cool down that he not act in haste and then need to repent at leisure.  Where did you go?”

            “To the gardens about the Houses of Healing.  I find it calming to be there.”

            “You have a special refuge there?”

            “Yes, but I found it occupied today.  I met two other boys there, and--and a friend.  He says he must attend the banquet tomorrow, and looks forward to being introduced to you and your family then, Uncle.”

            Uncle Marc exchanged looks with his brother-in-law, who shrugged.  “Then,” he said as he returned his attention to his nephew, “we will look forward to meeting him.  Your aunt should be here shortly with Popea, I think.  I can’t imagine there’d be that much dust and ash within the house.”

            “You’d be much surprised,” Valdarion assured him.  “We all had to help Teresel and Marilien to clean it up here.  It seemed to work its way everywhere.”

            “The orchards of Lebennin and Lamedon appear to have benefited greatly from the ash, though,” Valdamir added, “for all say there has not been such a bountiful crop of fruit of all kinds in living memory.”

            “And the flowers in the garden are the richest I’ve ever seen since we were married,” Elisien added.  “Of course the attention of Master Samwise may well add to their current beauty.  He has proven a master gardener indeed.”

            “I hope I might have occasion to see these strange folk of yours,” Marc said.

            “Master Samwise might indeed find occasion to visit again while you are in the city.  He spends a good deal of time, I’m told, assisting in the gardens of the Citadel as well as those surrounding the Houses of Healing; but he tries to visit once a week, saying our garden most reminds all of them of the type of garden they are accustomed to in their homeland.”

            “I look forward to such a meeting with pleasant anticipation, then.”

            Valdarion asked, “Where is Margil?”

            “In the back parlor, forced to write a letter of apology to you.  Valariel is taking great pleasure in seeing to it the letter is properly written, by the way.  I was as happy to leave her to supervising him.”

            Soon his aunt and their family companion arrived, and there was much exchanging of news.  However, Valdarion had no occasion to see anything further of his cousin until the evening meal.  At his place at the table lay the fruit of his cousin’s prolonged labor under his sister’s eye.  Valdarion took, opened, and read it, then looked across the table at Margil, and said simply, “Apology accepted, Margil.”

            After the Standing Silence, once the meal had quite begun, Valdarion looked at his cousin and asked, “Will you sit by me at the banquet tomorrow?”

            Uncle Marc gave his son a critical look, then explained apologetically to his nephew, “I fear Margil won’t be going to the banquet after all.  Those who insist on being as contrary as Margil, to the point they drive their best friends to fight with them, are obviously not old enough to attend banquets.”

            Valdarion felt a bit panicked.  Captain Peregrin had plans to make his cousin Frodo most uncomfortable for this banquet, apparently, all for his sake and that of Margil; it would all be for naught should Margil not be allowed to attend the banquet as well.  “Oh, but he has to come, too,” he blurted out.  “The fight is over and he’s apologized, and very thoroughly at that.  Please, Uncle Marc!”

            Aunt Narieth gave her son a very jaded look.  “If it were just the argument with you, Valdar, that would be one thing.  However, this is just one more incident in what has become a very long string of very similar incidents.”

            Popea, who’d been a member of his cousin’s family for years since she was rescued by Uncle Marc’s sailors from an Umbari slaver, also was giving Margil a critical look.  “This boy has been contrary--most contrary.  He has done his best to argue with every soul he must come into contact with for the last several moon cycles.  Perhaps if this boy wishes to do things such as attending banquets he would do well to behave far more agreeably.”

            Margil was blushing furiously under his family’s scrutiny, and shot a look at his sister.  Valariel merely returned his look coolly and then focused her attention pointedly on her plate again.  “The chicken is very good, Aunt Elisien,” she said.  “You must give me the recipe.”

            Elisien fought a smile.  “I will be glad to do so tomorrow evening, Valariel.  And what will you be wearing to the banquet?”

            The girl glowed with satisfaction.  “Naneth and I have had the most beautiful dress made, Aunt.  It’s....”  The description was lengthy, and the explanation of how they’d found the fabric and the perfect one to make it for her even more so.  Valdarion and Margil found themselves rolling their eyes at one another across the table, and then fighting down giggles, until Valdarion remembered again that he must be certain Margil also attended tomorrow.

            It took quite some time before Valariel sufficiently exhausted the subject of her dress for anyone else to get a word in edgewise.  Valdarion was pleased to see that even Arniel looked relieved to have the interminable monologue on her older cousin’s part over with, while Hirgon and Meliseth looked frankly bored.  He glanced down at his little brother, who sat next to him.  “Be glad, Hirgon,” he whispered, “you won’t be going, for much of the conversation will be just such stuff.  It’s a merchants’ banquet, after all.”

            The little boy rolled his eyes most pointedly.  “Then I’m glad I’ll get to go to Gerthol’s house tomorrow.  We’ll get to play guardsmen.  He has a new sword his uncle bought for him, made to look like the one Sir Meriadoc used on the Witch-king.”

            Meliseth was still looking sulky.  “Will the Lord King attend the banquet?”

            “Pippin says he will attend much of the conference,” Valdarion answered her almost without thinking.

            “You saw Pippin?  When?”

            Valdarion shot his mother a look, and saw that she was watching him with new interest.  “When I went up to the Sixth Circle to calm down.  We spoke for a time,  Apparently those in his household will be expected to attend, and his cousin is afraid he will be very bored.”

            “Oh, Nana,” Meliseth begged, “please can’t I go?  If Pippin and the rest are going to go....”

            “They won’t be sitting anywhere near us, I fear, sweet one,” her mother said gently.  “They’ll have to sit at the high table, I suspect.”

            “But Hirgon and me, we’ll miss the stories!”

            “I really doubt there will be much in the way of stories tomorrow.  As your brother pointed out to Hirgon, most of the talk will be of cargoes and lading and merchandise and where best to sell it.  And from what we know of Pippin’s kinsmen, I suspect they’re attending mostly out of courtesy and not because of their interest in trade.  Although, considering Pippin’s family ties perhaps he might be expected to talk business.”

            “But he’s not of age yet--he’s said so!”

            “Neither are your brother and sister and cousins, but they are attending that they prepare for the day when they must take up whatever trades or such they might embrace.”

            “Will Margil be going to Gerthol’s house with me?” Hirgon asked.

            “Well, I’m hoping,” Elisien said quickly before her brother could answer, “that his parents will forgive him enough to allow him to attend the banquet, too.”

            Margil looked up at his aunt with surprise at her championing of him.  Valdamir smiled with hope--if Naneth was supporting him, it was because she’d realized who else was going to be there, and she, too, felt it would be good to for him to see the Pheriannath in person.

            Narieth was examining her sister-in-law.  “You believe that after his behavior today we should allow Margil to attend a banquet?”

            Valdamir was also looking at his wife, for he knew that if they’d made such a decision she would not have considered such a reversal of policy for her own children.  Something about the fact this Pippin would be attending had caught Elisien’s attention.  “Who is Pippin?”

            “We met him as a result of the war,” Elisien answered.  “A most pleasant young gentleman.”

            Meliseth snorted into her juice, and Arniel, under cover of checking to see if she’d spotted her dress, quietly warned her to keep quiet and not spoil things.

            “As Meliseth has pointed out, young Pippin is not quite of age, although he’s proven himself to be very responsible nonetheless.  I think it would be very--instructive--for Margil to have the chance to meet him tomorrow.  After all, if he and his kinsmen will be attending....”  She smiled engagingly.

            The conversation at dinner shifted to other subjects, but afterwards when they gathered in the back parlor Marcarion broached the subject himself.  “So, sister, you now feel Margil should attend after all.”

            “Oh, yes, particularly if Pippin and his kinsmen are to be there.”

            “It’s a most unusual name.”

            “I agree.  It’s the dear-name his family uses for him.”

            “Does he live in the city?”

            “He and his kinsmen remain here I believe for a couple more months, although they live in the countryside, I understand.  His father and uncle are important officials of their folk, we’re told, and he will be expected soon enough to assist in arranging trade agreements for their region.  I’m certain this is why they are expected to attend the conference.”

            “Narieth and I will consider changing our minds if you believe it advisable,” Marc said slowly, “if Margil will agree to consider how his constant arguing has made him a most disagreeable one to have to deal with.”

            “I promise,” Margil agreed fervently.  “I’m sorry I keep arguing, although I’m not sure why I do.  Although I still don’t believe in Hobbits,” he added, “but I promise not to argue about it.”

            “What are Hobbits?” asked Popea.

            Elisien smiled and shook her head.  “Probably best a subject left to tomorrow to discuss,” she temporized.  “But as Valdarion has forgiven Margil for the quarrel, it’s best we all do so as well, don’t you agree?”

*******

            “And why do you want me to insist Frodo wear court dress tomorrow?” Aragorn asked his smallest Guardsman.

            Pippin had spent most of the afternoon considering what arguments he’d use.  “I’d like these trader folk to underestimate us.  If they see us arriving in mail under court dress they’ll not be looking for us to understand about trading potatoes and carrots and pipeweed.  It will give us a remarkable tactical advantage, you see.”

            “But Frodo’s not going to be happy.”

            “You’ve done your best to try to get Frodo to accept he’s a lord of the realm--don’t you think this will help drive home the idea?  And that will work to our advantage as well, if he’s not seen as so humble they think they can take advantage of us.”

            Aragorn stroked his chin and glanced up at Gandalf, who was looking at Pippin suspiciously.  Aragorn also sensed the young Hobbit’s real reason for wanting them to attend in court dress was being hidden, but he agreed with forcing Frodo to accept his rank.  “All right, I’ll agree to request you all dress accordingly tomorrow.”

            After the Took had hurried out, Gandalf focused his attention on the King.  “And you’ll go along with this?”

            The Man snorted.  “As if you don’t enjoy putting everyone on uncertain footing when you can, and forcing us to reveal ourselves from time to time.  Consider yourself a corrupting influence, Gandalf.”

            The Wizard snorted with laughter.  “I admit it--and now I’ve corrupted a King!  Mail and swords and court dress it is; and I look forward to learning as soon as possible what his true motivation is for asking such a thing.”

*******

            As had been anticipated Frodo was openly rebellious.  “Now, this just isn’t fair,” he grumbled as Pippin and Lasgon between them smoothed the new surcoat over Frodo’s mithril shirt.  This had arrived as a gift to Frodo from Eryn Lasgalen with the party sent to honor the new King among Men, a garment of finest silk velvet of midnight blue, embroidered with the Two Trees, Sun, Moon, and seven stars.

            Pippin sighed.  “Frodo, this isn’t just traders from Gondor, but that deputation from the Dunlendings and some free-traders from Harad and Umbar as well.  Lord Halladan will be attending for the court of Annúminas, you know, and will have his mail under his surcoat; and you can believe Lord Elfhelm will be dressed in court armor.”

            “And we are just Hobbits of the Shire, Peregrin Took!”

            “Frodo Baggins, you have never been just anything, and it’s past time you accepted that.  You personally are the best individual the Shire has ever produced, and as our primary representative you’d best look the part today.  You never know what trade agreements might be forged as a result of this conference.”

            “The Powers help the Shire if that’s true,” Frodo muttered, but Pippin cut him off.

            “Stop it, Frodo.  Stop it now.  The Ring is destroyed, and you have no right to keep repeating its arguments to yourself.”

            Chastened, Frodo went quiet.  It was extremely rare for Pippin to seek to correct him, and he knew well enough that Pippin’s opinion reflected that of Gandalf and Aragorn.  He only hoped the day would pass swiftly.  Then, when Gandalf entered with the box in which lay his and Sam’s circlets he groaned again, but held his tongue at first, recognizing he’d been outmaneuvered.  Noting the glint of humor in the Wizard’s eyes, however, Frodo became suspicious again.  “Is this truly necessary, Gandalf?”

            Gandalf lifted an eyebrow as he removed Frodo’s circlet from the box and settled it about the Hobbit’s brow.  “Necessary, Frodo?  Perhaps not--but desirable for the day.  Let your Light shine before all.  Not all princes are born so, you know.”

            “And when a prince comes among Hobbits----”

            “All with hearts to understand rejoice,” Gandalf interrupted.  “The true measure of a prince is what he is willing to give of himself for those he cherishes, not how much temporal power he wields.  Now let us hear no more complaints.”

            Realizing he’d not be allowed any grumbling, Frodo went silent as Lasgon fastened the glittering belt and hung Sting’s sheath from it, although his heart lifted when he saw Sam dressed in a rich wine-colored velvet surcoat over his gilded mail, a golden sunburst on his chest, from the same source as his own garb for the day.  “Oh, yes,” he murmured.  “Yes indeed--that is beautiful on you, Sam.”

            Glad at Sam’s magnificence and the dignity he saw in his two cousins, Frodo followed the party from the house and to where it would join with that of the King for the walk down to the Third Circle.

*******

            Because of his father’s position as Master of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers, Valdarion’s family had come down to the Potters’ Guild Hall over a mark before the banquet was to start so his parents could review what had been done.  As a result Valdarion and Arniel found themselves drafted to help in the final preparations, as not all the vases of flowers and greens had as yet been placed on lower tables, nor all chairs and benches placed.

            Special chairs with raised seats had been sent down from the Citadel for the use of the four Pheriannath, one of them padded with cushions of deep gold.  At the King’s written suggestion Captain Peregrin was to sit at a table filled mostly with dealers in fabrics, among whom Captain Marcarion’s family was also to be placed along with his sister, niece, and nephew; while Sir Meriadoc was to sit with traders of foodstuffs from Gondor, Arnor, Rohan, and Dunland.  Those setting up the room for the meal were just finishing up the last of it when the first batch of arrivals began filing into the hall, among them Uncle Marc, Aunt Narieth, and the cousins.

            Margil appeared excited as Valdarion approached them.  He paused, looking at his taller cousin, then smiled.  “You truly look excellent, Valdar,” he admitted.

            Examining the dark blue surcoat of fine wool Margil wore over a blue-grey shirt, both embroidered with white stars, the taller boy smiled.  “So do you.  I’m to bring you to your table, and save me a place beside you for later, as I’ll be taking many to their tables until Ada says I’ve done enough.”

            As they approached the table Margil looked at the chair with the raised seat at one end with surprise.  “What is that for?  Are we to have a little child sit with us?”

            “No, not a child, although you won’t understand probably until that one comes.  He’ll be among one of the last, I believe.  Ada says the King has advised that his folk do much trading of wool and woolen cloth.”

            The hall was filling rapidly now, and Valdarion and Arniel were both kept busy with other children of their father’s personal staff within the guild seeing to it that each arriving party was conducted to the proper table.  The tables were almost full when all went quiet, and then the whispers began to pass from table to table that the King and his own party had just arrived.  Stragglers were seated hastily, and at last Valdamir, as head of the Guild hosting the event, stepped to his place at the high table. 

            “My friends,” he announced, “I would announce some of those who are this day our special guests.  Horubi’amonrabi, a freetrader from Harad.”  A compact Haradri entered from a secondary entrance and was met by Valdarion, who led him to their table.  “Nissonwë son of Norosë, a freetrader from Umbar.”  One of the other sons of city traders greeted a tall man of obvious Dúnedain heritage but with a definite supercilious expression and led him and the one who’d accompanied him to the table where sat the dealers of fine porcelains.  “Felder son of Merentor of Dunland.”  A heavily bearded Man was led with two others to the table where those who dealt with foodstuffs sat. 

            “Lord Gloin, a Dwarf from Erebor, and his son Lord Gimli, one of the King’s Companions.”  These two were led to a table largely populated by those who traded in fine jewelry and precious metals and stones.  “Prince Tharen and Prince Legolas, one of the King’s Companions, sons of King Thranduil of the great forest realm of Eryn Lasgalen.”  These two were led to the table where sat those who were known to deal with fine wines.  Much murmuring at the sight of the two Elves, one dark and one golden as the Sun’s pure light, yet clearly brothers nonetheless, could be heard throughout the hall.  “King Brand of Dale in Rhovanion,” and a party of three was led within, one led to a seat at the high table, and a Man and a woman led to the table of those who traded finely artificed goods.

            “Lord Halladan of Annúminas, Steward of the northern realm of Arnor, kinsman and cousin to our Lord King, a captain among the Rangers of Eriador.”  And one dressed in silver robes embroidered with a circle of seven stars over mail entered and was then led to a place at the table where those who traded fine leathers were seated.

            “Lord Elfhelm of Edoras, Captain of Eoreds and representative of the King of Rohan,” and a tall Rider with the long golden hair of that people, dressed in golds and greens with the White Horse impressed onto the breastplate of his leather gambeson over his silvered mail, entered and was led to the high table.  “Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck, Holdwine and Knight of the Mark and Esquire to the King of Rohan, shield brother to the Lady Éowyn, slayer of Nazgul, son of Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland of the Shire, one of the King’s Companions.”

            All looked for a tall Man to enter, another in the mold of Lord Elfhelm; but instead a small figure with brown hair entered the room, although accoutered much as was the tall Rider.  He was brought to the same table as that to which the two Elves had been led.  The eyes of the room followed him, fascinated, and whispers of “He helped slay the Witch King of Angmar” passed throughout those who filled the hall.

            “Peregrin Took, a Captain of the Guard of the Citadel and a knight of Gondor, and son to Paladin Took, the Took and Thain to the Shire in Eriador, known in the city as the Ernil i Pheriannath--one of the King’s Companions.”

            Valdarion greeted this small figure, and led him proudly to the table where he was to sit by his cousin.  This one was dressed indeed as a Guard of the Citadel in black and silver, his finely wrought mail clearly seen under his sable tabard with its fine embroidery of the flowering Tree with Stars and Crown.  Valdarion saw this small one with the auburn hair to his place by the chair with the raised seat, bowed deeply, and paused by his cousin’s side before he went forward again.  “Close your mouth before you swallow a fly, Margil,” he said, somewhat smugly.

            Uncle Marcarion and Aunt Narieth watched after their nephew as he went forward to finish his duties, amazed he’d managed to restrain himself to so little.

            “Lord Mithrandir the White from among the Istari, advisor to Kings and Lords of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Pheriannath throughout the Free Lands, and the King’s beloved Companion.”  All watched as the tall Wizard was led to the high table.

            “Samwise Gamgee of Hobbiton in the Shire, Lord Panthail of all the Free Peoples of the West for his service as one of the two Cormacolindor, beloved Companion of the King, esquire to the King’s Friend, lover of growing things.”  A somewhat broader Pherian entered, was greeted by Arniel and led to his place at the high table.

            “Frodo Baggins of the Shire, kinsman to Master and Thain and Bilbo Baggins, the Ring Finder and hero of the Battle of the Five Armies, the Lord Iorhael of all the Free Peoples of the West for his service as Cormacolindor, the Ringbearer, beloved Companion and Friend of the King.”

            All watched as this small, slight, yet clearly shining figure was led to a place of honor at the high table, just beside where the King himself was to sit.

            “Our Lord King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, Aragorn son of Arathorn, born Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Eriador, Lord now of Gondor and Arnor, the King Returned.”  And all bowed low as the exceedingly tall Man garbed in a sable robe embroidered with the White Tree in Flower, his brow encircled by the Elendilmir, a great green jewel holding closed the neck of his robe, came to claim the central seat at the high table.

            The room was now profoundly quiet as the traders of the realm of Gondor examined their new Lord and looked at those of his companions and friends placed about the room as those who’d served as ushers took their places.  When at last all eyes fixed again on the tall Man at the high table, he at last spoke.

            “For millennia Gondor has been the greatest center for trade throughout Middle Earth, and so it shall undoubtedly remain, now that the great Enemy of all has been cast down.  But it shall have fuller trade as once more Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits may send their goods freely in all directions, north, south, west to the Sea, and east into long denied lands; and we look for much trade from lands long barred from free access by the Enemy’s will.

            “Know this--that I am myself intimately aware of the need for trade, as well as its rituals and rhythms.  I have sailed upon our people’s trading ships, and ridden in caravans trading in far lands, have haggled over goods in markets and the tents of Khafrim and farmers, have inspected the produce of fields and forges.  My people deal with furs and leathers, with wrought metals and carved woods.  The Hobbits of the Shire produce many of the finest foodstuffs, woolens, linens, and porcelains for the table in the known lands.  The Elves of the northern lands create the finest woven and embroidered goods, the finest wines, the most wondrous of weapons and delicate ornaments.  The Dwarves of the mountains are the greatest miners, smiths, and jewelers of all peoples; and their armor, weapons, and tools hold no peers for strength and beauty and endurance, and the jewels they trade and set are unequaled for quality and glory.  As for their work with stone and clay--the glory of their workmanship cannot be praised highly enough.  The people of Dale are artificers of goods without peer; the Rohirrim breed the greatest horses and cattle and produce the finest leather goods for farmers and riders of all within the western lands; the folk of Dunland breed the finest swine and goods carven from stone and wood of all I know.

            “I ask you to speak freely with these guests from far lands and strange peoples seated among you today, and let all learn what others have to offer--how silks and cottons and shells and ivory are produced and passed through Harad, how Umbari traders deal with all kinds of goods.  And let all see how free converse throughout Middle Earth benefits all, now that we no longer need fear for the interference of Mordor.

            “Now, if all will join me in the observance of the Standing Silence....”

            “Well,” Captain Peregrin said as he looked about the company once all had taken their seats and the meal began to be served, “it’s an honor to be seated by all of you today.  As Aragorn has indicated, my father is Thain of the Shire, and we of the Tooklands have always prided ourselves in the quality of the woolens we produce.  Not,” he said ruefully, looking down at his uniform, “that I’m wearing any examples of our folk’s weaving right now--I fear that once we reached here we all needed new garb, for what we brought with us was much damaged by our long journeys.”  He looked at Valdarion.  “It’s good to find myself by you, Valdarion,” he added.  “And is one of these the cousin you spoke of yesterday?”

            Margil was flushing deeply, and Valdarion felt much vindicated as he began making introductions.

            The next day the family sat in the parlor of Valdamir and Elisien’s house.  Marcarion looked out the window into the garden where the mother peahen had settled with her brood around her.  “I must say that seeing the Pheriannath and our new King was an experience I’d not anticipated.  And you say, sister, that they visit here on occasion?”

            Elisien nodded.  “Actually all four have been here but the once so far, having been advised we have the peacocks and curious about them.  But all say that the garden reminds them of the way most gardens grow in their own land, and requested permission to return from time to time to help fight the homesickness they feel.  Master Sam has returned, as I said, just to enjoy working among the flowers, and Master Frodo the once, reveling in the beauty of the garden and the peacocks.  He has a marked love for beauty, we’ve found.”

            “He himself is a remarkable individual,” Narieth said softly.  “I cannot imagine how one as shining as he is could creep secretly through Mordor as he must have done.”

            “Master Samwise spoke some of it during his last visit,” Elisien said.  “He said it was most difficult, and that there was almost no food or water for them, that they neither expected to survive the journey.  He said that to waken to find they yet lived was a pleasant shock, as their last waking memory was of sitting on a stony rise, surrounded by a river of fire from the mountain.”

            “The King is as much a surprise as are the Halflings,” Marc added, accepting a drink from Teresel as she offered him the contents of her tray.  “To have one from the north as knowledgeable as he is of our land as well as fluent in Haradri and Rhunic....”

            “When did he have occasion to speak Rhunic?” asked his sister.

            “A party from Rhun arrived with Prince Faramir and Prince Imrahil and his two elder sons about an hour after the banquet was over, and they were flattered when the King welcomed them in their own language and, I understand, full courtesy according to their ways,” Valdamir explained.  “From what we’ve seen of him, he is well versed in the languages, histories, and cultures of all the lands with which we here in Gondor are familiar as well as those of the northlands.  Apparently he was educated by Lord Elrond of Imladris and his people, and so he has been well prepared for the day on which he might accept the Winged Crown as well as the Sceptre of Annúminas.”

            Valariel said to Popea, “I wish you’d agreed to come, for you would have enjoyed the meal and the company.”

            Popea rolled her dark eyes.  “No, I do not think so--not to eat alongside folk from Umbar and Harad, after they have helped to enslave the people of my homeland for so long.  Besides, I had an enjoyable afternoon.”

            Margil whispered to Valdarion, “Enjoyable going to the swordsmith’s forge in the Fifth Circle, the one from Far Harad whose skin is as dark as her own.  She fancies him, I think.”

            Popea had obviously heard this, and swatted at the boy.  “And if I did, can you blame me?  He is a Man among Men, skillful and honorable, and with the mastership of a fine trade.  Plus, he is very handsome.”

            Teresel had served them all with drinks and cakes when Merilien entered, obviously quietly excited.  “Master Valdamir, Mistress Elisien, the Pheriannath have come to call and ask if they might enjoy the gardens.”

            Elisien straightened with pleasure.  “Oh, certainly--take them around the house and right out into the gardens, and offer them cakes, cold meats and cheeses suitable to be eaten with their fingers, sliced fruit, and what they will accept for drinks, and tell them we will join them in a moment.”

            She then turned to her brother and his family.  “A few things of which you should be advised.  First, from what we’ve learned of them, the Hobbits, as they call themselves, prefer to be informal, and are unlikely to appear as they did yesterday.  It disturbs Master Frodo to be addressed as ‘Lord,’ you will find, for such designations are not used by them for one another.  Even their Thain and his lady wife, whom I understand to be the leaders among them, are addressed directly, we are told, as ‘Master’ and ‘Mistress,’ even by those who are very much social inferiors.

            “Second, the other three are very protective of Master Frodo.  His acceptance of the duty to bring the Ring to the Mountain nearly killed both him and his friend Samwise, and the rest are rightfully concerned for his health and well-being.

            “Third, do not allow their size and apparent light-heartedness fool you--they are all very competent individuals, and well respected by the King and his people.  Indeed, from what we can tell the King’s kinsmen have protected their realm’s borders for generations due to the service their folk have given the throne of Arnor in the past.”

            Marcarion’s family was surprised at this.  “And for so long,” Narieth said, “we thought the stories told of them were just that.”

            “Indeed,” Valdamir said, just as the peacock gave his cry near the back of the house.

            Merilien was seeing the four of them brought to the low table on the sunburst pavement, and immediately the other three were seeing to it that Master Frodo was seated first, then seating themselves around him, the peacock coming near his chair and displaying his tail.  Valdamir shared looks with the rest of the family, then led them out into the hallway and toward the door to the back garden.  “Good masters,”  he greeted them, “we are honored to have your visit.  I only hope that we are not so great a company this afternoon as to cause you discomfort.  May I present my wife’s brother and his family.”

            Up close it was plain all four were indeed adults, their faces competent and alert, all somewhat watchful.  Masters Frodo and Samwise  were today in long-sleeved shirts under what appeared to be open surcoats of some kind, Master Frodo wearing a cloak, Sam with a bag over his shoulder, and Captain Peregrin with a scarf draped loosely around his neck and down the front of his surcoat.  Once introductions were finished, Master Frodo rose politely.  “We thank you for your courtesy and hospitality.  The garden for the house in which we dwell was long ignored, and is nowhere as beautiful as this, which is so reminiscent of the gardens of our own land.  But if we are imposing....”

            “Oh, no,” Elisien assured him, as Hirgon came and pressed himself near to him.  Unconsciously the Hobbit smiled down at the boy.  “We are ever glad to see you, Master Frodo.”

            “So you got to go to the banquet yesterday?” Hirgon asked.

            “Aragorn insisted--said if he must go, we must as well,” Frodo assured him.

            “Did you like it?”

            “The food was very good, but I’m afraid I’ve never cared much for business.”

            Master Sam snorted.  “Don’t let him fool you none,” he advised the child.  “Between his folks and old Mr. Bilbo and his own doin’s, Mr. Frodo here has a far better head for business than most in the Shire.  May not do a lot hisself, but he knows how to back those as is good at it.”

            “How do you support yourself in your own land, Master Frodo?” Marcarion asked.

            “Mostly off my farmshares, business partnerships, rental income, and what little money was left of my uncle’s fortune and the estate left me by my parents.  Although I serve also as a copyist and bookbinder.”

            “And you, Master Samwise?”

            “I’ve been workin’ in gardens all my life, sir, alongside my dad and then on my own.  My dad, he thought as maybe I’d like to ’prentice to my Uncle Andy as is a roper up Tighfield way, but the flowers is in my blood, and I didn’t want to leave Bag End and my Mr. Frodo.”

            “Nor Rosie Cotton,” added Sir Meriadoc.  Master Sam flushed.

            “You’d best stop bringing up Rosie,” Frodo commented, “or he’s likely to begin teasing you about Estella and Melillot and the Bunches’ daughter.”

            All laughed.  Narieth commented, “You appear well-versed in your family’s wool production, Captain Peregrin.”

            “Please, just call me Pippin--I’m not on duty right now, and it’s disconcerting being addressed by title when I’m out of uniform.  But, yes, I know about wool and all--my dad even had me out working one summer with one of our shepherd families so I’d understand just how the sheep are taken care of year round.  And we all pitched in at sheep-sheering time and the autumn slaughtering and all, back before Cousin Ferumbras declared Da officially his heir and we had to move into the Great Smial full time so Da would have time to prepare for when he would have to take over.  My mum’s always been a good one with spinning, both drop spindles and wheels, and produces some of the finest threads and yarns in the Shire.”

            “Did she make the scarf you’re wearing?” asked Valariel.

            Pippin looked down at the scarf that hung over his shoulders.  “This?  I think she may have spun and possibly dyed the yarn, but this was knit by Frodo’s mum.”  He smiled as he slipped it off his shoulders and passed it to the girl to examine.  “I guess it’s almost all any of us have left of the clothing we left the Shire with.  The darker stripes are of a spinning of variegated fibers, what we call tweeds.  It’s much the colors of the hills of our sheep runs--the greens of the grass and bracken, the browns of the moss and earth, the greys of the twigs, the lavender of our heather blossoms, and the yellows of the larch leaves; and the yellow stripes are the colors of the sun on buttercups and dandelions, and reflected from our streams and ponds on still days.

            “Cousin Primula knit this for Frodo when he turned ten; then when Merry turned ten Frodo gave it to him, and when I turned ten Merry gave it to me.  I suppose when I have a lad of my own, I’ll give it to him when he turns ten--keep up the family tradition, you see.”

            “You might give it to Brand when he turns ten,” Meriadoc suggested.

            “I might, but I’ve never been as close to either Brand or Piper as I’ve been to you three.”

            “You are all related?” Narieth asked as she took the scarf from her daughter to examine it herself.

            Sam sighed.  “You don’t want to be sittin’ here still tonight listenin’ to the answer, so you’d best let me say.  The three of them is all great grandsons of the Old Took, and all cousins to one degree or another.  I’m not related by blood to any of them.”

            Frodo gave a sad smile.  “My own parents died when I was a young lad, leaving me an only child; and so I’ve collected younger brothers, mostly among my cousins, but one from the gardens at Bag End.  And these three found out I was leaving the Shire to protect it, and refused to allow me to leave without them.”

            “I see,” she said, returning the scarf to Pippin.

            Meliseth asked, “What happened to the rest of the clothes you started out with?”

            “We either outgrew them or lost them,” Merry said, with a glance at the rest.  “Pippin and I ended up in Fangorn Forest and were given Ent-draughts to drink by Treebeard, and afterwards even if we’d still had our extra things we couldn’t fit them any more, as we’d grown too much.  As for Frodo and Sam--” he winced, “the little they didn’t lose they had to throw away eventually, as they couldn’t bear carrying the extra weight any more.”

            “Gandalf says as what Mr. Frodo and me had at the end will be displayed somewhere here in Minas Tirith,” Sam said solemnly.  “These two have a little extra clothes made, and we have perhaps a bit more.  Most of it’s fit for here, but will look outlandish once we’re back home in the Shire, though.”

            Pippin was examining Popea.  “I hope you don’t think me too forward,” he said almost shyly, “but I’ve never seen anyone with your color skin before.”

            She shrugged.  “I was born in a land far to the south of here, south of Far Harad.  When I was a girl slavers come to my village and captured many of us, and all my family.  Master Marcarion captured the slave ship I was on and freed me, but I have no idea what had happened to my brother, sister, and parents.  I was sold away from the rest in a coastal town in Harad.  Others on the ship were given a share of the slavers’ wealth and allowed to find their ways home; Master Marcarion took me as a foster daughter, and I’ve stayed with them ever since.

            “There’s a Man here in the city who came here from Far Harad, a swordsmith; and the smith and me, we watch one another when we come to Minas Tirith.  I think this time perhaps this Man will speak to my family about me.”

            Frodo looked at her, fascinated.  “Have the two of you ever talked?” he asked.

            She smiled, looking down demurely.  “Oh, yes, we’ve talked.  Or, mostly he’s talked.  He’s very handsome.”

            Pippin laughed delightedly, then glanced at his cousins.  “How wonderful!  But you’d best watch out for interference now from Merry, for he’s inherited the romantic streak that runs through our bloodlines--now that he’s seen Prince Faramir and Lady Éowyn discover one another, and he can’t really do anything more to get Sam and Rosie together until we get home, he’ll be doing his best for you and your beaux next.”

            “Pippin!” protested Merry.

            Merilien and Teresel came out with juice and the food requested and set it on the table before the Hobbits.

            Meliseth begged Frodo, “Won’t you tell us a story?”

            “About what?”  Frodo was smiling at the child, his face gentle.

            “About--about your home.”

            “About my home?”

            “Yes, about your home.”

            Frodo sighed softly, but apparently fondly.  “Well, all right.  But you need to understand, at home in the Shire we Hobbits don’t live in tall houses as Men do here in the King’s city.  No, we live in burrow-like homes, dug into the hillsides or built low and rounded along the ground....”

            Sam ate and drank some, then slipped his bag off his shoulder and rummaged in it, pulling out a small trowel, weeding tool, and hand fork, then slipped quietly out of the circle on the pavement to kneel by the edge of the garden, beginning to turn the soil around the roots of a flowering shrub, gently teasing out the small plants that had begun to grow since his last visit and laying them aside.  Now and then Frodo would look over at his friend, smiling as he paused to take a drink or nibble at the fruit offered him, then returning to his story.

            Margil sat back by Valdarion, glad their quarrel was over, and even unconcerned that he’d lost it.  He’d been amazed the previous day to actually see the Pheriannath at the banquet, and even moreso when Pippin had joined their table and discussed things such as sheep and woolens and the cloth his land produced, and where and how they purchased those they couldn’t make for themselves from the market in Bree and the cloth fair held annually in what he’d called the marketplace by the Brandywine Bridge.  Arniel and Valdarion had listened politely, but Margil had been fascinated, for unlike his cousins trade was in his blood, and he now dreamt of the day he’d be the one to come to that bridge to trade his own exotic silks, cottons, and other fabrics from lands far distant from theirs or that of the Hobbits.  Now he found himself imagining the long smials Frodo described, the round windows and their shutters, the cheerful curtains of most, the elegant ones of those homes belonging to the wealthy, made of fabrics loomed here in Minas Tirith or perhaps in Thetos or Hinya or the other lands and cities his father’s friends spoke of as they returned from their journeys....

            He found suddenly his attention fixed on Frodo, saw how Merry and Pippin watched him carefully as they listened, their own attention still focused on him even as they ate or glanced at Sam’s progress.  And he saw the beauty of the Ringbearer’s face as he spoke, for the moment animated.  The previous day, dressed as a prince, he’d looked as exotic as any of the silks his father brought home from distant climes; today he looked gentle and somewhat vivid, like the blooms Sam’s hands caressed gently as he examined them, before bringing out his pocket knife to cut off the spent ones that stood on each side.

            Suddenly the peacock, which had been nestled down on the grass by Frodo’s chair, stood up and shook himself, displayed his beautiful tail, then closed his eyes as he pushed against Frodo’s hand for a rub; and Sam, having found a perfect bloom that would soon begin to fade, brought it to press into Frodo’s other hand.  And that image of Frodo’s face between the beauty of the peacock and that of the gardenia flower was one that would stay with him forever....

*******

            Ten years later a trader entered the grounds for the market that set up by the gate at the Brandywine Bridge outside the boundaries of the Shire, leading his string of pack horses.  He approached the Hobbit who stood there with a board to which papers were affixed.  “I’d like to purchase space to sell my fabrics,” he said.  “I’ve brought them from Gondor, Harad, Hinya, Mundolië, Rhun, Camaloa, and other far places.”

            “I’m not certain if we have any spare areas, but I can ask Master Merry if he knows whether any particular trader might not make it.”

            The trader straightened.  “Master Merry?” he asked, his eyes suddenly bright with interest.  “The one who went with the Cormacolindor?”

            The Hobbit looked at him, his brows furrowed.  “The corma-what?”

            “He’s traveled from the Shire?” he asked.

            “Yes, ten year back he did.  We still call him and his cousin Pippin the Travelers, you know.”

            The Man smiled.  “I see.  And how about Master Frodo and Master Sam?”

            The Hobbit’s face became somewhat stiff.  “Not many’d even speak of Frodo Baggins,” he said, “not since he left the Shire the second time.  Went away, we’re told, with the Elves, and won’t ever be back this time.  Fool thing, leavin’ the Shire that way.”  He turned and walked deliberately away, but approached two figures considerably taller than the rest of the Hobbits who moved through the area.

            Destro Chubbs wasn’t certain, but he thought he’d seen tears trembling in the eyes of the Man with the broad chest with whom he’d been speaking--certainly the Man had appeared stricken.  Why any Man would cry over the likes of Cares-for-Naught Frodo, as he’d thought of his distant cousin since his second disappearance from the Shire, he had no idea.  Destro approached the tall form of Merry, realizing he was speaking with their new Mayor, the Thain’s son, and two others.

            “There’s a new trader over there,” Destro informed the Master’s heir once he’d caught the attention of the tall Hobbit.  “Asked about all o’ you, he did, all you Travelers.  Was lookin’ for an empty space.”

            Merry, Pippin, and Sam looked over with interest, but all they could see was a Man with a string of pack animals, already rummaging through the first pack, perhaps bringing out a sample of his wares.   The three of them excused themselves and approached the strange Man, only to pause at the sight of the bolt of fabric he’d pulled from his pack.  “Margil,” Pippin said, “Margil son of Marcarion!”  And suddenly the Man was kneeling, being embraced by the three of them, the bolt of fabric between them--one with white gardenia blossoms woven against a silken fabric of peacock blue.

For Tedicus.  Enjoy.

Whining

       "Oh, sunshine and shadows!" sighed Mags Broadbelt to her husband Timmins. "If he ain’t here again!"

       Timmins stood up from where he was working on his account books and looked across the Common Room of the Ivy Bush. It was easy to spot the object of his wife’s concern as Ted Sandyman stood near the newly-closed door and looked around the room for someone likely to allow him to share a table and bend an ear. Tim shook his head. "He’ll drive off the payin’ guests yet," he growled.

       Meanwhile Ted appeared to have decided on which patrons to approach. There was a table full of Dwarves who’d come a bit further off the Road than usual in order to have a meal and a few half-pints among them. Mag’s cooking was well known across the Shire, and they’d said as they entered that the Ivy Bush had come well recommended. It would be just like Ted, Timmins thought, to move in on the Dwarves, as they’d not have had the chance as yet to hear Ted’s story and avoid him.

       "Can you spare the price of a half for a poor Hobbit what’s down on his luck?" Ted asked, ducking his head ingratiatingly toward the party of Dwarves.

       The apparent leader of the group was a Dwarf with russet-colored hair and beard, neatly braided, each braid finished with a fine golden bead. The leather harness over his mail was richly colored and decorated, the blade of his axe intricately engraved with runes. Indeed all seven appeared prosperous looking and well equipped. The leader didn’t appear certain whether to grant the boon asked of them, but another, slightly taller, with hair and beard of a darker color, shrugged. "We may as well, Gimli. After all, we all owe so much to his people...."

       "Since the return of the Travelers the Shire’s done well," objected the one addressed as Gimli. "If there’s a Hobbit, particularly one here in Hobbiton, that isn’t doing well, I tend to think it’s most likely his own fault."

       A slightly shorter Dwarf shook his head. "I’ll pay it, for the sake of Frodo Baggins."

       The face of the Hobbit darkened. "For the sake of Frodo Baggins, eh? Well, Frodo Baggins certainly owes me more’n I can look forward to collectin’ in my lifetime. After all, it’s ’cause of Frodo Baggins I’m in the state I am!"

       The faces of all the Dwarves grew stern, particularly that of the one called Gimli, which appeared outright grim. "And how is it," he demanded stiffly, "that Frodo Baggins is to blame for your current condition?"

       "Frodo Baggins cost me all I’d ever hoped to have," the Hobbit declared, "and most I ever did."

       Those Hobbits sitting nearby grew quiet and looked around in apparent disbelief at that pronouncement. The shorter Dwarf looked at the rest of his companions. "This is one story I feel I need to hear." He turned toward the bar, signaling to Timmins. "A half-pint and a chair for this one, although I doubt anyone will agree to more. But we’ll grant him our company just to hear him out--once only, mind," he added sternly to the object of their attention. "Just who are you?"

       "Ted Sandyman, although I’m not goin’ to declare myself at the service of any o’you," he said, raising his chin in defiance.

       The one with the darker hair gave an abbreviated grunt and shake of his head. "Ted Sandyman, is it? And how did the likes of Frodo Baggins manage to steal so much from you? Was he known as a thief?"

       "How is it you know of him at all?" Sandyman asked suspiciously.

       "First," the smaller one said, "every Dwarf who’s ever visited either the Iron Hills or Erebor knows the fame of the esteemed burglar Bilbo Baggins; and I doubt there’s a Dwarf dwelling anywhere in Middle Earth who’s unaware of that of his chosen heir, Frodo Baggins."

       Ted licked his lips and examined his audience, not only of Dwarves but of many of the Hobbits who’d also come in for a meal and a half or two. It was an audience he realized would be less than sympathetic to his tale. But then Timmins was reluctantly setting a mug of ale by him and pulling a chair over from another table; and after taking a deep pull he felt the equal to the task. "So you folk see him as some kind o’hero, eh?" he asked after he’d wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Keep hearin’ talk about dark journeys and all, but it don’t change the fact as he was the worst thing to hit these parts." He managed to pull a sneer at the one who was the leader, then thought better of it and let his face go slack.

       "My dad was important here in Hobbiton and Bywater, you see. Sandyman the Miller he was, the one what run the mill. If’n it weren’t for him, there’d of been no bread for anyone, and us Hobbits appreciate our daily bread."

       "Especially if they’re Tooks!" grunted the Dwarf called Gimli. The others laughed.

       Ignoring the interruption, Ted continued, "My dad was important here, like I said. Could of been village head, he could, but when old Chubbs died, instead of my dad they chose Griffo Boffin. Broke my mum’s heart, seein’ Dad passed over like that."

       "What does Frodo Baggins have to do with someone else, not even of the same family name, being made village head over your dad?" demanded the taller Dwarf with the darker hair.

       "Griffo’s kin to Frodo twice, you see, a fifth cousin on the Boffin side and married to Frodo’s first cousin, Daisy."

       "More than twice," snorted one of the other Boffins who was listening in. "Griffo’s a second cousin to Folco Boffin, who’s another of the great-grandsons of old Gerontius Took and thus at least a second cousin to Frodo."

       Gimli was shaking his head. "But then it’s probable that, being a Boffin, Griffo’s related to half the Shire in his own right--but that’s true of almost every Hobbit between the Westmarches and the Old Forest, I think."

       "Us Sandymans ain’t related to the Bagginses!" Ted insisted.

       "Your loss," grunted another of the Dwarves as he reached for his mug.

       One of the other Hobbit patrons was looking thoughtfully at the Boffin. "Yours and Griffo’s folks’ve been amongst the gentry here in Hobbiton time out o’ mind," he said. "Griffo’s run his family farm since two years after he come of age; has a fine education courtesy o’ old Bilbo and Missus Carnation, his aunt; holds farm shares and business partnerships across the Shire; knows his land and Hobbits well. Frodo Baggins had little enough to do with Griffo Boffin bein’ chosen as village head, ’ceptin’ he said as he thought it was a good idea when Milo Burrows suggested him."

       "And look who Milo’s related to, married to Peony Baggins as was," Ted insisted.

       "Who was an older cousin and had little enough to do with young Frodo--and look at whose apron strings she was tied to. Runnin’ after old Missus Lobelia the way she done all those years, agreein’ with all the rumors she’d make on all and sundry, especially those she’d make up on the Bagginses. Come to think of it, until he come of age Frodo spent almost no time with his Baggins relations, ’ceptin’ old Bilbo hisself."

       Another Hobbit added, "Face it, Ted, your dad was never considered as village head. He had a bit of a mean streak to him, and the way he treated your mum and you----"

       "Don’t you say nothin’ against my dad!" Ted growled.

       "Why not? He was a fine miller--no one’ll question that. But he wasn’t no kind o’gentlehobbit. And in spite o’ him bein’ a decent businesshobbit, none o’us would of cottoned to him bein’ made village head." There was a general grumble of agreement around the room.

       "Well," Ted finally continued, his look defiant, "my dad could of been village head, but once Frodo Baggins come here to Hobbiton that was put paid. He was complaining about my dad, and then none would look at Dad serious no more. Then he began hittin’ Dad and others with no warning."

       Timmins Broadbelt gave a sharp laugh. "I wouldn’t say exactly no warnin’, Ted Sandyman. Those first years as Frodo lived with old Mr. Bilbo you and Lotho both did your best to make his life miserable, although he’d stand up to the two o’you; then that Brandybuck cousin of his broke his leg, and he come back from Buckland knowin’ how to throw a proper punch. He just wouldn’t tolerate seein’ anyone beatin’ up on anyone else, and especially not young’uns or animals. He stopped your dad beatin’ on you more’n oncet. Or are you sayin’ as you’d be better off if’n he’d let your dad beat on you and your mum whenever the mood struck him?"

       "Which it did ever’ time he’d come home from a late night here or at the Dragon Bywater way," another Hobbit patron sniffed. "Old Marsipo, he’d not cut folks off when they’d had too much, not like Timmins and Mags here."

       "You won’t be talkin’ ’bout my dad that way," Ted insisted.

       "Sounds as if old Sandyman was a sour one," the small Dwarf said.

       Again the rest of the patrons indicated their agreement.

       "My mum’s heart was broke when Dad was passed over for village head. She died not long after."

       "Mebbe the fact as she had a swellin’ in her leg as wouldn’t get better no matter as what was done for it might of had somethin’ to do with her dyin’ when she did," commented Addis Twofoot. Ted glared at him.

       "Then my dad lost hope. He kept workin’, but his heart wasn’t in it. Just afore that Baggins left he died, left the mill to me."

       "So why’d you sell it to Lotho?" demanded one of the patrons.

       "Why not? He offered me a good price for it."

       "Did you ever get it all? Most as did business with Lotho Sackville-Baggins was flat cheated. Look at what he done to Ponto and Iris Baggins! They thought only to borrow some money, and him’n that Bracegirdle cousin of his wrote a contract that took their deed--couldn’t pay Lotho back for months yet, and had to pay exorbitant rent on their own hole, they did."

       "Course I got it."

       "Then what happened to it all?"

       "Bought myself one of those houses as Lotho built."

       Timmin’s sniffed. "Oh, so you bought that box as you was livin’ in? You’d pay good money for one o’them things? Roofs leaked, windows wouldn’t close--if’n they was there to begin with, no inner walls, pumps didn’t work or was bringin’ in water from the marshy areas...."

       One of the dwarves sniffed. "Doesn’t sound good even for homes made for Men."

       Gimli nodded. "I’ve seen Men’s houses in Gondor, Rohan, and Eriador, and all have been more substantial than what you’ve just described."

       Ted paled at the perceived criticism.

       One of the other Hobbits commented, "At least the place as you’ve got now is comfortable and sound, and you have a pump attached to a fine well."

       The taller Dwarf asked, "And how did you go from a poor house built by Men to a sound one built by Hobbits again?"

       "It was that Sam Gamgee, come in and looked the place over, said it would never do. Saw this place built and made me move into it, there where those as’d lived in Bagshot Row was made to move to by Lotho. Then he tore it down--the house what I’d paid good money for!"

       Carlo Bunch, a lawyer who practiced in Hobbiton, sighed. "So you paid good money for it? So what? Part of the roof had blown off already, and the south wall was cracked and like to fall down at any time. And the pump in that place wasn’t hooked to anything--you were having to fetch water from the Water, which was getting mighty fouled there at the end, once that Sharkey came."

       Addis Proudfoot was nodding. "You’re far better off now, livin’ in a proper Hobbit house rather’n that pile of bricks."

       "But it was new--modern!

       "New and modern don’t stand for nothin’ when instead of makin’ things better they make ’em worse. Took nothin’ at all to bring that thing down, you know. Poor young Tom Cotton just leaned on the wall near the crack and down it come. Had bruises on him for weeks, once we dug him out from under the pile. His sister’n his mum had to slather him in arnica."

       Daddy Twofoot nodded his agreement with his younger son. "You’s far better off now’n when you was livin’ there, you know. At least you have a proper house, good larders and pantries, a hearth as draws. And you was able to bring all your goods with you, which was more’n we was able to do when we was made to move to them shacks as Lotho forced us into. Besides, the house as you’re in now is newer’n the one as you bought from Lotho."

       "And then you started working for Lotho in the Mill where your father was miller in his own right," commented the Boffin. "You could have been Miller after him, been important, like your dad was. Instead, you toadied up to Lotho and his big Men."

       "I was treated good by Lotho; was give respect."

       "And who respected you? Lotho’s big Men?"

       Ted’s expression was stern. "The Hobbits o’Hobbiton and Bywater respected me when I walked down the street."

       The Hobbits who filled the room looked at one another amazed. "Respected?" asked Addis. "Who respected you? We might of been afraid of you settin’ Lotho’s Big Men on us, but none of us respected you! What’s there to respect in a toady to one such’s Lotho’d become?"

       Carlo Bunch gave a single nod to his own head. "And if you think we respected Lotho or his Big Men, you’re mighty mistaken. We were careful around them, like we’d be if we had to deal with a wild dog or a snake; but we didn’t respect them."

       "Most of us didn’t particular like your dad," commented Timmins, "but we mostly respected him. At least old Sandyman never bowed down to the likes of Lotho, or sold his birthright away, or toadied to villains and ruffians, or cheated his neighbors."

       "And I don’t know of his dad ever stealin’ or acceptin’ nothing what wasn’t his due," Daddy Twofoot said to the innkeeper.

       Ted’s face went first pale, then dark with anger. "You callin’ me a thief, Twofoot?" he asked.

       As a lawyer, Carlo Bunch traveled regularly to the Mayor’s office in Michel Delving, and had been there when reports on Sandyman’s activities had been brought to old Will Whitfoot. "You denying it, Sandyman? Or are you saying all those things taken from your place that had belonged to Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, my brother and dad and cousins, the Tooks and Brandybucks and Bolgers that would come visit Bag End and Green Hall, old Miss Dora, Mr. Ponto, the Burrows lads, and so on, that you just managed to find them lying around or something? Or are you something worse than the Broadloams of Whitfurrow? And how about all the swag you got as your share of the loot taken by Lotho’s folks during the ‘borrowing and sharing,’ all the fine furniture from Ponto and Iris’s place or Ivy Boffin’s hole from Overhill, the good china taken from the Gamgees and the pillows stolen from the Widow Rumble? You had jewelry stolen from Will and Mina Whitfoot, even.

       "I’ll say this--if you weren’t a thief, neither were you an honest Hobbit! Or is that also supposed to be somehow Frodo’s fault?"

       "It wasn’t fair," Sandyman said through clenched teeth, "how Frodo had ever’thin’ just give to him while the rest of us had to work for a livin just to scrape by."

       Nate Boffin gasped with shock at the statement. "Everything was just given to Frodo, you say? Now, I’m not saying as Drogo and Primula hadn’t been comfortable, if not anywhere as well off as old Bilbo; but if you think Frodo Baggins lived a life of luxury you’ve another think coming. Until his folks died he had to do all the same work as any other lad his age, and his folks made certain he learned to do it well and thoroughly.

       "Then they drowned in Buckland, and he found himself staying in Brandy Hall. Oh, they loved him well enough, but sometimes they had an odd way of showing it."

       "You know what they say of him as a teen in Brandy Hall," Ted insisted, "runnin’ wild like and thievin’ all throughout Buckland and the Marish."

       "I’m not disputing that," the Boffin insisted. "After all, we’re kin several times over, being third, fourth, and fifth cousins, once removed each time, you know. No one’s arguing that Frodo Baggins was a perfect lad when young. But he never took anything that truly mattered, for he didn’t do anything that each and every one of us at one time or another didn’t do, too--he raided fields, dairies, smoke houses, gardens, and glass houses for extra food. Now, of course, being Frodo he did it thoroughly and with a definite flair--but at least he quit it on his own, and never did it again once he came to Hobbiton."

       Carlo Bunch laughed. "Now, he did advise us from time to time, didn’t he, Nate, about how to do our own raiding? But he stopped stealing himself well before Bilbo brought him here. And he would have given the shirt off his back to anyone he thought might need it more than he did. I can’t think of a family in Hobbiton, Bywater, and Overhill, as well as a good number much further afield, who didn’t benefit from Frodo’s generosity. And old Bilbo readily encouraged it--said wealth is worth nothing if it just stays in a hole gathering dust when it should be better put to use raising the tone of the whole Shire."

       Addis Twofoot looked from the lawyer to Ted. "When your mum was sick, Frodo paid for the visits from the healer, and provided many o’ the herbs from his own garden. Many was the time as he’d send Sam Gamgee down with herbs, or would add his own pies and bowls of mushrooms to the baskets May or Marigold would bring her. And then he did the same when your dad started goin’ poorly, just as he did when Otho Sackville-Baggins died."

       Carlo continued, "Nor did Bilbo allow Frodo to stay idle. Frodo had to do a lot of the cleaning about Bag End, and even helped out in the gardens when the Gaffer would allow it. He helped with the copying and binding Bilbo did, did most of the marketing, and still found time to help folks who needed it. Many’s the time he’d be up there helping thatch roofs or replacing tiles; he even went out to both the Cottons’ farm and Griffo’s to help with harvesting and haying; and he was the best at harvesting from Bilbo’s orchard because he wasn’t as afraid of heights as the rest of us were. No, I wouldn’t say Frodo was just given everything, Ted Sandyman."

       Ted glared, but held his tongue.

       "So," the shorter Dwarf asked, "how is it that Frodo Baggins brought you to the condition you’re in now? Are you badly off?"

       "No, he’s not," insisted another patron. "Not really, he ain’t. His house ain’t large, but it’s snug and warm and comfortable. He don’t have the nice furniture as he had in it when he moved in, but what he has is strong and comfortable enough, for much of it come from my cousin’s place, the one what died durin’ the Time of Troubles. I never begrudged the offerin’ of it till now.

       "He’s had a good kitchen garden, too, although he don’t pay it the mind it needs. And Sam Gamgee and Frodo Baggins together planted the fruit trees about it."

       "Frodo didn’t do much o’ the plantin’," muttered Ted. "Give up soon enough, he did; sat back and watched that Gamgee, talkin’ about someplace Elven as they’d visited while they was gone, gold leaves and silver trees. Ought to of brought back some o’ them gold leaves to share with the rest of us, I’d think."

       Gimli had gone quite still. "Have you not looked at the tree planted in the Party Field in place of the old oak that once grew there? It’s a mallorn, the only one of its kind between the Misty Mountains and the Sundering Sea. Its seed came from Lothlorien, the gift of the Lady Galadriel herself to Samwise the Faithful."

       Carlo Bunch thought for a moment, then gave a twisted smile. "So we do have a silver tree with golden leaves such as they were discussing, do we? I know that Frodo wasn’t anywhere as strong after they came back as he wanted to appear. There were times when he was deputy Mayor he’d be exhausted by the time he’d be finished with all the business to be done, and would need to take a breather before he went back to the Whitfoot’s house for the night. Whatever he did out there left his health damaged, I think."

       All the Dwarves indicated their agreement. "You can’t begin to understand," the leader Gimli said softly, "what it cost him."

       The shorter Dwarf brought the discussion back to its main topic. "So, apparently you’re not as badly off as you’d like folks to think. What happened to the furniture from your old home you’d lived in with your parents?"

       "Gone, it is--gone long ago. Lotho’s Big Men took it and burned it!"

       Daddy Twofoot was shaking his head with disbelief. "You makin’ out as they stoled it like they did so much of? Have you forgot as how you helped carry it out and tossed it in the pile when they brought you a cartload o’ stuff as they’d stole from other holes, and that you was drinkin’ and whoopin’ and hollerin’ with glee as it burned, shoutin’ as how you could live rich now? And do you deny you yourself set fire to the roof o’ your old place when you moved into Lotho’s big shack? I think as you have a bit of somethin’ for fires, as many o’ the places as you helped burn down alongside Lotho’s Big Men. You was one o’ those as was carryin’ the torches the night as they set fire to the Green Dragon in Bywater--I seen you myself, I did!"

       "Good thing as it’d rained," Addis added, "for the roof was too wet to do more’n smolder; and then it rained heavier and put the rest of the fire out. Didn’t take near as much work to rebuild what needed it and repair and repaint the rest as Lotho’d intended, I think."

       "You have to remember," Ted insisted, "it was bad in the Time of Troubles--you could get in trouble so easy--end up in the Lockholes...."

       "So all we had to do was be good little Hobbits and help burn out folks’ holes and we could of had shares of other folks’ furniture and jewelry and clothes and all?" asked Addis in a low, dangerous tone. "You was only hangin’ on Lotho’s trouser pockets ’cause you was scared of endin’ up in the Lockholes? The Lockholes where Sharkey’s people took even Lotho’s own mother, just afore they murdered him? How long, do you think, would it o’ been afore Sharkey ordered you murdered, too? You wasn’t people to them, you know--just another Shire-rat maggot. Hadn’t been for the Travelers comin’ back as they did, they’d of done for you soon enough, I’ll be bound."

       "So," the shorter Dwarf persisted, "just how is it that you’re worse off now than you were before, and how is that due to Frodo Baggins?"

       "I could of been important--could of been village head myself. I could of been somethin’ better’n the miller’s son. After all, if’n old Mad Baggins really wanted a different heir, he could of adopted someone a lot closer to home’n Buckland."

      Timmins exchanged looks with Daddy Twofoot, then asked, "And why should he of looked at you as an heir? As Frodo’s family head of name, Bilbo had a responsibility toward Frodo, but certainly not toward you, particularly as your mum and dad was still alive at the time. And, after all, you was glad enough earlier to say as how you aren’t kin to no Bagginses. Frodo needed folks o’ his own, while you had’em. And if’n he’d of wanted an heir like you, old Bilbo had Otho and Lotho to pick from. And it was precisely ’cause he didn’t want the likes of you as an heir he went lookin’ so far afield."

       "But it ought to of been Lotho as Master of Bag End, and not Frodo Baggins!"

       The Dwarves exchanged glances. "I remember Lotho Pimple from the days before the Party when Bilbo left with us," the tall Dwarf said. "He was shouting over the hedge about what a poor specimen of a Hobbit Bilbo was, and how Frodo was worse, and how one day Bilbo must die, and as his closest living relative he had the right to inherit Bag End and then he’d show everyone just what a real Baggins ought to be like."

       "Oh, yes, he showed us," Daddy Twofoot muttered, "brought in his Big Men and ruffians to thieve on us, to threaten us and do their best to destroy the Shire itself. And then his pal Sharkey arrived, and he was worse, even. Fine friends Lotho Sackville-Baggins chose--the likes of you and that murderin’ fool as had him killed."

       "I fail to see," commented another Dwarf, an older one with white hair and beard, "how this Lotho living in Bag End would have benefitted you. Or did he take you into his home as Frodo did Lord Samwise and treat you as an honored brother?"

       Ted was affronted. "Lotho’d of never done such a thing! He didn’t never act as if I was his brother! Not like that Frodo did with that jumped-up gardener."

       Two of the Dwarves made to stand up, stiff with anger, one balling his fists and the other reaching for one of the throwing axes at his belt, and had to be restrained by the rest; while every Hobbit in the room rose and took at least a step forward toward Ted, who sat, rigid and wary in his chair, holding his ale mug to his chest as if it offered him some kind of protection.

       "You are a miserable soul, aren’t you?" Nate Boffin hissed in Ted’s ear. "You have no idea at all of what Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took went through out there, do you? No one, looking at the height of them since they came back, can question Merry and Pippin were profoundly changed; and certainly they never learned to wear armor and use swords and fight properly here in the Shire. Do you truly think Sam Gamgee didn’t change, too? No, he’s not taller, but he sees clearer and sharper than anyone other than Cousin Frodo himself did, and no wise Hobbit would consider questioning either his insight nor his authority--when he’s moved to exercise it, that is, something I’ve not yet seen him do lightly."

       Carlo Bunch stood tall, his expression solemn. "If somehow the influence of Frodo Baggins has hurt you, it’s certainly not because he went out of his way to cause it. You admit your current house is better than the one you grew up in, that you yourself sold away your birthright to Lotho, that Sam and Frodo themselves saw to it you have not only a decent garden but fruit trees. Everyone here in the room knows what bullies you and Lotho were, and how you’d constantly tease and threaten and beat up on others, and in the end were stopped only when Frodo Baggins would intervene.

       "When Frodo first came to Bag End he caught you two beating up on me, and he sought to stop it, and you two turned on him, two against one. I couldn’t help him, for you’d managed to break my arm; and when both of us were down you kicked and hit us both until my dad came along and threatened to call the Shiriffs on the two of you. Then Frodo came back from Buckland knowing how to throw that proper punch of his, and whenever he caught anyone beating on others he’d use it--and I don’t know of him ever striking anyone more than once."

       The smaller Dwarf examined Ted coldly. "Frodo Baggins never stole from you, but items stolen from him and others were found in your possession. You burned down your own family home, and he and Sam saw to it you not only had a new and better one, but they themselves planted fruit trees around it. You have been exposed as a braggart and a bully, while Frodo doesn’t appear to have done anything but help make things better for everyone and to see all protected as he could--including you. You resent Frodo his choice of heirs; yet admit Lotho would never have honored you as he did Sam, even considering the years you followed in Lotho’s shadow, assisting him against all others and acting on his will. Frodo worked cheerfully doing whatever was asked of him, and you sold away the work proper to your family with your father’s mill."

       From behind the wall of Hobbits another voice spoke. "This one complainin’ again, is he? And he’s blamin’ Mr. Frodo? You may as well forget tryin’ to make him see sense--I doubt as he boasts the brains to begin to understand."

       All turned to face Samwise Gamgee, dressed tonight in one of the surcoats he’d brought back from Gondor. He’d entered with Griffo Boffin, Fosco Baggins, and Will Whitfoot, all of whom had been to the Grange Hall in Bywater for a meeting of family heads. Those who stood between now moved aside so there was no obstruction between the Master of Bag End and Ted Sandyman.

       Sam looked at the party of Dwarves, smiled, and bowed deeply. "It’s a great honor to see you again, Gimli, Dorlin, Orin, Lord Gloin, masters. Samwise Gamgee son of Hamfast at your service and that of your families ever, sirs."

       "The honor of offering service is ours, Samwise Gamgee," said the white-haired Dwarf. "All is well with you and yours?"

       "Save for the loss of my Master, yes."

       "Middle Earth is the poorer for the loss of him and those who left with him, but the richer for what was done by all while they remained with us," Gloin said quietly.

       The Hobbits in the room looked from one to another, intrigued by the exchange. Then all turned back toward Ted and the Dwarves. The small Dwarf looked between Sam and the miller’s son. "He’s still failed to explain how it is that Frodo Baggins made his life so miserable, save perhaps in comparison between the lives of the two of them. Frodo apparently never took more than food, while this one was found in possession of all kinds of things stolen from others, including Frodo. This one’s father apparently would beat on others when drunk; Frodo’s were, from what we can tell, loving until they died. Yet, in spite of his behavior when affected by drink, this one’s father was still mostly a supportive parent who was respected by others for his competency, honesty, and the level of responsibility he displayed toward the community. Do I not state it correctly?" he asked the company at large.

       When the others indicated their agreement, he continued. "All praise Lord Frodo’s honesty and expressions of responsibility toward all, while exposing that this one is apparently not honest even with himself. This one struck out toward others to win the friendship of Lotho Sackville-Baggins and for his own pleasure, while all admit Frodo struck out at others from time to time, but only in defense and even then never more than was needed to stop the aggressor."

       Sam nodded, "That’s so. Only time as I know of when he struck more’n once was there in Minas Tirith."

       "Who was that one fixin’ to rough up?" Ted asked, his curiosity roused.

       "So," the dark-haired one said, "you admit that Frodo Baggins only struck those who roughed others up?"

       At Ted’s renewed flush Gimli gave a bark of a laugh. "It was a sot from Umbar, intending to lay hands on Frodo himself. Most nicely done, I must say--one blow to the stomach to get him to lean over, and the second one to the point of the chin. He was senseless long enough to get him to the prison in the Citadel."

       "You put him in a prison for bein’ knocked out?"

       "He was put into prison for being the depraved sot he was. Aragorn doesn’t hold with fools seeking to take advantage of those they see as being as vulnerable as children any more than Frodo did."

       "Who’s Aragorn?"

       "The King. And Frodo Baggins was the King’s Friend."

       The Hobbits filling the inn again all looked at one another.

       "So," began another Dwarf, one with lighter hair and beard, "so far you’ve accused Frodo of having somehow engineered the accession of his cousin’s husband he doesn’t appear to have had much to do with as village head in preference to your father, but admit he stopped your drunken father from beating on you and your mother, and he stopped you from roughing up others weaker than yourself. Doesn’t sound to me so far as if he made your life all that bad--unless you only have pleasure when you’re beating up children."

       The Hobbits in the room all laughed as Ted’s face went dark with fury. "That’s not the truth o’me. Take it back!"

       "Maybe," Carlo Bunch suggested, "maybe you felt you were better off before you were relieved of all the things found in your possession that hadn’t belonged to you to begin with. Folk who are deprived of ill-gotten goods I must suppose are worse off after they’re relieved of them as opposed to how they were when no one knew where those items were."

       "And about the only thing," continued the smaller Dwarf, "that’s actually worse for you since Frodo Baggins came to Hobbiton is that now you are recognized as a bully and a thief and foolish, and so no one will trust you any more. Is that right?"

       Ted glared at him.

       "Is it your belief that somehow Frodo forced you to become a bully, a thief, and foolish?"

       "Why did he have it all so easy, and me so bad?"

       Sam looked surprised. "Easy? Bein’ left an orphan after his parents drowned when he was but a lad? Bein’ so private an individual havin’ to live in the warren of Brandy Hall? Needin’ recognition from others his age so much he become the scourge of Buckland and the Marish? I truly doubt as he considered his life easy. Your dad may of been difficult, but did you ever doubt his love, or face the loss of him or your mum when you was still a little lad?"

       "No."

       "Did you have friends here in Hobbiton?"

       "Yes."

       "Did anyone ever forbid you to work or play when you was a lad?"

       "No."

       "Were you ever give somethin' so dangerous it could lead to the destruction not only of the Shire but of the rest of the world besides?"

       "When did that ever happen to Frodo Baggins?"

       "The day he come of age, although the realization of what it was and what it meant wasn’t made till just afore he left the Shire, and was the reason as he left. Did you ever have to go for weeks with almost no food or water?"

       "And when did that happen to Frodo Baggins?"

       "The March after we left the Shire. Was you ever stabbed, or bitten by a poisonous spider, or beaten? That happened to him, too."

       "How’d he lose his finger?" asked Daddy Twofoot.

       Sam shuddered. "When he almost lost his soul."

       The taller Dwarf asked, "When he came to Hobbiton did he never try to be friends with you or this Lotho?"

       "Well, he tried, but he didn’t mean it...."

       "Didn’t mean it?" spluttered Gimli. "I never saw Frodo acting out a lie in all the time I spent by him."

       "And when was you by him?"

       "From the time the Hobbits reached Rivendell until the time we finally each headed our own way home the summer after the victory over Sauron, save for the few weeks he left us to finish his task."

       "Why’d he leave you? Why didn’t he let you go with him?"

       "For the same reason he left the Shire, to protect us from the danger. You think things were bad here while the Travelers were gone? You have no idea what you could have come to had he not left to protect you."

       "And you know?"

       "I saw Isengard and Mordor, and the heads of those caught abroad by Sauron’s folk shot over the wall to horrify the defenders of Minas Tirith. I saw the homes destroyed, the orchards burned, the fields cut by trenches in which oil was lit afire. I’ve had to protect my people against orc attacks since I was first strong enough to lift a battle axe. I’ve ridden with Elves who’ve fought the Enemy and his creatures for thousands of years. I’ve walked through lands Sauron destroyed, and where the leavings of Morgoth hide in the shadows. Oh, yes, Ted Sandyman, I know. I know, and Frodo Baggins and the other Travelers know, for we walked through many of those places together, and fought side by side against orcs, trolls, and horrors you cannot imagine. There was reason for Frodo’s eyes to be so shadowed when he returned, and for the eyes of the others to be often shadowed as well."

       "Why’d he leave again? He too good to have to deal with the likes of us?"

       "Just maybe he was, Sandyman. Just maybe he was. But that’s not why he left."

       "Was he afraid of dyin’, then, that he had to run to stay with the Elves?"

       It was Sam who answered him. "You think as Mr. Frodo was afraid of dyin’, do you? You obviously wasn’t by him on the mountainside, when both of us thought we was but a few breaths from death. No, Frodo’ll die there where he’s gone when it’s time for it, although hopefully that won’t come as soon there as it would’ve done here. Anyone as thinks Frodo Baggins was afraid of death never knew him at all--he was ready to die several times over, you know. No, he was one to face his fears, Frodo was. He didn’t leave ’cause he was afraid of dyin’, but because he’d become afraid of livin’ as life had become for him. He went so as he could learn again how to love life, embrace it and rejoice in it, afore he faces death the last time."

       The room had gone quite still, as the Hobbits and Dwarves studied Samwise Gamgee.

       The smaller Dwarf at last turned his attention back to Ted Sandyman. "Perhaps Frodo’s coming here to Hobbiton did somehow ruin your life; but if so, it was only because the contrast of his nature compared with your own showed just how shallow yours was, yours and this Lotho’s. I find I pity you, much as Frodo must have pitied you before me.

       "I saw him only once before he left the Shire, and not again afterwards. But I knew the Shadow that he helped to defeat, and can see there were many here who recognized the shadow of that Shadow as it lay on the Shire while he was gone.

       "I have advice for you--do as he did, and begin making the most of what you are offered in life instead of bemoaning how he supposedly made yours so miserable, and you’ll be amazed at how differently you’re treated. If not, you may find that in the end those who survive your leaving won’t grieve it, while there will always here be those who realize just how much their lives were enriched by knowing Frodo Baggins. You don’t have to appreciate precisely why Frodo left the Shire or what he did out there to realize even your life was better because he lived here.

       "Well, you’ve had your half-pint, and you’ve told your story. Be off with you, then, if you can do nothing else to enrich the night besides removing your presence from the company of others."

       Ted drained the dregs of his cup, and somehow wasn’t surprised to find they tasted bitter. He roughly dropped the mug on the table, got up, and left.

       Twenty minutes later a trader from Buckland who’d stopped the night at the Green Dragon in Bywater was surprised as a strange Hobbit approached his table. "Beg pardon, sir, but could you spare the price of a half for a poor Hobbit as is down on his luck?" The trader looked around the room and saw the disgust aimed at the Hobbit who’d approached him and the pity focused on himself....

A Lúthien Within the Shire

       Pippin had been to the Tooklands to spend three weeks with his family in the Great Smial and to help celebrate his mother’s birthday. He’d enjoyed himself, he’d found; but there had been moments of grief, for Frodo hadn’t been there beside them to share in the celebrations, to sing with them, to dance with them--not that he’d danced since the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen, so long ago now in Minas Tirith.

       Pippin and Merry had both found they still needed time away from their families, needed moments with but the two of them, times the nightmares were more likely to hit, times the strange memories needed to be faced and relived a bit so more of them could be let go. One of the images that had resurfaced in his own mind in the last few months was one he’d not truly thought of often since the moment of shock when it had occurred as he’d run down the streets of the city through the fighting and the chaos of the night of the siege. The upper levels of the city were eerily quiet, for the defenders of Minas Tirith were on the walls of the lowest three circles with their trebuchets and bows and swords and spears.

       The stones sent over the wall hit mostly the first and second levels, as did the balls of stuff designed to burst into flame when they hit a hard surface. But the smaller, lighter shot often appeared to arc higher, and a few of the missiles had landed in the Third Circle. Maybe the east wind had helped carry this shot, the shot used by the Enemy to dishearten and horrify those who defied him, and who had defied him for so very, very long.

       In the Third Circle, Pippin had veered off the main street toward the walls, trying to find out if Gandalf was here, on this level. The defenders here were mostly Men of the City who’d stayed behind to offer defense for the capital of the realm, in many cases armed with swords and spears once carried by members of their houses many generations dead, swords and spears nonetheless maintained and kept sharp and oiled for centuries, or perhaps even millennia. Those Guardsmen who remained in this level either defended the gates or manned the trebuchets, assisted by Men of the City and the least trained of those from the southlands who’d come to face the Enemy here, those who’d volunteered from the fishing fleets or left their farms or their forestry work or their watch upon the dams built for flood control to come to the aid of Minas Tirith.

       A number of the small, roughly rounded missiles were let loose by one of the Enemy’s catapults that had been dragged close to the wall to the First Circle, and they’d cleared the wall of the Third Circle and had fallen among the defenders. One had fallen between Pippin and the Man closest to him, a tall, slender fellow dressed in clothing that had once been fine, but was now torn and stained with sweat and smoke. Both the Man and Pippin had looked on it first with curiosity and then with shock and horror as they recognized what it was--a head, branded with the Eye, eyes still open in blind horror, mouth wide in an interrupted cry of agony.

       The hair was dark and curly, and extraordinarily familiar, and Pippin had a moment of despair, for he was convinced it was Frodo’s head. But the Man was crying out with dismay, lifting it, turning it to look at the left earlobe. "Belterion!" he whispered. "Belterion is dead!" And weeping, he cradled the head to him.

       Pippin had felt both unaccountably relieved and guilty at the same time, to know that this wasn’t Frodo, yet had been dear to this unknown Man. A swift glance at the walls showed him Gandalf wasn’t present at this position, so he turned back toward the gates to the second level, knowing he’d most likely find Gandalf at the bottom, just inside the great gates of the city if he was to be found anywhere.

       A few days later he’d seen the Man again, visiting the Houses of Healing, that rather drained, empty look on his face that was already becoming familiar to the Hobbit. Pippin had just left the room in which Merry was housed, Merry having finally agreed to take a nap. The Man was seated on a bench in the hallway, his knees slightly apart, his elbows akimbo and his hands loosely folded together between his legs. He looked up from his blank stare at the ground to recognize the Hobbit standing before him.

       "Do you have someone here?" Pippin asked.

There was a slow, exhausted nod in answer. "My friend Belvamor. He grew up here in the city, down the street from us. He was fighting in the First Circle, not far inside the gates."

       "Is it serious?"

       A pause, then a shake of the head. "The healers tell me it’s not, and that within a month he should be able to go out of the city to help rebuild his farm upon the Pelennor, if the land can be sufficiently cleansed by then." For a moment he was quiet, then continued, "And I’ll have to tell him his son Belterion is dead."

       "You’re certain that--that it was Belterion?"

       The Man nodded, tears threatening to fall. "He had a birthmark behind his left ear, and a scar on the lobe where he was bitten once by a puppy when he was a small boy." He absently wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "You know someone here?"

       Pippin nodded. "Too many, I think," he said. "My cousin’s in that room," and he indicated the door behind him, "and the Lord Faramir and a few from the Third Company--a few others I’ve met."

       The Man had taken a deep breath and sighed. "Too many have already died, and more will follow, I fear, if no one can find a way to end the war swiftly."

       And then someone had come out of the room nearest the Man’s position on the bench and had beckoned him to enter, and he’d not seen the fellow again until a few weeks after the coronation of Aragorn at a ceremony of memorial for those who’d died within the walls of the city during the siege. The Man had come, richly dressed, accompanied by a tall boy who was obviously his son; afterwards as he’d come forward to be acknowledged by the King Pippin had heard him identified as the Master of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers. There had been a few more meetings after that....

       But Pippin had been able to mostly forget that first meeting and its circumstances. After all, there were far worse horrors to think of, from the fall of Gandalf in Moria to the death of Boromir at Amon Hen, the jaunt across Rohan and the destruction of Isengard, and then the siege of Minas Tirith and all that came with it and afterwards. He’d described the rain of heads to Frodo, who’d heard of it also from discussions of the Council and reports made to Aragorn as King. Yet the images left by that incident hadn’t had the emphasis of some of the other memories for quite some time....

       Probably what had brought back the memory so vividly now was the fact that he’d recently been reading Frodo’s book. Sam had read it first, then gave it to the Thain to read. Isumbard Took had managed to lay hands on it next, and read parts of it to Ferdibrand and their wives before Paladin Took was demanding its return so it could be given to Saradoc Brandybuck, who in turn surrendered it to Merry and Pippin. Pippin had brought it with him from Crickhollow to return to Sam while on the way to the Tooklands. There were several incidents he’d barely thought of for the last two years that he’d found recorded there, although he’d noted there were a good number of situations Frodo had failed to report that Pippin and Merry remembered all too vividly. Well, perhaps it was for the best that at least some of those incidents hadn’t been written down.

       He reached into the pocket of his surcoat where he carried a gift given him by young Piper--a pennywhistle he’d received at last summer’s Free Fair--one given him by Frodo. Frodo had been so thin and frail looking at the time, thin again to nearly the point of emaciation. In fact, it was the worst he’d seen Frodo look since he lay insensible in the enclosure Aragorn had seen raised around the two beds on which Frodo and Sam had been laid in Ithilien. Pippin himself had purchased an apple tart for Frodo, one Frodo had eaten only bites of before that familiar look crossed his features that indicated if he took another bite he’d only lose what he’d eaten already and perhaps a good deal more besides. Merry had purchased a glass of cider for his cousin and a cheese bun--Frodo had eaten perhaps a quarter of the bun, and had drunk from the cider for a time as they’d talked.

       It wasn’t quite a year ago that they’d met at the Free Fair, and Frodo had made what was probably one of his last public appearances. He’d been so visibly fading at the time....

       He held the pennywhistle and considered it. There was the mark that indicated it had been produced in Dale, and had undoubtedly come to the Shire by way of a Dwarf trader. He lifted it to his lips as he rode and blew on it, remembering the Party, back when he was eleven, when Bilbo at last had left the Shire, not fleeing death so much as fleeing the realization that for some untoward reason old age and death appeared to have shied off from him, and somehow hoping that in leaving the Shire he’d either find out why or set things back right and in balance again.

       The party; the impromptu band made up of those who’d found lovely musical instruments with sweet tones in their crackers; Melilot Brandybuck dancing the Springlering.... He was smiling as he began playing the music for it as he rode.

       He’d bypassed the Floating Log and was almost to Whitfurrow when he decided to camp for the rest of the night. He’d gone from the music for the Springlering to that of the Husbandmen’s Dance to that of a dance that had been part of the program at every feast and party he’d attended in Minas Tirith, then to a marching song they’d sung as the army of the West had marched from Minas Tirith to the ruins of Osgilliath, to several walking songs Bilbo had either written himself or been fond of.

       The small meadow opposite the Broadloam house was empty, so he decided to stay there for the rest of the late spring night. He turned into it, dismounted, saw Jewel free of her tack and hung it over a stump left by Sharkey’s folk, then carried his blanket roll into the wood the other side of the meadow to find an area springy with shed leaves and needles to lay it out. He soon had a small fire pit prepared a suitable distance from his blankets, filled his water bottle from the small stream that ran from the spring across the road behind the Broadloam place, and settled himself down, sitting up on his blankets to play again.

       He found himself now playing Elvish tunes--the hymn to Elbereth Gildor’s folk has been singing when they met near the Woody End while he, Sam, and Frodo had been making their way toward the Bucklebury Ferry; the odd cadences of the invocation for healing Aragorn had sung so often; the hymn to Yavanna that had become so much Sam’s in the past few years; the song of Nimrodel and Amroth and their tragic ending.

       He didn’t notice that he wasn’t alone any more, that a small, oddly shaped Hobbit child had heard his music and slipped out of her home to follow the siren call of the strange music, and now stood quietly behind a tree as only a Hobbit (or perhaps an Elf) could, watching Peregrin Took play, letting those exotic tunes bathe her with their beauty.

       Tribbals Broadloam had never heard such music before, but it reminded her of "Mer" Frodo, as she always named him--just as beautiful and achingly sad as he’d appeared to her. She realized that Peregrin Took also was missing Mer Frodo, and that these tunes were in part a tribute to the cousin he’d loved but whom he’d let leave the Shire when it was needful. She closed her eyes and drank in the cadences, the trills and gently lingering notes, and without realizing it, she began to sway in time to the music.

       Pippin at last exhausted the Lay of Nimrodel, and then found himself playing the Lay of Lúthien, remembering Aragorn sitting beyond the fire there in the hollow below Weathertop, singing that lay to them to distract them from the gathering terror of the coming Nazgul, remembering the look of intense pleasure on Frodo’s face as the music struck a chord in his heart....

       Then he noted another spirit had known a similar chord struck in her own heart, as Tribbals Broadloam danced from behind her tree out into the small clearing. She was dressed in a simple white nightgown suitable for a child her size, and he could just see her nearly bare toes beneath its hem. She raised her hands over her head in a remarkably graceful manner, and turned and twisted to the music that he played, her head thrown back in sheer pleasure, her dance surprisingly powerful.

       Pippin played on, his attention fixed on a small Hobbit child who at the moment appeared in his imagination as tall and graceful as the Lady Arwen Undómiel herself--no, she was as graceful as Aragorn’s queen! And as he played, she danced in the flickering light of the fire and the mystical light of the Moon sifted through spring leaves, weaving her own magic into the night.

       How was it that Elven magic could be sparked by such a one as Tribbals Broadloam? But it was, and although he never quit seeing the moon-touched Hobbitling, Pippin appeared to see Lúthien Tinúviel dancing in another clearing long ago and far away, Beren watching her, as enchanted as Pippin was now, and even more so, for his heart had been unwittingly stolen by that dance.

       In the end both dance and tune quieted of their own volition, and both went still. Pippin lowered his pennywhistle, and bowed his head in respect to the child, who still stood remarkably erect for one who barely came to his waist. She inclined her head in response to his tribute, again as gracefully as might the Elven Queen of Gondor and Arnor; and slowly and with majesty the tiny figure turned away, not completely dwindling away to a Hobbit child again until she reached the front door to her smial across the Road, and turned to give a wave of her stubby fingers before she let herself back inside and returned to her bed.

       Only one more tune did Pippin play after that, the tune for the poem Bilbo had written of standing stones and secret gates, and ways leading west of the Moon, east of the Sun. Then, at last, he rolled himself into his blankets and placed the whistle under his flattened pillow, and gave himself to dreams of Frodo dancing on white shores in sight of a sparking sea, that smile Pippin had loved so lighting his features ... a dream he unwittingly shared with a child lying nearby on her mattress filled with fresh meadow grass.

Written for the Eye of the Beholder challenge on the Henneth Annun site.

Light Thought Lost

       Frodo had run ahead, as fey as Sam had ever seen him, his posture erect, his shoulders back.  Sam held the Lady’s starglass, for Frodo had given it to him to hold as he drew Sting to cut apart the horrid, great web of shadow that ghastly thing had apparently woven across the mouth of the tunnel of Cirith Ungol.  But this was one of those rare moments when his beloved Master shone as brightly as the starglass itself, the Light of him shining defiantly as he ran out of the shadows of the tunnel into the relatively brighter air of the cleft that formed the actual Pass of Cirith Ungol.

       Sam set himself to catch up as he stowed the starglass in his inner pocket, for he found the hair on his head and feet was still standing up straight while the skin on the back of his neck felt tight with the anticipation of another assault by evil creatures. But before he quite left the last of the tunnel behind him he spotted a huge dark shape slipping out of a gap that appeared merely as a slightly darker black against an already black wall; and then he felt long, bony fingers grasping for his throat as Gollum made his final bid at murdering Frodo’s determined guardian. "Got him!" Gollum murmured in his ear. "At last, my precious, we’ve got him, yes, the nassty Hobbit. We takes this one. She’ll get the other. O yes, Shelob will get him, not Sméagol: he promised; he won’t hurt Master at all. But he’s got you, you nassty filthy little sneak!"

       "Got me, did you?" Sam wanted to say, but couldn’t as he struggled to pry those fingers off his throat. Unable to use sword or staff on the foul creature he finally threw himself backwards--an old trick he’d learned when dealing with Ted Sandyman as a lad in the Shire; and Gollum, unused as he was to dealing with victims at least as smart as himself, was bested by the simple maneuver. At that Sam was able to scramble swiftly to his feet, turned and swung the walking stick Faramir had given him, heard it crack first against the creature’s arm and then across Gollum’s bony back, felt the give as the staff broke and Gollum sprang away, back into the darkness, his squeals and moans of pain following after as he disappeared into the darker shadows of the tunnel.

       But by the time Sam reached his Master the great spider had already bested Frodo Baggins, had him wound in her silk, Sting lying there on the ground near his shrouded form. How long the fight went between Sam and Shelob Sam had no idea; but finally he found himself crouched down, holding Sting upwards where the spider had wrenched herself off of it, covered with her ichor. He slipped down on the ground, dazed and shaken, the fury of his defense for Frodo oozing out of him as he collected himself; then he was crawling to Frodo’s side. There was no movement, no rise and fall to indicate Frodo breathed. There was no movement at all, no feel of breath or heartbeat. Sam found the tip of the short Elven sword sliced easily through the winding cords, and he soon had Frodo’s body free--free, but still unresponsive. The poison to the back of Frodo’s neck had apparently done its job well, too well.

       Darkness took the heart and soul of Sam Gamgee once he accepted that Frodo was gone, as he realized he couldn’t allow himself to lie down beside Frodo and die there. "Oh, Master! My Mr. Frodo! Why did you have to leave me, go where I can’t follow? Why did you have to leave me to finish it? Why do I have to go on? Sweet Frodo--my sweet Master, I have to take it, go on, find the mountain somehow on my own. I’m sorry, so sorry."

       When at last he finally went to leave Frodo’s still body, he stood for one last long moment, looking down on the face glowing softly in the deep grey shadows of the pass, looking what he expected would be his last at the fair beauty that had been granted the Baggins lying at his feet. No pain, no madness, no driven resolve--only the peace of grief concluded, his body finally at perfect rest.

       He’d left his own sword at Frodo’s side, for he foresaw that if he came upon more enemies such as Shelob the Elven blade of Sting would be of more use than the one from the Barrowdowns. It appeared that blade, made by Aragorn’s ancestors, was doing its best to shine as would Sting, looking remarkably graceful as it lay by Frodo’s own side, the carefully etched runes and devices engraved on its blade catching the light of Frodo’s form.

       "Elbereth’s own light a-shinin’ from him," he murmured, not realizing he whispered aloud. "Her own beauty always lit him, it did. Farewell, sweet Frodo, my beautiful, beloved Master. I’ll come back to you, I will, if I can, and then I’ll not leave you again." And forcing his attention away at last, he turned to make his way alone to do what must be done.

*******

       Gorbag looked down at the stripped body lying on the rags along the wall of the tower room. How ugly a creature it was, its skin almost stark white, although still somewhat blue at the moment with the paralyzing poison pumped into it by Shelob. The hair was dark and curling and unnaturally soft, and had some of Shelob’s webbing still adhered to it--the one thing that made it look proper in Gorbag’s estimation.

       There was a shudder to the form as it managed to take its first deeper breath since Shelob had applied her mandibles to its neck. The unconscious arching of the back as the body began once again to react to pain brought a sneering smile to the orc’s face.

       "Yes, you ugly thing, you. What right you got, bringing Light here? What right you got, bein’ found wearing mithril? The Master, he’ll be glad of that, he will. Maybe give us a right reward for findin’ it on you. He’d best, for I’d of preferred to keep it, I would, given my own choice.

       "No, you folk from out there, you can’t even dress proper--woven stuff and not proper skins for you--too fine, are you, for what us orcs wear? Fit out like a filthy Elf princeling--yet they left you when they had the chance--took off and left you there, lyin’ on the ground, leaving you to us! And here you lie, where you’ll waken soon enough. Oh, I look forward to that, seeing to it you’re beat proper and all, makin’ those ugly pinkish lips stretch as you scream, begging us to let you tell us what we want to hear; hearing your finger bones break...."

       The orc bent over the supine form, murmuring into its ear, "How ugly you are! How terribly ugly you are, all smooth as you are, between the too thick hair on the top of your head to that on your feet! And I look forward to pulling it all out, all that hair, a strand at a time!"

*******

       The sharp eyes of the Eagles spotted them, the two small wingless creatures as they fell, at last overwhelmed by heat and the fumes of the volcano, brought down by grief, pain, privation, loss.

       Landroval had little time to examine the small figure he took up as he touched down briefly on the small hillock where the two figures lay at the last. Small and pitiful it looked, with neither feathers nor even proper fur to clothe it. It was wrapped in a single fold of cloth such as was affected by those who went on two feet, with arms and hands instead of proper wings or forelimbs. Only the top and backs of their heads had hair of any sort--and in the case of these two their feet as well, he noted as Meneldor drew near enough for him to see those of the one his fellow bore. That was unusual for the two-legged ones, to see their feet and hair upon them rather than the more common boots such things usually wore or feet bare of any adornment at all.

       Pitiful, weak things these two were, fragile and small beyond the nature of most of the two-legs. What they must look like at most times he couldn’t begin to imagine, for they were almost black with ash and soot, save where the blood lay or their garments and sparse hair hid them. Ugly, the rags and blood and filth made them look, not even proper for feeding to eaglets if they’d not been obviously among the Children of Iluvatar, whom it was not proper to take as prey. Were they lambs found in such condition Landroval would have carried them to a ravine and laid them there, for lambs in such condition would likely have made his own babes weak and ill.

       The one he carried was stick thin--he could feel its bones through the damaged skin and fine cloth. What little skin could be seen, such as the underside of the one arm that hung free, was unnaturally pale even for two-legs. Yet, as he approached the place indicated by the White Wizard he realized the slight body held imprisoned in it a radiance, one familiar to him from his one flight West with Gwaihir when he came of an age to serve as their folk were intended to do. The Lady’s own Light, shining forth from the battered body he carried?

       The great horse Shadowfax raced toward them as they looked to land, bearing on its back a large form, that of the tallest Man Landroval had seen in many, many years. He, too, was black with dirt and blood, although in his case little of the blood he bore was his own. The cloth that covered him had been richly figured; the mail and armor shone in the light where it wasn’t covered with gore; the sheath for the sword he wore shining with gems and fine metal wire.

       A wagon stood nearby, and startled young Men were hurrying to reach the side of the Man who slipped from Shadowfax’s back. The Man was facing the Wizard as Mithrandir slid from Gwaihir’s own back. "You have found them?" he demanded. "Are they still alive? How hurt are they? Can I do aught for them, Gandalf?"

       "Wait, my friend--yes, we’ve found them. They were still alive when we found them, but they are very close to the Gates of Death, I fear."

       At a nod from the Wizard’s head the tall Man turned toward Landroval, and the Eagle could see the clarity of the Man’s eyes, the equal to that seen in Gwaihir’s own gaze. The King, then. It was years since Landroval had seen him, riding beside the sons of Elrond in the Vale of Imladris, then a young eaglet in his own right, not yet mature enough to fly free on his own. Yes, this one had the beauty of rule and command to him, unlike the pale, bloody thing Landroval bore. Yet when the King came forward to take the small figure from the Eagle’s grasp, just as the Wizard was going forward to take the slightly more substantial form carried by Meneldor, Landroval found himself loth to surrender it, for he found he felt protective toward it, fragile and ugly as it was. Ugly it was now; but so did eaglets appear when their feathers were first starting to grow in. He wished he might take it back to his own aerie, shelter it under his wings and that of his mate, see it mature and fledge properly, see that Light it held freed and brought to fullness again.

       Sensing the Eagle’s reluctance, the Man halted, looking from Landroval to Mithrandir to Gwaihir and then back at the small thing Landroval still held close to his underfeathers.

       Gwaihir mantled slightly, then spoke. "Why do you not give him over, Landroval?"

       "This small one needs cherishing," Landroval said stiffly. "It needs strong meats, comforting, careful feeding."

       "That may be," Gwaihir said, "but we are not the proper ones to care for him. The Eagle of the Star here is closer to his own kind, you must understand. He will see him sheltered, cared for, fed, his plumage properly preened. Let the Eagle of the Star take him."

       Landroval examined the Man with interest. "This is your name, Eagle of the Star?"

       There was a single nod. "Yes, so I have been known in this land and Rohan and Rhun. May I have the body of my small brother, please?" The Man had the proper gaze of a Lord of the Children of Iluvatar, and with a last look at the small thing he carried in his one talon, Landroval at last opened his claw, letting the tiny figure slip loosely into the Man’s sure grip.

       It was the proud look of love that the Man showed as he cradled the slight form to him that reassured the Eagle he’d done rightly, He was already wrapping his own mantle about the almost broken form, was crooning to it as he gave an abbreviated nod of acknowledgment and turned away to find a proper nest for the creature....

*******

       It was the third time the water of the tub had been changed as once again Aragorn sought to cleanse away the last of the blood and filth from Frodo’s body. Gandalf had taken Sam’s Elven cloak with which Frodo had been clad, had set it over the back of a folding chair and had done some spell of cleansing and renewal upon it, for when Aragorn looked at it again it was clean and whole once more, ready to return to Sam when he would be able to wear it again.

       Eldamir and one of the lady healers between them were finally lifting Sam’s body from the other tub, were examining it once more, were wrapping soft towels about it, were bringing it to the cot set to receive it.

       "There’s a terrible gash on his forehead, overlying an earlier scar that looks months old."

       "An orc blade caught him there in Moria--fortunately but a glancing blow--I was able to see it closed without needing stitches."

       Eldamir looked up with surprise. "Moria? This one went through Moria?"

       Gandalf sighed. "We all went through Moria, you see. Both of these acquitted themselves well there. What about the wound near his temple?"

       "It’s deeper than the other, and there was a fair loss of blood there. It looks as if he were struck with something, perhaps a jagged rock. What happened to that ones hand?"

       Aragorn lifted the pressure bandage he’d placed over it to see if the bleeding had yet stopped. "I’m not certain, but it looks almost as if the ring finger had been chopped--or bitten--off the hand."

       Gandalf lifted his head, his attention intent on Frodo. "Bitten?" He looked roughly westward, then murmured, "Sméagol--somehow Sméagol was involved, but so far the details are not granted me."

       Aragorn looked up in shock. "Gollum? You think he did such a thing to Frodo?"

       "Faramir told us Frodo had taken him as a guide, Aragorn."

       Aragorn looked again with deep pain at the small figure he supported in the tub, and one last time he rinsed the hair.

       The body when at last he lifted it up was emaciated, the skin marred with burns and cuts and a myriad of abrasions. There was evidence Frodo had been beaten badly on at least two occasions, those on his legs still barely scabbed over. The soles of Frodo’s feet, as was true of Sam’s as well, were scored with cuts from walking across rough lava flows, and the knees and palms of Sam’s hands showed he’d most likely crawled for a time up the side of the volcano, perhaps with Frodo’s weight on his back. Frodo had been bound at one point, and there was what Aragorn feared was the bite of a great spider on the back of Frodo’s neck, still draining itself. So, it appeared the Pass of Cirith Ungol had indeed been named for the Maia who’d poisoned the Two Trees. Was it Ungoliant herself they’d met there in the darkness of the pass?

       But with the last of the blood and grime washed away, Aragorn could see Frodo’s own familiar features once more, as beautiful as only this one could ever be, the Light of Stars clearly shining about him. He was so fragile looking, so fragile and fair, and so close to abandoning his earthly prison.

       Certain he’d done all he could for the moment to ease Frodo’s body, Aragorn indicated he wished the boiling water he’d ordered earlier brought, and Eldamir himself brought the leaves of athelas he’d found in his swift search as he’d begun ordering the setting up of the healers’ camp where the worst hurt were to be brought.

       "We’ve found him, Aragorn," said a soft Elven voice from the opening of the tent in which those who worked over the Ringbearers labored. "Gimli found Pippin’s body under that of a great troll, with the bodies of three others, all still living. Elladan is with him now."

       Aragorn looked up, his attention distracted. "Pippin’s found? And he’s alive?"

       "Yes----" The Elf’s eyes fixed on the slight form under Aragorn’s hands. "But are these?" he asked, his face pale.

       "Barely," Aragorn sighed. "I must call them. Go, stand by Pippin. I’ll need to work on these together to call them back. They’ve wandered far now, and I doubt Frodo will feel it worthwhile to return to us. I’ll come as soon as I can be certain whether or not these will come back."

       Legolas gave an uncertain nod. "I’ll go." Yet he lingered a moment longer, finally murmuring in Quenya, "I can barely see the beauty of Frodo in what remains. Call it back, brother." So saying, he left.

       Aragorn lifted Frodo’s thin body out of the tub and allowed Gandalf to shroud it in towels, laid it beside that of Sam. The bowl of water was laid by him, and he took the athelas, and gently mouthing the words and tune of the invocation he bruised the leaves and dropped them into the bowl. Then he was leaning over Frodo and Sam, seeing the great beauty both held, intent on bringing it back to fullness as he invoked his own Light of Being in his search to find theirs....

First Lessons in the Wild

       "We’ll be setting a watch..." began the Man.

       "Setting a what?" Pippin asked him.

       "A watch."

       "Do you have one in your pocket?" Pippin asked. "Frodo didn’t bring his, you see, but sometimes he’d have to set it."

       Merry sighed. "He doesn’t mean a pocket watch, Pip," he explained. "He means one of us will stay up for a while to make certain no enemies try to attack us while we’re camped."

       Pippin thought about it. "Oh," he said softly. "Then, how long does the person have to stay awake?"

       Strider answered, "For about three hours, and then the next person will take over."

       "How does the next person know it’s his turn?"

       "The one who has the first watch wakes him up and tells him it’s now his turn."

       "But how does the one who stayed up first know it’s been about three hours if he doesn’t have a watch? Now, my Cousin Bard has a watch--well, he’s my third cousin, actually, for he’s----"

       "Pippin! He’s a Man--they don’t care what degree of cousin you are to a cousin he’s not even met! Honestly!" Merry’s voice was becoming very annoyed. "You’ll have to pardon him, Mr. Strider," he explained, apparently deciding the honorific was necessary to counter the bother Pippin must be becoming. "He’s overtired and nervous and hungry, for he’s not had more than one proper meal today and he’s not certain how to deal with it all. And then, to be traveling with a Man, and one who speaks as little as you do, and to have worried over whether or not those Black Riders are maybe coming after us--well, anyway, put all that together and he’ll start blathering."

       "I do not blather, Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

       "You most certainly do, Pippin, and you’re blathering right now."

       "I do not! Take it back!"

       "Pippin! Merry! That’s enough, do you hear? Be quiet and let Strider talk, and listen to what he says, for he knows what he’s talking about. And stop talking so much anyway--I have a headache." Frodo’s voice was pitched softly, but nevertheless carried sufficient authority that both his companions immediately complied.

       The Man felt his lip twitch, and he knew a moment’s admiration for his primary charge. Well, Bilbo had told him Frodo Baggins had a very natural authority to him--a couple times during the day’s stops he’d looked at Strider himself and said something along the lines of "Will you please get me five sausages from the roll Sam’s carrying?" and he’d automatically complied. Obviously he was as vulnerable to that natural authority as these three.

       Pippin had turned back to him. He wasn’t asking questions now, but those eyes Strider had already learned were as vibrant a green as Frodo’s were blue were fixed on him, apparently waiting to hear the answer to his question. The Ranger was glad he’d not forgotten it through all the talk that had followed. "You’ll need to do some watching of the stars to know during night watches, although after a time you’ll just know. Do you see that star there?"

       "Ancalimaë?" Pippin asked.

       Strider was impressed. "You know the names of the stars?"

       "Yes--well, actually, I know a lot of them, for Frodo’s told us their names when we’ve stayed with him and slept out up on top of the Hill or we’ve been out----"

       "Pippin!" Merry confined himself just to the one word this time.

       "Sorry," Pippin sighed, and went obediently quiet.

       "Yes," Strider said, again feeling his lip twitch at the sight of the Hobbit’s contrite expression. "Ancalimaë will do for now. You see how now she shines above that tree? When she’s moved in her travels across the night sky over that one there that will be about three hours, and it will be time to awaken the next watcher. Then when she disappears behind that hill it will be another three hours, and it will be time for the next change in watch."

       "And after that? Do we look at a different star then?"

       "No, for then we’ll be all awakening and preparing whatever we’ll have to eat for the dawn meal, and then as soon as all are ready we’ll be starting tomorrow’s march."

       "Who goes first?"

       "Tonight it’s going to be between you, Merry, or Samwise, for I’ve had no sleep for three nights already, and your Master had less than an hour last night."

       "He’s not our Master--he’s our cousin. He’s Merry’s first cousin once removed and my second cousin once removed----"

       "Pippin." Frodo’s tone was enough to restore quiet.

       "Shall we draw straws?" Merry asked at last.

       "I’ll go first," Pippin sighed. "I know how to tell now, and I’m already awake anyway."

       "But you’re tired."

       "And you aren’t? And I bet Sam’s even more so, for he’s been carrying the heaviest pack of all--probably has lots of things Frodo didn’t think he’d need that Sam knew he would anyway, just as he always does when we go for a tramp."

       Again the Man was impressed, and this time with Pippin. It was an astute observation and displayed a good deal of understanding of those with him as well as compassion for what they must be feeling. He wasn’t completely certain of the relationships here, for although Bilbo had described them often enough, only Frodo apparently had been a full adult then and hadn’t changed appreciably in the seventeen years since his older cousin left the Shire. The other three all looked much of an age with Frodo, perhaps even a bit older, although Strider knew from his conversations with the old Hobbit that the other three had been still youngsters when he’d left the Shire while Frodo had that day become of adult status.

       Sam and Frodo had been setting up the camp as though this was common enough between them. Sam had efficiently cleared a space for a fire and already had tinder gathered; Frodo had unfastened bedrolls from the pony’s back and had set out two, and was now tossing the other three to Strider and his two cousins. "Here," he said as Sam got the fire going and set three rocks at the right distance around the small blaze to support pans and kettles. He pointed to the two saucepans. "Pippin, make yourself useful and fill these."

       Pippin looked around the space where they’d spend the night, dropped his bedroll just this side of where Frodo had set his and Sam’s, then picked up the pans, briefly stood still listening, then turned instantly toward the small rill Strider knew ran nearby.

       It was mostly a cold supper with only tea to warm the belly, and all four Hobbits were remarkably subdued throughout it. Sam immediately had the tin plates and spoons and mugs washed, and at a look from Frodo the other three Hobbits slipped into their bedrolls. Strider came over to check them out, and could see a line was visible between Frodo’s brows even in the dim light of the stars and the small fire. "Your head still aches?" the Man asked softly.

       "Yes, really."

       "I’ll prepare a draught for it," Strider offered, and immediately returned to the fire. Merry had brought some more fuel earlier and set it to hand, so it took little enough to stir up the blaze a bit and set a pan of water over it.

       Merry, he realized, was sitting up on his elbow watching. "You know about draughts?" the Hobbit asked in a low voice.

       "Anyone who must spend as much time in the wild as I do had best know something about at least simple draughts," Strider replied. He found his satchel where Frodo and Sam had set it while unloading the pony, and opened it to remove a smaller red bag with an elaborate knot about its throat. In moments he’d found the willow bark, slippery elm, and chamomile and had measured out what he believed was needed into his palm and poured them into a clean bit of cheesecloth he’d also brought out of the red bag. Then he restored all else and set the red bag aside, bringing the twist of cheesecloth and a cup back to the fire to wait on the water to boil.

        Pippin was watching him curiously. "You carry healing herbs with you?" At the Man’s nod he continued in a whisper, "Merry will be interested for he’s always liked puttering about with herbs, and Sam will be interested because he’s a gardener and just loves plants, and Frodo will be interested just because he’s interested in about everything."

       "I see."

       After a moment’s silence Pippin asked, "Since getting supper took so long, shouldn’t I watch a bit longer than when Ancalimaë reaches the tree?"

       The Man felt himself smiling. "If you wish, but not far beyond it."

       He saw the small nod of understanding.

       Once the water was boiling and he’d poured it into the mug, he dipped the twist of fabric carrying the herbs into it until he felt it had steeped enough, then crossed quietly to where Frodo lay. The taller Hobbit sat up and accepted the warm mug, and made a face as he drank the draught. "We have no honey, apparently," he sighed.

       "I’m sorry, but I’d thought to save what I purchased in Bree in case it was needed for wounds, what we don’t use in our meals. I hope you can bring yourself to drink it all. You’ll sleep the better if you’re not in pain."

       Grimacing, Frodo finished the cup and lay back down. "It’s probably mostly due to not sleeping well last night and the worry of the day," he said softly.

       "Undoubtedly," agreed the Ranger. "Sleep now, and waken refreshed."

       "As refreshed," Sam grumbled half under his breath, "as one can be havin’ to sleep out in the wild, no tent, no time to gather bracken for beddin’...."

       The Man returned to the fire and found the young Hobbit still watching him. "Sam doesn’t mean anything by the grumbling," he said quietly. "He always grumbles the first couple nights."

       "I see." He noted that Pippin had the long knife he carried as a sword out and was twisting it between his hands. "Do you know how to wield that?" he asked.

       He realized the Hobbit was flushing a bit. "Wield this? You mean know how to use it properly? Well, no, of course not. I’ve only had it two days, you see. Tom Bombadil gave these to us after he rescued us from the barrow where we lost our lighter clothes we’d been wearing. Now we have to wear our clothes for winter, and it’s not that cold yet...." His voice trailed off. "I suppose I’m blathering again."

       Strider was staring at his small companion. "Barrow?" he asked.

       "Oh, yes, we got caught by a barrow wight, and Frodo did something to keep it from killing us and then sang the song that called Tom Bombadil and he tore the top off the barrow and got us out and had us take off the grave cloths the wight had dressed us in and we ran around naked for a time to warm up until the ponies came back when Tom sang a call for them, and then we got our other clothes out of our baggage and put them on." How the Hobbit got that all out in one breath Strider couldn’t say, but he was even more amazed by what he’d just been told.

       The Man looked back toward where the three Hobbits lay side by side across from him. No wonder Frodo had a headache! These four hadn’t been out of the Shire for more than a few days and had already met Tom Bombadil and had managed to survive the attentions of a barrow wight. He felt his skin crawling just at the thought of it, and he was one who in his life had walked through more dark and shadowed lands than most people knew existed! He’d been through the Barrowdowns but the once and had faced down several wights and commanded them, and reluctantly they’d obeyed him and withdrawn. Then he’d realized he was being observed by Bombadil, who, uncharacteristically silent, had given him a bow of deep respect and withdrawn.

       Frodo had bested a barrow wight!

       Strider shook his head in amazement. Then he turned back to Pippin, remembered he’d chosen to take the first watch. He focused on that fact. "First lesson--don’t blunt the point of your blade twisting it against the ground or a stone." Again he realized Pippin was flushing. "Second, sit facing away from the fire--and it’s usually best to sit just outside the light of the fire so you don’t show up as a target for anyone approaching with a throwing knife or bow. If you have to get up and walk about to keep yourself awake, do it, but move as quietly as you can, and move from shadow into shadow. Let the light illuminate your enemy, not yourself."

       Again the quiet nod. This Peregrin Took, Strider was realizing, was a remarkably quick study. Grateful for that, he straightened and stretched. "Remember--the point for stabbing, the blade for slashing--that’s all there’s time for now if we’re to move far tomorrow. Now I must rest."

       He unrolled his blankets opposite the Hobbits, unfastened his swordbelt and set it near at hand, laid himself down, set his knife where his hand could lie on its handle as he rested, and slipped gratefully into sleep, feeling surprisingly certain that Pippin would be true to his watch.

       He came awake enough to realize the watch should change, looked about and saw that Merry was now sitting with his own blade across his knees on a pack just outside the firelight, easily enough seen from inside the camp but not from outside it, and slept again. He didn’t waken when Sam took Merry’s place but slept through it all, much more deeply asleep than he’d been able to know for months.

******* 

       "Mister Strider--it’s time as----"

       It was as well the gardener had spoken before he touched the Ranger’s shoulder, for the Man was instantly upright, half on his knees, knifeblade ready for instant defense.

       Sam stood looking at him, his mouth agape and his face white, and beyond him stood the other three engaged in folding and rolling their blankets, their movements arrested as they stared at him. Strider looked around as his mind cleared and fastened on the fact that all three of those Hobbits who ought to have been sleeping were awake and obviously preparing to break camp, and he’d not heard a sound.

       Frodo thrust his neatly rolled blankets at Merry and came to examine the two of them. "What’s wrong?" he demanded. "Why do you have a drawn knife aimed at Sam?"

       "I sleep with a drawn knife," the Ranger explained as he sheathed it. "It’s saved my life more than once." He looked at each of the Hobbits in turn, then looked back to Frodo. "Usually I hear when there’s a movement in the camp and I come awake instantly--but other than the pony I’ve heard nothing! To allow someone to come that close before hearing him--I was startled and came up instantly ready to defend myself."

       Sam took a deep breath and appeared to be making certain he’d not lost any buttons. "Well, that move more’n startled me, it did," he said. "Thought as I was goin’ to be skewered any second there."

       "You almost were," Frodo agreed dryly. "I’d never have dreamed a Man could move so quickly." He examined Strider somewhat warily. "Obviously we’re all going to have to make adjustments if we’re going to travel with you."

       "I don’t understand how Sam came so close. True, he’s nowhere as tall or heavy as a Man or even many children of Men I’ve known; but he’s substantial enough I ought to have felt the vibration of his footsteps."

       Merry, having accepted the bedroll Pippin had just finished with, moved toward the stack of other items being readied to be put back on Bill, and the Ranger made a startling realization--there was no real sound there other than the rub of one trouser leg on the other. He took a deep breath. "Oh, I see. It’s to be like traveling with Elves."

       "You travel with Elves?" Sam asked, his eyes widening, not as usually was true with distrust, but with delight. "You truly know Elves, do you?"

       "I’m taking you to Rivendell, am I not?" the Man said. "Yes, I’ve traveled with Elves. We’ll have to do as they do, then. Don’t come any closer than say, there," and he pointed to a place some five feet from him, "and make some kind of noise. I’ll wake up and you won’t be in danger of having a knifeblade run through you. If you’re reasonably certain it’s safe, you can talk; but it might be better if you did a cough or some other sound that doesn’t identify you immediately as people of one sort or another."

       All four Hobbits indicated their understanding.

       Strider soon had his own blanketroll fastened with the rest on the pony’s back. This was his first chance to actually travel with Hobbits. That he’d never noted Bilbo didn’t have a discernible tread surprised him, but then, usually when he was walking with Bilbo it was on carpeted surfaces or they were talking as they walked and his attention was on their discussion and not on how the old Hobbit sounded as he moved. As for in Bree--when in Bree had he had a chance to observe a Hobbit moving on his own?

       He thought to what Gandalf had warned him: Hobbits--you can learn all about their ways in a month, and yet in a hundred years they’ll still find ways to surprise you. Obviously the Wizard knew the subject well.

       He smiled as he accepted a plate of the breakfast Sam had prepared before he’d awakened the others. It appeared he would be properly fed along the way, although he was certain the Hobbits would be complaining about no elevenses soon enough; and he was certain to learn a good deal more about Hobbits in general before they reached Rivendell. He set himself to enjoy the meal, anticipating the most diverting journey through the wild he’d had since he himself was young.

A sequel to "Light Thought Lost," and for all who wished to see more from the point of view of the Eagles.   Harrowcat and others, enjoy. 

Fledged

       When she found him, he was kneeling by his cousin’s grave, patiently and carefully weeding it, using the tools given him by his Elven hosts as deftly as ever had his friend and mentor in matters pertaining to gardening from his days living in Bag End in Hobbiton, far away in Ennor. She studied him for a time, watching the play of emotions crossing his face--sobriety, humor, sadness, nostalgia, fondness. He had loved the old Hobbit, she knew, and sometimes missed him dearly. During the moments when he cared for the small garden cultivated over Bilbo Baggins’s final resting place, he who had been known in the mortal lands as Frodo Baggins would relive his memories of being with his nominal uncle; and he’d explained to her it helped him realize just how little the death of the body meant in the larger scheme of things. Even though she’d been sent to fetch him, Livwen was reluctant to interrupt such moments as these in her friend.

       At last he stopped and set his tools down on top of the plants he’d removed during his labors and stretched, closing his eyes and breathing in the aroma of the gardens, listening in his heart to the song of joy that the breeze evoked as it played amongst stems and blossoms surrounding him and the branches and leaves of the trees that shaded the small plot during the hotter hours of the day. His head turned slightly to his left as if listening to comments being quietly murmured into his ear, his lips parting in a smile of appreciation, and he raised his left hand as if to cover the hand of another laid on his shoulder. Then he gave a soft laugh. "Yes, Bilbo," he whispered, "I’ll wait."

       Livwen came forward then. "Iorhael?" she called gently. "Iorhael! Olórin sent me to call you to him. He says that visitors are coming, visitors who would like to break their journey here on Tol Eressëa and see you before they go on. Will you come?"

       His curiosity was plainly piqued. "Of course," he said as he rose and dusted the knees of his silver robes. He then reached down and caught up his gardening basket, now filled with plants weeded away and his gardening tools, then turned to follow her down the graveled path that led back past the small summerhouse where he dwelt toward the west of the island. As they passed by he set the basket on the edge of his low porch, and continued to follow the young elleth westward.

       As they walked the Hobbit looked at his young friend among Elves with curiosity. "Why west?" he asked.

       She smiled mysteriously at him. "That you will soon see."

       He shrugged, eyeing her sideways, having jogged forward to come even with her as they finally left the gardens behind and began crossing a great meadow. As they went forward they heard excited yaps from the kits from the fox den that bordered the path as the small animals poured out of their den to greet them. The young creatures leapt and gamboled around them, now and then venturing forward to nip at exposed toes or ankles, two fixing their milk teeth in the hem of the Hobbit’s robes and then digging in their small feet to allow themselves to be dragged forward. Frodo laughed freely as he watched them rolling and playing together in mock battle, dancing nimbly to the side as his feet were threatened, occasionally brought momentarily up short as small paws managed to make momentary purchase on tufts of grass. The vixen came out of the woods with a fieldmouse in her jaws, paused, then laid down her burden and hurried forward to join in the welcome given the two who sought to cross their meadow, striding easily in the midst of her kits, her tongue lolling in pleasure as she also rolled and leapt to amuse the Elf and Hobbit, occasionally nipping at a small tail when she judged one of her babes was being too forward at threatening the toes of their guests. As they crested a small ridge she paused, however, pulling aside and flaring her nostrils at the unexpected scent of blood. She gave a bark of command, and the little foxes broke away from their play to come to her side. There beyond them they finally had come upon Olórin, the Maia having taken the form of Gandalf today and standing by the body of a slain sheep.

       Livwen could feel how her companion was halted by the sight, and how he pulled into himself, startled and somewhat dismayed. He had increasingly withdrawn from eating flesh since Bilbo’s death, having stated he would not have any creature need to die to support his life. On rare occasions he would join in a Teleri-sponsored feast of fish and shellfish; more rarely when he attended a festival in the City he could be coaxed into tasting one of the meat dishes prepared by others. He accepted no meat within his home, however, and his desires were honored. That the Ringbearer would forswear the benefits of the deaths of other creatures for himself all felt to be reasonable, particularly considering how the Ring had tortured him ever with visions of death and destruction, insisting he himself was responsible for it all.

       Gandalf watched the Hobbit pause and saw clearly his unease. It was still not all that long after their arrival here on the island, and there were still times when the Hobbit was drawn back to the memories of Frodo Baggins as he was tormented by the Ring or observed with growing anxiety his own mental, spiritual, and physical deterioration. Frodo had chosen life for himself at the last, but it had been all too often such a near thing. The Maia had known well enough how the Ringbearer was likely to react to this situation, but it was time for those feelings to be at last put to rest.

       "Come forward, Frodo," he said quietly, "and I will tell you her story. She offered herself for this service, you see."

       Frodo looked down at the sheep’s body, then looked up into Gandalf’s eyes, took a deep breath, and finally came over the ridge to stand before his friend, his eyes fixed on the former Wizard’s familiar blue ones and gentle expression. Glad to see the trust mixed with the challenge reflected in the Hobbit’s own features, Gandalf explained:

       "She chose to come forward when the flock was approached. Her one joy in life has been to give birth to fine lambs and see them grow, and that she knew is now done with for her. The one ram she has ever mated with died of age a year ago, and she did not wish to accept a younger, lesser one--or so she had come to see the newer rams in her flock. Nor did she wish to leave the flock she knew already to join another far away from the ranges she loved. And so it was that when we learned visitors were determined to come here before going on to their final destination, visitors who would need to eat well before continuing their journey, she offered herself. She saw it as going forth to find her beloved mate, and coming to him still fair, strong, and desirable." At the Hobbit’s expression of surprise Gandalf laughed. "Yes, fair and desirable. Does it truly surprise you, Frodo Baggins, our beloved Lord Iorhael, to learn that even sheep have their own vanities?"

       Frodo gave a short laugh, and then grew more solemn. He knelt by the sheep and gently stroked its recently shorn pelt, his eyes a bit sad and filled with compassion. "She gave herself," he said softly.

       "Yes."

       Frodo looked up into his friend’s eyes. "But who...?"

       A shrill cry from high to the east drew his attention, and from the bright clouds hanging over the distant Sea materialized four great flying forms....

       Landroval eyed the young Eagle who flew slightly below him and to his left with pride. His son Gilroval had finally been judged by Gwaihir ready to present himself for recognition by the Powers before taking upon himself the traditional service offered by their kind; and that he himself would be allowed to accompany the two initiates and their lord to Aman was another great honor given him. Gilroval had done well in the long flight, and had weathered the transition from the airs of the mortal lands to those over the Undying Lands well, far better than had young Endorval who accompanied them.

       The path on which Gwaihir led them was more southerly than he remembered taking in the past, and he wondered about it. However, he trusted the chief of his kind and knew that if this flight took them by a different route there must be a reason for it. And as they began to drop lower over the Lonely Island he saw and recognized just what that reason was.

       Food had been brought for them, food much needed after the days the journey had already taken them; and standing tall and shining by the body of the sheep stood a familiar form, for Olórin himself awaited them, two others by him--a child among Elves, and a third figure that although also small was yet shining with a totally different Light than he’d ever seen before in Aman. In fact he’d only seen that particular light about three individuals--the returned Lord Eagle of the Star of the world of Mortals, his wife Arwen Undómiel since she accepted mortality to dwell as mate to the Eagle of the Star, and one other, the very small, slight figure he’d carried away from the destruction of the Enemy’s mountain forge.

       Could it be--? Had indeed he been granted the right once more to know the presence of the Ringbearer?

       And then Gwaihir began to sing, a song the three Eagles with him joined in gladly.

Rejoice, Children of Iluvatar and all His creatures,

for the Cormacolindor, who sought to offer themselves for all others

have each chosen Life,

each in his own aerie.

Rejoice and be glad,

for Light of Varda’s stars and Light of Sun

shine yet among us

for as long as they deign to remain with us.

Rejoice and sing in gladness,

for they, too, know Joy!

       Gwaihir touched down lightly on the green sward first; then Gilroval with a grace that did his father proud; then Endorval a bit heavily, yet with dignity; and finally Landroval. Elf, Hobbit, and Maia were all bowing in deep respect to them. "We welcome you all," Olórin said, "and ask you to refresh yourselves."

       "It is we who are honored this day," Gwaihir answered. "Yes, it is we who rejoice to see again the one who sought to offer himself that all others might live as freely as it is given to us to live. To see you here, Frodo Baggins, formerly of the Shire and now of all of Arda, the Lord Iorhael, adds that much more joy to our arrival. To see you shining again before all of Eru’s creation has given worth to our service."

       Landroval remained quiet, examining this one. Small he still was, and still covered with but light folds of cloth and neither proper plumes nor even fur, save yet the tops of his feet and the top and back of his head. But he had yet fledged, in his way, and stood with the full dignity proper to all of the Children of Iluvatar. His eyes were now bright with intelligence, curiosity, compassion, and the knowledge of self only the greatest of trials could bestow. And Landroval recognized that when the day came he at last sloughed off the form he currently held, he would follow this one as it, too, flew free, upheld by great wings of Light as they together with the one who held the Light of Anor within him sought out the greater Light of the Presence.

       Landroval laughed within himself to think he’d once thought of carrying this one to the heights of the nest he shared with his mate, of seeing it strengthened and coming to fulfillment alongside Gilroval. Nay, others had sheltered it and seen it fed and seen its plumage purged of the ash of the Shadowed One’s fall, and here at last the small one knew the freedom to spread his wings as he could, preparing himself for that day of proper flight offered to two-legs. He bowed his head before the Cormacolindor, rejoicing to realize that as small as it was this one was yet fully grown and could only continue to increase in dignity and wisdom to the end of his days.

       Frodo paused, surprised, as the great Eagle who’d landed closest to him bowed its great head before him, the beak and crest of feathers atop its majesty brushing lightly against his chest. And without thinking he reached forward to caress the great bird’s shoulder, feeling the smoothness of the feathers, the softness and integrity of the fibrils, the strength of the underlying muscles. Then he heard a crooning he half remembered, a soft tone he knew he’d heard murmured over him before as he’d been held safely wrapped in protection, and realized the Eagle was murmuring to him as it must have done with its own eaglets. Tentatively the Eagle stretched forward and very gently ran its beak through the curls atop Frodo’s head. Then it stretched out its great wing and gently, lovingly enfolded it about him, drawing the Hobbit into the sheltering warmth of the Eagle’s body feathers.

       Yet there was no sense of being overpowered or crushed to the great form--only that of love and caring expressed. And he began to understand the soft sounds the Eagle made.

       "Ah, small one, little fledgling that you were, now you are indeed well and almost ready to fly. I will wait for you, wait to follow you the day you at last fly free, honored to accompany you as you return to the Presence. How glad I am you have at last found your own proper nest."

       And the Wizard rejoiced to behold yet another reunion, one that he knew eased the heart of the great Eagle.

       At last Landroval lifted his wing, and with his head gently urged the small shape he’d been at last allowed to cherish once more out into the open, seeing with satisfaction the great shining of it as the Ringbearer smiled up at him, murmuring, "Thank you."

Tall Men with Stars on their Cloaks

       Nine-year-old Pippin Took walked between his cousins Meriadoc and Berilac Brandybuck as they walked toward the Bridge Market, doing all he could to distance himself from his sisters, who walked some distance behind with Melilot Brandybuck and Cousin Frodo Baggins. Pippin looked over his shoulder with a feeling of impatience and regret, for he wished they would go more quickly and that Frodo walked up front with the lads instead of back with the lasses. But his oldest sister Pearl had her arm linked with Frodo’s and was looking at him adoringly as she always had for as long as Pippin could remember, and Pervinca and Pimpernel were both simpering and competing for Frodo’s attention, as was Melilot. Really, how lasses could make right idiots of themselves over older lads!

       Frodo used to be somewhat embarrassed by the attentions given him by lasses, but in the last two years he’d begun truly responding to Pearl. Well, Frodo was going to be an adult soon enough--his father kept repeating that, as did his mother, and during this visit to Brandy Hall so had his Aunt Esmeralda and Uncle Saradoc as well as the Master and Mistress. And since Frodo had begun returning her attentions Pearl had gone completely daft, or at least in the estimation of her little brother. She wrote Frodo’s name constantly, and Pippin had recently found her writing "Mistress Frodo Baggins" and "Pearl Baggins" and "Pearl Took-Baggins" all over one of their mum’s sheets of special note paper. Really, if she didn’t get a grip soon it was likely he would have to hit her over the head to make her act like a person rather than a foolish mooncalf.

       He glanced again over his shoulder at his favorite oldest cousin, saw the laughter in Frodo’s eyes as he answered some question put to him by Pearl, and how his laughter spread to the other lasses. Would Frodo never pay attention to him and Merry and Beri again? he wondered--and then----

       "Umph!" Merry said as Pippin walked right into him as he turned to ask his little cousin something. "Watch it, Pipsqueak!" Merry said as he rubbed his stomach, once he could speak again. "You’ve left quite a bruise on me, you know, and if you’d been much bigger you’d have knocked me flat! Why are you walking with your head turned about sideways?" He glanced behind him at the sight of Frodo with Pearl hanging on him and his face soured. "He’s not himself at all any more, not once he’s with Pearl," Merry grumbled under his breath. Frodo’s preoccupation with Pearl Took bothered Merry more than it did Pippin, or so it appeared to Pearl’s younger brother. The two of them turned around, looking decidedly away from the spectacle of the gentle expression of wonder on Frodo’s face as he looked down on Pearl in a brief moment when she was speaking with Melilot rather than gazing up at her escort’s face. Why that look should cause the stomachs of Merry and Pippin both to clench and twist as they did neither could say--perhaps, Merry was to hazard years later, solely because it was hard to think that Frodo was indeed growing up and away from them, and that if he married Pearl he’d have little time left for lad-things any more, for his first priority would be to her and not to them.

       "I was going to ask," Merry said after a moment, "which stall you’d want to visit first once we get to the Bridge Market. I know Frodo’s going to want to go to the bookseller’s first to see if there are any new books to be had--if Pearl and the other lass cousins don’t drag him off to the dressmaker’s again first, of course." Once again his expression soured.

       "Sweetwater’s, of course," Pippin said. Albus Sweetwater lived in Buckleberry, and he and his wife made some of the most wonderful sweets possible, selling them at the biweekly markets held by the Brandywine Bridge and later the following day near the ferry landing. "He told Mum when they saw each other at the inn in Buckleberry the other day that he’d been making up some mints, what with all the mint that’s been harvested this year."

       "No horehound drops this time?" Merry asked, pretending amazement.

       Pippin looked up into his cousin’s eyes, failing to note the indulgent laughter that lurked there. "Well, Frodo always says we should prior-prioritize," he said with such an air of seriousness that Beri was having to stifle his own laughter. "Sweetwater’s mints are very good, of course...."

       The seven Men riding their tall horses down the West Road were very quiet and intent as they followed their Chieftain. They’d be to the Brandywine Bridge soon, and there they’d be forced to slow up, as it was likely the small village that had sprung up on the Shire side of the Bridge would be active, and that there’d be a number of Hobbits headed for the Bridge Inn. Faradir found himself wishing they could stop for a drink, for he’d been the one to find Aragorn just outside Bree and tell him of the report brought in by those who patrolled the southern borders of the Shire that a group of dark Men had been seen heading for the Sarn Ford. Aragorn had five others with him, two obviously making their own reports. At Faradir’s words he’d glanced wordlessly at each, and without further discussion they mounted their horses and headed west into the Shire. It would be best to meet such a group head on, which meant riding the West Road to the turnoff to Stock, then turning south to the road heading out of the Shire again to the ford. There had been no chance for Faradir or the others reporting to Aragorn to get a drink or meal or even a chance to stretch their legs.

       As they clattered across the Bridge Hobbits scattered in all directions. Stars above! Faradir thought. Market day! Aragorn, he knew, would hate the need to slow down, but there would be the need, of course.

       And then out of the road toward Brandy Hall came a group of youngsters--four lads and four lasses, Faradir realized. The oldest lad walked at the back, a very pretty young Hobbitess hanging on his arm. Suddenly that one shook his arm free of hers, hurrying forward with a quick stride that belied his size--barely half the height of Aragorn were he on his feet instead of on Beryl’s back, and placed himself between the seven mounted Men and the group of children he was escorting.

       Faradir found himself smiling. A most responsible Hobbit, this one, in spite of his apparent youth.

       Aragorn pulled Beryl to a halt, the blue-grey horse blowing in its frustration. Beryl hated to slow down or stop once he was running full out until the enemy--or the site of an expected stable--was sighted.

       Hobbit and Man stared at one another, the young, responsible-looking halfling glaring up at the Ranger.

       "I beg pardon, sir," Aragorn said. "We were called to meet a possible threat to the south."

       "That may be," the Hobbit answered in a voice that managed to be authoritative in spite of his obvious youth, "but there’s no need to endanger folks yourself in your haste. Watch the road you take, sir, or stay out of the Shire."

       Faradir wanted to laugh at the same time he found himself wanting to shake the young Hobbit and explain that this was the Heir of Isildur, and they were trying to head off perhaps worse threats than someone possibly being frightened in the roadway. Faradir knew that their horses would leap over any Hobbit who managed not to avoid them, but that fright could be as bad as injury for many.

       Aragorn and the young Hobbit continued to stare at one another for several moments. Faradir wondered if this one could be related to the Thain or the Master, to have come so by the aura of authority and responsibility he radiated. At last Aragorn bowed his head in respect. "This is your land and not ours," he said quietly, "and I apologize for not remembering that. Again, I beg your pardon. However, we’ve been apprised of a threat nearing the Sarn Ford and would arrive there before those who head that way reach it first. If you will please forgive us."

       "Go ahead then," the Hobbit said, "but again, watch the road. Many of our children do not know how to react when a horse comes at them, and few will expect you to be headed down the road through Stock."

       "Thank you, young Master," Aragorn said with another respectful inclination of his head. "I regret any alarm we might have sparked in your people and your kinsmen here." With one more respectful bow of his head to the children the older lad protected, Aragorn signaled his folk to follow him, and at a far more sedate rate they made their way through the village toward the road to Stock.

       "Now," said Berevrion once they were out of earshot, "there was a young lord amongst Hobbits if there ever was one."

       Halbarad looked behind them. "Indeed. And he has a distinct Light of Being about him, in case you didn’t notice." He looked ahead of them at where Aragorn still led the way and shook his head. "Almost a twin for Aragorn’s own Light, you know."

       "The day Hobbits of the Shire have lords among them...." Faradir said, then shrugged.

       Then they were through the village and the road ahead of them was once again clear. At a signal from Aragorn they broke into a canter as they headed for the turnoff toward Stock.

       Back in the village the eight young Hobbits looked after them, and Pippin found himself watching after the longest. Something had passed between the tall Man who rode at the head of the troupe of Men and Frodo--some unconscious look of recognition, or so it seemed to the small child.

       Beri put one hand on the smaller lad’s shoulder. "Wonder why that one, the one in front, doesn’t have a star on his cloak the way the rest do?" he asked.

       "Dunno," Pippin said, shrugging. "But he shone like one, you know, just as Frodo himself does sometimes."

       He turned away and spotted Sweetwater’s stall, and forgot all about the Men and their horses for the moment as he found himself thinking of just how good Sweetwater’s mints were. Could his da, he wondered, talk to Cousin Fermubras about encouraging Sweetwater to move closer to the markets in the Tooklands?

Evil Will Thwarted

Conversation paused as Lord Elphir, Prince Imrahil’s oldest son, and the quartermaster emerged and approached the group of Rangers of Ithilien and the two Hobbits sitting near the King’s pavilion. Damrod, as temporary commander for the company, rose and straightened to attention. “My lord? Quartermaster?” he asked as he gave his salute. “How may we assist you?”

“We’ve been discussing the matter of supplies,” Lord Elphir began. “Much has been sent from the city and the storehouses of Lebennin along the river via the ships, but little in the way of greenstuffs. You know these lands best--do you think you can find newly sprung foodstuffs for the kitchens?”

The Men looked at one another and shrugged. “We could, I suppose,” Damrod answered, “if we were certain what we were looking for. We know a few things, of course; but are no experts at recognizing all edible plants in the wild.”

One of the Hobbits laughed. “Then you’ll need us--or at least one of us with you,” Samwise Gamgee said. “Us Hobbits knows food as grows in the wild.”

“That is true,” the Lord Aragorn Elessar stated as he emerged from his pavilion behind Lord Imrahil. “We ate far better on our journey because we had these with us.” He looked at the Hobbit with a critical eye. “Sam, would you mind going out with them and pointing out what greens would be best to gather? Then, when you are back you could perhaps advise the cooks how best to prepare it.”

Sam looked uncertainly at his companion, who smiled at him, although Frodo’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Go on, then, Sam--I’ll be well enough, you know, although I don’t think I’m quite up to going out foraging right now.”

“It’s just as I hate to leave you alone, Mr. Frodo, and you know better’n me what’s good in the wild. I mean to say, old Mr. Bilbo--he taught you well, all them tramps about the woods o’ the Shire, you know.”

“And I’ve taught you what you could learn from me. Between that and what you already know as a gardener, I suspect you’re far better qualified than I to guide these. Go on with you, then.”

“If you’re sure, Master,” Sam said. “Although I’ll admit as it’ll be good to be out of the camp for a time. Oftentimes it’s right confusin’ here.” He looked up at the sky. The west wind had been active all day, and for a time grey clouds would obscure the Sun, then blow off eastwards over the Ephel Dúath and then over what remained of what had been Mordor. “Although I’d be happier if’n it was sunnier, for it keeps lookin’ as if it thought to rain today.” He straightened. “Well, it’s not as if we wasn’t accustomed to movin’ about in all weathers, is it? And I do have my Lorien cloak back again. I’ll go and fetch it, and meet you Men back here as quick as I can. Can you all go and fetch some bags to carry what we find?”

At the agreement from the Men, Sam gave a nod to Strider, turned toward the glade where the enclosure stood where he and Frodo still slept, and hurried off as Damrod counted off three Men and sent them off with the quartermaster to his tents to fetch gathering bags. The King smiled after them, coming to stand over Frodo with his hand on the Hobbit’s head. “He’s a wonder, our beloved Lord Samwise,” Aragorn said softly.

“Yes,” agreed Frodo, looking after his friend.

“As are you, of course,” the King added, smiling down to meet Frodo’s eyes as the older Hobbit looked up at him. “I’m so grateful you chose to come back, Frodo. It is a joy to have you beside me now as I prepare for what is to come.”

At that moment one of those who stood guard at the edge of the camp toward the south approached. “My lord,” he said formally after making his salute, “one has been sent from the camp given over to the enemy wounded who would speak with you.”

Aragorn sighed and straightened. “Then I will come,” he said. He looked back at Frodo. “Rest well, tithen nín. It appears I must return to my new duties once again.” So saying he smiled fondly down at Frodo and then turned to follow the guard to the place where the messenger from the second camp waited.

Shortly after, the foragers gathered together near the south end of the camp, near the Road. “We come this way, my Master’n me,” Sam said, “stayin’ mostly to the west of the Road as we went south. I saw a good deal of herbs there as would be good for the cooks to have; and I suspect as we’ll find a good number of fiddleheads and such as’ll make a fine salad.” And with a nod at his companions the group turned to follow the King’s path southwards.

Once out of the camp they moved to the west side of the road, and Sam quickly found stands of bay and borage, the remains of a hedge of rosemary, and under the trees numbers of ferns just pushing up through the earth, tightly rolled heads indicating they were perfect for eating. He pointed out wild parsley and where the young dandelion greens were showing, allowed them to harvest one stand of mushrooms and forbade them to touch another, bringing one of those that he’d approved to compare to the other. “See as how the cap on this one is compared to that, and the skirt here?” he explained. “That one is poisonous, you see. Just let it lie--we don’t need any becomin’ ill from eatin’ the wrong sort.”

Then they found young stinging nettles, and he explained that even these, at this point, were edible and full of goodness. Now they knew more what to look for, they fanned out, all warned not to strip an area of all its edible plants that they might grow back again. And with nods all turned to their work.

Shortly, Sam found himself recognizing his surroundings, although it had changed much in the past month since he’d been here before, the clematis vines having grown longer and covering more of their surroundings, the sage having grown thicker, other plants having leafed out fully and flowers now shining in all directions. They were near the stone lip of the Man-made lake by which he, Frodo, and Gollum had rested briefly. He paused, remembering how much they’d appreciated the water, how they’d bathed and drunk freely, how they’d filled their bottles near the spring.

“Good memories?” The voice so near to his shoulder startled him, for he’d not been paying attention to the others, and Damrod was almost as quiet moving in the wilds as were Hobbits. “I’m sorry,” the Ranger said, instantly contrite.

“No--it’s well enough,” Sam answered him. “Was just memberin’ as how we stopped here for a time and rejoiced in the water. We found so little inside there, you know. To realize just the other side of the mountains was a green land filled with rivers and pools and such as this was at times a torture, there where we found only one small, oily spring and what was in the orcs’ cisterns. And the water in them cisterns was anythin’ but clean, mind you.”

“I’ve never been inside those lands,” the Man said. “I’d been told it was a dead place.”

“Not completely dead,” Sam sighed. “We found some plants what was green, but not a good number of them. They’re very large and have spines as you wouldn’t believe, a handspan long at the very least.” The Hobbit stretched and felt his spine pop. “This must of been a wonderful place in its day.”

“I’m told the lords of Ithilien had a formal hunting lodge near here where they entertained emissaries from other lands,” Damrod said. “This pool was probably filled with carp, or perhaps was used as a place to swim and bathe in the heat of the summer.”

Sam nodded, then turned to look at a great mat of clematis covered with great blue-purple stars. “Now, that’s beautiful,” he said, smiling. “When we was here afore the buds was just formin’. And those hadn’t started yet to grow,” he commented, stepping forward toward a stand of wild parsley plants growing near where a number of speckled lilies raised their blossoms. He was smiling as he reached forward to caress one of the flowers with his finger, then stopped, his face going white as he looked just beyond the clematis, at the scar of an old cooking fire.

“Master Samwise? Are you well?” Damrod asked as he came to stand just behind the Hobbit.

“I’d forgot that,” Sam said sadly, his voice soft, almost as if he were speaking to himself, looking on the tumble of blackened stones and partially burned firewood--but then Damrod realized not all the rounded shapes were stones; nor were all the straight ones charred sticks.

“The Valar protect us,” the Man breathed.

Sam slowly nodded his head. “Here the orcs had a feast, and it don’t appear as they was eatin’ deer or conies, does it?”

The Man shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. I’ll mark this site, and later I’ll bring Men here to fetch back what we find for proper burial. Perhaps we’ll be able to identify some of them.”

Aragorn came shortly before sunset to the clearing by the smaller river that fed into the Anduin to make his report. Sam was sitting on a low chair beside another that held Frodo; the other two Hobbits were seated on the fallen log that lay there while Gimli half-sat against a large stone, leaning forward slightly on his axe. Sam’s expression was guarded and rather thoughtful, while Frodo’s was sad and compassionate. The Man stood quietly, looking down at Sam for a moment before he spoke.

“I’m told you are the one who found the orcs’ firepit, Sam.”

The gardener slowly nodded his head. “I saw it afore,” he said softly, “when Mr. Frodo and me was followin’ Gollum. We’d stopped there near that pool with the stone lip about it, and had bathed and washed our clothes as we could, filled our bottles, drank some. I’d thought as perhaps we’d camp there for a time--and then I saw the old coals, and the bones. Those orcs--they’d been eatin’ Men, hadn’t they?”

Aragorn sank to the ground in front of where Frodo and Sam sat, where he could look almost levelly into their eyes. “Yes, Sam, they’d been eating Men. We found the remains of four individuals. I’d say they’d been there probably only about two weeks before you and Frodo traveled that way. In our search about the area we found some clothing and a few belongings. They were all Rangers of Ithilien, and it appears they belonged to a patrol of six scouts that had gone missing then, before you arrived. One of the Men, Raphion son of Raphergil of Anórien, had suffered a broken shoulder as a boy, and the place could be seen on the bones of one where the shoulder had mended long ago. Among the few belongings left by the orcs was a leather folder carrying the portrait of a woman, and Damrod identified it as having been carried by one known as Eldargil son of Rillion of Ringlo Vale. The portrait was that of his wife Lilien. We have not been able so far to decide which of the other four were found here, much less which were taken further. However, at least now definitive word can be sent to their families as to their fates. And so they will offer you thanks for aiding in finding the remains of these lost ones.”

He sighed. “We believe we have found where the patrol was assaulted, not far northeast of where the firepit was made. Four other firepits were found near the small lake, three more of them of orc origin, although they appear to have been eating more mundane fare, such as deer and rabbits and quail. Considering how the fourth was hidden, it appears to have been made by another party of Ranger scouts in the midst of the winter.”

Sam considered for a moment, then looked back to his friend’s eyes. “I must suppose others would of been as drawn to the stone lake as we was. I know we was findin’ our hearts and bodies eased, bein’ able to bathe there at the last, and surrounded by growth.”

Frodo’s eyes were sad. “I barely remember it at all,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Only there is a memory of ease in the midst of toil, a time when we might put away for the moment the horrors of the blasted lands before the Black Gate, and a realization that Sauron had not yet destroyed all as he would prefer to do. I remember the stewed rabbit--now. I remember the bird calls that were the signals between the Rangers, and the--the questioning by Captain Faramir, and then the discussion within the--the place of refuge on what would happen were the Ring to come to Minas Tirith. I remember the image the Ring showed to me--the vivid image--of Minas Tirith, first as I’ve learned it is, and then as a--as a travesty of itself, almost a skeleton of itself, facing Minas Morgul across the lands and the rubble of Osgiliath. When I stood on the road, seeing Minas Morgul as it was and saw it was even worse than my vision of it, the Ring was laughing in my mind, delighting that the reality was worse than my earlier imagining.” Frodo was shivering, and Sam put a steadying hand on his shoulder as Aragorn reached out to set one on his knee.

“The Uruk-hai that carried Merry and me through Rohan--they were telling us how they were going to treat us once their master was done with us--how they were going to cook us while we were yet alive. One of the Mordor orcs wanted the leaders of the Isengard Uruks to cut off our legs so they could eat them then--said we didn’t need them, after all.” Pippin shuddered as he finished speaking, and Merry looked away, his face almost grey.

Gimli looked at each of the four Hobbits in turn, his face stern as he thought of the horrors to which each had been subjected. “Sauron and Saruman,” he grunted in disgust. “The two of them deserved one another, I think. I’d certainly like to take my axe to Saruman and his folk right now.”

Frodo had gone quiet and closed his eyes, leaning his head back. He looked for the moment every one of his fifty years and perhaps a few more, a vertical line between his brows. “The Ring was always showing me pictures of death and destruction,” he murmured quietly. “Soldiers, men in brown trousers and cream-colored shirts--farmers, I think, a few sailors on ships, some dressed as the Rangers that were with Captain Faramir....” He straightened, his eyes opening, as if forcing himself to remember. His face was paler than usual, his eyes shadowed, but his brow furrowed in concentration. “Rangers,” he whispered. “Six Rangers, taken prisoner....”

“What is it?” Aragorn asked, peering closely at the Ringbearer.

“There were six Rangers taken, and four--slaughtered, by water and some vines, just starting to grow. The orcs started eating--a large number of orcs, and the two Men who--who were left over lay there, lay there in the grass, senseless--only one wasn’t senseless! His eyes opened, and he--he realized what was happening. The orcs thought they were senseless, so they ignored them, and the one managed--managed to put his arm around the other and silently dragged him away, toward the river. There was a place--a place in the bank where they could hide--he knew it! I remember urging him on in the vision, and the Ring didn’t like it, but It had to help him!” He straightened more, his face growing excited and intense. “It had to help him, Aragorn--the Ring had to help him! He escaped with his friend. He hid the both of them in a cleft by the River, and the orcs couldn’t get them! They finally left them there, trying to wall them in. They might be there still!”

“A cleft by the river,” Aragorn murmured, obviously racking his own memories. “A cleft by the river.” He shook his head, then looked up at Pippin. “Guardsman Peregrin,” he said, “go and fetch Captain Damrod.”

“Yes, Lord Aragorn,” Pippin replied saluting, his own eyes growing excited as he hurried off back toward the camp.

“We might be able to find them,” Aragorn said. “And if they remain in hiding there is always the chance joy may come out of the grief--if only for two families!”

Damrod arrived, heard the description given by Frodo, then stood, shaking his head. “Cleft by the river? There’s none there by the Anduin, not there west of the stone pool,” he said. “Now, there’s one north of there, along this tributary....” He stopped, sharing a look with his uncrowned King, who was already rising.

“Yes, I know the place,” Aragorn said, his eyes shining. “Come--let’s see if we can find them!”

Frodo was already on his own feet and hurrying eastward toward the road, Sam rising hastily to follow after, Merry and Gimli following immediately after Aragorn with Damrod. Twice Frodo stopped, as if still seeking to see again the vision granted him by the Ring. The second time Aragorn and Damrod pushed past him, and shortly they were at a place where the bank of the small river they followed rose abruptly and bushes grew thickly about the tumbled rocks--except some of the rocks weren’t as tumbled as others.

“Here,” Damrod said, then paused, thought, and whistled one of the bird calls Frodo and Sam remembered from the day they’d seen the ambush on the Southrons. He repeated it, then listened. There was a strange sound from behind the rocks. “Something’s in there,” he said.

He and Gimli went forward. Aragorn looked back at the Hobbits. “Merry,” he said, “would you go back to the camp and fetch my red healer’s bag? It’s in my pavilion, hanging on the armor stand.” Merry nodded, although he appeared a bit reluctant as he turned away. “And ask at least four more Men be sent with a couple of litters,” the Man added. Again a nod, and Merry sprinted off back toward the camp.

Damrod and Gimli between them were wrestling huge stones away from the bank, quickly revealing the cleft that Frodo had described. A small trickle of water flowed out from under the rocks down toward the small river.

Inside were two huddled shapes, one seated, leaning against the far wall, the other crouched protectively over him. Both held their hands over their eyes at the unaccustomed brightness. “Who are you?” demanded the crouched one in a hoarse whisper.

“Captain Damrod, and the Lord Aragorn Elessar and the Ringbearers--and a Dwarf,” Damrod replied. “We had thought all of you were lost!”

“Damrod?” repeated the crouched Man. “Captain Damrod? Is Captain Faramir’s troop here in Ithilien, then? We’ve been here--we’ve been here--it must be weeks! We have water, and I had waybread and even some jerked meats in my pockets, and we could reach greenstuffs up there,” he said, indicating where a number of plants grew on the bank on the upper margins of the cleft--sorrel and ferns, mostly. “But we couldn’t shift the stones, not after the orcs blocked up the opening. I think--I think they’d intended to come back and find us afterwards--use the cleft as a--as a larder for themselves, if you will.”

Damrod and Frodo were now entering the cleft. The seated Man murmured in a weak voice, “What are children doing here?”

“Not children,” Frodo assured him. “Periannath. We’re Hobbits of the Shire. Let’s get you out of here.”

“You’re certain--no orcs?” the seated one insisted.

“Not now, at least,” Damrod said soothingly. “Nor are we likely to see many, although our patrols have found a few hiding in the Ephel Dúath. But now that Sauron has been defeated we’re safe enough in our camps.”

“Sauron is defeated?” asked the crouched Man.

“Yes, several weeks back,” Damrod answered. “Barad-dur is cast down, and the Towers of the Teeth are no more. Sauron’s Ring was returned to the Fire, and Sauron is defeated at the last, and cannot rise again.” Between them he and Frodo put their arms about the seated Man and drew him out into the open, and Aragorn and Gimli between them took him up the bank to lie down on fresh grass. Sam and Pippin were now helping the other Man out.

Considering how long the two of them had remained captive in the cleft they were in surprisingly good shape, although one had a broken arm that had begun knitting crookedly, and the other could not stand as one leg had been hamstrung. Both had suffered blows to the head, but appeared to be much recovered from those.

Merry arrived soon after followed by six Men, Legolas, and Gandalf. Aragorn gave each a brief examination, then helped settle them to be carried back to the healers’ camp.

The news two lost Rangers had been found spread swiftly through the forces camped on the Fields of the Cormallen, and many were crowding into the healers’ tents to greet them and offer them their congratulations.

Late that evening Aragorn came into the enclosure where Frodo was already lying in his bed. As it appeared it might rain the roof had been suspended over the canvas walls, and a brazier had been lit at the foot of the two beds. Frodo searched the Man’s eyes as he drank down his evening draught. “They do well?” he asked after he’d drunk some water to wash away the taste of the draught.

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, they do very well, although it will take some weeks for them to recover and the fullness of the horror to dissipate,” he said. “We will rebreak the one’s arm once we have him back in the Houses of Healing, and there is a good chance he will be able to use it fully in time. But this long after the injury we can do nothing about the tendon at the back of the other’s ankle. He will need to use crutches or be seated perhaps in a chair. But they had enough in greens available to them that with what little food they had between them they did very well--far better than you and Sam did, I fear.”

Sam was just entering past the guard kept on the pavilion’s doorway carrying a small tray with cups of cider and squares of bread spread with butter. Seeing Aragorn he, too, searched the Man’s face, and then smiled his relief at the reassurance he saw reflected there. “They do well enough, then? Good!”

Aragorn nodded. “That they do. Now I need to look at your temple, Sam, and assure myself the bruise is indeed almost gone. Then you must have your draught....”

*******

Weeks later, as Frodo was accompanying the King through the Houses of Healing, as they passed one doorway they were hailed from within. Frodo looked his question up at Aragorn’s eyes, and at Aragorn’s shrug they turned to enter in.

Neither of the two Men within the room appeared particularly familiar to Frodo, or at least not at first. Both were lean Men, their shoulders broad, their faces intelligent, both obviously nearly healed. “Lord Aragorn?” asked the one who leaned back against cushions with one leg outstretched, the other knee bent and raised. “Lord Frodo? We wished to thank both of you for finding and rescuing us, there in Ithilien.”

The other, his right arm in a sling tied close to his chest, smiled broadly. “My wife and his betrothed just left, or I’m certain they’d be embracing the both of you. Eldargil son of Rillion of Ringlo Vale, at the service of both of you ever, my lords.”

“You are Eldargil?” Frodo asked. “They found your wife’s picture, and assumed you were one--one of those....” He shook himself, unable to finish.

“They found that in my pack; but they’d not emptied my pockets, for which I’m grateful,” Eldargil assured him. “Garond and I were both senseless, or perhaps they’d have killed us first. Orcs prefer to shock their victims with descriptions of what they’re going to do before they kill them, you see. Raphion they’d killed as they ambushed us, and--and Laergil, I think. I could hear Belgariad and Gunthor screaming--screaming as they--as they did what they did to them. But as my eyes opened I felt as if there were two watching me, one glad at my plight, and the other horror-stricken. I could hear someone urging me to take Garond and escape while the--while the orcs were busy. The urging grew more intense, and finally I took my courage into both my hands, and I hooked my good arm about Garond’s chest and began dragging him back into the brush.

“They tracked us, but we made it to the cleft, and I had a long knife I’d managed to tuck into my belt as I slipped out of the orcs’ camp. I defended us from those who tried to enter the cleft, until they pulled off. Had they had any good spears with them perhaps they might have killed us, but these were archers and swordsmen, and bad ones at that. At last they blocked the entrance with the stones. I broke the blade of the knife trying to pry some of them apart, and at last even the hilt was of no use. I don’t know how much longer we might have remained alive if you hadn’t found us. How did you come to think where to look?”

Aragorn smiled, setting one hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “As you realized, there were two witnesses, one of them reluctant, to what was done to you and your fellows. The one had the memories awakened, and so we were able to find you out.”

And so it was, Iorhael, the voice commented in the back of Frodo’s mind, that the Enemy’s token, unwilling as It was, was forced to aid these two to escape.

But I have not that kind of strength! And I didn’t wear It!

No, but your will was sufficiently great It must allow your desire for their escape to strengthen the one of them to their joint need. And It could not cause the orcs to notice the escape until there was the chance for them to come to a safe haven. Yes, It worked against them as It could, and It put it into the heads of the Orcs to barricade them there. But It couldn’t fully hide the memory from you, not when It used that memory in your torment. You helped save two good Men, child. And that will for good helped you remain stronger against It that much longer. Rejoice, Iorhael.

Frodo sighed, then smiled tremulously at the two Men within the room, listening to the tale of their experiences here and their plans for the future with a feeling of fierce gladness.

And as he drew Frodo closer to him, that same gladness was shared by the King Elessar, the gladness that the will of the Ring had been so thwarted by this one he thought of as his small brother.

Inspired by a story by Dreamflower.  Enjoy, and a joyful holiday season to all.

Gifts Go Round

            He stood at the door, shivering in the cold wind as he looked down the Hill toward the Party Field, seeing the proud shape of the small mallorn tree growing there, shining faintly in the dusk.  The silver trunk and golden leaves reassured him, glowing against the dark storm clouds moving over the Shire like a memory of the many campfires they’d kindled and by which they’d warmed themselves.

            Did his Master have the comfort of mellyrn there in the Elven lands?  He hoped so.  Was it cold there?  Did the Elves burn great logs in their homes, or light bonfires on the white sands between First and Second Yule?  Was Frodo at a party tonight, or quietly tucked up in his rooms, wherever they might be?

            Or was the grey ship still upon the Sea?  Did Frodo look up from the deck to smile at the Hunter’s constellation, or perhaps a soft sunset turning the clouds to gold and purple?  So many questions….  And he suspected neither of the two individuals left in Middle Earth who could answer his questions would do so, even if Lord Glorfindel or the Brown Wizard were here and not elsewhere in Middle Earth about their own business.

            He and Rosie had only just returned from dinner at Green Hall with Griffo and Daisy Boffin and their other guests.  Daisy had wanted to let the two of them know that she and her husband greatly appreciated what Sam and Rosie had done for her cousin Frodo, and that she honored them as his chosen heirs.  Sam’s own sister Daisy and her husband Moro Burrows had taken Elanor for Second Yule, and had promised to bring her back home tonight; and so Sam found himself a bit at loose ends, restless and finding himself wanting—wanting his beloved Master back again.

            Back?  You’d want him back, knowing that if he did return he’d like be sick to the death, if he was still alive, that is? That horrible Ring as that Sauron had made—It had done Its work right well, It had, scouring the heart right out of the one as had carried It.  It hadn’t been able to totally take him till the very last, and even then Gollum had taken It so quick It hadn’t been able to make certain of Its victory, praise to the Powers and Creator for the mercy of it.  But Frodo certainly hadn’t known a good deal of ease or joy last Yule.  He’d been appreciative enough for what everyone else had done to decorate Bag End and provide Yule feasts and meals to remember for years to come; and his appreciation for the gifts given him and his gladness that his own gifts were well received was obvious to all.  He’d done all he could to know the joy of the year’s renewal.  How was any to know as t’was Mr. Frodo’s last Yule in the Shire?

            Sam was turning about, ready to go in and stoke up the fire in the parlor while Rosie finished laying out a few treats to share with Daisy and Moro when they came, when he spotted a figure moving up the lane toward him from Hobbiton.  It was a Hobbitess Sam failed to recognize, a young lady, he thought.  She was carrying a lantern and a string bag swinging from her wrist in the wind in which a package could be seen, a package wrapped in heavy brown paper.  But what would a strange Hobbitess be doing bringing a package to Bag End?  So, he waited with the door kept slightly open until at last she turned up the steps, opened the gate, and made her way up to the door.

            “Master Gamgee?” she called, before she’d made it all the way up to the stoop.

            “Yes,” he answered, “and do come in, for the night looks to go stormy on us, it does.”

            “Yes, it’s quite the wind,” she replied as she climbed the last two steps.  “I was by earlier, but no one was at home, and so I went back to my cousin’s house in Hobbiton.  They sent a lad from the Ivy Bush to tell me you’d returned, so I fetched the package to bring to you.  I know my mum had wished it brought to you tonight.”

            Sam held open the door for her, then took the lantern while she set the bag on the wooden settle so she could divest herself of her cloak and knitted bonnet and scarves.  She was indeed a young one, probably still a tween, he judged now that he could see her properly.  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I fear as I don’t know you.  Samwise Gamgee, at your service, and this,” he said as he turned to hold out his hand to Rosie as she came down the hall with a tray filled with things for tea, “is my wife Rosie.”

            “Glad to meet you again, Master Gamgee, Mistress,” she responded as she again took the bag into her arms.  “I met you years ago when you were but a lad and I was a little lass come with my mum and dad to see my cousin Albin Grubb in the village.  I’m Beaulah Grubb, you see, at the service of you and your family.  But it was on account of my mum I wanted to come by today of all days.  She was Dahlia Tunnely years ago before she married my dad, you understand.”

            “Sorry, but I fear as I don’t member the name, although I think as I member you, back the year as the storm come through and blew the roof off the Grange Hall.”

            “Oh, yes, that was it.”  She allowed her host and hostess to lead her into the parlor and see her seated on the settle by the fire, where she set the bag down with the package leaning back against her knee.

            “At least you had but a short walk this even,” Rosie commented as she set the tray down on the chest by the Master’s chair.  “We was expectin’ Sam’s sister, so we was ready for company at any odds.  Would you like one or two spoons of sugar in your tea?”

            “One, thanks, and but a spot of milk, if you’d be so kind.”  Miss Grubb accepted the mug with a proper smile of enjoyment.  “Oh, but this is good.  It has rose hips added?  My mum said as it was always good to have rose hips in ones tea during the winter—always said Mistress Menegilda told her that when she worked at Brandy Hall.”

            Sam straightened.  “Then your mum worked at Brandy Hall back when my Mr. Frodo was still livin’ there, did she?”

            She nodded, her pleasant face beaming.  “Oh, yes.  She served as nursemaid to Master Merry when he was a bairn, she did, although she always said Master Frodo did as much to help care for the bairn as herself.  She was quite taken with both of them, Master Merry being such a pleasant baby, and Master Frodo always being so devoted to him.  That first Yule she had to stay at the Hall during the holiday, the bairn being so small yet and Mr. Saradoc and Mistress Esmeralda having so many calls on their company as the Heir and his Lady, you see.  She was feeling quite homesick and, she told us more than once, very sorry for herself, when all of a sudden Master Frodo appeared back in the nursery with the bairn and asked her to hold him for a bit so he could fetch her his gift for her.  She was right touched, him thinking of her that day, and it made her feel loads better, or so she said.”

            She reached down to lift up the package that she’d brought, now working the string bag off of it as she continued her story.  “This is what he gave her.  She’s always kept in touch with the folk of Brandy Hall, and especially Mr. Merry.  She still has a very soft spot in her heart for him, you see.  And Mr. Merry’s always given her the news of how life’s been for him and his cousins, especially his cousins Frodo and Pippin.  When we learned the four of you had left the Shire Mum was most disturbed and frightened for you all, especially when it was learned you’d gone out through the Old Forest.  She heard so many stories about the Old Forest when she worked there in Brandy Hall, of course, and they had her terrified.  Then the Time of Troubles began, and….”  She didn’t finish.

            The package was now free of the bag, and she held it, looking at it thoughtfully.  Finally she said, “This hung in the parlor always, for she was right proud of it.  No one bothered it when the Gatherers and Sharers came, for it was obviously of no value to anyone save us.  Then you Travelers came back and the ruffians were chased out, and then everything was being set right.  They’d taken my dad’s silver studs and my mum’s promise necklace, and deputy Mayor Frodo found them and sent them back again with a letter apologizing for how much pain the loss of them must have caused.  That meant a great deal to us, for we hadn’t much of any value besides our furniture, you see.”

            Her pleasant face was going rather sad now as she contemplated the package.  “Mr. Merry told Mum that Frodo wasn’t as well as he ought to have been--that he was badly wounded out there and never completely recovered.  Then there was a letter by the post in October saying Mr. Frodo had left the Shire for good this time, and that he’d left you two and your family Bag End.  He said that Mr. Frodo had been ill, and had been growing more so; that if he didn’t go he’d probably have faded swiftly.  The thought of Mr. Frodo possibly dying horrified Mum, it did.  In the letter he sent at Yule Mr. Merry explained that Mr. Frodo had gone with the Elves and old Mr. Bilbo.  Mum was that surprised, learning old Mr. Bilbo was still alive.  He explained that they both were being given the healing they needed—that they’d been badly scarred by a legacy they’d both received, and the Elves hoped to set it right.  Mum said she saw an Elf once when she worked at Brandy Hall, for one had come to a field where she and Mr. Bilbo had taken little Master Merry and Master Frodo and some of the other little ones to have a picnic, and one came out of the woods to speak to old Mr. Baggins.  She was took by the sight of the Elf, and she said that Master Frodo was right entranced, his face shining like the stars with surprise and delight and awe.  She did like Master Frodo, you see.”

            At Sam’s nod of understanding, she shook herself slightly.  “Anyway, she asked me to bring this to you.  She knew from all of Mr. Merry’s letters that he thinks the world of you two, and that he’s right glad Mr. Frodo adopted you as his heirs.  She thought you would appreciate this if anyone would, and hoped you’d accept it to show how glad she was you’d cared for him before he left.”

            Sam glanced briefly at Rosie, who nodded her own encouragement.  Somewhat tentatively he accepted the parcel from her, then held it close.  A picture, then, one in a frame.  He nodded, took a deep breath, and carefully unknotted the string with which the package was tied, finally unfolding the paper gently after handing the carefully balled twine to his wife.

            As the paper finally slipped off his lap to the floor he looked at it—a watercolor painting of a young lass holding a bairn—and the baby was plainly an infant Meriadoc Brandybuck.  Sam looked up at her, his eyes wide with surprise and appreciation.  “The lass is your mum, then?”

            “Oh, yes, it’s my mum as she looked when she worked for the Brandybucks.  Do you like it?”

            Sam’s heaviness of spirit was slipping away as he examined the picture.  “He was but a young thing then, and already quite gifted,” he commented.  “Mostly he did drawings, although he left us some paintings, you know.”  He pulled the picture close to his breast as he looked up to meet her eyes again.  “Miss Grubb, you can’t know just how much this means to me.  It’s as if he left me a special Yule gift hisself.  Thank you so much, and be certain as you tell your mum a special thanks also.”

            She nodded and smiled once more.  “Yes, she thought you’d like it, Master Gamgee.  It will ease her heart to know she was right.  She’s getting old herself, of course, and we have no idea how much longer she’ll stay with us.  But she thought, as close as it appeared the two of you were from the letters she received from Mr. Merry, that you’d like this.  She sent another of the gifts Master Merry and Master Frodo gave her to Brandy Hall for his own gift, you see.”

            Sam nodded again, then straightened as the bell rang announcing the arrival of his sister, her husband, and Elanor.

            It was an hour later that the four guests went on their way, returning to their own Second Yule celebrations.  Sam and Rosie saw them off gladly, then after fastening the door after them turned to the cleaning up.

            “Where will you hang that?” Rosie asked with a nod to the picture.

            Sam smiled.  “In the nursery.  Just seems the right place for it, don’t you know.”

            She laughed.  “Yes, the right place for it indeed, Sam my own.  And it brings him that much closer tonight, I think, knowin’ as he painted it and it’s been loved all these years.  I doubt as Master Frodo ever understood as just how much as all kinds of folks loved him and membered him with joy, you know.”

            Sam shook his head.  “No, always was far too modest, he was.  But he left his mark on the Shire as much as on the rest of Middle Earth.  I’ll have to write Strider and let him know about as how this picture come home to Bag End.”  And with Elanor in one arm and the picture held high on the other side, he headed down the smial, back toward the nursery to see both properly bestowed for the night.

The Bearing of Burdens

            Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, as he walked down the wide hallway toward the entrance to the Steward’s wing, once again found himself contemplating the carved wooden screen that now fenced off the end of the corridor.  The Lord King Elessar had found the screen in some storehouse he’d explored, and had asked it be set up toward the north end of the hallway, and beyond it had asked that comfortably cushioned low couches and chairs be set, interspersed with low tables and plants that flourished in indirect light, as a quiet, semi-private place where some might come for quiet conversation or reading or relaxation.

            The screen, apparently a gift to one of Faramir’s forebears from a member of the Guild of Traders, was a thing of beauty, carved on both sides over the whole of its expanse with woven vines and stems punctuated with leaves, flowers, flying or resting birds, butterflies, and larger insects, pierced to allow one a feeling of being surrounded by a particularly lush and lively hedge.  After four days the presence of it was still a surprise to Faramir, and seemed almost jarring after the starkness he’d been accustomed to all his life as far as the decoration of the Citadel went.  One could see the large expanse of arched mullioned windows that looked out onto the north gardens only over the screen, and somehow the light they admitted seemed even more brilliant when viewed through the pierced holes.

            Curious to see if any was taking advantage of the seating area Aragorn had seen prepared, the Man peered around the east end of the screen.  Yes, there sat a single individual, apparently reading as evidenced by the glimpsed corner of a book.  A goblet and carafe of water sat on the table to the reader’s right alongside a tray of sliced vegetables, fruits, and cheese.  The top of the head that barely could be discerned over the carved and cushioned back of the couch was covered with curls, indicating the individual was one of the Pheriannath, and probably either Lord Samwise or Lord Frodo, considering the plate of food placed by him.

            Three quiet steps beyond the screen and his curiosity was fully satisfied, for the dark gold curls indicated this was indeed Lord Samwise.  The former Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien found himself well pleased, for there was a matter that he had desired to ask the Hobbit about, should the chance occur allowing him to question the gardener from the Shire.  He took another two steps forward to fully reveal himself, offering a bow of his head and a murmured, “May I join you, Master Samwise?”

            The Hobbit flushed somewhat as he hurried to rise to his feet, and Faramir was both amused and touched.  “Nay, sir, do not bother to rise.  As you and your beloved Master Frodo were both openly declared Lords of all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth upon the Field of Cormallen, I suspect you and I are now peers; and after all this is but an informal meeting in which I am the one to interrupt your privacy.”

            Sam, now standing sturdily on his feet, flushed a deeper red as he clutched his now closed book to his chest.  “That might be, Captain Faramir, sir; but even if we was to be equals, isn’t it still considered polite here in Gondor to rise when someone else joins you?”

            Faramir shrugged as he sank into the chair to the Hobbit’s right, noting that Sam immediately followed suit.  “I must admit you are correct, although I don’t see the need for overmuch formality, myself.”  He examined the garments the Hobbit wore.  “This is an example of the clothing proper to your people?” he asked.  “They are most becoming, I must admit.”

            Again the Pherian flushed.  “Yes—just got ’em today from the tailor.  It’s a relief to be wearin’ clothes such as I’m used to, if you take my meanin’, and to be wearin’ braces again.  Makes me feel more secure, not wonderin’ if my trousers might take it into their heads to fall down.  Although I never wore Shire clothes as fine as these afore.”  He looked down at the fine brocade of the garment he wore over his shirt, and ran a single finger over the fabric and the brass button that decorated it.  “I feel a bit odd in ’em, I must admit.”

            Faramir smiled.  “They suit you well, sir,” he said admiringly.  “Very elegant.”

            Sam smiled self-consciously.  “Thanks,” he said, still fingering the buttons.

            “What are you reading, Master Gamgee?” Faramir asked, hoping to relieve the Hobbit of his self-consciousness.

            Sam’s smile became more open, and he held out the book to show it to the Man.  “It’s a book of tales I used to read in the Common Tongue when I was a little ’un,” he explained.  “It seems to be a copy of the same book as old Mr. Bilbo translated a long time ago.”

            Noting the Tengwar script in which the tome was copied, again the Steward was impressed.  “You read Sindarin?” he asked.

            Sam shrugged slightly.  “I read it better’n I speak it, if you take my meanin’, sir.  When I was a little lad takin’ lessons and Mr. Bilbo was teachin’ Master Frodo Elvish, I couldn’t help but learn a good deal of it, particular as I had Mr. Frodo show me the letters after and all.  But then I was doin’ more and more for my Dad in the gardens as his joints pained him worse and worse, and I had to stop most of my lessons.  I’d pretty much forgot most a’ what I used to know by the time as we left Hobbiton.  While we was in Rivendell, though, there wasn’t a good deal to do other than to practice our weapons and study some, and the same later in Lorien.  Lord Elrond and Gandalf would pull my master away to the library to go over old texts and maps, and I’d go along and look at books.  When Lord Erestor learned as I was interested some in Sindarin he started goin’ over the Tengwar with me again, and it all started to come back to me.  Then in Lorien when the Elves bringin’ books for Frodo and Strider realized as I was lookin’ at them, too, they started bringin’ easy ones for me, and I could understand more’n I’d expected to.  Findin’ this one was rather like findin’ a bit of my childhood, I think.”

            Faramir examined the face of the Hobbit gardener more closely.  There was definitely more to this Hobbit than was easily visible, he realized.  It appeared Lord Samwise Gamgee was already more educated than any within Gondor appreciated. 

            He looked at the pipe that lay on the table before the Hobbit, one he remembered seeing Lord Halladan presenting to Sam a few days ago.  “You smoke while you read, then?” he asked, remembering the name for the activity as described by the King.

            Sam nodded slowly as he reached out to take up the item.  “I used to smoke while I read, but it’s more like I’m used to havin’ the pipe in my hand when I’m readin’.  Somehow it helps me keep my mind on the words better, especial when it’s Elvish.  Can’t say as to why, of course.  I’m not smokin’ a good lot as yet, not havin’ been able to smoke much for so long.  And Strider don’t want me leapin’ with both feet into it, he tells me—says to ease back into it slow so as not to bother the lungs so much.  And so far my master’s not been able to abide it at all.  If the fireplace in his bedroom smokes it leaves him coughin’ and chokin’ fit to bust.”

            Faramir realized that this was as good an opening as he was likely to find to satisfy his own curiosity.  “Speaking of Lo—Master Frodo, I was wanting to ask you something—something about our meeting there in Ithilien.”

            Sam set his book, closed over the stem of his pipe to mark his place, beside him on the cushions, and reached for his water goblet, nodding finally as he took a sip from it.

            “When we found you and your master there, Master Frodo appeared very alert throughout the day, until we arrived at Henneth Annun.  I ordered cots be readied for you in the alcove where you rested, and your master at least seems to have slept.”

            “Yes,” Sam admitted.

            “Why did your master collapse as he did as we spoke that evening, Master Samwise?  After all, he’d not done a good deal that was strenuous, and he’d remained quiet and still so much of the day.”

            Again Sam sipped thoughtfully from his goblet as he considered what to answer.  At last he set the goblet on the table beside him and folded his hands in his lap.  He took a deep breath and held it for a time, then released it with an audible sigh.  “It’s a long answer, to really understand, sir.”

            “Not all answers are simple ones,” Faramir agreed.

            Sam nodded, then began, looking slightly beyond the table that lay before him.  “It’s hard to understand just what it was like to carry—that thing—as long as he did.”  He looked up sideways to consider Faramir’s face.  “Did you know as I did carry It, for a bit, at least?”

            Faramir found himself shocked and slightly fascinated by the idea.  “But I thought that the Ring wouldn’t allow Its bearer to share It easily with any other,” he said.

            “No more It would,” Sam confirmed.  “One time there in Rivendell old Mr. Bilbo asked to see It and touch It again, and Mr. Frodo leapt as if it was a troll or an orc plannin’ to take It from him.  And there in the orc tower when he grabbed It back—he told me after he saw me as an orc indeed, pawin’ at It for his torture.

            “You have to member, sir—he carried It for many years, since he come of age when he was thirty-three.”

            “Thirty-three?  That’s how old you are when you are admitted as adults, then?”

            Nodding, Sam continued.  “Yes, sir, thirty-three.  He had It seventeen years afore we left the Shire.”

            “You and he are fifty?” Faramir asked.

            “No, sir—I’m not fifty.  I just turned forty, in fact, there in Ithilien, just afore him and me woke up, you see.  Member—the Great Rings—they extend the—the appearance of youth.  Old Mr. Bilbo found the Ring when he was fifty and kept it till he was eleventy-one, and still looked but in his seventies when we saw him in Rivendell, there last fall.  And that Gollum—he’d had It for centuries—carried It well over four hundred years, old Gandalf told me.  He ought to of died well over three hundred years past, if he was really a Stoor.”

            “What’s a Stoor?  I’ve not heard of such creatures.”

            “Well, sir, they’re one of the original tribes of Hobbits, you see.  Most Hobbits are mixes of Harfoots, Stoors, and Fallohides, you understand.  The Brandybucks are said to have strong Stoor blood in ’em, although they’ve all been related to the Tooks since their ancestors come to the Shire from what we can tell, and the Tooks was mostly Fallohide, although it’s said they have some faerie blood in ’em.  The Bagginses have a good mixture of all three tribes to them, what we can tell—a good balance up till recently, at least.  But my family—I’d always thought we was almost pure Harfoot, what was the strongest farmers.  But Gandalf tells me as he thinks us Gamgees have had our share of Fallohide to us, too.  We’re not close related to the Tooks, Brandybucks, or Bagginses, though—not for many, many centuries, what we can tell.

            “Anyways, the Ring—It was mostly asleep the sixty-one years old Bilbo carried It, and most of the seventeen years as Frodo had It, too.  But It’s been wakin’ up, stirrin’ from time to time, since It tried to leave Gollum there under the Misty Mountains, back when It felt Its Master stirrin’ when he was plannin’ on goin’ back to Mordor there, from what I can tell from what Gandalf and Lord Elrond had to say to Mr. Frodo.  And when the Black Riders entered the Shire as we was leavin’ it, then It woke up indeed, and It’s been awake ever since.”

            He sighed again, picked up his goblet and drained it, carefully refilled it, then set the carafe back on the table before turning the goblet between his hands.  “Seventeen years he carried It, and didn’t even know what It was or was capable of, most of that time.  And Gandalf says as somehow he was figurin’ out how to protect others from It even then.  Says as the reason Frodo had dreams of circles of fire and bein’ chased by eyes in the dark was ’cause of the Ring, but that he wouldn’t let the Ring to look at anyone else, kept Its attention focused on him.  He’d wake up from those nightmares tired as if he’d really been runnin’ through caverns and darkness.

            “Once It was awake, just carryin’ It become a burden.  He continued not only havin’ to fight Its urges and whispers in his heart, but to keep It focused on him, not lettin’ It reach out to others easy.  As long as he carried It, most of the time I didn’t hear It, until he was almost lost when the shard from the Morgul knife was workin’ on him.  Only ’cause we was in Rivendell were we somewhat protected, I suppose.  He could protect us three as come with him pretty easy, it seems, but Strider, Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf have all admitted It was callin’ to them, too, and they had to fight It while we was travellin’.  The Elves of Lorien didn’t want us to enter there, mostly ’cause he was carryin’ It, you see.  Said as he brought great evil with him, and wouldn’t let us go on until the Lady Galadriel sent word as we was to be brought to her and Lord Celeborn.  Only there was he at peace for a time, for somehow the Lady’s protection of her realm helped him, too, what I could tell.” 

            He drank again from the goblet and set it beside the carafe.  Again he was quiet for a bit, then continued.  “The further we went, the more worried he was.  He was bad hurt when he was stabbed with the Morgul knife; and when old Gandalf fell there in Moria it about tore his heart out of him.  There on the river, when we come down it in the Elven boats, he was fightin’ with hisself.  He couldn’t keep It from callin’ to your brother, you see, and he knew he wasn’t protecting Strider or Legolas or Gimli proper, neither.  Worse, he knew as It was callin’ evil creatures to Itself, just as It tried to call to the Black Riders along the way to Rivendell, and as he believed It called the Balrog as Gandalf fell fightin’.  He knew he had to go on alone, leave the rest of us behind.  The others didn’t see it, but then they didn’t know him as well as I do, they didn’t.

            “I don’t know all what happened there on Amon Hen when Frodo went off to think and your brother followed him, but I think as your brother tried to take It from my master.  Captain Boromir come back white-faced, shakin’.  Then the rest of us all went a bit mad, and ran off all in different directions, lookin’ for Mr. Frodo.  But only I realized as which direction he’d take, and I caught up with him, just in time to keep him from goin’ off east of the river on his own. “

            He straightened and rolled his shoulders, then leaned back, his eyes closed.  “Gollum had been hidin’ out in Moria for some time—don’t know exactly how long; when we went that way he found us and followed us.  He tried to climb the tree what we was up the first night as we was in Lorien, stayin’ on a flet with Haldir and his brothers.  Then we didn’t see him again until we was on the river, and he was lyin’ on a log, paddlin’ after our boats.

            “I’d hoped we’d lose him in the Emyn Muil, but he followed us even there, and that’s where we caught him, and Mr. Frodo made him swear by the Precious—that’s what he called the Ring, you see—that he’d guide us and help us and not betray us, or at least not Frodo.  But Frodo couldn’t keep the Ring from workin’ on Gollum like he could protect me.  I’m certain as he tried, but the Ring had had Gollum too long to ignore him.  Your folk capturin’ him as you did helped break his intent to keep the promise, although I certainly don’t blame you.  But from then on I did my best to make certain one of us stayed awake.”

            After sitting up once more, he again sighed.  “Once we got east of the river, the Ring was workin’ hard on Frodo.  It was whisperin’ to him all the time, was showin’ him—showin’ him evil images, what I could tell.  It was convincin’ him as he was to blame for Gandalf’s fall and death, and for Boromir bein’ tempted by It.  And It was gettin’ heavier and heavier, the closer we’d get to the gates to his land.  When we reached the Black Gates It was truly draggin’ him down.  He was fightin’ Its weight and Its images and Its whispers and Its promises.  At last he just collapsed in a pit, he did, and we had to rest there afore he was able to go on.  Only after Gollum talked us into goin’ south toward the evil city was he able to go on, and once we got into Ithilien he was able to stand upright again, and pay attention to what was around him.”

            “What do you mean, about the—the Ring getting heavier?”

            Sam searched his eyes.  “The further we went, the closer to him, the more weight It would take to Itself.  I carried It only about a day, and even—even wore It, twice, afore good sense took me and I took the cursed thing off me.  But the little I wore It, it was as if I had a boulder around my finger where It sat.  I took It out of my pocket to put It on the second time, and it was all I could do to hold It up to put It on, even.  When we got really inside, especial when we got there near the mountain, it was like It had the weight of the Dark Tower itself in It.  You haven’t seen him without a shirt, and aren’t like to; but he has scars around his neck where Its weight made the chain It was on dig deep into his skin.  He had real cuts by the time we got inside the mountain, and I doubt as the scars will ever go away, any more than the scar from the Morgul wound will go away—not in his lifetime.  And Gandalf and Elrond both said as the Morgul wound won’t really heal for as long as he remains in Middle Earth.”

            It was a sobering thought.  “How did you come to carry It, then?” Faramir finally asked.

            “Member how you told us the word was there was a horror up there, there in the pass above Minas Morgul, but that no one would say what it was, only the old Men would blanch if they was asked?”  At Faramir’s nod he went on, “Well, we finally found out.  Gollum—he knew.  It was a great spider like those as live in Mirkwood, only older and more horrid and evil still.  Gandalf says as she was Ungoliant’s own daughter, although I’m not certain as how he knows.  But since he was sent back he seems to know more’n he did afore, he does.

            “Anyways, Gollum apparently had a plan—he wouldn’t hurt the Master, he wouldn’t, or at least not hisself; instead he intended to let Shelob—that’s what the orcs named the spider—do it for him.  He’d lead us to her, let her have Mr. Frodo and he’d see to me dyin’, he would; and then when she was done with Mr. Frodo’s body he’d find the Ring and take It back.  And it almost worked.  Almost.

            “The spider got atween my Master and me, and Gollum grabbed me from behind and tried to throttle me.  I beat him off, then went to protect Mr. Frodo, but the spider’d already bit his neck and poisoned him.  I was certain as he was dead, and at last realized as I was the only one left, so I had to take It and go on.  I put my sword aside him and took his, and took the Ring, and finally—finally started on without him.  Only there was orcs comin’, and I had to hide from them, I did.  So—so I put—I put It on, and pushed against the rocks, and they didn’t see me, passed me right up and found him.  I couldn’t see well when I wore It, but I could hear better, and I could hear ’em talkin’ about how she had two poisons, and the one she used on Frodo was meant to—to freeze him for a time, but not to kill.  She only sucked out warm blood, you see, so she didn’t intend to kill him—just carry him off to her larder and hang him up there.  What they said, they’d found orcs taken that way, and didn’t think to rescue them from her, just left them all tied up in her silk, hangin’ from the ceilin’ for when she was ready to come back and—and—feed, at last.

            “They’d taken Frodo with them.  I took the Ring off me and put It in my pocket so as I could see well enough to try to find the way into their cellar, only I couldn’t find the catch, so I had to go through the front door, and I put It back on, in case I saw more orcs.  Only as I started to cross the border I took It off again, just in time, I think.  The relief as I took It off was—was so great, and It was so tryin’ to take me, It was.  It was tellin’ me so how I could be the one what brought Sauron down—I could be the general as called all to my standard, and fight him, and beat him.  Can you imagine—the Ring tellin’ me, a Hobbit what hardly knew how to use a sword, as I could command armies?  I think as this was the usual trick as It used on Men like Captain Boromir, and as It would of tried on you had you stayed near us.  I don’t know if the Ring thought I was Strider or what, although It—It called me the King’s brother or somethin’ like.  And—and It tried to tell me I had to—to protect Frodo from gettin’ It back.  Said as I should keep It from him.  Tried to make me not rescue him, even.  Tried to make me think as he’d be safer that way.  I ask you—him safer in the hands of orcs, there on the borders of Mordor itself?  How It thought as I’d ever believe that I have no idea.  And It tried to convince me I could make all Mordor into a great garden with a Word.  Now, now that almost got me, it did.  But somehow my Hobbit sense made me realize as I didn’t need that.”

            After a time of mutual thought Faramir ventured, “So, that’s how you know about the weight of It, then.”

            Sam nodded abstractedly, took up the goblet again and drained it, then put it down and picked up an apple slice, fiddling with it but not eating it.  When he spoke again his voice was so low Faramir had to listen closely to hear him at all.  “The day as your folk found us, we’d had a hot meal for the first time since afore we left the others.  Gollum had been feelin’ right frisky and helpful, he had, and he brought us a brace of conies, and I stewed them for us.  Now, I can build a fire what won’t smoke, but I wasn’t watchin’ it close enough, and some furze caught, and that’s how your Men found us.  I slept for a time after the ambush, but I don’t think Frodo had a proper sleep then; and when I woke up you was back, questionin’ my master, until you decided to take us with you.  Frodo’d not felt the weight of It so bad once we got into Ithilien, but now he was worried.  He’d seen how the Ring affected your brother and how It had worked on takin’ him, after all.  At first, of course, he didn’t know as Captain Boromir’d been your brother, only you was another captain of Men, and was like to be Its next target.  He was workin’ hard to try to keep Its attention focused on him instead, so hopefully we could get past you and finish our journey.  Then once he realized you and Boromir was brothers—well, would you be like him, then?  And if you was, then what must be done?  Would you try to take It, or would It work hard on tryin’ to take you?  He was that worried.  He slept in the alcove, but not as well as he might.

            “Most of the journey, once we left Lorien, he didn’t sleep well.  It worked on his dreams, It did, and of course he was worried—worried about everything.  He was always a most responsible Hobbit, he was, but now he was convinced as he was responsible for everything and everyone.  He knew as he needed to go on alone, but worried about doin’ it, afraid of breakin’ away, he was.  To tell the truth, if’n your brother hadn’t done whatever he did on Amon Hen I suspect we’d not of broke away then, and from what the others tell us most like we’d of been caught by Saruman’s Uruk-hai and carried off toward Isengard like they done with Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin.  Whatever he did, the Captain forced Mr. Frodo to screw himself up at last and do it, and none too soon, neither.

            “Once we was with you, he was bein’ responsible as only Mr. Frodo could be, you see—was tryin’ to protect us and that foul Gollum from you, and the Ring, of course; and he was tryin’ to protect you and your Men from the Ring.”

            “And that wore him out?” asked Faramir.

            “Maybe,” Sam said, shrugging again, “but I suspect as it was deeper than that.  No, what made him collapse just then----”  He went silent again, and took a very deep breath.  At last he began again.  “What made him collapse wasn’t just ’cause he was worried and runnin’ on will alone as he’d been doin’ and as he had to do at the last, there in Mordor when the food and the water’d give out and the fumes was like to take us and he couldn’t even walk no more.  No, it wasn’t just that, not then.  What it was—it was relief, sir.”

            Faramir straightened in confusion.  “Relief?”

            The gardener nodded.  “Yes, sir, relief.  Once you knew as what It was you was sayin’ no to and you showed as you’d just keep on sayin’ no to It, he realized for the first time in days as it was all right, all right not to have to worry for a bit.  He could let down his guard and rest, really rest for a time, and he did.  He needed real rest so much, and he got so little of it, you see.

            “It was more’n just food and water and the little wine as you sent with us and the walkin’ sticks as you gave us he took with him when we began again the next day, you see—you gave him hope that there was folk in Gondor as was true-hearted as Strider was, as was worth honorin’ and seekin’ to protect.  His own hope was bein’ stripped away from him, bit by bit, by the Ring.  The hope you give him helped give him heart to go that much further.  And I thank you for it.”

            Faramir examined the Hobbit with a feeling of humility in his heart.  Finally he answered, “Again, the praise of the praiseworthy is far more of worth than all the jewels from all the forges of the Noldor, I ween.”  He rose and bowed deeply to the Hobbit, who flushed again and rose but held his place.

            And when he at last left Samwise to his book of Elvish tales, Faramir went away with one more worry of his own lifted from his heart.

Conspirators’ Yule

       Eglantine Took stood with her hands clasped before her bosom, her expression frustrated. "But it’s Yule, Peregrin Took, and you haven’t spent a full Yule with us since you returned from—from out there! Why go back to Buckland now?"

       "Merry and I spent First Yule here year before last, Mum."

       "Yes, First Yule—and then you left for Bywater to be with Frodo."

       "Yes, he needed us. I mean—no matter how welcome the Cottons made him feel, it still wasn’t like being at home for him and Sam."

       "We asked him to come here, you know."

       "And in those days when you and Da were refusing to believe most of what we told you of what happened, where would that have led, Mum? As it was, I was biting my tongue so hard it stung when we toasted the New Year. Just think what it would have been like for Frodo, as sensitive as he was. He would have fled to his room with a raging headache within an hour of supper at the latest."

       Eglantine turned her head and looked at the worn carpet under her feet, for she couldn’t deny it. "I’ll admit we were being pretty foolish, Pip. But what was his excuse for not coming last year?"

       "You saw him at the banquet just before Yule, Mum—did you notice how thin he was getting? Turns out that spider bite was infected again and he was in a good deal of pain. Sam and Rosie had to lance it, it was so bad. There was no way he was up to going anywhere last Yule. As it was, he couldn’t even bear to walk down to the Yule bonfire—he watched for a time from the windows of Bag End, and was asleep in his chair when we went back in at last.

       "But now it’s Merry. There’s no way he can bear to come past Hobbiton right now, knowing Frodo’s not there. Don’t get me wrong—he and I are both so relieved Frodo’s gone with Elrond and Gandalf and Bilbo. But for Sam and Merry, it’s like they’ve lost their favorite brother. Sam at least has his family and Rose and the Cottons nearby to support him, and he’ll accept their comfort. But Merry will need me this year. Please understand, Mum."

       Eglantine sighed. She was certain Pippin was right—Merry would need Pippin by him this year, and Esme had already sent word that Merry was refusing to leave Buckland. Now she understood why. "Will you tell him, then, that we love him?" she asked, reaching out and placing her hand on his.

       "Of course, Mum," he answered, placing his other hand on hers, then taking it up and kissing it gently. "I’ll be of age all too soon," he said softly, holding her hand to his cheek, "and I’ll be having to be there at Da’s side. I promise I’ll do anything I must to convince Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme to come here with Merry next year. But, for this year...."

       She leaned forward, and softly withdrawing her hand she kissed his cheek. "Just promise you’ll dress warmly for the journey, and watch yourself as you ride, love."

       "I promise. You keep an eye on Da for me, and don’t let him eat too much roast goose—you know how it always disagrees with him."

       She laughed. One last time they embraced, and he at last pulled away and headed for his rooms to fetch his saddlebags. She suspected he’d had them ready for hours.

*******

       Before he made the Floating Log Pippin was almost wishing he’d remained in the Tooklands. The weather was foul, with heavy winds and scudding clouds and intermittent rains that were miserably cold when they hit, although thankfully they didn’t last. Fortunately things were calmer when he rose in the morning, and there was no more wind or rain until he was crossing the Brandywine Bridge, at which time a deluge was loosed on those who must be out and about at the moment. By the time he reached Brandy Hall Pippin was soaked.

       Merimac was in the stables when he arrived, checking the condition of a pony that had strained a hock a few days previous. He looked up as the stable door creaked open to admit a dripping steed led by a Hobbit who dripped even more water behind him. Not recognizing the newcomer but sensing it was a familiar presence, Mac called out, "And what on earth led any sensible Hobbit to take a pony out on a day like this?"

       "Well, it wasn’t this bad when I started this morning," Pippin answered, shaking back his hood, "although I must say by now it’s pretty desperate. May I use the same stall for Jewel?"

       Mac rose in surprise. "You decided to spend Yule here? Whatever for, Peregrin Took?" Then as the thought filled him, he shook his head. "Your mother and father haven’t started disbelieving you again, have they?"

       The Took shook his head and threw the damp cloak back from his shoulders. "No, they’re behaving quite well, actually. No, everything’s fine at the Great Smial—I just felt I should be here—for Merry, you know."

       The Master’s brother sighed as he closed the stall door behind him, coming to help Pippin unsaddle his animal. "He’s not saying anything about it, of course. Almost as closed-mouthed about his grief as Frodo himself would be." He took the saddle from Pippin’s arms to carry it to the saddletree, making a note to have Gomez give it a good rubdown and oiling. Meanwhile Pippin was removing the bridle and headstall, then reaching for the toweling kept for rubbing down ponies that had been forced to be out in damp weather. While Pippin dried Jewel carefully, Mac saw to it a warm mash was placed in the feed bucket for the stall Pippin usually used and that the water bucket was full. Between the two of them they belted a warming blanket over Jewel’s back, the pony ignoring both of them in its greed for the mash; then once the stable was tidied away and the lantern carefully replaced they pulled their hoods over their heads, took deep breaths, and plunged out into the storm toward the side door to Brandy Hall.

       "Peregrin Took?" exclaimed that worthy’s aunt as she hurried to help take his cloak. "You ought not to have come through this storm, you know."

       "Well, it was bad enough yesterday, although nothing like it’s been since I crossed the Bridge, of course," Pippin explained, shaking his head to relieve himself of the weight of the water he’d taken on in the brief run from the stable. "And where’s my recalcitrant cousin?"

       Esme’s face saddened. "I think he’s in Frodo’s room. It’s almost like it was when Frodo left to live with Bilbo, the grief and all, except then he’d speak out about it, demanding to know when Bilbo wouldn’t need Frodo any more so he could come home to the Hall, while now he won’t talk about it at all. It’s just that we see the grief in his eyes, and recognize it as the same as then."

       She shook herself. "Well, I’ve just come from the kitchens, and it looks as if young Holly has made the best batch of ginger biscuits to come out of the ovens in years. Shall I send for some for you? Or would you prefer some cold fowl? Amber has several set aside for those who had to work through luncheon."

       "Has Merry eaten much today?"

       She shook her head. "No—had very little for first breakfast, and didn’t show up for second breakfast or elevenses at all. As for luncheon—he had Amber send a plate to his room with just some fowl and potatoes and greens and nothing more. He’s also been rubbing at his right wrist a good deal."

       Pippin nodded thoughtfully. "I see." He ran his fingers through his hair, then said decisively, "Well, will you have Amber send a tray for the two of us to Frodo’s room, please, Aunt Esme? Maybe I can get him to eat at least a bit more."

       She gave a small nod, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "You’re a dear lad, Pip, and we love you for it. I know it’s eating at you, too, as it is Sara and me, to have him gone; but of the three of you it seems you’re accepting it best."

       He shrugged, putting an arm about her and drawing her near. "I miss him terribly, Aunt Esme; but at least I know he will most likely have the chance to live—really live again now. I almost didn’t want him to come home with us, you must realize. I was afraid he’d need to be by someone like Strider or Elrond just to be able to—to continue."

       "Merry—rubbing his hand that way—that’s not a good sign, is it?"

       Pippin shrugged again, pulling away from her and looking down at the floor. "No, it’s not a particularly good sign—shows he’s feeling overwhelmed. It was worse for Frodo when he was tired or the spider bite was infected again. I realized I could tell how well he was doing by how much he was rubbing his shoulder." He straightened. "I’ll go see if I can bring him out of it at least a bit. But a good part of his heart went across the sea on Frodo’s grey ship, same as Sam’s."

       "And your own," Esme said quietly.

       He gave her a small, sad smile. It wasn’t often he let down his own defenses of humor and jokes and light speaking, but he would do so with this, his favorite aunt. "We went with him to help him, thinking we’d be protecting him. But we couldn’t. I guess Merry and I feel as guilty for not protecting him as he felt for not being able to keep us safe." He squeezed her near hand, then turned back toward the wing where the Master’s family had their rooms.

       The door to what had been Frodo’s room after his parents’ death was cracked open, and peering inside Pippin could see Merry draped across the bed, a book in his hands. The fir and holly branches that Frodo had always preferred as decorations for his room during Yule season lay along the edges of his shelves, while the wide-mouthed glass bottle Merry had decorated for him one year with glued-on colored tissue paper squares, the jar with the low candle holder fitted into it, sat on the bedside table. Frodo had explained one year to Pippin that Merry had decorated the jar for him the Yule Merry was seven, the last Yule Frodo had spent as a resident of Brandy Hall; Frodo had loved it and treasured it, and had left it there in his room to have among the decorations when he and Bilbo would come to celebrate Yule with the Brandybucks. A candle burned within the jar now, and colored light flickered around the room. The room smelled of the evergreen boughs and juniper berries that covered the shelves and the cinnamon-scented candle.

       Merry glanced up from the bed, giving his younger cousin a sad smile. "I knew you would find me," he said softly.

       "I felt it my duty to come and instruct Aunt Esme on how to hang the mistletoe," Pippin said, looking down his nose at his cousin. "Feeling the room needs someone to read in it so it remembers him?"

       Merry shrugged as he looked back at the book lying on the counterpane. "Perhaps," he said. "This is one of the translations of Elvish tales Bilbo gave him when he was small. It falls open to the story of how Beren met Lúthien. I was just remembering how Strider sang part of the lay there below Weathertop, and thinking how Frodo must have recognized it then. And to think when Frodo read it to me when I was a lad I thought it was just another story. I never dreamed it could have been true, much less I’d come to meet their great-granddaughter, who’d make the same choice."

       Pippin nodded as he entered the room and sat on the bed near Merry’s shoulder. "Even Frodo had a bit of a shock, I think, realizing just how many of the stories he loved to read and tell and hear were part of the same story we found ourselves caught in, as Sam pointed out to all of us while we were in Ithilien. But when you were small did you ever dream that there was a real Beren One-hand?"

       Merry shook his head. "No," he said, "I never did." He looked up with a lopsided smile. "I put him in the category of things as likely to be true as the return of the King." Both gave slight laughs. Merry shifted to sit upright, his legs crossed in front of him. "It’s just hard to think that we’ll not spend Yule with him again, Pip—that he’ll never hide the mistletoe up on the trim for the door again, like he did a few years ago, and then have Estella, Pervinca, Melilot, and Lilac Bunce hiding in the room waiting to catch and kiss us as we go inside in search of him."

       "And he won’t dance with us again, or tell stories of Father Yule or the Forest King any more, or help us write out our troubles lists for the bonfire, or the gift lists we want to burn on the Yule Log so Father Yule can read them." Pippin searched Merry’s face as the older cousin turned toward him. "Although I’ll swear I heard his voice singing on the wind as I rode along the road from the Bridge today."

       "Did you stop at Bag End?"

       Pippin shook his head. "No, I couldn’t bring myself to stop there, either. Not this year, I fear. Maybe some year down the way we’ll be able to do that, but not yet."

       Merry nodded his understanding. "Poor Sam—I hope he understands."

       Pippin gave a half smile. "Oh, I’m certain Samwise Gamgee understands all too well, Merry."

       Merry solemnly nodded once more, looking away.

       Pippin looked around the room. "This is just how he’d have decorated it."

       "Yes."

       There didn’t seem to be a great deal to say besides that. They sat there together, and Pippin reached down to take Merry’s cold right hand in his own, willing his own warmth into it. At last Pippin began singing Let the Yule Log Burn softly, and as he went into the third verse at last he heard Merry’s slightly lower voice join his. He noted with relief that Merry’s hand was indeed growing warmer, and he accepted the squeeze his cousin gave him before finally releasing his grasp.

       There was a knock at the door, and Melilot Brandybuck stood there with a large tray. "Cook said you wished this brought here," she said, addressing herself to Pippin. Merry looked a bit surprised to see Melilot instead of one of the usual servers. She flushed at his expression. "Treasure wanted to go home to Pincup for Yule," she explained, "so I offered to serve for her while she was gone so she could go. She’s a dear lass, you know." Treasure was the lass who usually served the Master’s own corridor.

       "I agree—Treasure is a wonderful lass indeed, and I think that if her beau doesn’t ask her soon she’ll throw him over yet, and rightfully so. I’m just surprised that you’d offer, is all."

       Again she flushed. "That’s right—you were gone when I started offering to do that, and then you were living at Crickhollow. It was during the Time of Troubles I started. Cousin Sara sent many of the lads and lasses who served here back home. Their folks were being targeted if it was known they were serving here, you see. That Lotho, foul thing he was, gave orders any who served the Master or the Thain or was known to be related to Cousin Frodo or friendly with him was to be targeted. So we unmarried lasses started helping out as we could. I was surprised—helping out was nice, you see, and I never thought it could be nice. So, the last couple years I’ve offered to serve for one of the lasses or another so she could go home for Yule or Lithe or for weddings or whatever. She still gets paid, and I get to do something that really helps someone else."

       Merry and Pippin exchanged glances before Pippin rose to take the tray from her. Merry smiled. "Yes, finding out serving someone else can make you feel good was a bit of a surprise for us, too."

       "When did you ever serve anyone else," she asked, coming all the way in and seating herself in Frodo’s chair, facing the bed.

       "While we were gone, especially toward the end of the quest and afterward, before we came home again. Pippin’s one of the King’s guards now, you see; and I’m esquire to the King of Rohan. While Pippin was serving Lord Denethor, just before the war was won, he was doing a good deal of fetching and carrying as well as message bearing. And both of us would at times be given the honor of serving our lords at meals."

       Melilot watched as the two cousins both began eating from the tray, Pippin avidly, Merry slowly and thoughtfully. "If Freddy had gone with you, would he have learned how to handle a sword, too, the way you two did?"

       The cousins looked again to one another before Pippin, swallowing his last bite, answered, "They’d have tried to teach him, but I don’t know if he would have done much better than Frodo or Sam, although certainly Sam is far better than he thinks he is. I suspect even Frodo was better than he realized, but he never liked having to wield a blade. Knowing that at times the only way he could be assured he would live to finish his task was if he was willing to kill the one trying to kill him appalled him. And even we often did better when we were hurling stones and rubble than when we had to use our swords. We learned the most once we accepted service to Gondor and Rohan, really. Before that most of our lessons were on the fly, you see."

       Melilot nodded thoughtfully, as she accepted one of the gingerhobbits offered her by Pippin and began nibbling at it. "Freddy’s changed a good deal," she finally said softly. "He’s not frivolous any more, not like he used to be, and he doesn’t immediately look for where the table lies when he visits. He never used to pay the least attention to talk of Men on the borders or the trees menacing the High Hay or the talk on the harvests, and now he listens intently to the talk and makes observations the Master listens to with respect."

       Merry smiled sadly. "He learned responsibility while we were gone. Without Frodo to take over guiding the rest and us to lead the thefts on the hoards the Big Men set up, he felt he had to do it all."

       "He’s a hero to most of the Shire," she noted.

       Pippin nodded. "And with reason. When we saw the caverns where he was hiding out so much of the time during the period they were doing most of the raids we were surprised. That old Fatty would stay in such places for any length of time was as great a shock as seeing him when we brought him out of the Lockholes. He didn’t want to leave the Shire for the dangers outside, particularly for the dangers of the Old Forest; yet he faced such great dangers right here at home trying to make certain folk were able to eat and the Big Men realized they weren’t as easily the bosses of all as they thought. Aragorn has been very impressed by what he’s learned, and looks forward to being able to meet Freddy one day."

       "Aragorn?" she asked.

       "The King," Pippin told her proudly. "Our Strider is the King now, you know."

       "But Fatty didn’t go with you."

       Pippin suddenly smiled. "No, he didn’t. And everyone’s glad he didn’t. And especially Frodo was glad he didn’t, particularly once he saw what Freddy managed to accomplish here." He looked at her closely. "You care for him, Mel?"

       Flushing slightly, she nodded. "He’s so much more interesting and thoughtful now. Not to mention he’s actually very handsome—it was so hard to tell that before." Melilot looked about herself. "So—this is what Frodo’s room was like. I never visited it before."

       Merry looked about it, his face solemn again. "Yes, this was his room. I remember slipping in here to crawl into bed with him when I was small, and how he’d tell me stories until I fell asleep again. And I remember the pranks he’d plan here, and how he always knew he could count on me not to tell and give him away. He began teaching me how to write my letters right over there, on the floor, using his lessons slate and a chalk pencil."

       After a moment she said softly, "You miss him terribly?"

       Both Merry and Pippin nodded. "Oh, yes, we miss him," Pippin said, the pain obvious in his voice. "He was our reason for everything when we were younger, as well as the reason we left the Shire."

       "I remember the tales he’d tell," Melilot said thoughtfully. "He knew so many, and could keep us fascinated for hours." She looked at the book lying beside Merry. "That was one of his books?"

        Merry gave a brief nod. "One Bilbo sent him when he lived here." He took it up, and after looking at it briefly turned to hand it to her. "Elvish tales for small Hobbits. He used to read it to me, and Sam tells us it was one of the first books he read by himself as well. Bilbo had another copy of it he kept at Bag End."

       "He taught me my letters out of it," Pippin said. "I suspect he taught Fatty out of it, too."

       The book fell open in Melilot’s hands, and she found herself reading aloud. "And doom fell on Tinúviel, who found love in the arms of a mortal Man. He appears to have read this frequently." At Merry’s nod she added, "I never understood why he never seemed to pay attention to the lasses after Bilbo left the Shire."

       Both the cousins’ faces became equally stern. "It was the Ring," Pippin said. "The Ring—destroyed that part of him. He said It—It made him think—terrible things when he looked at a lass. He said he never wanted to be—to be that kind of Hobbit. He’d never talk about it before—or hardly ever. But finally, in Aragorn’s court, he admitted it. The Ring robbed him of everything."

       "Why did he keep it, then?"

       Merry spoke, his voice low. "He didn’t have any choice, once Bilbo left It for him. You can’t throw away a Ring of Power. I guess it took almost everything Bilbo could do to leave It to Frodo. Gandalf had to almost force him to leave It behind him when he abandoned the Shire."

       "And now—now It’s gone?" she asked.

       Pippin nodded. "Now It’s gone. Frodo, Sam, and Gollum saw to that."

       She straightened in both surprise and dismay. "Gollum? That odd creature in Bilbo’s stories who wanted to eat him?"

       Merry gave her a twisted smile. "Would it be too distressing for you, Melilot, to realize that Bilbo’s old stories were not only true, but had been carefully changed to make them less distressing than they really were? That his adventures out there were even more dangerous than he told us?"

       "No! They can’t be true!"

       Pippin sighed, shook his head, and looked down at his hands. "If only they hadn’t been," he murmured.

       In the distance from the common rooms of the Hall near the great doors they heard noises. Glad for the distraction, Merry looked off that way. "Apparently you weren’t the only one traveling now, a day before First Yule," he commented to his younger cousin.

       "Apparently not," agreed Pippin. "Whom did Aunt Esme invite?"

       "The Bolgers, Cousin Folco Boffin, Griffo and Daisy Boffin—a few others. Not that Griffo and Daisy will come, for I think they have Daisy’s younger brother and sister with them for Yule. Imagine—finding out so long after the fact she has a half sister and brother she never even knew about!"

       Melilot’s eyebrows rose. "Frodo had cousins he didn’t know about?" she asked.

       Pippin laughed. "Frodo—not know? Ah, Mel, you can be assured that of all the Hobbits in the Shire, Frodo Baggins is the one relative who’s known about those two since the day they were born. Da was telling me all about it a few days ago, you know, how Dudo took the unimaginable step of remarrying and fathering twins after Camellia’s death. Why, Frodo left the lad family head for the Bagginses."

       Merry shook his head as he took another gingerhobbit from the tray a half second before Pippin could take it, forcing the Took to take a different one. "Well, he’s the closest Baggins to Frodo himself, after all. And certainly Ponto’s in no condition to take it up since Frodo left, and Iris is having nothing to do with it."

       Mel asked, "How’s Ponto taking Frodo leaving?"

       Pippin twisted the gingerhobbit he held between his fingers. "When Mum and I visited him last month he was sad, but not overly so. Said he could see in Frodo’s eyes, last time he came over, that Frodo wasn’t doing particularly well himself, and was certain the only reason Frodo came was to make sure he wouldn’t take it too hard when he realized Frodo was gone. He—he pressed me to tell him about the sailing, and was relieved when I told him about that last smile, the one that convinced us that Frodo is going—is going to be all right."

       The Hobbitess looked from the one of the cousins to the other. It was the first time either had spoken freely of Frodo leaving to anyone other than those who had to know, or at least she thought so. She’d received one of the letters Frodo had sent before he left, and she’d noted his handwriting wasn’t his usual graceful scrollwork. At last she said, "He was quiet the last time he came, there at the end of summer. Didn’t say a great deal—just commented he needed to meet with Brendi about business and stopped to stay a few days."

       Merry nodded. "He apparently left this book on the bedside table. It was there when Mum brought Sam through to show him where Frodo lived when he visited.  I wonder if he was reading the story of Beren and Lúthien and thinking of Strider and his queen?"

       Pippin looked at the book thoughtfully. "Probably. Ever since the wedding the story always makes me think of them, you know."

       Merry sighed. "And with reason."

       They were all quiet until a rustle in the halls spoke of others coming their way. They looked up to see Fredegar and Estella Bolger, accompanied by Folco Boffin and Brendilac Brandybuck. "Well," Freddy said, smiling at Melilot, "Aunt Esme told me these two would be hiding out in here, but not that they’d be in such lovely company. Hello, Mel."

       Pippin and Merry were rising hastily. "Good to see you, Fatty," Merry said, before noting that Freddy’s gaze was still caught by Melilot, who was flushing and clasping her hands in her lap. He exchanged a look with Estella, and caught his own breath as he saw the expression of delight in her eyes as she looked at him. Pippin looked from one to the next, smiling smugly and laughing soundlessly as he exchanged knowing glances with Brendi.

       Young love, Brendi mouthed at the Mistress’s nephew. He pushed by the rest and sat heavily on Frodo’s bed. As he reached for one of the last gingerhobbits he commented, "Once you’ve each taken stock of the one you’re looking at, let us know."

       Freddy and Estella laughed, the brother reaching out to tousle the lawyer’s hair. "Just because you’re an experienced widower…" Freddy said, then his smile faded. "I guess you’re experienced enough to find this, perhaps, easier." He looked at the familiar bookshelf, the writing desk, the book that lay open under Melilot’s clasped hands, the flickering candle in the jar.

       Folco looked at Brendi sadly, then commented, "I doubt one is ever truly ready to deal with the loss of someone who’s so young as Frodo was."

       Brendi shook his own head. "Young? Frodo was older than me, you’ll remember—he was fifty-three when he left us. For all," he added in a softer voice, "he looked the youngest of all of us—until the last."

       "That cursed Ring," growled Freddy. "First it kept him younger, and then it left him so much older."

       "You seem to know a great deal about it, brother-mine," Estella said as she drifted over to sit at Melilot’s feet.

       Freddy exchanged glances with Merry and Pippin. "Well, we were all three involved in the conspiracy, after all, Stel."

       Melilot looked from Fredegar to his cousin Folco. "But you didn’t include Folco, too?"

       Pippin looked somewhat guilty as he sat back down by Brendi. "His mum was ill, and he was busy taking care of her. He didn’t have a lot of time or energy for much of anything else at the time, after all."

       "It was all I could do to bear to leave her to help bring Frodo’s furniture here to Buckland, you know," Folco said, accepting half the last gingerhobbit from Merry, who gave the other half to Estella. "And at least she had her own place back before she died, thanks to Sam and the folks who worked together to build a place for us after Lotho’s folks collapsed the smial." He gave Freddy a severe look as he bit a leg off the biscuit figure. "Although you might well have given me a clue, you know."

       "We didn’t even tell Berilac," Merry pointed out. "And if it hadn’t been for your mother we’d have included you, as close as you were to him."

       Freddy sighed as he touched the tissue-covered jar softly with one finger. "And it seems this is all we have left of his Light," he murmured.

       "Did your folks come, too?" asked Merry.

       "Yes—we came in the Bolger coach. Budgie and Viola came, too, with little Drogo. They were being taken to their rooms when the four of us came this way in search of you two."

       "The coach must have been rather crowded," noted Pippin.

       Estella smiled at her brother. "It seems so much roomier since the Time of Troubles is over. Neither Mum nor Dad is anywhere as big as they were before, either. It’s as if each of us is less hungry than we were, realizing we don’t need as much as we used to think we did since then."

       Pippin nodded his understanding. "Well, we certainly both know a good deal more about how little we can get along on now," he said with a significant look at Merry, who gave a brief nod of his own. "Not," he added, "that we were asked to go without as long as he did."

       "Frodo was so thin when you came back again," Melilot commented, "worse than he was as a lad when he lived with Uncle Bilbo."

       Freddy, however, was searching Merry’s face. "He wrote in his book that he and Sam were living almost exclusively on the Elven lembas bread." At Merry’s indication this had been true, he went on, "What did he look like when you first saw him after that?"

       Merry’s face was pale, and again he was rubbing at his wrist as he perched on the edge of the bed. "I could barely tell he was alive, him or Sam. Aragorn had put them into a deep healing sleep. You could see Sam’s breathing if you watched closely; but Frodo was barely breathing at all. His face was so pale. They had a healer come in and turn his body about once every hour or so, for he wasn’t able to move on his own. I laid my hand on his chest, and finally I could feel his heartbeat. They were still giving him small swallows of water and broth and juice every half hour, and boluses of more three times a day. Strider and his Elven brothers were coming in several times a day to massage his arms and legs and belly and back, and making his limbs move so the muscles wouldn’t totally waste. When at last Sam moved on his own the news went through the healers’ tents immediately; and the first time Frodo himself shifted in his sleep they brought out the wine and ale for the whole camp, including the wounded soldiers and Riders."

       "It was a couple days after Merry arrived the first time they carried me to let me see them," Pippin continued the story. "I had splints on my leg, for the bone was broken almost the whole way through; and my chest was wrapped because of the cracked ribs, and my hip was strapped due to it having been dislocated. I’ll advise you, from experience—if you ever have the fortune to kill a troll, don’t stand immobilized as it falls, only to get buried under the beast. It’s most uncomfortable waking up to what you’ve had done to you."

       Merry laughed. "And you were quite the sight, once I saw you, black and blue and other colors I doubt anyone would appreciate from all the bruises, swathed in bandages yourself. You were asleep when I walked into the tent where they’d put you, and I was afraid you were dead."

       "That I was most definitely not," Pippin said. "You cried out, and I woke up and tried to sit up to see what was wrong. Thought we were in Minas Tirith after the battle of the Pelennor, and that you’d awakened from one of the nightmares caused by the Black Breath, only to find this time I was the one in the healers’ care."

       Melilot looked at the two Travelers. "Then the two of you were hurt, too."

       Merry nodded. "We were quite the group of recovering Hobbits, once we finally returned to Minas Tirith," he said. "Frodo looked the least hurt of any of us, but in truth he was the one who had suffered most."

       Pippin gave a great sigh as he looked at the candle’s flame inside the decorated jar. "At least he was able to know a couple more Shire Yules," he said gently. "And I hope that they have decorated whatever place they’ve given him and Bilbo with evergreens and holly, and that they’ve filled the room with candle light."

       "Do Elves make gingerhobbits, do you think?" Estella asked as she wiped her hand on her skirt, having finished her own half biscuit.

       "Oh, they have their own special winter treats," Pippin said with authority. "Buns made with cinnamon and honey, apples soaked in sweet mead and coated with thickened honey and then rolled in spices and nuts, cups of wine punch made with foreign fruits and juices. I doubt Frodo is going without as the year turns, if the cooking of the Elves of Tol Eressëa is anything like that of the Elves of Rivendell. Although we left Rivendell on my birthday, just five days before Yule."

       "What a time to find yourself wandering through the wild," Folco said, stretching, "as Yule approaches. Snow, I shouldn’t wonder, and cold rains and freezing nights."

       "Yes, it was rather bad," Merry agreed. "But we were together, and with Frodo, helping take care of him, and that was what we wanted."

       Melilot rose and reluctantly set the book, now closed, back on the bed between the three who sat there. "I must return to the kitchens to see if there’s anything else needed of me," she said gently. She looked around the room, then gave a smile. "You know, it’s as if I feel him there, realizing we’re all here together, and happy about it." She began to sing The Stars of Yule, a song that had been one of Frodo’s favorites, and the rest found themselves joining her. By the time the song was through she found Freddy had taken her hand, and that Merry held Estella’s gently. They then filed out of the room, Merry last, leaving the door fully open, the flame of the candle in the jar flickering merrily behind them, and indeed the room didn’t seem abandoned at all when Esme and Sara approached it a few moments later, and smiled through their tears to see that Merry had done his best to decorate the room for Frodo as he’d done every year since he was a teen.

*******

        On first Yule Merry made certain a bunch of forced spring flowers from the glass houses were placed before his mother’s chair in the dining room, a duty Frodo had left to him, and Pippin quietly carried a vase filled with holly sprays and berries to set on the table by Frodo’s bed. Pippin and Merry took it in turn to tell stories to the younger children to keep them busy, and Brendi and Freddy helped the youngest with their troubles lists and gift lists for Father Yule.

       Somehow the pleasure of seeing the bairns’ excitement filled them all, and Merry whispered to Pippin, "You know, Frodo, years ago, told me how much more Yule meant to him, seeing how happy it made me; and I certainly realized that year how much it happier it made me seeing how excited you were. Now there’s this new crop of children…." Both smiled.

       During the dancing Merry danced often with Estella, while Melilot danced with whoever asked her; but during the slower dances she consistently danced with Freddy, who couldn’t perform the more energetic ones any more. Pippin danced with his aunt and several of the lasses—including Melilot; but there came a moment when he realized Merry was no longer among them. It was after the lighting of the bonfire, which all had trooped to the regular place halfway to the river to enjoy. There was more dancing here, dancing and singing; but when Pippin looked to ask Merry something, he realized Estella was standing between her mother and her brother, while Merry had disappeared completely.

       "He was getting melancholy again," she told him, "there just after he put his troubles list on the fire. I’m not certain where he went, but I think he just needed to be alone."

       Pippin had sneaked a peek at Merry’s troubles list—every other line he’d had a chance to read had begun I want Frodo to be here or I want him to be well. He suspected that those wishes would appear on Merry’s, Sam’s, and his own troubles lists for years, if not for the remainders of their lives.

       "I’ll go in and see how he is," Pippin decided.

       "But if he needs to be alone…" she began.

       "Then I’ll leave him alone and come back out. But the reason I came here is to be by him while he needs me." And at Estella’s nod of acknowledgment he turned back toward the Hall.

       Merry wasn’t in Frodo’s room this time, nor in his own, nor the library, nor the storage room where he used hide himself away as a teen. Frustrated, Pippin went back to Frodo’s room, and noted that the drawer to Frodo’s desk was partly opened. Struck with a thought, he opened the drawer completely and reached for the hidden spring he’d discovered the winter he was eleven, back when he kept riding away from the Great Smial to spend time with Frodo and Merry, hoping to avoid Ferumbras and Lalia. The small piece of facing snapped open, and Pippin peered in, noting that the key it had always contained was gone. So, that was where he’d find Merry. He left the room and headed for a wing at the back of the ridge into which the Hall was dug, a wing along which few families lived at this time.

       He paused outside a door that was seldom opened and listened. At first he heard nothing, but at last he heard a muffled sob, so he pushed on the door and went in. Merry knelt on the floor, holding Frodo’s old stuffed pony, weeping, his face pressed into the plush fabric with which it had been fashioned. Primula Brandybuck Baggins had crafted that pony, using a pattern commonly used by Hobbitesses across the Shire. When Frodo agreed to change rooms from those usually inhabited by his family when they visited Brandy Hall to stay in the Master’s wing, he left several items here that he most closely associated with his parents, including the stuffed pony. Some items such as the Bilbo box, a chest Drogo had carved for his wife, had finally been sent to Frodo after the refurbishment of Bag End; but a few items had remained here. Frodo had kept a key to these rooms, and had on occasion slipped into them when he most needed privacy or most strongly missed his parents’ presence, and Pippin remembered once, when he was nearly twelve, coming here with Merry in search of Frodo during one of Frodo’s first visits after Bilbo’s leaving, and seeing Frodo in an identical posture, also holding that pony, weeping into it just as Merry was now.

        Pippin came forward and placed his hand on Merry’s shoulder, realizing he, too, was weeping. Neither went back out to the bonfire, and it was near dawn before Pippin coaxed Merry to his feet, took the key from him, and led him to his own room, and the two curled up beside one another much as they had during the quest after the separation from Frodo and Sam, accepting the comfort of one another against the confusion and pain of loss they felt.

       It was late in the afternoon before they joined the rest of those gathered in the great hall, their eyes still shadowed with the grief they’d shared. Esme looked up as they took their places and gave a sign to Melilot, who hurried off to the kitchens to let Amber know the Heir and his cousin were now awake and needed the food set aside for them earlier. Saradoc smiled. "A package arrived while you were asleep, Merry," he said. "It’s from Dahlia Grubb."

       Brendi, who sat near the fireplace, lifted a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, and brought it over to present to his cousin. It was a fairly large parcel, and Merry examined it, looked a question at his father, and then drew out his pocketknife to cut the string.

       It was a clay sculpture, one Aunt Asphodel had helped him and Frodo make, back when Merry was seven, the same year Merry had decorated the jar for Frodo. It was a sculpture of an Elf, the Elf who had come the previous summer to speak to Bilbo while they were in a meadow having a picnic.

       The work was mostly Frodo’s, and was very rough compared to many of his later drawings and paintings, but it still held in itself an ethereal feeling. Merry smiled, his face glowing with pleasure. "The statue we made," he whispered. "She sent us the statue we made and gave to her for Yule!"

        Estella came near, her face shining with delight. "You helped make this, Mer?" she asked. "Oh, how wonderful!"

       "Frodo did most of the work, of course. It was the first Elf he ever saw, I understand. He always did love the Elves." He laughed. "I can even recognize him—remember meeting Lindir at Rivendell, Pippin?"

       Pippin came near, examining it, his own face filled with pleasure. "Lindir? You think this one was Lindir? I doubt he’d be flattered, for it’s not quite the right height for the girth, I fear. But, yes, I do believe this is a fair likeness of Lord Lindir."

       Merry turned the statue around to look at it from all sides. "Dear Frodo! And dear Dahlia, to send it to me! Oh, how glad I am."

       Saradoc had fished a sheet of foolscap out of the wrappings, and carefully straightened it to read it.

Dearest Merry,

       I received your letter yesterday telling me about how it was Master Frodo chose to go stay with the Elves, like old Mr. Bilbo. I’m so sorry, for I know how close the two of you were to one another, and I’ve always admired him, since he was but a lad himself.

       I decided to send this to you as a Yule gift, and hope you’ll appreciate it. It’s given me a great deal of pleasure over the years since the two of you gave it to me, so long ago; but as it’s a statue of an Elf, I’d think it would give you comfort, knowing he’s gone with the Elves and will stay with them from now on.

       Remember always just how much I love you—how much I’ve always loved you. And when you look at this, remember the two of us, your cousin who loved you so much, too, and me.

       I don’t fully understand why Master Frodo couldn’t come back again, but understand he was in failing health and needed the help of the Elves. I know that in the stories old Mr. Bilbo told, the Elves were always finding places that had been hurt, and helped heal them. That they could do so, maybe, for mortals as well is a hope.

       I send my best wishes to your family and friends. And do let me know when you find a love of your own. I’ll tell you this—I intend to dance at your wedding.

                                                             Love always,

                                                             Dahlia Tunnely Grubb

       Merry listened carefully to the letter, holding the statue to himself as he did so. "Dear Dahlia," he repeated. "She always could help when I was feeling sad. She always seemed to know the right thing to do." He turned to look at Estella. "Well, Stel, would it give you pleasure to see Dahlia dancing at our wedding?"

       Estella stopped, her face gone pale, her mouth opened in shock, her eyes shining suddenly with tears of joyous surprise. "You’re asking me?" she finally got out.

       He nodded, and fished in his pocket. "Frodo gave me this," he said as he pulled out a ring set with an amethyst. "It was his grandmother Ruby’s, you know. He said he hoped I’d gift it to the most beautiful lass I knew in all the Shire, and I guess that day has come. Most of his mum’s things he left to Narcissa Boffin, but this he gave me for my birthday."

       Estella reached out and took it, examining it carefully. Then Merry took it back, and slipped it on a finger of her right hand. "If," he said softly, "of course if you’ll agree to have me."

       Her eyes were swimming as she searched his face, then she threw her arms about him, whispering, "Of course," before she leaned forward to kiss him.

       The rest of those in the hall appeared frozen at the scene playing itself out before them. Finally Fredegar rose, clapping with delight. "Good enough!" he said. "It’s about time, Meriadoc Brandybuck!" And then the whole assembly crowded about to congratulate the both of them.

******* 

       The next day Pippin prepared to set off back to the Tooklands once more. "I wish you’d stay a bit longer," Merry objected as his cousin fastened the saddlebags to Jewel’s saddle.

       "No, you don’t," Pippin said with a shake to his head. "If I stayed, I’d be honor bound to play every prank ever played on any prospective bridegroom, and you know it would only be a few days before you’d decide to send me back off home with a bee in my bonnet. And besides, Mum and my sisters and Da will all be wild to know." He leaned forward to whisper loudly in Merry’s ear, "Just remember that the first one to marry you to Estella was Frodo, years ago when you two were little ones and he was still a tween."

       Merry flushed, but with pleasure. "So he did. So, this time when it’s Da saying the words, I’ll remember when it was Frodo saying them."

       Mac, who stood nearby, laughed. "Well, at least you won’t need to have a marriage contract written—I kept the one you talked Brendi into writing for you then, you know. Showed it to old Bernigard from the Great Smial once, and he told me it was proper to be binding."

       Pippin hugged his cousin, and mounted Jewel. "Well," he said as he looked downwards, "at least the weather’s better now. Take care, cousin, fellow conspirators." He leaned down to take the bag of food Esmeralda had prepared for him. "And keep an eye on him, Aunt Esme, Estella."

       And with their assurance they would do so, he grinned at where Freddy and Melilot stood hand in hand near the Master, gave a nod, turned Jewel about, and headed for the Brandywine Bridge, whistling First Footing as he rode away.

O Merry Mine

          “O Merry mine, my little Merry sunshine, it’s time to get up.”

          “Don’t want to.  I’m comf’table,” the child muttered into the blankets he pulled up over his face.

          “I don’t care if you want to,” Frodo replied reasonably, “but as you’re lying on my arm and as I need to get up, I need for you to get up, too.”

          “Go back to sleep,” suggested Merry, who considered himself to be as reasonable as his older cousin.

          “Merry, I have to get up, and very soon, or I’ll have Aunt Esme very frustrated with me.  I mean, I’m far too big a lad to wet my bed, you know.  And, if I wet my bed, you know what that will do to you, as you are lying on my arm and I won’t be able to turn the other way.”

          Grumbling, Merry sat up.  “Oh, all right.”

          Frodo’s face appeared relieved as he rolled over to get out of bed.  “Thank you very much, and I suspect Aunt Esme would thank you, too, if she were to know the circumstances.”  He shook his arm.  “It’s asleep.  It will be minutes before I can feel again, I’m afraid.”  He rose and reached for his dressing gown with his left arm and rather clumsily donned it.  “Now--for the privy.”

          “Well, since you’re going, I’ll go, too,” Merry yawned as he slipped his feet out from under the covers.  “Then we can go back to bed together.”

          As they hurried down the corridor to the privy Frodo commented, “I didn’t even notice you’d slipped into bed with me.  In fact, I clearly remember tucking you into your own bed and going alone to mine.  I’m sure you weren’t there when I blew out the lamp.”

          “I had a bad dream, and I woke up.  So, I came to your room.  I’m not afraid when I’m with you.”

          “That’s very flattering,” Frodo sighed, “but it makes it hard when you always lie on my arm and make it fall asleep, and don’t want to wake up when I have to get up.”

          They’d finished their business and were on their way back to Frodo’s room when Merry asked, “Frodo--why do you always call Mummy Aunt Esme?”

          “That’s what I’ve always called her, for all she’s really a cousin.  What do you think I should call her, Merry mine?”

          “You should call her Mummy, same as me.”

          “But she’s not my mummy--she’s your mummy.”

          “But she acts like your mummy.”

          “Yes, she’s like a mother to me, Merry--but she’s not my real mum, and we both know it.”

          “But your mummy is gone now.”

          Frodo’s face was solemn.  “Yes, you’re right--she’s gone now and all; but she’s still my mum, and no one else will ever be my mother.  And no matter how much I love your mum, she and I both remember when she was just my cousin I called my aunt, and we can’t ever be truly mother and son as she is with you.  I had that with my real mother, and she’s the only one I can truly have that with.”

          They returned to the bedroom and to the bed, this time Frodo pointedly holding his arm to his side to keep his little cousin from lying on it.  As Frodo pulled the blankets over the two of them and rather fussily arranged them around Merry, the child asked, “Will you promise me something, Frodo?”

          “What, Merry mine?”

          “That you won’t ever leave me?”  Frodo remained quiet for quite some time, and at last the child persisted, “Won’t you promise me, please, Frodo?”

          At last the older lad answered in a low voice, “I can’t promise that, Merry.”

          The child rolled to look in surprise and dismay at his older cousin’s uncharacteristically solemn face.  “Why can’t you, Frodo?”

          Frodo wasn’t meeting his eyes, and there was a deep solemnity in his voice when he finally responded, “I learned, when my parents died, that we can’t make promises like that.  My mum and dad tried to explain a long time ago why we can’t promise never to leave someone, that sometimes there’s no way to stop going when it’s time.  They didn’t want to leave me, I know, and told me all about the things we’d do the next morning, only the next morning they weren’t there.  They couldn’t help it.  It was just an accident, I know, so they couldn’t help it at all, but they had to go and no one could help it--not that night.  And Uncle Bilbo--he said the same--that sometimes the restlessness is on him so strong he must be off--off to Bree or across the Shire, off to find the lost ways and secret gates; and he’s so much older than me he must surely find the time when he must go and leave me behind in Middle Earth.  And now and then--now and then it’s as if I must crawl right out of my skin, I feel so caught.  One day I, too, will need to be off to----”

          “To where?”

          The older lad shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he whispered after a few moments.  “I only know some day I, too, will need to be off.”

          “To find the lost ways and secret gates?” Merry hazarded.

          He felt the blankets move over him as the larger Hobbit shrugged.  “I don’t know.”  Frodo shrugged again, then looked down at his smaller cousin, then smiled consolingly.  “I will promise to only go when I can’t help it, though, Merry.  Now, what was your bad dream about?”

          Now it was the child’s turn to shrug.  “It’s not so scary now, now it’s light out.  It was a dark night, and you were inside and I was outside, and I was looking at the stars that showed through the clouds, and saw some big black monsters, only I wasn’t afraid of them--not yet.  I was following them to see what they wanted to do, only a third one--there were two of them I was following--turned out to be following me, and suddenly I was scared, real scared, and woke up.  That’s when I came in here to be with you.  They’d wanted you, you see--the black monsters, I mean.”

          “How do you know they wanted me?”

          “They kept saying ‘Baggins’,” Merry explained.

          “They might have wanted Bilbo, or Ponto, or even Porto, you know.”

          Again Merry shrugged, adding a sniff this time.  “Maybe, but I think they wanted you.  You were the one inside, not Bilbo or Ponto or Porto.  What’s Porto like?  I’ve never seen him.”

          “The one time he visited us in Whitfurrow,” Frodo began, and Merry shifted to lie closer to Frodo’s chest as Frodo continued his story, content to be by the Hobbit he idolized so and thought of as his big brother.

******* 

          A year later Merry approached Frodo’s closed bedroom door with a feeling of fear.  Gomez had hurt Frodo’s feelings--the young Hobbit lad knew that.  At times he hated Gomez Brandybuck, even if he was a cousin.  Frodo didn’t trust Gomez particularly, he knew, for the older lad was a bit of a bully at times, and liked making fun of Frodo because Frodo didn’t have folks of his own.  Sometimes Gomez would take something Frodo had made, like a drawing he’d been working on or a story he was writing, and he’d make fun of it.  Merry hated when Gomez would do that, for he thought Frodo’s stories were wonderful and his pictures just as good.  So far Grandda Rory and Dad and Uncle Mac and Mummy hadn’t caught Gomez at it, and Frodo had forbade Merry from telling them; but Merry didn’t know how much longer he could keep from telling them, Gomez was so hateful.  So Frodo had withdrawn to his room, and Merry was intent on seeing to it his cousin was all right.

          He knocked his special knock so Frodo would know it was him, and at last he was rewarded with, “Come in, Merry mine.”  Relieved, the little Hobbit lad opened the door and went in.

          Frodo was draped across his bed, and he had one of his journals open in front of him, and a graphite stick in his hands.  He gave Merry a severe look.  “I’m all right, Merry.  You don’t have to be worried for me.”

          “He was hateful, Frodo,” Merry said as he crawled up on the bed beside him.

          “Yes, he was.  And starting tonight I’m going to get him back.”

          “How?”  Merry sat up eagerly, for he knew that Frodo’s pranks could be ingenious.

          “Well, you know how much he likes bread pudding?  You see, Willow’s been saving leftover bread for the past few days to make some, and I think we should get some of it and make a bit of our own.  And if we add some cascara to it....”

          It was a wonderful trick, and worked perfectly.  Frodo had added just enough cascara to it to keep Gomez having to run to the privy frequently for two days, but not enough to hurt him seriously.  And no one could explain how Frodo might have been involved, although Gamma Menegilda was certain somehow her husband’s nephew had managed to relieve her of a bit of cascara when he helped her reorganize and refill her stores for the herb chest, a suspicion she couldn’t actually prove.  But how it was that a wonderful bowl of bread pudding had managed to find its way into Gomez’s room the morning Willow prepared it for luncheon in the common dining hall no one could explain, although his greed at eating it all was recognized as common enough to him.

          The night after Gomez finally was able to go all day without having to return to the privy every few minutes Merry came to Frodo’s room and crawled in bed with him again, pleased that Frodo was so well avenged on Gomez.  Frodo was asleep with his arm out as he usually slept, and Merry slipped under the covers to pillow his head on it as he usually did, glad Frodo was there.

          He was awakened by, “O Merry mine--my arm’s asleep again, you know.  Wake up, little Merry sunshine.”

*******

          “O Merry mine--wake up, my little Merry sunshine.”

          Merry lay on his side, his head pillowed on Frodo’s arm as usual, but he refused to roll over and look at his older cousin.  “Don’t want to,” he said stubbornly.  “And don’t call me that.  I’m mad at you.”

          He felt Frodo’s sigh against his back.  “Please, Merry--try to understand.  I’ll be in a family of my own again.”

          “You have a family of your own--here, in the Hall where you belong.”

          “Merry--this is your family.  Bilbo’s my family.”

          “No more your family than mine, you know.  He’s a cousin to all of us, after all.”

          “But he’s my family head.”

          “He’s family head for me, too.”

          “Your grandda is your family head, and then your dad will be your family head, and then you will when it’s your turn.  You’re not a Baggins, Merry.  You’re related to Bilbo through the Tooks, not the Bagginses.”

          “I’m related to him through you, Frodo Baggins.”

          Again he felt a sigh.  “Merry,” Frodo said again, rising up on his elbow to look down on him, “if I stay any longer I’ll fade away.  Aunt Gilda won’t let me do anything worthwhile, and everybody watches me all the time to make certain I don’t do anything strenuous.  And when I ask why I can’t go play at roopie they just shrug and mutter about how I should understand not every Hobbit child plays at it.  Same about running in the races, or learning to ride or working in the stable.  Now I’m not getting in trouble for raiding the farms any more, it’s like I can’t do anything.  Every time I go out on my own they get worried, and when I come back they are full of questions.  I can tell them honestly I’ve not been doing anything wrong, but they still are looking at me as if I’m made of finest glass and will break if anyone looks at me closely.  I can’t take it any more, Merry.  I feel like I’ll crawl right out of my skin if it keeps on.

          “Bilbo is the only one who listens--really listens to me, Merry.  He realizes I can’t stay on with everyone guarding me like--like I’m some soap bubble that will pop if the wind gets at me.  He knows how I hate feeling useless except when I’m allowed to keep care of the younger ones or on watch at the cove on the river in the summer.  He and Aunt Gilda got into such a row over it, you know, how it hurts me to be watched by everyone, as if everyone knows a secret about me but me, and they’re watching to make certain I don’t learn of it.”

          Something soft and warm fell on Merry’s temple, and he turned over in surprise, shocked to find Frodo was crying.  He’d only seen Frodo cry a very few times, usually only when he’d hidden himself away after one of the older lads had said or done something terribly hurtful and Merry had managed to find his hiding place.

          “Frodo?” the child asked softly, suddenly afraid.  Frodo had gotten paler over the winter, paler and thinner.  He’d heard his mother comment on it often enough, and discussing it in low tones with Gammer Menegilda and the healers.  One of the healers had nodded his own understanding.

          “It’s all right, Merry mine.  Only, please, try to understand.”

          “I’ll miss you.”

          “I’ll miss you, too, Merry.”  Frodo sniffed, then murmured, “I don’t really want to go, Merry, but I can’t stay--not and--and expect to live.  Every time I’m not allowed to do something I just cringe inside me, and a little more of me dies.  I’ve been dying by inches, and I suspect I have only a few left at this point.”

          Merry found himself forcing his arms around Frodo, holding his older cousin as closely as he could.  “I’ll miss you, too, Frodo mine.”

*******

          “O Merry mine--wake up, my little Merry sunshine.”

          Merry rolled over, looking up into Frodo’s face.  Frodo’s face was happier, fuller, than when he left Brandy Hall, his eyes less haunted.  “Morning, my Frodo,” he murmured sleepily.

          “If you’ll sit up for a moment, I’ll go to the privy.  My arm is asleep again.”

          Merry sat up long enough to allow Frodo out of the bed, and waited until his cousin came back again.  As Frodo carefully arranged the covers around the two of them, Merry said, “You really like it here, Frodo?”

          Frodo nodded.  “I love it here, Merry.  I have Uncle Bilbo, who loves me as if he was my father.  He lets me do things--run races, play roopie, help people who need it, do much of the marketing, dance--you saw me dance at the Free Fair, I know.”

          “Yes--you were wonderful!  But, you’re always wonderful.”

          “I help in the garden, too, and am helping teach Sam to read.  I swim in the Water, and last week helped cut wood for the winter coming up.  And I can study and argue with Bilbo--he likes to have me argue with him, but he calls it debating, as long as I follow the rules and attack ideas and thoughts instead of people.  When I can show his ideas are wrong he’s pleased with me, although he’s just as glad when he proves mine are wrong.”

          “Do you call him Dad?”

          Frodo’s face grew more serious.  “No, Merry--he’s not my dad, not my real father.  He doesn’t want me to call him Dad, either, for he knew my dad so well and wants me to always love and honor him.  But if I’m still happy here when a year is up, he’s going to adopt me as his heir, and then I’ll stay here and be Master of Bag End after him, and I’ll be family head after him, too.  No, he’s my Uncle Bilbo and will always be my Uncle Bilbo, and that’s all he wants to be.  We’ll go for a bit of a tramp next week, probably the last one we can do with fall setting in.  We’ll only be gone a couple days, though.  And maybe, just maybe we’ll see some Elves.  I’d love to meet some more Elves.”

          “Will you get to meet Dwarves?”

          “Well, he’s already introduced me to Dwarves, when we lived in Whitfurrow before my mum and dad died.  The Dwarves like him and respect him and call him the esteemed burglar.”

          “Then--then you don’t want to come back to the Hall and live with us again?”

          Frodo seemed sad, but determined.  “No, Merry mine, I’ll never stop loving you, but I’ll never live in the Hall again.”

          “And you’ll stay here, Frodo, even when Bilbo doesn’t need you any more?”

          “Don’t cry, Merry.  This is where I belong now, here in Hobbiton.  I think I’ve always belonged here, even if my mum didn’t want to live near Cousin Lobelia.”

          “She’s nasty--everyone says so.”

          “Her tongue is nasty enough, but she can’t hurt me, you know, not really.  Oh, Merry, you can’t understand just how much I love knowing I’m useful--really useful.  And Uncle Bilbo is teaching me to cook and bake more, although I don’t think I’ll ever be as good a baker as he is.  And I’m really starting to learn Sindarin now--that’s one of the Elvish languages.  It’s such a lovely language--all silvery on the tongue.”

          “Aunt Lanti and Uncle Pal will be here today with the lasses.”

          “Yes, I know.”

          “She’s getting fatter, did you notice?”

          Frodo laughed.  “Don’t say that to her.  She’s not really getting fatter--that’s just the baby.”

          “What baby?”

          “The one who will be born sometime after Yule.”

          “How do you know it’s a baby and not just her getting fat?”

          “Because there have been letters about it.  We’re planning to go to the Great Smial for Yule this year, and your family, too, to be there when the bairn comes.  Although Uncle Pal may decide to stay at the farm, if Aunt Lanti has any difficulties.  Nobody wants the bairn to be born too early, like I was.  I guess that’s why Aunt Gilda used to not let me do lots of things, because I was born too early.  I overheard Cousin Lobelia talking about it in Hobbiton, and I asked Uncle Bilbo, and he agreed that’s why.  Oftentimes, I understand, those who are born too early can be delicate, and after my folks died they thought that was true of me.”

          “But you’re not delicate!”  Merry was offended by the idea.

          “Uncle Bilbo agrees with you.  Now, do you want to get up for first breakfast?  Uncle Bilbo and I made honey buns yesterday.  And he has a special iron the Dwarves made for him out of cast iron, and you pour batter in it and close it down and cook the batter over the range.  The cakes come out all golden, and taste wonderful with syrup or berries and thick, sweetened cream on them.  And I can smell the bacon cooking now.”

          As they pulled on their dressing gowns and headed for the kitchen, Merry asked, “Will the bairn be another lass this time, do you think?”

          “There’s no real way to know, I guess, until it’s born.  I have a feeling, though, this time it will be a lad.  And if it is, he will need you to teach him things, like I’ve taught you things.  After all, there aren’t any other lads there on the farm in Whitwell.”

          “And I’ll be like a big brother to him, like you were to me?”

          “Exactly.”

          Merry thought about it as they entered the kitchen.  “I’d really like that, you know, Frodo?”

          Frodo was smiling with approval as they took their places, side by side, at the cheerful trestle table and Uncle Bilbo began immediately piling their plates with bacon and sausages and the sweet baked cakes he’d mentioned.

*******

Dearest Merry mine,

          I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to the farm with you, but the healers won’t let me travel with all the cold and snow.  I was very ill last month, as you know.  I don’t even remember all of it, I’m afraid.  And now little Peregrin is born, and at least you were able to be there for it.  I understand he was a bit early, although apparently not so early as I was.  You’ll have to write and tell me all about it, and all about him.

          I was so sorry to hear that Aunt Gilda also got the lung sickness.  I’m sure that if it weren’t for that she would have come to help nurse me.  Auntie Dora, my dad’s older sister, came instead.  I’ve only seen her a few times before, so I barely remembered her.  She’s quite strict yet actually very nice.  She’s always sending Uncle Bilbo letters about how he should do this or that or telling him How He should Act now he has a Child in the House.  That’s how she writes--many of the words in capital letters.  She did all the laundry herself while she was here, and darned all my mittens, and mended all my shirts and trousers and ironed everything that can be ironed, and helped decorate for Yule.

          Sam has helped a good deal, too, and I understand he stayed several days while I was at my sickest.  He helped fetch and carry for all of us, and would sit by me when Uncle Bilbo and Auntie Dora needed to take naps.  But his own mum caught the lung sickness, too, and she’s not recovering like I am.  I know that the Gaffer is still worried for her.

          I’m glad you were only a little bit sick, not like me, and that all of you were well over it before you traveled to Tookland.  I hope you can stop for a short visit on your way back to Buckland so I can see you.  I so miss my little Merry sunshine, although you aren’t quite so little any more, I suppose.

                                                Your cousin,

                                                Frodo Baggins

*******

          “O Merry mine, can you tell me how the infant ended up in my bed, too, same as you?”

          “Well, he follows me everywhere.  Last night he slipped out of his cot and came to get into mine with me, and when I decided to come sleep with you he followed me.”

          “But how did he get into the bed?  He’s much too small to climb up himself.”

          “I know.  I had to boost him up, so he crawled in by you and I slept on the other side.”

          “So this time I got two bairns sleeping on my arm.”

          “I am not a bairn, Frodo Baggins.”

          “I’m sorry--you’re right, for you indeed aren’t a bairn.  But there’s no question he is one, and what’s more, he’s a wet one who’s left my nightshirt and sheets wet, too.  And I’ll need a bath before first breakfast.”

          “I couldn’t leave him behind, Frodo--you’re right, he’s like a brother to me, and so he’ll be like a brother to you, too.”

          “I see.  Perhaps I oughtn’t to have put that idea into your head.  Well, let me up so I can take off this wet nightshirt and put on my dressing gown and go off and get a bath.  I don’t want to smell like wet nappies.”

          “We ought to change him first, don’t you think?  I know where the clean nappies are.”

          “He’ll need a bath, too, I’m afraid.  Well, get up off my arm and we’ll take him to the bathing room and we’ll all get cleaned up together.  But first go off and get a clean nappie or two.  Oh, dear, it’s more than just wet he is.”

          “Frodo, do all babies stink like him?”

          “I’m afraid so.  Certainly you did when you were a bairn as small as him.”

          “I didn’t!”

          “Oh, I assure you that you most definitely did.”

          “You know what, Frodo?  You sound like Bilbo now.”

          Frodo laughed.  “Well, I suppose I do.  Comes from living with him for almost two years, I suppose.”

*******

          “O Merry mine, it’s time to wake up.  Bilbo and I will have your breakfast ready shortly, you know.  I’ll leave it to you to rouse Pippin there.”

          “He slipped into my bed in the middle of the night--some dream he had of a tree trying to eat me or something.  I’m afraid I didn’t catch all of it.”

          “It’s not so long ago, my fine young cousin, that it was you coming into my bed because you were having dreams of black monsters who wanted me or something like that.”

          “You remember that?”

          “I rather think I do.  Well, the sooner you rouse him, the sooner you can eat.”

          “Frodo--my arm is asleep.  He’s been lying on it the whole time.”

          Frodo laughed.

*******

          “O Merry mine....”  Frodo’s voice was just a whisper in Merry’s ear, but the younger Hobbit was awake immediately.

          “Did you sleep at all, Frodo?”

          “Some, actually; but I need to--to relieve myself.  And somehow during the night----”  Frodo paused and licked his lips.  “Somehow Pippin ended up sleeping on my right arm.”

          “Oh, dear,” Merry murmured as he rose and reached for the shirt Sam, who’d been lying on the other side of Pippin, was already handing him from where he’d been sleeping.  Strider was rising from where he’d been keeping the last watch, but Sam waved him off, leaving the Man to rebuild the fire and prepare what he could for a morning meal.  Sam rather roughly rolled the still slumbering Pippin off Frodo’s right arm and tried chafing some life back into it.

          “At least it’s warm,” Sam muttered as he helped Merry wrestle it into a sleeve of Frodo’s warmed shirt.

          Frodo, who was blinking as if to clear his vision, nodded, his brow furrowed with his discomfort.  At last he murmured, “Leave it, Sam.  I rather need a privy--or the best we can do--now.”

          Sam nodded, and at a shared look with Merry he put himself under Frodo’s right arm while Merry pulled the lifeless, cold left one over himself, and between them raised the older Hobbit to his feet and walked him to the place they’d been using.  His pale cheeks flamed as Merry had to do what was necessary to unfasten his trousers.  For as private an individual as Frodo had become this was almost unbearable.  “I’m sorry, Frodo,” Merry whispered afterward.

          “It’s all right, Merry,” Frodo said softly as he allowed his cousin to redo the fastenings.  “There’s nothing else we can do.  But I hate feeling so useless.”

          Remembering long-ago early morning conversations, Merry nodded his understanding, then put himself back under Frodo’s cold left arm for the walk back to the fire where a yawning Pippin held warmed damp cloths to help cleanse their hands and faces and Strider was already spooning the thick, sweetened gruel into their mugs.  Hopefully some form of help would come to them today, and they’d reach Rivendell in time.

*******

          “O Merry mine, wake up if you can,” Frodo crooned.  Merry opened his eyes, leaving the dreams of orc faces crowding over him behind.  He was in the room he shared with Pippin in the guest house in Minas Tirith, and Frodo leaned over him, his eyes reassuring as Merry caught his bearings again.

          “Oh, Frodo, how glad I am to see you,” the younger Hobbit said.  “But I’m sorry if I woke you.”

          “Well,” Frodo said, absently rubbing at his left shoulder, “at least you didn’t let me wake up to find you’d crawled into my bed and laid on my right arm, putting it to sleep again.  Sam’s fetching some chamomile tea, if you’d like it.”

          “Yes, thanks.”  And as Frodo’s hand again dropped to cover Merry’s the younger Hobbit took and massaged at it, feeling the muscles jumping some under the knuckle near the gap where the finger was now missing.

******* 

          O Merry mine--wake up, my Merry sunshine.

          Merry seemed to waken, finding a joyful, shining Frodo standing over him.  But Pippin----

          Frodo made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, a hand that no longer appeared to be missing a finger.  He’s already awakening, too.  You don’t think the two of you would either one manage to leave the other behind, do you, any more than Sam and I could do?  Ah, here he comes.  Now, do you want to go in, or go by?  I never wanted to go in, not after the first time when Aragorn called me back.

          And as a shining Pippin came to stand at his side, Merry turned to examine the shining of the Halls of Mandos with the glory of the Gardens behind it, completely ignoring the mithril gates they’d passed unawares, glad only to once again awaken in the company of the one individual he’d always thought of as his older brother.

Merry's Wedding

            Merry was fifteen the first time he married Estella Bolger.  It was late spring, and the whole family had come to the Hall for the combination of his grandmother’s birthday and Dodiroc’s wedding.   Dodiroc had married Violet Brownloam from the Marish, a turn of events that no one had anticipated.  No one had realized that Dodiroc and Violet had been courting, for they’d been forced to hide it as Violet’s father Polo had threatened to take a hoe to any lad who came within a league of his place, as certain as he was all gentlehobbits had decidedly impure thoughts about his lasses.

            Not that Dodiroc was precisely a lad, for he was almost forty, while Violet was thirty-five now, and definitely of age.

            All said and done, everyone agreed that somehow the marriage between the plain Brandybuck and the even plainer Brownloam was nevertheless one of the most romantic weddings they’d ever seen.  Dodi had fashioned an arched trellis in the garden outside his own section of the Hall for them to be married under, and had been training honeysuckle and clematis and sweet, yellow roses to climb over it for the past four years; and secretly Violet had been making her wedding dress late at night for almost as long.  Dodi and Violet had combined to write the invitations, him doing pictures of the flowers he loved around the edges and her writing the actual invitations in a surprisingly beautiful script.  When Polo was gone to Scary for his annual visit to his mother the happy couple had come to Saradoc and let him know they’d already sent out the invitations and intended to be married the Highday before Menegilda’s birthday, and showed him all the preparations and all, and asked if Violet could come into the Hall’s kitchens on Mersday and bake the wedding cake.

            Dodi had even tried his hand at writing the marriage contract, although that had been one detail that had ended up needing to be done over.

            “This will never do, Dodi,” Sara had told him.  “The wording isn’t right, you know; and as you aren’t recognized as a Shire lawyer it’s doubtful Will would accept it from you anyway.  I can have Dino do it for you, if you don’t want a practicing lawyer to write it up for you.  He did study under Berni, after all, and has been qualified for years, although he decided he prefers breeding ponies to writing agreements.”

            And so Merry, who’d been copying out a notice for his dad, had been sent off to find Uncle Dinodas and bring him to the office of the Master’s Heir.

            Dinodas was talking with Cousin Brendilac, who’d been granted a couple weeks leave from his apprenticeship to old Cousin Bernigard at the Great Smials to attend the birthday celebration for the Mistress of the Hall when Merry arrived.  “Well, the best way to learn how to write the various contracts is just to practice writing them, Brendi-lad.  Study your model, then put it in a drawer and try to reproduce it from memory.  Then compare it to the model contract and see if you left anything out or used any incorrect phrases.  That’s what Berni had us do it when I was one of his apprentices, you see.  Write practice ones until you can do it automatically.  Try writing in different folks’ names and see how it works.”

            The two conversations had their effects on Meriadoc Brandybuck, and the lovely wedding had its effect on most of the youngsters in the Hall, both the regular residents and the guests.  “Why don’t we have our own wedding?” Pimpernel Took had argued.  “We could make it a nice one, as nice as Dodi’s and Violet’s, I’m certain.”

            “But who should be the bride?” Melilot asked.  “Merilinde, maybe?”

            “She’s not been feeling well lately,” Absinthe objected.  “Besides, she’s too old to want to do a pretend wedding.”

            In the end Estella Bolger had been chosen to be the bride, and Pimpernel and Pervinca had insisted Merry would be the perfect groom.  Somehow, though he ought to have found the idea horrid, Merry found himself not minding, not as long as it was Estella.  He really rather liked her, a fact he’d only just recently begun trying to share with her by leaving a flower by her place at the teens’ table in the dining hall or making certain she got the largest sweet bun in the morning.

            Nor did Estella’s protests seem to have the force to them he’d expected, and in the end the wedding was planned for the day after the birthday party.  But, even if it was just a pretend wedding, Merry decided to do it right.

            Brendi had been the first he’d approached.  “You want a proper marriage contract written out for a pretend wedding, Meriadoc Brandybuck?” he demanded.  “Whatever for?”

            “Because you’re preparing to be a Shire lawyer and need to practice writing the contracts anyway.  It would let you practice, and let us feel how it would be if it were for real.”

            The wheedling went on for a good half an hour, but at last Brendi had given in, and promised to see the desired contract was ready before second breakfast on the day.

            Pimpernel and Absinthe had been the ones to approach Willow in the kitchens about allowing them to bake a cake, and while most of those resident in the Hall were out in the gardens celebrating Menegilda’s birthday and making speeches about what a grand lady she was and how well she’d done in the years she’d served as Mistress of the Hall, the two lasses were mixing up their cake in a corner of the cavernous main kitchen and slipping the pans into the great oven with the sweet crossed buns to be served with the afters that evening.  And while everyone else was dancing through the late afternoon, they were icing their cake and arguing as to what colors they wanted for the flowers and whether or not to use candied violet petals in the decorations.

            In the end Absinthe was the one to take the cake and secrete it in her brother’s room in her family’s quarters, Lesto being apprenticed to a saddler up near Tighfield in the North Farthing and not having been able to take off for the Mistress’s birthday.  No one would bother it there—had Pimmie tried to take it to the guest quarters there was no question her little brother would have been into it, as large an appetite as young Pippin had.

            Melilot had taken Estella to Merilinde’s family’s home to see if her older cousin would help with the wedding dress.  Merilinde had laughed, and it was wonderful to find the idea of helping plan a pretend wedding took her thoughts off her delicate stomach.  Her mother had in the back of the wardrobe the perfect dress, the one she’d worn for her own wedding so many years ago, although she couldn’t wear it now, of course.  It took some pinning and basting, but in the end it looked beautiful on Estella.

            Fatty and Folco helped prepare the portion of the garden where they’d planned to do the wedding, an almost forgotten grotto that had been Aunt Primula’s favorite place in the Hall’s grounds.  There was a portion of an ancient wall and window here from the almost forgotten days when Men had dwelt in what was now Buckland.  This window was tall and arched and seemed exotic, somehow; and the barely discernible stars that decorated the stone frame had always intrigued Estella on her visits here.  Many of the children of the Hall didn’t like coming here as it seemed far too tall and straight to be comfortable for those brought up to cozy rooms and round doorways and windows; but when Estella suggested this was where she’d like to have the wedding the rest had agreed.

            The hardest part had been convincing Frodo to take part in the ceremony.  “You want me to hear your vows for a pretend wedding?” he asked, as amazed and disbelieving as Brendi had been.

            “Of course, Frodo.  I’d really wanted you to stand up with me, but I can have Fatty do that; but you’re the only one I know who’ll do it right, for I know you know all the words.”

            Frodo’s cheeks had become fully flushed.  “But Merry, I’m not a child any more.  I’ll be of age in a few years, you know.  I’m much too old to play at weddings.”

            “But please, Frodo—we’ve been working so hard at it, after all.  I mean, Pimmie and Absinthe have been making the cake all day, and we’re going to have Pippin carry the flowers for us.  And Uncle Mac’s letting me borrow his best vest and jacket, and I’m going to carry the Sword, even.”

            The Sword was an heirloom of the Hall.  It was said it had been given to Bucca of the Marish by Arvedui Last-king’s son as a sign of deepest respect and honor for the service he and those Hobbits who’d accompanied him to fight in the Great War had shown the Kingdom of Arnor.

            Frodo was shocked.  “Uncle Sara would let you carry the Sword in a play wedding?”

            “Oh, I didn’t ask Dad,” Merry said with a careless wave of his hand.  “I asked my gaffer instead.  He doesn’t mind.  He’s not as stiff as Dad is, you know.”

 *

            Frodo did know.  As he’d aged, Rorimac Brandybuck had decided that it was time to stop being stodgy, and to take a page out of old Bilbo’s book and just enjoy life while he could.  Menegilda had been upset at first as she watched her husband bit by bit throw protocol out the window, yet she’d also found her life with her husband had regained some of the freshness and excitement she’d known when she first married him, all those long years ago.

            Well, Uncle Rory was the Master, after all, and if he’d really told Merry he could carry the Sword….  But just to be certain Frodo had cornered his mother’s older brother and asked quietly.

            “Well, of course I said yes, Frodo my lad,” Rory had assured him.  “Why not?  Merry’s a responsible lad, and it’s not like he was playing at war with it or anything.  And I think it’s fine he’s thinking ahead to the day he’ll marry himself—good practice for him, you see.  And he tells me you’re to say the words.  Good for you—good practice for when we see you elected Mayor.”

            “Uncle Rory—what in Middle Earth would convince you I’ll ever be Mayor?  I’m not an adult quite yet, after all.  But I’m far too old to play at weddings.”

            “Frodo Baggins, if there was ever a Hobbit who ought to be Mayor, I think it’s you.”  Then his uncle’s face had gone solemn.  “Listen lad, don’t rush the day you must be an adult.  You’re not of age yet, and you shouldn’t give over all play so soon.  Why, even we adults play at times, you realize—we have to, or we’d die of solemnity.  And Merry’s being a good sport about this for the other lads and lasses and has agreed to be the groom—you can unbend a bit.  Remember, you may be a Baggins, but you have your fair share of Brandybuck and Took to you.  Humor Merry and be glad you’re both still lads whilst you can.  You never know—life can be so unpredictable.  You might never be able to stand up for him when he marries for real, so this may be the one chance you have to see it done.”

 *

            Merry wasn’t certain what it was his grandfather had said, but at dinner Frodo had leaned over and whispered that he’d agree to say the words, and that was all he’d say of the matter.  But there was something in Frodo’s eyes that told his younger cousin he was thinking about what he’d discussed with the Master.

            But he was glad Frodo had agreed.  If he hadn’t, they’d have had to allow Fatty to do it, and that would be just too ludicrous.  Fredegar Bolger and Frodo got along well enough, maybe; but—well, there was a reason they all called him Fatty, and the idea of saying his vows to his exceptionally heavy cousin made Merry’s insides twist for some reason.

 *

            In the morning Frodo dressed with great care.  He’d not told Bilbo what the children were doing or his role in it, for he felt he’d die of embarrassment should an adult come to see this pretend wedding he’d agreed to.  But, as Merry was insistent on seeing to it everything was done right, he might as well make certain he looked as proper as he could.

 *

            Bilbo paused on his way back to his own room with a mug of tea in his hand, watching through the partially opened door as Frodo carefully donned his best jacket over his figured green vest, the one he’d argued over a few years back.  This was the first time Frodo had agreed to wear the shirt underneath it, one of softest green, almost the color of a summer apple, but there was no question it became him marvelously.  Frodo was an exceptionally good-looking Hobbit, and it was only right he should dress the part of the future Master of Bag End.  Yes, a gem his Frodo was, a marvelous gem, and that gem needed be set off properly—of that Bilbo was certain.

            Well, whatever it was the younger lads and lasses were up to, it was plain they’d managed to talk Frodo into going along with it.  That whatever it should be would require him to dress up so when usually once he reached Buckland Frodo was shedding his formal clothes so as to enjoy himself in what had been his childhood home sparked the old Hobbit’s curiosity, and he decided he’d do a bit of poking about and see what it was all about.  It ought to at least be entertaining.  Then the idea struck him—could it be that Frodo’s attention had been at last caught again by a lass?  It wouldn’t be Pearl, of course—she and Bard were now definitely promised; but perhaps someone else.  No, not Melilot—she was still a child; and Merilinde wasn’t about the Hall right now with the illnesses she’d been going through; and besides, she and young Brendilac definitely had an Understanding, capital U, as dear Dora would write it.  More determined than ever to keep an eye on his lad today, Bilbo returned to his own room and drank his tea, keeping an eye down the passage so he would know when Frodo set off at last.

 *

            Merry was feeling more uncertain as he dressed himself.  The vest and jacket loaned him by Uncle Mac were old ones and extremely formal.  He was surprised that they didn’t hang on him like sacking, actually, for Uncle Mac was considerably broader than he, of course; but apparently he’d been a good deal more slender when he was young.  But the real surprise had been the hat that went with the jacket and vest, one of tall, green silk.  As he finished with the buttons and at last set the hat on his curls he was shocked at the image he saw in his mirror.  Was this what he’d look like as a grown Hobbit, then?  He was surprised to realize just how regal and important he looked.  He shivered a little, and at last satisfied he’d done his best to look a proper bridegroom, he opened his door and went out.

 *

            “Dad, I was just in your office, and noticed the Sword isn’t there.  The children aren’t playing with it, are they?”

            Rorimac looked at his older son and smiled.  “Actually, Sara, they’re doing exactly that, and I told them they could.”

            “But, Dad—that’s an heirloom!”

            “Yes, I know, and it’s priceless and irreplaceable and all the rest of it.  But Merry asked for the loan of it especially, and hearing what use he has for it, I agreed.  He’ll not be misusing it or playing at war with it or anything like that—you can be assured of that.”

            “But you can’t let bairns like Merry just play with the Sword—we use it only for accessions and marriages and so on.”

            “Yes, I know.”

            Saradoc looked frustrated, then made his decision.  “Where are they going to be playing?”

            “I’m not completely certain, but they’ve found some part of the gardens they’ve decided to do it in.  Don’t worry, lad—I trust Merry with it, and am certain he’ll do it proud—between himself and Frodo, at least.”

            “Frodo’s involved?  Then it can’t be too awful….”

            Rory snorted.  “It’s not awful at all, and I don’t want you rushing out to break up their games, for this is something they’ve been working toward all week, I’ll have you know.  When you find them, and I’m certain you shall, you being as responsible as you are yourself, you stay back and watch and see if they aren’t doing it right.”

            A few minutes later Sara was scouting through the back gardens, and not finding any clear signs as to where they might be.  But as he approached the garden where the bit of old wall lingered he could hear voices, so he quietly slipped into the shadows of the trees and went forward to see what it was about.

            “I thought you said Frodo was going to hear them,” he heard Fatty say.  “If he doesn’t come, I’ll do it.”

            “He’ll be here—he promised, you know.”  Merry’s voice had that slightly stubborn quality Sara recognized.

            “I can’t believe you brought the Sword, Meriadoc Brandybuck,” Berilac said. 

           Sara slipped further forward where he could see, and realized all the older lads currently in the Hall appeared to be present, along with a fair number of lasses as well.  What was more, all appeared to have chosen to wear adult clothes.  Was that Mac’s old formal jacket and hat?  Sun and stars, it was years since he’d seen them!

           There was an archway set up, twined about with flowers.  What was this?  Playing at weddings, were they?  As he saw how Merry straightened, he realized this was precisely what they were doing, and Merry had the tip of the Sword gently grounded the way his grandfather did when giving a eulogy at a funeral.

           Then it seemed as if the grotto had somehow brightened, and all turned to see Frodo entering carrying an inkstand, looking particularly formal, although not as solemn as he would have expected. 

           He craned his head and saw that there was a table, and on it a slightly lopsided cake on which flowers had been sculpted of sugar icing and candied violet petals.  Nearby was the slightly mismatched set of plates commonly used by the children of the Hall when they played at parties and all, and the old punch bowl and the mismatched set of cups that commonly kept company with the plates.  He could see they indeed were seeking to do it right.

           Pervinca Took was hurrying in with a bowl of flowers—he hoped she’d not taken any Dodi would complain about when he returned, and set it on the table while Merry pulled out a scroll tied with a pale yellow ribbon and handed it to Frodo.  Frodo opened it and examined it carefully, for a brief moment appearing surprised at it.  Then he was nodding formally and setting it on the end of the table with the box of inks, and from an inside pocket he produced his finest steel pen.  Sara nodded, feeling somewhat pleased.  Yes, they were taking care of all the details.

           He was a bit startled but not quite surprised when he realized Bilbo was standing beside him.  “So,” the old Hobbit breathed quietly, “this is what they’re about, is it?”  Sara nodded, and both turned their attention to the “wedding.”

           Fatty was standing for the groom, just behind Merry and a bit to his left.  Now it was just about time….

           He heard a bit of a whistle, and Pervinca and Pimpernel began to sing the wedding song, Pimmie’s voice sweet and clear, Pervinca’s a bit off-key as usual.  And after a moment there was a movement from the further garden, and Estella Bolger came in dressed in a lovely gown, one obviously quickly altered to fit her.  She was carrying a bouquet of variegated roses and had a wedding crown on her head.  Fatty was lifting off the green silk hat and handing it to Berilac, then taking a circlet of green leaves and settling it on Merry’s head.

           He heard a soft chuckle from Bilbo, and at a soft nudge he looked downward.  Oh, moon and starlight—even little Pippin was part of this, all dressed in his white suit and carrying a basket of flowers to stand before the bride and groom.   And the look in Merry’s eyes as he saw Estella approaching followed by Melilot—it was marvelous as they widened, surprised at how very lovely Estella was. 

           And then both stood before Frodo, and Frodo was saying, very gently, “And why this day do you come before this company, Meriadoc Brandybuck?”

           The two gentlehobbits who watched from the screening shadows smiled gently as the wedding went forward.  Frodo said it all properly, and bride and groom said it all properly as well, although Melilot managed to fumble her own part.  But it was the remarkable grace they seemed to see in the three, the small bride, groom, and much taller officiant, that moved them most.  Frodo spoke with a quiet, gentle authority that made the ceremony feel extraordinarily intimate.  And when at last he said, “Behold the new husband and the new wife!” after Merry and Estella gave a most chaste kiss to one another, Sara unconsciously found himself clapping with the rest of the guests, and heard a soft snort of laughter from Bilbo, who was trying to hide the fact he was wiping his eyes.

           “Now that,” the Baggins murmured, “was a wedding indeed.  Oh, my dear, dear lad.”

           The children were turned about, alarmed to realize they’d been spied upon by the Master’s Heir and old Bilbo, but Saradoc walked forward with dignity.  “A most, most marvelous ceremony, Frodo.  Now, Merry, Estella, now that you are well and truly married, shall we decide whether you will remain here until you are of age, or will you live in Budge Hall?”

           Frodo’s cheeks were flaming and the rest of his face a bit pale, but he held himself straight and tall as he watched Bilbo’s approach behind that of Saradoc.  But there was no reproach in the faces of either, only an unexpected degree of pride.  Bilbo approached his ward, looking up into his eyes with respect and love.  “That was so well done, my lad, so well done.  Anyone married by you will know what it means, you realize.”

           Frodo dropped his face in surprise and confusion, but raised it to look again into Bilbo’s as the older Hobbit gently caressed his cheek.  “You really think so, Bilbo?”

          “Oh, yes, my lad—you have the gift for it, you see.”

 *******

           And now, so many years later, Saradoc Brandybuck watched as Pippin gently lifted the high, green silk hat from Merry’s head and accepted the wreath handed him by Sam Gamgee and settled it firmly on Merry’s curls, and as his eyes met those of his son Sara realized that both of them were remembering that other wedding ceremony, back when Merry was only fifteen.

Dedicated to Louie, with many thanks.

Mirror, Mirror

          The first gift received was the awareness of the spring.  On the north side of the Hill, beyond the way up to the top where the residents of the smial had long been wont to sit, picnic, daydream, read or write or draw, and watch the clouds and movement of the light over the Shire in the daytime and the stars and Moon at night, there was an outcrop of stone that had traditionally marked the end of the gardens and the beginning of the orchard that grew on the east side of the Hill.

          He found the spring one morning, working through a small fissure that had been developing slowly over the past three years.  It didn’t give a great deal of water--more a steady trickle; but such steady trickles could cause a great deal of damage to hills that contained smials if not properly cared for.

          And so he began work on the grotto, in which he created a water garden, experimenting painstakingly.  Then, having an idea strike him, he wrote to Annúminas asking to purchase slabs of the green marble quarried there.

          Six weeks later a wagon driven by Dwarves entered the Shire over the Brandywine Bridge and toiled along the Road to the turnoff to Hobbiton and up the lane to the picket gate in the hedge.  The children of the Row watched with awe as the Dwarves lifted the great slabs with the same ease a Hobbit might show lifting a much smaller paving stone; and carefully these were carried up the back stairs and through the gardens to the place where the grotto was taking shape.

          His plans for what he wanted were rough, but apparently were well understood by the Dwarves, for they went immediately back to the wagon for their tools--hammers and chisels and stone knives and saws; and in four days’ time the grotto was almost complete, as well as the stone channel designed to carry the run-off harmlessly down the side of the hill to the small stream that ran along the boundaries of the orchard and into the blooming woods on the south side of the Hill.  Then they went away.

          Then three Elves came, bearing dirt and cuttings, seeds and bulbs--woods violets and spray-loving orchids, great purple flags and tiny forget-me-nots, and helped set up the small plantings along the wall and about the stone-lined pool floored with coarse sand now taking shape at the bottom.

          The water ran slightly more freely now, as if now that it had a pool to disport itself in it felt free to explore and play.

          His daughter followed him about now as he worked on the grotto, digging in the dirt, patting mud over small bulbs and roots, and even wading in the water.  She was the one who first noted that the pool now contained small fish, golden and silver flashes under the sparkling surface of the pool.  How they got there none could (or perhaps would) say; but there they were.  He smiled, and shaking his head at the wonder of it, he set to making the grotto even more beautiful.

          Then came the evening of Yule, when his family had just returned from celebrations at the farm where his wife had been born.  Children had gone in, herded by their mother, to doff party clothes and put on nightshirts and gowns, cleanse sticky faces and hands, and go to bed with poppets and stuffed ponies, cat or dog to keep them company until the late dawn.  It was a fair night, the winter stars sparkling almost as if they were carved from bits of jewels, the air cold and almost still.

          He stood in the small bit of garden he’d once designed for the pleasure of one who no longer frequented it, smelling the clean smell of frost and sleeping earth, resting shrubs and hedges, and the hint of evergreens.  He held his pipe in his hand, but hadn’t filled or lit it, merely held it, for he’d realized the times he truly enjoyed a good pipe were fewer than they’d been when he was younger.  Yet the feel of it was enough to give him comfort as he looked over the hedge, much lower now than he’d kept it then, toward the western horizon.

          Then the hair on the nape of his neck and over his toes seemed to tingle, and he looked to see he wasn’t alone.  An Elf was there, one whose name he’d never been told, but one he remembered from a journey completed years ago, one from a wood of silver trees and golden leaves.  He bowed politely, and the Elf bowed in return, with that singularly graceful respect so native to his kind.  And the Elf held out the Yule gift he’d brought--a great basin of silver, and a ewer of the same metal and workmanship.

          More hair seemed to stand up, for even the dark of past-midnight of a Shire Yule couldn’t keep him from recognizing basin and ewer, sparking further images of hair of mixed gold and silver, hands white and shining holding that ewer, and three individuals in succession bending over the basin.

          He spoke passable Sindarin now, he knew; and even some Quenya; but the language that had been spoken there was different, a silvan tongue not spoken elsewhere.  But the intent was obvious.  The Lady to whom these objects had once belonged had left them behind, now to be given to him as a last bequest to perhaps keep alive more strongly in the mortal lands the memory of what had once been known throughout Middle Earth.  At last he reached for them tentatively, accepting them with humility, saying softly, “Hannon lei.”

          The Elf smiled, bowed again, and disappeared as Elves can do, not to be seen again for many years.

          For several days basin and ewer sat upon the table in the dining room, and the children peered at them with respectful curiosity, knowing instinctively they were not to be touched, as he took a great log of walnut, a tree cut down on the orders of one intended to dance in the Light who had instead called upon himself the Darkness of oblivion, and began working it.

          Spring had barely begun before it was done to his satisfaction, and he carried it out to the grotto he’d built and in which the first plants were beginning to show themselves and set it there, then returned to the smial to fetch basin and ewer, his daughter and now his older son following him to see what he would do with them.

          The ewer fit exactly on one of the higher stone shelves he’d designed for the walls of the grotto, and the great basin accepted the embrace of the wooden rest he’d carved for it, and he believed--or almost believed--all was well.

          On the evening of the spring equinox, after the children were abed and his wife, expecting their fifth child now, had followed them, he took from his wardrobe a grey-green cloak he wore less often now, now that the one who wore its mate was no longer there.  He fastened it with the delicately fashioned, enameled silver brooch, and went quietly out of the smial, following the carefully wrought path he’d laid to the back of the Hill, back to the grotto.

          The light of stars and moon reflected from the shining ewer on its high shelf and from the empty basin; and with a pensive memory of how it had been before, he took the ewer and held it under the spill of water from the spring until it was filled.  Holding it carefully, he approached the basin, and after giving a careful bow he poured the water into it, then set the ewer aside.  He passed his hand over the water, leaned over, his eyes closed, and breathed on its surface, then straightened.  When the light of Eärendil was at its highest, then and then alone he bent over it again, setting his thought on the one vision he wished to see above all others.

          Long he looked, and what he saw he never told.  Only his small daughter, errant from her bed and creeping after her father, saw him bent over the basin, the light of Stars reflected on his face, showing clearly the longing that lay there, the longing for something he could not know again for many years yet, if ever.

          Yes, long he looked, his face aching with longing and a grief not yet assuaged, until suddenly the expression changed.

          He straightened, shaking his head and even laughing.  “Samwise Gamgee,” he murmured to himself, “as the Gaffer always said, you are a ninnyhammer.”  He smiled as he looked one last time into the basin, then turned away.  His daughter found herself having to scurry to get back into the hole and her bed before he re-entered the smial.

          The next morning the basin and its pedestal were moved, now sitting in the midst of the pool where the water from the spring spilled into it with silver plinks and echoes, and the ewer was brought inside where it sat with great honor on the dresser in the dining room until the first daughter married, when it went with her to her new home in the Western Marches.

          But the basin remained in the grotto, the water spilling and singing in it as it filled and the overflow rained down in gladness on the pool below where silver and golden fishes swam.

          And far to the West a small figure walked hand in hand with another as tall as the first was small, both shining in the beauty of the night, below sparkling stars and glistening moon, waiting for the coming of a ship they had great hope would bring to them the golden treasure they’d left behind, singing the songs of longing eased common to their current home.

A joyous Eastertide and Pesach to all.

Awakenings

          He has awakened many times to changed circumstances.  He was three when he awoke from a nap to hear his mother’s tears of fury, frustration, and shame due to the stories she’d just become aware of asserting that Primula Brandybuck Baggins had been unfaithful and that her son was not only illegitimate but in reality the child of Bilbo Baggins rather than that of her husband Drogo.  Before nightfall he and his parents had rented a trap from the Green Dragon and were driving eastward to Buckland and Brandy Hall and the comforting, protective presence of Master Rorimac and Mistress Menegilda.

          When he was eight he was awakened in the night to find that their beautiful smial by the Brandywine River had flooded a second time since they’d moved there from Hobbiton, and this time they would have to move again.

          He wasn’t quite twelve the morning he awoke in those rooms his family inhabited when visiting in the Hall to learn that his parents hadn’t returned from their starlit cruise on the Brandywine; the knowledge they would never again return to his comfort came all too soon afterwards.

          The first time he awoke in Bag End and knew that this was not a dream but reality, and he was now Bilbo’s ward and would be free to explore and do almost anything he might wish he’d almost wept with joy and relief.  As much as he’d loved Sara and Esme and Merry, the realization that he was being held back from doing almost anything worth doing for some reason he couldn’t fathom had been more than he could bear any more.

          The morning he awoke to the fact Bilbo was gone and he was now Master of Bag End, he’d felt lost until he put back on the trousers he’d worn the night before, and in doing so first felt that reassurance he wasn’t truly alone and would never be so from then on.  He found that awareness both comforting and disconcerting, something to be relieved at as well as distrustful toward.  He’d promised Gandalf he’d not wear the funny ring Bilbo had left him, and that he’d keep it both secret and safe; he’d grown steadily more unwilling to let anyone else see It over the years, jealous anyone else might see or touch Its perfection, and somehow increasingly more aware as time went on that others must not be touched by It

          Then was the evening when he was dozing in his chair and was woken by a tap at the window, to find Gandalf had at last returned, further waking him to the knowledge of just what Ring It was that had remained in his pocket for the past sixteen and a half years.  The horror and determination to protect his own that this knowledge itself woke was greater than he’d ever known.

          Then had come that waking in Elrond’s house, waking from the nightmare of fading to wraithdom to the realization he was yet alive--and that he would know pain in his shoulder until he at last left Middle Earth.  A small price, he felt, to know he had reached his goal and freed his own land of the danger It awakened posed.  But that was followed by a far grimmer awakening as he, a mere Hobbit, realized he must go further than anyone ought to have gone, and that it was very likely he would soon die to free not just the Shire but the whole of Middle Earth from even worse evil than he’d foreseen so far.

          In Lorien he’d awakened both to grief and then to the unexpected awareness that he was recovering from that grief, after Gandalf fell with the Balrog.  Then he’d looked into the Lady’s mirror and realized that what he carried was actively seeking to destroy those who accompanied him, and that It rejoiced at Gandalf’s fall.

          That memory was followed by hints of other awakenings--on secret beaches, under cover of great stones and mats of brambles and branches waking to springtime, within the cavern of Henneth Annun, on the steps of Cirith Ungol....  The waking in the orc tower, to the despair of thinking all was lost with the Ring, to pain and torture and the agony of loss--loss of It, loss of hope, loss of Sam.  Further brief coming to awareness in the waking nightmare of crossing Mordor under the weight of It and Its burning against his breast before falling back into the darkness as his strength drained away.

          Then came the waking to the knowledge that at the last he was no longer proof against Its will as It took him in the Sammath Naur and he and It claimed one another, there in that place of fire and darkness.  What he’d expected to be his last awakening on the mountainside had brought him a level of peace he’d not known for years, as he’d sought to comfort Sam, surprised by what both had thought was Sam’s last wish to know how their story would be told.  That he’d lose consciousness with the pain, shock, and grief lightened by the absurdity and dearness of that simple wondering had seemed such a blessing at the time.  Only the awakening that had followed had not been what he’d expected, for he woke not beyond the bounds of Arda but still trapped in his body and interrupted life.  He woke not to wholeness but to the awareness he could never be what he’d been, that he had lost too much--his innocence, his simplicity, his connection to his own people, his ability to accept without question.  But there was life still to be lived, and he stubbornly set himself to living it as he could, until the day he took his leave of the older brother of his spirit and felt he was once again slipping back into dreams.

          That had been followed by a different awakening, or perhaps merely a continuation of a sort of the previous waking, as he did his best to see things set right in his homeland but realized that he could no longer connect with his own land, was no longer in rhythm with its seasons, and that he was fading even as he looked at himself.

          So at last he considered the choice before him--between staying and fading, or going and perhaps awakening again.  How could he allow Sam and the rest he knew and loved watch him die?

          So now he stood on the deck of the grey ship, between Gandalf and the Lady, Elrond behind him, the Wizard’s hand on his shoulder, watching the rain curtain like silver glass roll back, and he took a deep breath, feeling himself awaken fully for the first time in years.

She Watches

                 She watches as she wrings out the laundry on the pavement he set for her outside the back door to the smial, watches him puttering with the roses or weeding amongst the lilies, checking for caterpillars on the lilac bushes or cultivating the herbaceous border.  It’s still a wonder to her that he came back--came back to her, to the Shire, after all he’s been through, after the strange lands he’s seen, after the dangers he’s survived and the wonders he’s experienced.

                How can anyone who’s fled Black Riders and known the dreamy glory of the Golden Wood or the magnificence of the King’s White City find comfort in the mundane world of holes and low houses, fields and villages?  And how can one who’s stood in the presence of the golden Lady and her dark-tressed granddaughter be satisfied with a mere farmer’s daughter?  How can one who’s withstood the temptation of the Ring bear to listen to the silly arguments of Tunnelies and Proudfoots as to where a boundary stone had been originally placed, or have the patience to examine interminable documents, weeding out specious arguments and cheating phrases?

                Yet he’s done this and more, and comes home three to four days a week from Michel Delving to rejoice in her company and his children’s growth and accomplishments.

                And yet, for all most of his heart is here, here in Bag End under the Hill, she still catches him paused, his eyes turned westward, for an important part of his heart is there, waiting for his coming one day.

                But that day isn’t yet, not while she remains here for him to come home to.  And she finds she has pity for the one who waits there--some pity, at least.

                But for now he will be whole and happy here with her and with their children, here where the Creator planted him.

Raiding

          "I don't see why you brought the faunt," Gil said, looking at the place where young Berilac sat against the trunk of a rowan tree, his knuckle to his mouth.  That was what the four-year-old always did when he wasn't certain what was expected of him--gnawed at his knuckle.  Perhaps better than sucking on his thumb, Gil supposed as he turned his attention back to their leader.

          "We won't be able to pull this off without him," Frodo assured him.  "If it was one of us they'd realized in a second that this was a diversion, and they'd send someone to check out the gardens to see if there were more of us, scrumping their vegetables.  But if it's a faunt who barely talks as yet, they'll be all worried about him."  He turned to Brendilac.  "All right--we're ready for the kitten."

          "But, what if it just jumps down again, soon as we get it into the tree?" Brendi objected.

          "That cat hasn't figured out yet it can do so," Frodo assured him.  "He's still too young.  Once we get him on the limb, if anything he'll go up higher--he won't go down.  Lots easier to go up than to get back down again.  All right, Freddy--you watch the windows, and let us know if you see any movement."  He turned to the chosen tree at the edge of the lane, an apple hanging a bit over the hedge that bounded the farm's orchard.  It was too high to reach up to the lowest limbs, so he squirmed under the hedge and carefully climbed up into and along the limb until he could reach down.  "Now, hand me Sprite," he commanded in a low hiss.

          Gil unfastened the cover to the carrying basket and looked down into the pale grey face of the kitten, its green eyes huge as it looked up suspiciously at a tree canopy it didn't recognize.  "Come on, you,"  he said as he reached down and put his hand under its belly.  "Come on, and you'll get to do some climbing."

          Sprite was having none of it.  He'd apparently hooked his claws into the wicker used to weave the basket during the trip from the Hall, and showed no indication of agreeing to being ejected into a place it didn't know.  After getting one paw released, Gil worked on the second, only to find that once he was done the first had again made as great a purchase as it had known when he started.

          "Hurry up!" Frodo urged.  "Freddy's making signs!  It'll be no good if I'm seen up here!"

          "He's not cooperating!" Gil explained.  He worked on the first paw again, only to realize the claws of the second paw were more firmly dug into the basket than ever.  "Dogs and cats!" he spat.  "Brendi, help me!"

          Each of them worked on a paw, and soon they had the front paws disengaged, and then the back.  Gil quickly passed the kitten up to Frodo, although Sprite, unhappy about being forced into a situation not of its own choosing, was now seeking to anchor himself to the lad's hands.  "Take the dratted thing!" Gil begged, and finally Frodo managed to hook his hands under the kitten's chest and lift it up into the tree, setting it in a crotch where three branches went off in different directions.  At last the kitten's own uncertainty was working to their advantage as it hunkered down, glaring down at Gil, its claws clearly transferring its decision not to be moved to the branches.  Frodo didn't bother sliding back to the trunk, but fastening his own hands to the limb he lay along slipped off, allowed himself to dangle, then dropped the half foot to the ground on the outside of the hedge.  He quickly used a fallen branch of leaves from the hedge itself to sweep the grass he'd flattened as he'd squirmed under into a standing position, then he turned to Berilac.

          "Beri," he said in a no-nonsense tone.  "Sprite is stuck in the tree, do you understand?"

          The faunt nodded.

          "We can't go home till he's down again, and Willow's fixing trout and almond cakes for lunch."

          "Want some trout," the child said clearly. "I like trout."

          "And you like almond cake, too," Frodo prompted.

          The child nodded.

          "You need help to get him down, and we have to go that way," he said, pointing down the lane toward the Bucklebury Ferry.  "And you can't get any trout or almond cake until you can get someone to help you get him down."

          "You get him down," suggested the child.

          "I can't--we need to go that way," Frodo said.  "But we can't get any trout or almond cake until he's down and back in the basket."  He kicked the open basket over on its side.  He gave a nod at Gil and Brendi, and they stepped back.  "Remember, Beri," he repeated, a bit more loudly, "we can't go back until the kitten is in the basket."  He grabbed the other lads' shoulders and drew them away around the turn, leaving Beri there with the basket, looking up in consternation at Sprite, perched up in the apple tree.

          "Do we go into the garden now?" Freddy asked as he joined them in the shade of the hedge some way beyond Beri.  "We oughtn't to, for they're coming outside and they'll most like see us."

          "Not until they're busy with Beri and the kitten."

          "But how will they even notice him?" Gil asked, frustrated.

          "They will," Frodo assured.  "Beri's just working it out, but he'll start crying soon, and loud.  He's very loud when he realizes he might be missing something he likes, like trout and almond cake."

          Brendi looked at their cousin with admiration.  "Is that why you asked Willow if she'd cook those today?" he asked.

          "Well, Uncle Rory brought home a whole string of trout yesterday--why not use them to our advantage?" Frodo began, and just then he stopped, a look of triumph on his face as Beri at last realized he'd been left alone by his cousins and they wouldn't come back until the kitten was out of the tree, and began to wail.

          Gil had to admit that when Frodo'd declared Berilac Brandybuck was the right one for this caper he'd been right--the faunt's scream of rage and frustration was piercing.  The four of them peered around the bush in time to see a farmer and his wife come running.  Beri was pointing up into the tree at Sprite, who, upset at the noise had retreated back toward the trunk, and the goodwife, realizing the problem, was trying to reassure the child.  The farmer had to go back to the entrance to the orchard and come back up the hedge to get to the place the kitten had now flattened itself against the trunk, but as the Hobbit reached up to try to pluck the kitten out of its perch it reached down and swiped at him, catching the back of the farmer's hand and leaving a red line of broken skin behind. 

          Gil was watching, fascinated, when Frodo grabbed at him and drew him away.  "Come on!" he was hissing.  "Let's not waste the time watching--it will take him some time to get that kitten out of the tree--believe me!"  Gil found himself being dragged to the place they'd already determined would give them best access to the lines of tomato plants, whose fruits were just now reaching that plump, red perfection....

          By the time they got back a ladder had been fetched, as well as a small throw of some sort, and Sprite, true to Frodo's predictions, had climbed quite high in the apple tree, lodging himself in the midst of several shoots going off in different directions.  The vocabulary of the farmer seeking to get the animal out of the tree was far wider than any of the lads had anticipated, and they absorbed some colorful phrases that Gil promised himself he'd use on Gomez back at the Hall, and soon.  At last the fellow managed to get the thick cloth wrapped sufficiently around the kitten to trap its feet, and with a grunt of triumph he lifted the whole mess up free of the hampering shoots and leaves and quickly swaddled it, then carried the struggling bundle back down the tree where his wife held the basket opened and ready to receive its intended occupant.

          Now there was a new struggle, for Sprite, having hooked his claws in the blanket, had no intention of letting go.  "Oh, for pity's sake, Clovis," the goodwife said, exasperated with her husband's growing frustration, "we can easily do without the wee blanket.  Let the lad have it!  Just put the whole thing into the basket and be done with it."

          Realizing this would relieve him of the entire situation, the farmer did just that, and his wife quickly had the basket closed and fastened before the kitten could realize it might escape yet again.

          Frodo thumped Freddy on the shoulder, and with a final glance back at Frodo the older lad rose from where he'd been kneeling and peering around the bush to watch, and hurried out, calling, "Derry!  Derry!  Where are you?"

          It was masterful, Gil thought, as he saw Freddy join the farmer and his wife, explaining he'd been walking with his brother, who'd insisted on carrying the kitten's basket, and apparently the lad had stopped to look in at the wee thing and it must have escaped.  "I didn't even realize he wasn't right there behind me," he said.  "Oh, thank you for watching him for me.  Well, come along, Derry, for elevenses will be on the table before we get there if we don't leave now.  And we're promised almond cake."

          Fred scooped up the basket and hurried to catch up with Berilac, who'd caught sight of Frodo peering around the hedge and was heading toward him as fast as his little legs could carry him.  Grabbing the faunt's hand, Fred allowed himself to be dragged along by the child, smiling with triumph as they came abreast the other lads and they all turned to hurry back toward the place where they'd left the small rowboat they'd used to cross the river in a copse of willow shrubs.  And as they turned away from the farm hedge at last, Gil could swear he heard the farmer's cries of dismay at finding all his ripe tomatoes had been taken by scrumpers.  He grinned as he reached down to pick up little Beri so they could go more quickly.

Vocabulary Lessons

            “Master Balstador?”

            The seneschal of the Citadel of Minas Tirith looked up from the requisition from the Mistress of Laundresses for six new wash tubs and two dye vats to see one of the younger pages standing at the door to his office.  “Yes, Sephardion?”

            “The door herald would see you, sir.  Ivormil son of Canelmir, lord of Bidwell in lower Lossarnach, has arrived, and would present his father’s letter of greetings and service to the King.  He has been told that the King is not within the city, and he is most displeased.”

            Balstador groaned as he rose.  With all the fuss of the coronation and the coming and going of the great ones at all times of the day and night, or so it seemed, he was beginning to wonder if there would ever again be a time when a Man might actually get some of the more needful work of the Citadel done?  Or did the lords of the city think that washtubs and dye vats remained usable indefinitely?

            He walked with the page down the corridor, hearing the heels of the boy’s dress boots clicking on the black and white marble while his softer-soled slippers made a distinct shushing sound.  “What is the problem with the Man?”

            “He appears to believe, sir, that the King ought to have had the courtesy to remain within the Citadel until he arrived and presented himself and gave his missive into the King’s hands.”

            Balstador gave a sideways look at the boy.  He might be young, but Sephardion was far from dull-witted, and had obviously taken this lesser lord’s measure quickly and found it wanting.  “I see.  Was there any notice that Lord Canelmir was sending his son to Minas Tirith to present his duty correspondence before the King?”

            “None that I am aware of, sir, although there has been discussion between our Lord King, Master Galador, Prince Faramir, and Lord Húrin as to which of the lords of the land had yet to swear their fealty, and the name of Lord Canelmir was given as one who had not yet done so nor sent word as to when he might be expected to do so.”

            “The young lord has been greeted with courtesy and offered the hospitality of the Citadel?” asked Balstador.

            “He’s been shown to the lesser retiring room that he might refresh himself, with instructions he is to be brought afterwards to the northern waiting room and that he then be served his choice of ale, juice, or wine and breads and cheeses and what fruits we have on hand, sir, at least until we learn what more we may be required to offer him.”

            Balstador nodded.  “It sounds as if you and the door herald have it well in hand, then.  I’ll see him and find if we will be required to offer him one of the suites for the minor nobility, then.  Who’s attending on him?”

            “Iorvas, sir.”

            “Good--he will have no cause to complain for service, then.  Is there aught else you should tell me or that you need to do with this one?”

            “No, sir--merely to announce you as you arrive, sir.  The door herald felt the young lord would take it amiss should that not be done.”

            “I see.”  They were approaching the main doors into the Citadel, and he  greeted the door herald, listened to his report and found it the same as the boy’s, and agreed that all had been done to welcome this Ivormil with as much courtesy as could be expected for one who came unannounced.           

            “He appeared most displeased our Lord Elessar was not within the Citadel to meet with him immediately, Master Balstador.  I explained that the Lord King holds regular audiences in the mornings four day a week while he is in residence, and that had he come yesterday morning he might have been properly introduced before the entire court.  He waved his hand as if the King’s schedule was of little import.  Even our Lord Steward Denethor held his public audiences on a regular basis, if not as frequently as does our Lord Elessar.  I do not understand why he appears to believe the King is answerable to him--save he is very young, I fear.”

            Balstador gave a great sigh.  “I will speak with him and see if we can placate him, not that, as you’ve noted, that should be necessary.  You have done your duty well--I will take over the matter from this point.”  The door herald bowed, relief that someone else had taken responsibility for the young intruder obvious as he returned to his regular post on a stool near the station for the inner guards for the great doors.

            Sephardion preceded Balstador back down the hallway toward the passage to the northern waiting room.  A single guard stood there now, one of those extra who’d stood within the great doors as was proper.  Balstador halted short of the doorway and asked, “How many did he bring to attend on him?”

            “Two guards and a valet, sir.  They’ve been taken to the visiting servants’ hall.”

            “Good.  All right, I believe you may announce me now.”

            “Yes, sir.”  The boy approached the door and knocked, then opened the door, stepping in and holding it as he announced formally, “Master Balstador, seneschal for the Citadel of the White City, my Lord Ivormil.”  With that he gave a graceful bow as the seneschal entered the room, after which the boy withdrew and, Balstador was certain, also gladly left matters in Balstador’s hands.

            Balstador stopped some yards short of the visitor and made his own bow.  “My Lord Ivormil, as you’ve already been told, our Lord King Elessar is at this time out of the city examining the damage visited on our defenses and seeing what repairs have been wrought so far so as to establish what yet remains to be done.  I regret it falls to me to greet you, but I do so in his name.  If there is aught that we might do for you while you must wait, you are free to ask it of me.”

            Ivormil son of Lord Canelmir was indeed young--perhaps eighteen, his beard still establishing itself; and it was obvious he was rather a dandy with his pointed boots and his clothing that was flattering but would restrict his movements were he called upon to defend himself or do aught of a useful nature.  He was also plainly in a pet.  “What you might do for me?” he fumed.  “I am brought to a darkened waiting room, served cheese and breads and fruit but no meats, and offered substandard beer and wine--and juice as if I were a simpering maiden.  Then I am greeted not by one of any rank but by heralds and other servants!”  And it was obvious by the way he spat out the word he felt servants were beneath contempt.

            The King’s seneschal felt his hackles rise.  In the past few weeks their new Lord had made it plain that he would see all serving within the Citadel treated ever with honor, and that he honestly was both grateful for the service rendered by all who labored to keep this great edifice functioning properly and respectful of the work they performed.  And here came one who resented being greeted by such as himself when the King and his folk all were courteous and expressed thanks regularly?  Balstador carefully restrained himself, taking deep breaths before he spoke.  “I grieve that this must be so, my lord, but so it is at this time.  Not only has the King ridden out, but most of his advisers and the lords of the realm currently in residence within the city have gone with him or have retired to their own houses, so I fear that there are but few of any rank within the Citadel to give you proper welcome.”

            “Surely the King’s Lady wife----”

            Balstador could feel himself stiffen the more.  “As yet our Lord Elessar is unwed, and he has not appointed a chatelaine.  His kinsman, Lord Hardorn, he has appointed to oversee the running of the household until such time as he takes a wife; but Lord Hardorn is also the captain of the King’s own Guard as well as Master of the Privy Purse, and he rides at our Lord’s side.  Nay, I fear the only lords of any rank----”  He paused.  Did he dare?  He found he had to labor to keep from grinning evilly at the idea of it, but it would serve the foppish popinjay right!  He gave a cough, covering his mouth to hide any sign of a grin until he could properly school his expression to one of apparent courteous solicitation.  Finally he continued, “Pardon me, my lord.  As I began to say, the only lords of any rank currently here on the level of the Citadel are two of the King’s Companions, one of whom is enjoying the gardens and one of whom is studying documents in our Lord Prince Steward’s private office.  If you would wish to accept their greetings?”

            “That will do,” Ivormil said with a careless wave of his hand, the idea apparently appealing to his vanity.

            “As you will, my lord.  If you will follow me.”  He turned to Iorvas and noted the tension and relief the servingman barely hid.  “Does Lord Iorhael have all at hand he might wish for?”

            “Yes, Master Balstador,” Iorvas answered, “and before I came to offer what I might to Lord Ivormil here I’d just taken Mas--Lord Perhael bread rolls with cheese and meats and some drink.”

            “Very good, Iorvas.  And could you tell me where I might find him within the gardens?”

            “He was near the rose arbor, sir.”

            “Excellent, and I offer you my thanks for that information.  I will take Lord Ivormil there, then.”

            Balstador saw the amusement rising in Iorvas’s eyes.  “I shall carry the refreshments there, then, sir, before I must return about my regular duties.”

            “Very good.”  The Seneschal turned to the visiting heir to Bidwell.  “Young lord, if you will follow me, then?”  He turned and led the way out of the room back toward the vestibule and the way toward the Hall of Kings.

            “I am sorry, my lord, that you have found our refreshments less than satisfactory,” he continued as they walked.  “However, due to the serious nature of the siege against the city and the destruction of many of the storehouses in the First Circle by the Enemy’s siege engines and the fires he rained upon Minas Tirith and the destruction of farms upon the Pelennor there have been shortages of food and goods experienced within the capital.  Our Lord King refuses to feast at the expense of the rest of the city, and has ordered austerity measures until more shipments arrive from throughout the rest of the realm.  We are to take delivery of vast stores of grain from Lebennin tomorrow, I am told, although he has directed most of it is to be made available to the bakeries and malt houses lower in the city; and a shipment of beef cattle and hogs that arrived two days since from Anorien is to be made available to the public markets in the First, Third, and Fourth Circles while he has agreed to accept a shipment due tomorrow from Lamedon for the purposes of the Citadel.  What meats we have available are being saved primarily for full meals, although for those of the King’s Companions who took the worst hurt he has ordered they be given meat whenever they desire it for the sake of their health. 

            “As for the ale and wine--he has granted some of the best from the Citadel’s cellars to the butteries for the Men of the Guard both for the Citadel and for the city at large.  Our Lord Elessar explains that he has only the greatest respect for those who braved all for the defense of the city during the siege and the long war with Mordor, and for those who went willingly to face Sauron’s forces at Cair Andros, Osgiliath, and before the Black Gates and throughout Ithilien in the last several weeks of the War.”

            “I see,” Ivormil commented, and for a moment Balstador thought he detected a trace of discomfort in the eyes of the young Man.  However, that was swiftly forgotten as they entered the Hall of Kings and Ivormil first saw the reflection here of the greatness of the realm.  The chin of the young heir to Bidwell raised as he looked upon the statues of the Kings and Stewards chosen to reflect the greatness of Gondor’s past and as he beheld the great dais on which the throne of Gondor sat, with the two chairs upon its lowest step.  He paused, turning to the seneschal.  “For whom has a second seat been made available?” he asked, indicating the one draped in grey opposite the black seat for the Steward.  “For Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth?”

            “Indeed no,” Balstador replied.  “That is the seat of Lord Halladan, kinsman to the King and Steward for Arnor.  Our Lord King is, after all, ruler of two realms now.”  He resumed his stride up the Hall toward the doors leading back into the residential wings.  “Will you and your servitors be requiring lodging, Lord Ivormil?” he asked as they passed the dais and the Guardsmen who stood by it.

            “Yes--we will be remaining within the city for at least a week, I must suppose--time enough for the King to compose a fitting response to my adar.”

            “I understand,” Balstador commented, privately thinking that Lord Aragorn might consider making this insolent pup wait even longer, considering how Canelmir had neither come to the defense of the realm nor sent more than the most symbolic of troops to the defense of Pelargir and nothing to the needs of Minas Tirith itself.  He nodded his thanks to those guards who opened the doors to the hall to the living quarters and led his charge through them.  “I will send word to have quarters made available to you.  You brought three with you, I understand?”

            Ivormil seemed surprised the seneschal already knew this.  “Yes.”

            “Very good, sir.  I will see things made ready, then.”  He led the way to the right, past a great carved screen that marked an area where low couches had been set for residents and visitors to take their ease, and approached the doors at the north end of the hall.  Here two guards also stood at the ready.  These had followed the King to the Black Gates, and their uniforms still bore the traces of that fight with slight dents to their armor and helms and a certain battering to the great spears they held.  Balstador gave each a profound bow of respect as they opened the doors they guarded, and saw them straighten at the recognition. 

            Ivormil, however, glanced back at them with a fastidious revulsion to be seen in his eyes.  “The King would be served by Men so accoutered?” he asked.

            Balstador felt himself stiffen.  “Again,” he said, carefully modulating his tone, “we must remind you that we have just finished with a most grievous war; and we have not as yet been able to replace all arms and uniforms.  I assure you that the King honors these as they appear, knowing how it is that their armor and weapons came to be damaged.”  Good, there was another moment of thought actually forcing itself on the youth.  Balstador hoped it would do the fool some good.

            He led the way past the grounds prepared for the King’s herb garden toward the more formal flower gardens beyond the residential wings.  They were soon amongst the roses, and indeed near the great arbor they found their quarry.

 *******

            Ivormil was disturbed by the quiet indications of disapproval he sensed in his guide as well as the indications the King had ordered austerity measures for those residing within the Citadel.  He would give the best wine and ales to mere Guardsmen?  What kind of King was he, then, this Lord Elessar, this stranger from the far north, or so it was said?  What did such a one know of the honor and dignity due the Lords of Gondor, coming from a land where their rulers had refused to accept the title of King for the past thousand years?  And how could the line of Isildur have indeed survived for so long, in a place it was told of wilderness and ruin?

            Now here, in the Citadel of Minas Tirith--here was grandeur befitting the rulers of the known world, those who had brought civilization to the Mortal Lands!  He was proud to walk through it.  And as they reached the flower gardens his pride grew the stronger, for here was proper beauty to delight the lords of the nation, not like that garden place they’d just passed that had obviously only recently been cultivated, and that had the look of a common kitchen garden to it so far.  He smiled with satisfaction at the pillars to the arbors for great and obviously well tended climbing rose bushes, then paused at the sight of a child laboring over a bush beyond them.  Balstador had also seen the small figure, and also paused.  “There are a few things to know about Lords Perhael and Iorhael,” he began.  “You see, their nobility is a matter of----”

            “I need no reminders on how to behave toward nobility,” Ivormil interrupted, annoyed at this apparent attempt to instruct him in proper deportment.

            Balstador examined him momentarily, his right cheek twitching briefly.  “I see, my lord.  However, you should be aware of the fact they prefer to be addressed as----”

            Even more annoyed, Ivormil glared at him.  “Would you seek to advise one born to become a lord of the realm in how to address others of his own rank?” he demanded quietly.  He was pleased to see how the seneschal stiffened, obviously realizing the impropriety of trying to offer instruction to a lord of his quality.  Once he was certain his point was taken he asked more graciously, “These Lords----”  He gave Balstador an inquiring look.

            “Lord Perhael and Lord Iorhael,” the Man returned formally.

            “Perhael and Iorhael?  I see.  Which is it that I am to see first?”

            “It is Lord Perhael that enjoys his time in the gardens today, my lord.”

            “They are from the north?”

            “Yes, my lord, from their own small country within Eriador.  They came south accompanied by our Lord King and our Lord Captain Boromir and Lord Mithrandir and four others.”

            “Mithrandir?”  Ivormil felt uncomfortable again at mention of the Grey Wizard.  He’d met Mithrandir but once, and he suspected that the Wizard had made uncomplimentary judgments about him.

            “Yes, my lord.  Our Lord King Elessar holds the greatest of honor for Lord Mithrandir and his wisdom, you must understand.”

            “I am told that Lord Boromir did not return to Gondor.”

            “He died upon our borders, on the slopes of Amon Hen just this side of the Argonath, or so I am told.  Curunír’s Uruk-hai attacked them there, slaying our Lord Boromir with arrows when they could not overcome him with their swords or spears.  I am advised by those who saw him fight and die there that he fought most valiantly.”  Ivormil saw the respect and grief the seneschal’s eyes held as he made this report.  Boromir had been greatly loved by those within the White City particularly, although his repute was honored throughout the whole of Gondor and beyond. 

            Then Balstador straightened and his eyes turned back toward the bushes beyond the rose arbor.  “Come, my lord,” he said, and he led the way away from the arbor, toward the child.  “Master Samwise,” he said with a surprisingly profound bow, Ivormil thought, “this is Ivormil, son of Lord Canelmir of Bidwell in lower Lossarnach.  He has come to bring his father’s duty letters to the attention of our Lord King.  However, as our Lord Elessar has ridden out of the city he has demanded to meet with one of the other ranking lords of the realm.”

            The small figure looked up, obviously surprised.  He wore a rather plain surcoat over a sturdy shirt, and dark trousers that didn’t quite reach his ankles.  His face flushed markedly as he set the pruning scissors he carried aside on a nearby garden table, then looked up to meet the eyes of the young Man.  Ivormil was surprised, for the eyes and face were not those of a child at all, but indicated an individual who was definitely an adult.  He found his own attention caught by those eyes, and he barely noticed the second bow given by the seneschal before he swiftly headed back the way he’d come.  “A rankin’ lord it is you’re wantin’ to see, is it?” Master Samwise said.  He looked after the way Balstador had gone, shaking his head.  “Must o’ been his idea of a joke, I suppose,” he added.  He looked back up at Ivormil.  “Well, sit down there and let me know your business so’s I can get back to my task.”

            Ivormil made no attempt to hide the insult he felt.  “He brought me to a gardener?” he asked.  “He told me he was bringing me to meet with Lord Perhael.”

            Again the small being flushed.  He reached to the table where a covered stein of ale sat, thumbed the lid open and took a swig, then let it fall shut again with a small musical sound as he again examined Ivormil’s face, the line of his jaw more firmly set.  “Yes, sir, I’m a gardener, not as that’s nothin’ to be shamed of, mind.”  He watched as Iorvas approached and set his tray on the other side of the table.  “This for him?” he asked the servant.

            “Yes, Master Samwise,” Iorvas said with a bow.  “And is there aught else I can bring you?”

            “No, not right now.  Any idea as when Lord Strider’s to be back?”

            “None, sir.  And they may choose to stop for a time with Prince Imrahil in his house in the Fifth Circle before returning here to the Seventh Level.”

            “I see.  And I thank you, Master Iorvas,” Master Samwise added with an inclination of his head.  “Thankee kindly.”

            “My honor, small Master,” Iorvas said, his stance a bit straighter before he gave a bow and turned away.

            Ivormil was now totally confused.  Master Samwise set his stein back on the table, then lifted a cloth cover over a plate and brought out part of a bread roll--one that obviously held slices of ham within it--and took a bite, then set it back on the plate and covered it as he chewed thoughtfully.  Ivormil had no idea what to think of this--this personage to whose presence he’d been led.  A gardener, obviously, and common as dirt, from what Ivormil could tell.  Yet he had not the look of a mannikin to him.  Who and what was he?  Finally the young Man asked, “You are employed by the Citadel here?”

            Master Samwise looked startled by that question.  “Employed here?  No, not at all.  I am employed as a gardener, but not here--back home in Hobbiton, it is.  I just happen to love flowers is all, and I’m allowed to help here as I’m moved.  A bit odd it is, to be prunin’ not ’cause it’s my job but ’cause I want to.  But there you have it.”

            “What brought you to Minas Tirith?”

            “Come to help my Master as he needs it, I did.”

            “And how did he come here?”

            “Same way’s me.”

            “And where’s Lord Perhael?”

            “And if’n I was to say as you’d found him?”

            Ivormil realized that Master Samwise didn’t appear to like him much, not that he’d ever say so.  Ivormil felt the disgust growing in him rise.  “Then perhaps I should speak to your Master, sir,” he suggested, putting every ounce of sarcasm within him into the last word.

            “You’d see my Master, eh?” commented the small gardener.  “Yes, mayhaps you ought t’ do just that, my lord.  If’n you’ll come this way.”  He started to turn away, then paused and looked back.  “Suppose as I should take this with us, so’s you’ll have it when you feel the need of it.”  So saying he reached to take the tray brought by Iorvas in one hand, balanced perfectly as one accustomed to carrying such things would know, and giving his own tray one last look he led the way back toward the same doors out which Ivormil had been led so shortly before.  They passed a gardener with an apron over his livery, and there Master Samwise paused.  “Pardon me, sir, but I’ve left my things back at the table there near the arbor, I have, but only till I can return, like.  If’n you’ll see to it as none bothers it, I’d be most grateful.”

            “Certainly, Master Samwise,” the gardener said with a deep bow.  “I’ll see to it none disturbs it.”

            “Thankee, Master Dolrad,” the small one said.  He looked back over his shoulder at Ivormil.  “Well, you comin’ or what?”

            They were soon back inside the Citadel, doors opened automatically for them by bowing guards.  As they passed the screen the small gardener paused somewhat uncertainly.  “Suppose as I ought to go through the Hall o’ Kings,” he muttered to himself.  “Regular warren of a place this is, after all.  Well, come on, you,” he added to Ivormil.  “Sooner as I lead you to my Master the sooner I can get back to the roses.”

            Back they went through the Hall of Kings, going this time down an opposite passage off the vestibule from the way he’d been led to before.  At last they came to a door some way down the hallway.  He knocked at it, and a light tenor voice bade them enter.  The small one reached up and managed to move the latch sufficiently to allow the door to open and they went in, obviously entering the Steward’s own office.  Here a low table appropriate for older children had been set, and behind it sat what again appeared to be a boy--a boy with an aristocratic face, fine featured with most expressive eyes.  He looked at the tray Ivormil’s companion carried and looked dismayed.  “I’ve no need for more, Sam--they brought me more than enough not that long ago, you know.”

            “Oh, this isn’t for you, Master, but for this one.  Ivormil son of Lord Canelmir o’ lower Lossarnach, I’m told, and too good to speak with a mere gardener.  Wants the Lord Perhael or the Lord Iorhael, he does.”

            The small figure at the table grew pale save for his cheeks, which reddened somewhat.  “I see,” he said.  He too looked up, giving Ivormil a searching examination as he rose to his feet.  He was perhaps an inch or two taller than Master Samwise.  “And how may I help you, Lord Ivormil?” he asked.

            “It’s not you I expected to see, but Lord Iorhael,” the Man insisted, not understanding why he was being passed from one odd small personage to another.

            As had happened when he was left with Master Samwise this one’s mouth thinned somewhat.  “So, it’s Lord Iorhael or no one, is it?”  He turned to the gardener.  “Set that on the visitor’s table there, Sam, and be off with you.  You must have far more productive ways to spend your time than dealing with the likes of this one.”

            “That I do, Mr. Frodo, sir,” Master Samwise agreed, and he carefully set the tray on the indicated table.  “And is there aught as I can get you?”

            “No--Aragorn’s seen to it the staff is aware of anything at all I might possibly need, and as a result I have more than I can even use.”

            Master Samwise gave a throaty chuckle.  “Then I’ll be off, back to the roses.  I only hope as that cousin o’ yours is takin’ care of those at Bag End.”

            “I’m certain Lobelia won’t let them languish, Sam.  Enjoy those here.”  Mr. Frodo was smiling indulgently as he watched the gardener leave the room, pushing the door closed behind him.  Then he turned his attention back to his clearly unwanted guest.  “I welcome you to the White City, Lord Ivormil.  Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested indicating the guest’s chair.  “They’ve been most accommodating for us and have done their best to see to it that our size is provided for, although I suspect this table hasn’t seen the light of day since Boromir and Faramir outgrew it years ago.” So saying, Mr. Frodo sat himself behind it on the matching chair.  On the table were several large tomes, one open before him, and a board to the left with writing paper partly inscribed in Westron affixed to it.  An inkstand held two bottles of ink and both a quill and a steel pen; there was a box of drying sand there as well, and a sheet to use in gathering the sand after use to return it to its box.  A narrow tray held a goblet of wine, a tumbler of water, and two carafes as well as an assortment of sliced meats, cheeses, whole fruits and vegetables, as well as a napkin.

            Not knowing what else to do, Ivormil sat.  For a few moments the small person behind the table waited patiently.  “You still will not let me know your purpose in coming?” he finally asked.

            “I thought I was to see either Lord Perhael or Lord Iorhael,” the Man persisted, wondering when the situation would become plain to this Mr. Frodo.

            “And if I were to suggest you’ve seen both?”

            Was this some kind of game?  “If you will please have Lord Iorhael apprised of the fact I am here,” Ivormil said stiffly.

            “Oh, I assure you he is well aware of the fact you are here within the Citadel,” the small one said.  He waited some moments longer, then sighed.  “Well, if you will not tell me why you wish to see Lord Iorhael, then if you will excuse me I will return to my work.  I am doing some research for Aragorn, you see.”  So saying he turned his attention back to the open book and began reading it, now and then stopping to take notes on the paper affixed to the board.

            So they sat for at least three quarters of a mark, Ivormil now sufficiently bored he’d almost forgotten the insult given him.  He was realizing this was no boy, but also an adult of his kind.  Again, there was nothing to indicate this was a mannikin, but he was totally puzzled as to what kind he was.  Finally his curiosity won out.  “Mr. Frodo?” he said.

            The small one raised his head inquiringly.  “Yes, Lord Ivormil?”

            “You are from where?”

            The small one sighed, and wiping the pen he held with a small cloth he removed from his sleeve, set it on the inkstand and closed the lid to the ink.  “Sam and I are from the land of the Shire, sir.”

            “And he’s your gardener?”

            “My gardener and my friend for many years.”  He folded his hands on the book before him.

            “And your people are called...?”

            “We refer to ourselves as Hobbits, sir.”

            “I see.”  The answer told him nothing.  He’d never heard of Hobbits, after all.

            “And will you tell me of Bidwell?”

            “It’s a small city near the southern borders of Lossarnach.  My father is Lord there.”

            “I see.  Yet you did not come to help in the defense of your capital?”

            Ivormil felt himself flush.  “We were seeing to the defenses of our own lands, you understand.”

            “Then Bidwell lies near the Anduin or its tributaries, does it?”

            “No, far from it, actually.”  Ivormil felt himself redden more at the admission.  “And what do you do here in Minas Tirith?”

            “We also sought to serve as we could in the defense against Mordor.”  There was a finality in the way this was said indicating that Mr. Frodo wasn’t likely to say much more on the subject.

            Ivormil examined his companion.  “Your folk sent you out to the needs of Gondor?” he asked, amazed.

            “It’s not the first time folk from the Shire have gone out to fight against the servants of the Shadow, sir.”

            “It’s just that you do not have the look of a warrior.”

            “I have proven to be anything but a warrior, my lord.  I did not come to fight Sauron’s orcs.  And I will say that neither do you have the look of a warrior, either.”

            Ivormil felt himself redden once more.  “I am trained in the use of a sword,” he said stiffly.

            “We were schooled in the use of weapons also, but I proved rather a failure at it.  We Hobbits rarely need to fight, although we can and do defend ourselves at need.”

            After a pause Ivormil asked, “And where is your land?”

            “North and west of here.”

            “How did you come to Gondor?”

            “We walked, mostly.”

            “Walked?”

            “Can you not imagine that walking can get one from one place to another as surely as pony--or horse?”

            “Do you ride?”

            “Of course I can ride.  However, it was thought to be more appropriate and inconspicuous if we were to walk, so walk we did.”

            Ivormil was uncertain what more he could ask.  The--Hobbit took up his tumbler of water and drank from it, his eyes examining him over its rim.  It was as he went to set it down, however, that Ivormil noted that Mr. Frodo was missing a finger on his right hand.  He felt his scalp tighten--he’d heard something about a finger from the messengers who brought the word of the victory against Sauron, although he had no idea what significance there was to it.  He’d barely listened.

            At last Mr. Frodo asked, “And what has brought you to Minas Tirith?”

            “I was sent by my father to bring his duty letters to the King.”

            “Oh.  Then there is little I myself can do to assist you even if you were brought to me.  I believe there is to be a public audience tomorrow morning at which time you can present them.”  At Ivormil’s nod he continued, “Then why did you ask to see Lord Perhael or Lord Iorhael?”

            “I am not a simple commoner to need to deal with mere servants,” Ivormil explained.

            The Hobbit’s right cheek twitched much as Master Balstador’s had done earlier.  “I see.  Well, I assure you I am no mere servant, and although Sam has been in my employ for years neither is he.”

            “And am I to deal with clerks and gardeners, then?”

            Mr. Frodo stood up, his expression unreadable.  “I fear, my lord, that you have a good deal yet to learn about the nature of service.  If you will excuse me, I am finding myself entertaining a headache.  Please feel free to bring with you the two trays here, and you may freely help yourself from the one brought me earlier.  I’ve eaten all I can of it.”

            “The seneschal said that except for proper meals there was no meat save for those who have been ill,” Ivormil commented.

            The Hobbit gave him another look.  “And what does that tell you, young lord?” he asked.  He set a marker in the book and closed it, and was coming out from behind the table when he paused as if listening.  Ivormil heard nothing at first, then finally became aware of distant voices and a stir back toward the vestibule, apparently questions and answers, and finally approaching footsteps and voices.  “I understand that Master Samwise brought him to the Steward’s office, my Lord, to see if Master Frodo could speak sense to him.”  Hearing that, Ivormil felt his face flame.

            “Thank you, Master Balstador.  I will see to it from here.”

            A moment later there was a knock on the door, and Mr. Frodo, his face now alight as Ivormil hadn’t yet seen, called out, “Do enter!”  The door opened, admitting quite a tall fellow dressed in well-worn green riding leathers over a rich maroon shirt.  “You wore that, Aragorn?” asked the Hobbit of the Man, his eyes filled with disapproval.  “Certainly you must have some more fitting riding outfit by now!  Bilbo would be most discomfited to see you looking so far from your current station, you know.”

            The Man Aragorn laughed.  “Not yet, small brother, save for ceremonial garb that is unfitting for tramping the bounds of the Rammas in.”  He turned his attention to Ivormil, who’d risen uncertainly.  “You are from Lossarnach, I understand?” he asked.

            “Ivormil son of Lord Canelmir of Bidwell in lower Lossarnach, sir,” admitted the younger Man, not certain what to think of this newcomer.

            “And the purpose of your visit?”

            “Must I answer to you?” Ivormil asked, suspicious of this stranger.

            The tall Man paused, his face losing its humor, giving Ivormil a very thorough scrutiny.  “I see,” he said at last.  “You came, I am told, to present correspondence to the King?”

            “Yes,” Ivormil said, pulling himself as straight and tall as he could.  “And I will give it only into the King’s hands, mind.”

            The tall Man gave a single nod.  “So it shall be, then.  You may present it in the morning at the public audience, I suppose.  Iorvas has advised that quarters have been readied in the guest wing for you and your three attendants.  If you will take yourself to the vestibule he waits there to show you the way.  One thing, young lord--I suggest that you consider the nature of nobility, honor, service, and humility before you present yourself tomorrow before the King.”  So saying, he turned coolly away from the young lord, back to the Hobbit.  He looked him over quickly.  “Headache?” he asked.

            “Yes, some,” Mr. Frodo answered.

            “Will you dine with me in my private quarters, then--you and Sam?  The rest intend to visit with Gloin and the deputation from Erebor tonight.”

            “But Mistress Loren----”

            The Man was shaking his head.  “I stopped by the guest house to advise her I was making the invitation, and she was relieved.  As she’d seen none of you today she’d not prepared anything.  And how goes the research?”

            “I found a few references,” the Hobbit said, then paused.  “If you would go first, my lord,” he suggested formally to Ivormil, “I will then have the chance to secure the Lord Steward’s office as he requested of me.”

            The young lord’s son rose, feeling himself again flushing.  “I am sorry,” he said. 

            He turned and preceded the other two out of the room, at which time the Hobbit turned, and pulling a key from his pocket fitted it into the lock and turned it, then replaced the key, giving Ivormil a surprisingly graceful bow.  Then looking up with a smile quite different from the air he’d displayed to the young Man from Lossarnach he said to his tall companion, “Sam was last out amongst the roses.  Shall we fetch him first, do you think?” as the two disappeared with more rapidity down the passage than Ivormil  had expected, followed by a Guardsman in uniform.

 *******

            Ivormil rose early the following morning and enjoyed the meal delivered to his quarters.  With the assistance of his long-suffering valet he was finally dressed to his own satisfaction, and he at last left the room where he’d spent the night, ready to attend the King’s audience.  However, once he got into the hallway into which the guest wing opened he found himself uncertain as to which way he ought to go next.

            It was at that moment he spotted what appeared to be a page coming down hall past him.  “You, boy!” he called out.

            The child stopped and turned toward him, obviously surprised.  “Were you addressing me, sir?” he asked, his voice rather deeper than a child’s voice usually was.  Ivormil at that point realized the livery worn was a replica of the uniform worn by the Guards of the Citadel, complete with a sword girt at his waist.  The face was guileless, the expression open and curious.

            “Yes, you--I need to be taken to the Hall of Kings.”

            “The Hall of Kings?  As an observer, or do you wish to be presented?” the youngster asked.

            Annoyed at what he saw as inappropriate curiosity, Ivormil said, “I have letters to present today.”

            The boy examined him as had so many in the past day.  “You must be that one,” he said almost to himself.  “Oh, well.  I can’t take you the whole way for I myself am on an errand for our Lord King; but I will put you into a page’s hands to see you brought to the heralds.  This way, sir.”  He led him down the hallway to a door where he knocked then opened it and leaned inside.  “I need a guide for this young lord, please,” he said, then pulled out, swiftly followed by a page garbed as had been the one Ivormil had seen the previous day.  “Please escort this Man to the herald that he might be properly presented to the King,” he instructed.

            “Yes, Captain Peregrin,” the boy returned.  At that the young one in the Guardsman’s livery gave a salute to the boy and a brief bow to Ivormil before hurrying off on his own errand.  It was as he neared the end of the hallway adjacent to the pierced wooden screen, just before he turned into one of the other residential wings, the young lord first noted something unusual--his former guide, rather than boots, appeared to be wearing rather hairy slippers--or so it looked from behind.

            His new guide led him out the same door used the previous day.  “If you are to be put into the hands of the heralds you will need to enter from the vestibule, Lord Ivormil,” the boy said, obviously recognizing him from a description given him by the previous day’s page.  He turned right to lead him around the Citadel, past the Tower of Ecthelion and the entrance to the Feast Hall of Merethrond toward the front doors to the Citadel.  There he was left in the charge of a herald, who took down the information on a list he carried, then pointed to a place near the back of the Hall of Kings where he might wait until his name was called.

            Unfortunately, it was difficult to see what was going on there near the dais for the throne.  He saw a tall and regal figure ascending the steps to take his place on the High Seat as the voice of the Lord Prince Steward Faramir rang through the room announcing the opening of the day’s audience, but as the surprisingly thick crowd muffled most of what was said Ivormil was soon totally lost as to what might be happening and found himself even more bored than he’d been the day before.

            It was quite some time before his own name was called, but at last Ivormil found himself being directed up the aisle left by the observers toward the dais.  He looked up and saw, on the head of the Man above him, the Winged Crown itself, worn indeed in pride as it had not been worn for almost a thousand years.  He saw the great sword of Elendil laid across the King’s knees.  He saw the Ring of Barahir on the King’s hand as he raised it briefly to his chin.  He saw the great green Elessar jewel clasping closed the white mantle he wore.  He looked into the regal face and saw----

            He stopped in his tracks, muttering, “Oh, sweet Valar!”  If only the floor would open and swallow him up!

            The King rose and, casually hooking the hangers for his sword’s sheath to his swordbelt, paced slowly down the stairs to stand between the seats for his two Stewards.  Prince Faramir was at least familiar, his face deceptively mild as ever, youthful compared to the King and his fellow from the distant north.  The Steward of Arnor had a broader face than either the King or Faramir, rather austere yet equally capable, Ivormil thought, of appearing stern or kindly.  The King, however--the calculation he’d seen in the Man’s eyes the preceding day was nothing to what he saw now.

            At last the King spoke.  “I believe, Ivormil son of Canelmir, that it is time for me to properly introduce myself to you.  I am Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, born Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord Chieftain of the Dúnedain people remaining within what had been Arnor and heir of Elendil and Isildur through Isildur’s son Valandil and his descendant Arvedui, and of Anárion through his descendant Ondoher of Gondor by way of his daughter Fíriel, wife to Arvedui.  And these are my Companions----”  He gestured at a group standing to one side.  “Gimli son of Gloin, kinsman to Thorin Oakenshield, Dain Ironfoot, and now Thorin Stronghelm, Kings under the Mountain of the Dwarf kingdom of Erebor.”  A russet-headed Dwarf gave a slight bow, fixing him with a close stare.  “Legolas Greenleaf of Eryn Lasgalen, son of King Thranduil.”  A tall Elf with eyes blue as skies and hair golden as sunlight looked down his nose at him.  “The Istar Mithrandir, known in the north as Gandalf the Grey, now the White of his order.”  Ivormil swallowed to see the changes in the Wizard, the Light that appeared barely veiled beneath the surface of him. 

            “Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, Holdwine of the Mark for Rohan and heir to the Master of Buckland.”  He indicated a--a Hobbit dressed in finely wrought chainmail and a leather gambeson decorated with the White Horse of Rohan, a most strange swordbelt of silver leaves enameled with brilliant green about his waist, the sheath for a sword made to fit his stature hanging from it.  There were signs this one was usually given to good humor, but the expression in those clear eyes was now stern.  “Captain Peregrin Took of the Shire, Guard of the Citadel and one of my own personal Guard, heir to the Thain of the Shire.”  The King indicated behind himself, and Ivormil saw the one who’d served briefly as a guide to him this morning, properly on guard with drawn sword, those green eyes watchful and competent. 

            “Samwise Gamgee of the Shire, the Lord Perhael of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, the Steadfast, Esquire to the Ringbearer.”  Ivormil looked on the small gardener he’d met the day preceding and closed his eyes.  “And Frodo Baggins of the Shire, the Lord Iorhael of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, Iorhael na I·Lebid, Bronwë athan Harthad, Cormacolindor, the Ringbearer.”  Opening his eyes reluctantly, the young Man found his attention caught by the small, dark-haired individual with whom he’d spent so much time the day before, now garbed as befitting a prince.

            “I thought I was to see either Lord Perhael or Lord Iorhael,” he’d said.

            “And if I were to suggest you’ve seen both?”  That was how the interchange had gone, wasn’t it? 

            He looked about--there were other Elves and Dwarves, and Men dressed in garb to indicate they came from other realms ranged about those identified as the King’s companions.  The King indicated them.  “The deputations from Erebor, Dale, and the great woodland realm of Eryn Lasgalen, come to give our land honor on its acceptance of its new King. 

            The King’s eyes were again scrutinizing him closely.  “Yesterday you demanded greeting from a lord of the land, and you were brought to both of those remaining within the Citadel, lords not only of Gondor and Arnor but of all other lands and peoples who claim for themselves the distinction of Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  Then when I came to greet you myself you refused to recognize the possibility that I could be anyone of consequence any more than you recognized that possibility in the persons of the two to whom you’d been brought.  You were very much upon your dignity, I noted and had confirmed to me by these my most honored friends, demanding your due as the heir to a minor lordship.”

            “Yes, my Lord King,” Ivormil admitted miserably.

            The tall crowned figure before him gave a nod of acknowledgment before continuing, “Master Balstador attempted to advise you that these were the Ringbearers and that in respect to their personal preference they were addressed by the title of ‘Master,’ but he informs me you cut him off, insisting you needed no instruction in proper etiquette to other members of the nobility.”

            Feeling the heat in his face indicating he was flushing fully, the young Man lowered his eyes in shame.  “This is true, my Lord.”

            The King continued relentlessly, “As we went to part from you, it was my suggestion that you think on the nature of certain concepts.  Do you remember what they were?”

            Dredging his memory, Ivormil said, “Nobility, service, honor, and humility, my Lord.”

            “Your memory is not faulty then,” Lord Elessar noted.  “You have correspondence to give me?” he asked.

            The young Man carefully removed the message pouch he held and, kneeling properly, presented it to the King’s hands.  The King accepted it, opened it and removed the correspondence it held, examined it briefly, then turning beckoned forward a second Guardsman, who accepted it, then turned to return the pouch to Ivormil.  “You may rise.”  Then after further scrutiny he continued, “I would have you aware of certain truths, Ivormil of Bidwell.  I will not have serving as lords of this realm those who do not exhibit the traits you just recited to me.  Lordship must be earned--it is not merely a birthright.  I will honor those who display honor, no matter what their birth.  I will respect all who offer service properly, and it is expected that all who enter the Citadel of this land or that being rebuilt in Arnor will do likewise.  For it is in how you treat those who are least in the land that shows whether or not you exhibit proper nobility in yourself.  Do you understand?”

            “I believe so, my Lord.”

            “And, as you have undoubtedly noted, these, the greatest among us all, are themselves shining examples of humility, taking no airs to themselves, treating others with the respect they expect to receive to themselves and not allowing themselves to become discomfited when they do not receive it.”

            “Yes, my Lord.”

            “It is as you serve those who are placed under your protection that you prove your own honor to the land of Gondor.  Do you understand this?”

            “I believe so, Lord.”  Ivormil met the eyes of the King and looked into the grey depths of them--grey with hints of blue and green such as one saw in the Sea, and swallowed deeply.  Life in Gondor, he realized, was going to be profoundly changed from what he’d known in his eighteen years so far. 

            “That is good.  For if your father wishes to be confirmed in his office by me, and if you desire to inherit that office when the time comes, it needs to be demonstrated that both of you understand these truths.  It is said among those who raised me and trained me to ready me for the day when I must accept this--” he indicated the Crown he wore, “--that much is expected from those to whom much has been given; and that those who will not serve as is right and proper will have in the end all that they have known in goods and privilege taken from them.

            “Your father did not lead forth troops to the defense of Gondor when the realm was attacked, going neither to the defense of Pelargir nor here.  This certainly does not speak well of his honor to the nation that has granted him title of Lord.  Nor did he send you in his stead if he is too infirm to raise a sword to the needs of the land.  If he wishes to be confirmed in his current office it will be required he present himself before the throne within a month’s time and explain himself, and he must be ready to prove his loyalty to Gondor through the service he offers both the land at large and more especially those entrusted to his leadership and protection.  And I tell you this--the latter will be true of you as well.”

            Ivormil dropped his eyes.  “Yes, my Lord.”  He looked down, and noted that the three Hobbits of the Shire near him all also appeared to be wearing hairy slippers, then realized their feet were bare and covered with hair much the same color as that on their heads.  He turned his eyes back to meet those of Frodo Baggins, filled with hard-won wisdom and experience, realizing those bare feet had trod the many, many leagues between his own land and the slopes of Mount Doom and those eyes had seen terrors the likes of which he, heir to the Lord of Bidwell, could not imagine.  Humbled in the face of true greatness, Ivormil made the first bow of honest respect he’d ever offered.  “I ask your forgiveness for my discourtesy yesterday, my Lord Iorhael,” he said with a sincerity he’d never felt before.

            “Please,” the Hobbit answered him, “please address me as Master Frodo if you must use any title.”

            Confused, Ivormil looked back into the eyes of the King, saw the pride and love held for this one, and began at last to understand what the Lord Elessar had meant about developing an understanding of the true nature of honor and humility.

Don’t Linger, Sweet Brother

Why dost thou linger, small brother, my brother,
       linger this side of the sea?
Here darkness would take thee, fell mem’ries consume thee;
       of the weight of the Burden be free!
There they would delight to give comfort and guidance,
       and the Light of thy Joy all wouldst see.
And if I must lose thee, may’st thou lose thy terrors.
       To fulfillment, not death, I’d give thee.

Why do you stay here, sweet Master, (my brother,)
       When it’s amongst Elves you should be?
I see you failing, and Elrond could help you
       if to the Elves’ vale you’d but flee.
By old Mister Bilbo you again could find laughter,
       and from the weight of the Ring you’d be free.
Go now, sweet Master, and again joy might find you.
       Don’t stay here to die ’cause of me.

Why don’t you go there, my sweet cousin-brother,
       to the land of the Elves and be free?
I see you weaken and how your joys leave you.
       It’s you healed and happy I’d see!
I don’t wish to lose you, to lose your sweet presence,
       but no other choice can there be;
If you’re to be happy and once more know laughter
       I know that once more you’ll leave me.

A Took and a fool ever Gandalf has called me,
       yet even as fool I can see
that here your Light weakens, your happiness lessens;
       each day one more loss there will be.
I know not what waits you, there in the future;
       only small glimpses I see.
But what’s offered, please take it, I beg of you plainly,
       whatever that Wisdom gives thee.

We’ve ever loved you, our own son’s near brother,
       yet once more we must set you free
before we destroy you by holding too closely
       the beauty we’ve e’er seen in thee.
We know not what caused the loss of your laughter,
       but it’s not to the grave we would see
you brought far too early, shorn of your joy.
       Of the Burden, sweet Frodo, go free.

Why dost thou linger, O sweet child of Eru?
       Of pain there and grief you’d be free!
The gift, it is offered; it’s yours for the taking
       if you’ll but go over the Sea.
There we would greet thee, and fete thee, and hold thee,
       and seat thee there ’neath the Tree
And shine up thy Light and see it blaze brightly,
       and to wondrous delight we’d give thee!

Why dost thou linger, my husband’s sweet brother?
       In heart and in Light twins you be.
We’d see thee fulfilled, in blest beauty rejoicing,
       of the weight of the Burden made free.
You fade now and taste not the great joy unbridled
       from conception prepared just for thee.
I beg thee, don’t linger aught more than thou must.
       Taste life ere the Shadow takes thee.

Come hither, my child, my wonder, my own.
       Your Light bright and shining I’d see.
Ere you think to let loose of the land of the living,
       let your happiness rekindled be.
I made thee for gladness, for wonder, for singing,
       a beacon of Joy all might see.
The path, it lies open, the way set before you
       that leads through rejoicing to Me.

Don’t think to linger, sweet Frodo, our brother,
       don’t linger this side of the Sea.
The Creator will grant you far more than you’d think
       once you of the pain are made free.
Valar and Maiar and Eldar would honor
       all you were created to be.
So don’t think to linger, sweet Frodo, our brother.
       Thy life, it’s now offered to thee.

Once

Once

I thought

to be laid

’neath rich Shire Earth

when my time should come.

Once

I thought

to wed Pearl

and know wedded bliss

ever at her beloved side.

Once

I danced

with great joy

before all the Shire

at Michel Delving’s Free Fair.

Once

I hoped

to father children,

and hold them close,

and to teach them everything.

Once

I planned

to honor Sam

and love his children

alongside those of my own.

Then

the Ring

came to me

and began Its campaign

to rob me of all.

Now

I leave

the land of

my birth and life.

My joy has fled me.

There,

in Elvenhome

will I find

the peace I lost

under Its dark, fell influence?

Must

I live

and find release

in a strange land

not intended for mere mortals?

Why

do I

not grieve more,

knowing never will I

see my tall brother again?

When

will I

again find the

ability to properly feel

joy and delight once more?

There

beyond the

curtain of rain

perhaps I will know

once again peace and fulfillment.

Sam,

my brother,

do not linger

long past your Rosie.

Let me die at least

once more a proper Shire Hobbit.

Oh,

sweet Creator,

grant me ease,

I beg of you.

Release me from my burden.

Relieve me of pain and loss.

Teach me to sing in joy again.

For Bodkin for her birthday.

Jewels of Light

            “What are you looking at, Elf?”

            Legolas looked over his shoulder at the Dwarf, but this time the all-too-familiar irritation didn’t rise within him.  Something had changed, there between the fruitless climb up into the pass of Caradhras and the horror of the loss of Mithrandir during the crossing of the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, that had managed--at last--to change his perception of Gloin’s son.  Instead of making a calculated flippant response as he’d been accustomed to do, he turned his attention back to the original subject of his study and nodded to indicate Gimli should look that way also.

            “Frodo, eh?” Gimli said in low tones as he stepped forward to stand by the wood-Elf’s side.  Legolas was surprised to hear a tone of sadness in the Dwarf’s voice, and turned to examine his face.  There was a surprisingly gentle look in those dark eyes.  “He’s being carved upon, as if under the hands of a far greater craftsman than I’ll ever be,” the Dwarf continued.  “The great gem of his being is being polished, its facets carefully angled to catch the slightest light.”

            “You see him as a jewel?” asked the Elf, his interest fully caught.

            “And how else should such as I be able to perceive him?” Gimli answered simply.  “I was caught by the glimpse of great Light at the core of his being that first night in Master Elrond’s home as he sat by my father, listening avidly to the discourse, that smile of delight countered by the memory of pain he was barely noting as he rubbed at his shoulder.”  For a moment he continued his own examination of the small figure who sat alone before the pavilion given to their use here in Lothlorien before turning his attention back to the visage of his companion.  “And you--when you look on him--how do you see him?”

            “As a vessel increasingly filled with the Light of stars,” admitted Legolas.  “It is interesting that both of us appear to see the same thing in him.”

            The Dwarf nodded thoughtfully.  “If only it weren’t that the blades of pain were what primarily shape him,” he said with great regret.  He followed Frodo’s own gaze to where Aragorn and Boromir relaxed near to one another, talking.  He gave a meaningful gesture at the former.  “Now, that one, too, is a great jewel in the shaping.  But where each blow of Frodo’s shaping cuts so close to the heart it risks shattering the whole jewel, not so with Aragorn there.  He not only gives himself willingly to the blade of the Shaper, but even at times directs what dross needs next to be removed or how to better angle the diamond chisel.  And, as the shaping has been going on far longer it is easier to see how the final jewel will look.  It is as if the faceting has been going on for so long that he eagerly anticipates and bends himself to the next cutting, turning himself to best accept it, while the shaping of Frodo at this point is necessarily concentrated to allow him to be completed far sooner.”

            Sam came back into the glade where the pavilion had been pitched for their use in the company of an elleth of great beauty.  Both carried baskets of fruit and bread, and behind them came other Elves, both male and female, with platters of meats and basins of broth and trays of graceful vessels intended to serve the meal to come.  Frodo straightened with interest.  “At least he continues the Hobbit interest in food,” Legolas commented.  “I fear that as the final cuts are made that will change.  Aragorn is being shaped to endure here for a time, but not so the Perian.”

            “Alas, that is so,” agreed the Dwarf.  “As for that one--” he indicated the sturdy figure of Samwise Gamgee, “--he will be a jewel to endure.  Not starlight in that one, though--he’s a gem of sunlight, and Mahal rejoices to see how each new facet makes that plain.”  He was smiling now as he looked at the small gardener.  “He doesn’t even realize he’s being shaped, not as Frodo and Aragorn do.  And he will lie between the other two gems and take even greater flame from the starlight they reflect as he opens to the light of the Sun herself.” 

            The singing began again, high above them in the flets of the residents of Caras Galadhon, and all looked up.  Merry and Pippin, who’d been napping, came out of the pavilion, absently fixing their shirtstuds as they lifted their faces in appreciation of the beauty of the music.  But the expressions on the faces of Frodo and Sam were slightly different.  “Frodo understands the words, doesn’t he?” Gimli breathed in low tones.

            “As we’ve lingered here his appreciation of the language has grown greater and greater,” agreed Legolas.  “And now Sam also understands more day by day.  Neither admits how much he understands of what is said and sung around us;  but I suspect that before all is done both will be even more fluent in the Great Music than I.”

            Again the Dwarf nodded his understanding.  “True jewels in the making,” he agreed.

            They went still for a time, watching as Merry and Pippin sat down on either side of Frodo and the older Hobbit automatically put his arms about them, drawing them closer to him, their own faces beginning to catch the echo of his own Light, even as Boromir’s own expression to a lesser extent matched the shining of the face of his companion.  Elf and Dwarf unconsciously moved together as well, each comforted by the presence of the other.

 *******

            As they approached the talan on which their own great house had been built the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn paused, looking down at their guests on the great lawn below them.  “Their Lights are being polished,” Celeborn noted in low tones to his wife.  “Each is being readied even now for his final purpose, though it lead through the shadow of death.”

            “Yea, and it has been ever so,” Galadriel sighed, then touched her husband’s arm and indicated the place from which Elf and Dwarf had been observing the rest.  “And look there--have you ever seen two Lights of such disparate origin yet so perfectly matched?”

            Lord and Lady shared a look of delight and awe at the revelation, then watched as Aragorn and Sam came to join Frodo and the younger Hobbits.

            “Constellations of Light,” murmured Galadriel. 

            Her lord husband nodded.  “Light for the world of Arda to find itself by, perhaps.”

The Light of Your Smile

            He lay quietly, recalling the smiles of those he’d loved.  The first one he thought of, of course, was that of his own mother.  When he was tiny she would watch him, and each time he moved purposefully, each sound that resembled a word, each discovery he sought to share with her, the corners of her eyes would crinkle and the corners of her mouth would lift, and the Sun herself would shine the brighter for it.

            As for his dad--the Gaffer had different smiles for different reasons.  Any time he was pleased with a job well done there was that quiet smile of pride that half-hid behind gruff words as if should it show itself openly it would encourage his children to think too highly of themselves.   Then there was the smile he’d give when old Mr. Bilbo would say something clever and outrageous--a bit delayed as he tested what his Master had said as if to see if it had been indeed the words he’d thought he’d heard; then the grin would spread slowly, almost reluctantly until it was across his face, and one could see that in spite of his pretensions toward plainspokeness Hamfast Gamgee still could be amused by clever barbs well delivered.  And then there was the smile, half of pride at his own hand in the affair, half of awe at the wonders given by the Creator Himself to see just how beautiful the flowers and fruits and vegetables that grew in the gardens he tended could become.

            Hamson’s smile had always been a slow bloomer, usually accompanying a pithy statement made.  Hal’s was thoughtful, and very reminiscent of the one his father gave his gardens.  Daisy’s was impatient, appearing and disappearing swiftly, but always hovering near at hand, or so it seemed to her younger brother.  May’s was quite the opposite--steady and pleasant.  Marigold’s, on the other hand, always seemed to be accompanied by shreds of songs and nursery rhymes.  Sometimes Sam had thought perhaps she ought to have been the one to study reading and writing and ciphering with old Mr. Bilbo, as they seemed to share so much love of words and music.

            Strider’s had been so rare at first, and so constant later.  Gandalf’s, especially at the end, had been so filled with joy and delight and humor.  He’d learned to see Gimli’s beyond the great mass of beard and mustaches, sly and satisfied.  That of Legolas could be supercilious--or it could be achingly kind and caring, while those of Merry and Pippin, even now in their advanced age, could be so filled with humor.

            Elanor’s smile had ever been one of delight; Frodo-lad’s had shone most when his head was involved.  Rosie-lass had always had the most patient smile, while Goldilocks had the most beautiful one.  Merry and Pippin-lad’s had both been mischievous, just like their name-fathers; Ruby’s had always tended to be rather shy.  Bilbo-lad’s would always take you by surprise--one moment he’d be looking at you as serious as serious, and then there the smile would be breaking out suddenly as the dawn itself.  As had been true of the grandfather after whom he’d been named, Hamfast’s was always rather half-hidden, while Robin’s embraced everyone equally.  Those of Primrose and our Daisy were so nearly the same, tending to show more to the left than the right, while young Tolman’s always seemed filled with wonder, and reminded Sam most of his Gammer Bell’s.

            And then there had been that of his own Rosie--so gentle when looking on their children; so filled with promise when directed at himself.  Oh, the things her smile had always promised him, and never had he been disappointed--or not that he could remember now.  That was the smile he missed most right now, he thought as he rolled over on his couch and opened his eyes to face the new day, and caught a glimpse of the smile he’d missed so much for more than half a century, the one so recently restored to him.  Good morning, my Sam.  A thrill ran through him as his heart lifted to see the smile of his so beloved friend once more, a smile to lead the birds themselves to sing and the butterflies to rejoice to open their wings to the morning’s sun.

            “And a blessed mornin’ to you, too, my Mr. Frodo.”

            And that sweet smile widened the more....

Contrast

            What happened to you out there, my son, my cousin, my nephew, the friend to them all?  What called you away from the Shire, and what brought you back?

            When we heard that the four of you had returned, all began to sing and dance, and Esme and I--we danced for joy and heart’s ease and sheer relief.  The Time of Troubles was over!  At last it was past, and we thought only to see our son, our beloved lad, our dearest boy, come back to us again, just as he’d been when he left us.  We thought that our nephew would stand straighter and taller, be more mature, but still be the thoughtful wit we’d ever known.  We thought to see our cousin and former ward returning full of the pleasure of whatever adventure had called him and with word of Bilbo--being Frodo, he would have had to have found where his beloved cousin had gone and sought out that place; and perhaps he, too, would return with chests of silver and gold.  We thought to see Samwise Gamgee come back filled with quiet wonder at having seen Elves and Dwarves and perhaps a troll or two, and settle back into his care for Frodo’s gardens and Frodo himself with a smile for the memories he carried, shyly returning to his Rosie and perhaps now taking her to wife to raise another generation of responsible and capable Gamgees.

            But to see you and Pippin so unaccountably tall--Merry, what happened?  Whence came this mail you wear as if it’s only natural to go about with armor intended to turn blades and arrows?  How came you by this leather garment you wear over it with its greens and golds and white horse heads, the shield decorated with a white horse running across a green field, the sword you wear at your hip so casually, this helmet of steel and brass, these trousers of strange design?  Yes, your heart is high and your face glad; but there are boundaries there you will not cross nor allow others to trespass upon.  Five ponies you left with; you return with but one, and it was never purchased from the pony fair at Kingsbridge; and when you look at it your expression is mixed pride and grief.  Something has hurt you--hurt you terribly.  And the gear upon it!  No Hobbit nor Dwarf wrought those horsehead bosses or inlaid the silver into that rich saddle!

            We weren’t surprised you should go with Frodo first to Hobbiton to set things right there--to confront Lotho and this Sharkey, whoever and whatever he might be.  I’m not certain what we expected then--perhaps for you to simply return immediately to tell us all about it, I suppose.  But instead you remained away, coming only for one night to greet us some days after Nilo Bridgemaster brought us word of your return across the Brandywine Bridge, you and Pippin sharing dinner with us and Paladin and Eglantine and spending the night before riding off the next day on the trail of rumors of brigands and ruffians hiding out near Sarn Ford.

            You told me quietly before you left, Merry-my-dear-lad, that Frodo faced a terrible threat he must take away ere it brought ruin to the Shire he loved so fiercely.  Yet before you’d even left the Shire the word had come to us already of these Black Riders--riders who attacked the Crickhollow house and left its bar shivered to splinters along with the door jamb, who left the lock to the door twisted and mangled, who left poor Fredegar Bolger a quivering mass of terror.  It’s true they withdrew out of the Shire, apparently still pursuing the four of you; but before the Shire had exhausted itself with speculation as to where the four of you went and why it found itself realizing that the rumor of Black Riders was one thing, but nothing to the reality of Lotho’s army of Big Men and the predations of Gatherers and Sharers.  Paladin and those by him managed to do well by the Tooklands while we did our best to protect our own here in Buckland; but by the time we understood the threat it was far too late to protect the greater part of the Shire; and it appears the wagons of the looters and terror of the Men reached every least village and farmstead beyond our immediate protection.

            How is it that you four managed to do in two days what we, in nearly a year of occupation, could not?  What was it that roused the Shire--the martial bearing of yourself and Peregrin Took, the grieving determination of Frodo’s quiet authority, the competence of Samwise Gamgee as he looked this time not to the needs of Frodo alone but those of the entire Shire?  Did this new King of yours teach you not only to use those swords you wear but how to give orders in a manner that others will follow immediately?  Pippin isn’t even of age yet, and still he walked into the Great Smial and commanded his own father when the need was there.  How else could he walk out of there within two hours with a troupe of Took archers without Paladin quite understanding what had happened?

            And then there are the scars of wounds--your forehead and that of Sam Gamgee, your wrists and ankles as well as Pippin’s; the hint that Frodo, too, was at one point bound cruelly; and--and the missing finger, the one no one wishes to speak of.  And there are the wounds we can’t see--the ones you flinch from when questions come too close, the ones that have you crying out in the night, particularly when the weather is unsettled or you’ve come close to quarreling with someone.  I don’t understand how it is that you, a Hobbit of the Shire, came to be in a battle, but apparently you did; and you saw one you came to honor greatly die in it, or so it would seem.  Or maybe you saw more than one die.  I’m not certain, for the moment I come to soothe you, you will awaken and insist there is nothing wrong even when it would be obvious to the stone column before the Hall that there most certainly is.  You worry for Pippin when you are separated; a hawk flies overhead and you look up in fear and defiance.  And you are so concerned for Frodo--you are all concerned for Frodo, you, Pippin, Sam Gamgee.

            As I said, before you left, the last time we spoke, you told me how worried all of you were for Frodo.  You said he needed your guardianship for he was impractical when it came to his own welfare.  In the letter you left for us you said the same, that if it was at all possible those of you who accompanied him would bring him home, alive, safe, whole.  Alive he certainly is, and there’s no question he’s being kept safe enough, what with hidden mail under his clothing turning knives; but he’s not whole, no matter what he says. 

            He was just coming to look a proper Hobbit before you left the Shire; now he’s not slender as he was before, but painfully thin.  Both Will and Mina Whitfoot speak of how little he eats at a time, and how it appears at times he is unable to retain what he does eat.  There are not only shadows beneath his eyes, but behind them as well.  For all that most everyone who deals with him regularly appears to know about the missing finger he still seeks to hide it and won’t speak to it or even acknowledge it is gone if it can be helped.  He can smile and even laugh--but most of the time he is solemn and driven, as if it is up to him personally to see all set right.

            What stole away his innate joy and delight?  What robbed him of the ability and desire to dance?  What has damaged his health?  Whence came this great engine of responsibility that one finds when seeking our beloved former ward?

            You will smile to speak of kings and wizards, Ents and Elves, the single-minded loyalty of Dwarves and the wonders of boating on a river so much greater than the Brandywine our own river seems a mere stream by comparison, and ever stop short of some grief.  You tell of the grandeur of these Misty Mountains, and then shudder as if there were something malevolent about them.  You describe the glory of this ancient, empty Dwarf kingdom you saw--then stop short as if to forestall describing something unspeakable.  You tell of traveling with someone named Boromir and how he would comfort and laugh with you--but why do you never tell what you did with him at the end of the journey?  And you tell of traveling with these Ents and later these Riders, but never of how you became separated from Frodo and the others, and in the end apparently even from Pippin, as you speak of thinking of him ahead of you in what became the King’s city.

            We wish to understand, and need to understand.  Do you think us incapable of it?  Is that why none of you will speak fully?  Or is there too much pain as yet to consider?  When each of you look off into the distance, gone silent in contemplating the memories you bear, what is it you see that you cannot or will not share?

            The King is a healer--that is important to you, and important to tell others.  But whom did you see him heal?  Was it Pippin?  Sam?  Apparently he offered his healing gift to Frodo himself.  If so, then how is it Frodo returned to us so remarkably changed and physically diminished?  And why does your own hand grow cold at untoward moments?

            Ah, our son, our nephew, our cousin and former ward, their friend who’s never been but a mere servant--if we are to fully appreciate this glorious King you apparently all love so deeply, we must understand the sources of the shadows he has helped each of you face.

            Please, Merry-my-so-beloved-lad, please tell us!

 *******

            We’d so hoped for a lad, but the lad didn’t come.  The first child was stillborn, and we never asked if it would have been a lad or a lass.  Then there was our Pearl, and then Pimpernel, and Pervinca.  Then the second child lost, the one we never told others about--lost far, far too early to be certain what it would have been.

            At last there was you, our little one, our wandering one even before you were born!  At last a son!  Our bright-eyed little lad, the one who watched all birds flying overhead from the time you were born, the one who was staring into Merry’s eyes and charming him from the first time you emerged from the bedroom in which you’d first seen the light of day.  And through it all we loved and rejoiced in you!

            Perhaps we should have chosen a different name for you, but somehow Peregrin fit you from the beginning.  Yes, the name fit you--how difficult it was to keep track of you!  Had your mother not thought to sew bells onto your pants cuffs and shirts there were times we would have lost you for certain!  Then you figured out how to remove your clothing and the betraying tinkles with them, and we’d spend hours searching for you only to realize you’d gotten into the pantry and closed the door after you, and after eating all the jam you’d fallen asleep in a nearly naked heap upon the floor with the empty jam pot lying next to your sticky face.

            Then there was the tumultuous winter after Bilbo’s remarkable disappearance when you seemed in terror of the possibility Merry and Frodo would seek to do the same.  We know you hated having to be at the Great Smial that winter, and certainly couldn’t fault you for wishing to be elsewhere; but we never had any idea of which way you’d gone this time!  At least three times you made it all the way to Buckland, and countless times more Frodo would send a messenger to let us know you’d come in during the night and either crawled into bed with him or had been found when he got up in the morning in the room that had been your own within Bag End since you were judged beyond faunthood.  The Brandybucks even met with you at Waymeet one of those times when you left on your own, unwilling to wait patiently for their arrival!

            But that last year--you were so often gone from us.  No longer Ferumbras and Lalia to lay the blame on--your mother and I blamed your absences on ourselves, I think.  If only we didn’t have to spend so much time and energy in being the Thain and his Lady--maybe then you would have stayed more at home with us.  If only we could have gone back to the farm at Whitwell we could have had more of a relationship with you.

            Again, however, you turned to Merry and Frodo--dear, frustrating Frodo.  Usually Frodo was a calming influence on you; but that last year he seemed anything but!  You and Merry were constant companions that year, it seemed, whenever the two of you could get together, and always your attention was fixed on Frodo Baggins as if somehow your own happiness depended on his.  You left home constantly to be with Frodo from the moment the word came that he was selling Bag End and going back to Buckland.  The idea that Frodo had come to the end of all his money was so incongruous--so unlikely--so--so false--how any might be expected to believe it we could not begin to understand.  We knew that Bilbo hadn’t brought back near the amount of treasure that rumor would have the entire Shire believe; but neither had he ever been in danger of poverty with the property and rents and farm shares and partnership agreements he held, and Frodo after him.

            You knew, didn’t you--you and Merry and Samwise Gamgee?  You knew he intended to leave the Shire from the first and were conspiring with him, no matter what you wrote in that letter.  And why did you not tell us ahead of time so that we might have helped?  Had I known Frodo was in danger, as Thain I could have sent Took archers to protect him!  Instead, you three felt you had it all in hand to keep him safe--as if you knew better what he needed than he did himself!  Sweet water, Peregrin Took--Frodo was fifty and you still a tween!  How were you, a lad yet, to protect someone who’s helped take care of you since you were born?

            And now you want to tell us all about this--this adventure you took.  You frighten your mother silly with talk of Black Riders and flooded fords and cursed knives and evil rings.  Don’t you see how disturbed she becomes when you begin to speak of such things?  And you bring your sword to the table as if of course everyone does such a thing?  What did we teach you as a child about how inappropriate it is to try to bring your belongings, whether your knitted toy pig or a book or your sword to the table?

            And then you try to say how big a hero Frodo is--Frodo and Sam, actually; and how they were made lords of the realm by this new King of ours.  And you say he was a Ranger.

            I’ve seen Rangers, my son--scruffy beards, stained clothing, bows and swords and knives.  The one clean thing about them is their horses, which are always perfectly groomed.  What self-respecting King would go about like that?  As for insisting the King was the Ranger called Strider!  I’ve seen Strider, years ago in Bree.  He was not young then--he must be at least in his sixties now, and Men usually don’t live past seventy.  You expect me to believe such a fairy story?  Or about the old tales Bilbo used to prattle on about the kings come back from the sea, returned from the Star-Isle to Middle Earth--you think I take them seriously?

            I don’t wish to hear about goblins--or orcs, as you call them.  I don’t wish to hear about trolls, either.  Such things sound--disturbing.  And you have named that sword of yours “Troll’s Bane”?  This is a joke--am I right?  You never had to fight such a creature--you couldn’t!

            Please, my own dearly beloved child--don’t ask your mum and me to believe such things!  We love you so much, and as your parents we’re supposed to protect you from troubles and difficulties!  You’re our lad--our little, sweet lad--you can’t have gone off and become a warrior and all!  You can’t!  Oh, Pippin--please--all we want is our beloved son back again, our family restored the way it’s supposed to be, the Shire the way it’s supposed to be.  We already failed with the Shire--failed to recognize the danger until it was too late, failed to deal with it effectively, failed to protect the land given to our care.  We can’t have failed with you, too!  Please don’t make us feel helpless and totally without any ability to protect our own!  Please?

 *******

            Strange way o’ watchin’ after your Master, Sam-my-own, tellin’ tales o’ goin’ to Buckland to care for the gardens and house at Crickhollow and then disappearin’ out into the blue like that.  I don’t know as what to make o’ tales of Black Men on great horses chasin’ you throughout the Shire nor great mountains of fire.  Don’t know what to think on this ironmongery as you come home a’wearin’, neither.  May wear well enough, I suppose--but it must be powerful uncomfortable as well as unnatural to those as is born to the Shire.

            But I can see, lookin’ into your eyes, as ye’ve seen sights as I won’t understand in a thousand years, no matter as how many times as you tell it.  And I see, lookin’ into Mr. Frodo’s eyes, as he’s been hurt--hurt right bad, and it’s not healed and not likely to heal, neither.

            And I see as how much him’n the others all honor and respect you--you’re not just a gardener to them, but one as has done somethin’ powerful important and brave, somethin’ as not just anyone could o’ done.  And I see as how Mr. Frodo depends on you, not just to do but to let’im know as all’s well in spite o’  how things might feel.  And I see the love as the two o’ ye share--not as master’n gardener, but as those as of done somethin’ great’n terrible together and seen one another through it and back again.

            He’s not well, my Sam, my own.  He’s not well.  My eyes might be dimmin’ and my ears a’failin’ me and my joints givin’ me pain; but my heart tells me as he won’t linger long.  Just don’t let your heart be so close tied to his as when he fails you do as well.  Rosie’ll never forgive’im if’n that was to happen, you know.

            But know this, lad--I’m right proud o’ you, more proud’n I could ever say.  And I thank whatever Powers as might be every day as you’re my son.  And your mam--she’s a’lookin’ on you with right pride, too, I’d wager.  Welcome home, my own Samwise.

Reassurance

            Bilbo looked up from the poem he was reading to smile across the table at Frodo, who was sitting, one hand wrapped about his mug of tea, as he read a book of natural history, the other hand ruffling his hair.  It all seemed so very familiar, for it was much as the two of them had lived for eleven years there in Bag End, meeting in the kitchen for second breakfast, each with a book and possibly a pen or graphite stick and a pad of paper, sometimes enjoying what they were learning alone, other times sharing with one another.  Except this was not Bag End, and before the hand on Frodo’s mug had held a proper complement of fingers.  Nor had there been silver at Frodo’s temples, or a crease between his eyebrows, although Bilbo had to admit that crease was not as pronounced as it had been when Frodo joined the party traveling to the Havens there in the Woody End.

            For all that, Frodo failed to look much older than he had before Bilbo himself had abandoned the Shire, fleeing the growing restlessness he had known as he’d begun realizing that indeed age was apparently avoiding him, as he’d felt the evil growing in the outer world and the danger he sensed somehow focused about himself.  That he was leaving that evil and Its attendant danger to Frodo he’d never dreamed, and ever since those in Rivendell had realized what ring it probably was that he’d found beneath the Misty Mountains and brought back to the Shire he’d feared for what might happen to his beloved boy, although he’d never dreamed what in the end had indeed befallen his treasured younger cousin and chosen heir.

            This morning, however, Frodo looked much restored, his eyes without the shadows beneath them that had been visible on his return after his ordeal.  His face once again was falling into a habit of delighted discovery, and most of the pain he’d known was now eased, although certainly not forgotten.  It was certainly heartening to once again see Frodo’s attention riveted by what he was reading--he’d not touched the books to be found on the ship during their voyage, after all.

            Apparently, however, his older relative’s attention was enough to distract Frodo from his reading as he raised his eyes briefly to meet Bilbo’s own, and that blessed smile of his lit his face as it hadn’t done fully for so long.  “And at what are you smiling?” Bilbo asked.

            The smile widened into that familiar grin, the grin of one who appreciates irony and thinks in terms of mischief, even if he’d grown out of the need to practice it frequently.  “I was looking at that dressing gown of yours and just smiling at it.  Lord Elrond must have been appalled to have such a thing in the wardrobe of one of the residents of his house.  You have to admit, Bilbo, that it is pretty distressing.”

            Bilbo looked down at the worn fabric and brushed it briefly with his fingers.  “Well, it’s been a part of my life now for, oh, at least the last ninety years.  I’m really rather surprised it’s lasted this long, particularly as much as I’ve worn it.”  He rubbed a bit of the faded rose material between his finger and thumb.  “I suspect that the one reason it's still with me is that the fabric itself was originally woven in Imladris.  My grandfather Gerontius apparently commissioned the weaving of it for the purposes of his wife and daughters; and my Dad managed to obtain some of it to have made into this dressing gown for my mother.”

            “You mean that the dressing gown you wear was truly intended for your mum?”  Frodo was obviously intrigued by the idea.

            “Oh, indeed, my lad.  Dad wanted something special for my mum to wear--not that she wore it much.  She’d wear it first thing in the morning as she hurried to the privy, and late in the evening for the same purpose.  But other than during the time she was ill when she lost the child intended to be my younger brother----”

            Frodo straightened in surprise.  “You never told me!” he said.

            Bilbo felt himself become more solemn.  “I know,” he said.  “I’d not spoken of it before we arrived here since I was myself a young Hobbit.  Yes, there ought to have been at least one more Baggins born in Bag End besides me, perhaps more.  I was nine before Mum became pregnant again, or at least that’s the one pregnancy of which I was aware.  She carried the infant six months, then became ill with a serious fever, at last losing the child.  Afterwards she suffered from an infection.  We almost lost her, I’m told, and it took her some time to recover--almost a year.  Only then did she tend to wear a dressing gown more than in the earliest and latest hours of her day.  Elrond is certain that the reason she didn’t conceive again after that was due to the damage left by the infection.

            “She'd missed my dad so.  She’d not been truly well for much of that last year, although she’d never admit it.  You take after her a great deal in that way, my sweet Frodo.”

            Frodo didn’t speak, but his cheeks became flushed in a familiar manner, and Bilbo gave a soft laugh before continuing, “After she died for a time I felt totally lost.  Suddenly I was all on my own, the Baggins family head and Master of Bag End and the Hill, and answerable basically to no one.  For a few weeks I did nothing, until dear Dora decided it was time to take me in hand.  She almost considered me her older brother, and all too daft and in need of being taken in hand, or so it seemed.  Fosco and Ruby had purchased the hole within the village from the Boffin who’d dug it--he and his wife had no children left in the area who wished to take it on, and they felt it was too big for them now; and it was there they moved with the children shortly after Dudo was born in Number Five.  There was an epidemic of catarrh that struck while the three of them were in their tweens, and Fosco and Ruby were both lost in it, the children not yet old enough to live on their own.  So we closed the hole in the village down and they came to live in Bag End until they were adult--or at least until Dora and Drogo were adults.  Dudo spent the last of his tweens in Dora’s care in their family hole, which he and Drogo had agreed should go to her as the oldest.”

            Frodo nodded, so Bilbo went on, “So it was that Dora was the one to come in and start the process of sorting out their things, and she had her brothers move all my things from my old room into the Master’s room.  I’m a bit surprised she didn’t do the same for you.”

            Frodo sighed as he shook his head, closing his book over a finger, then picking up his mug and drinking from it before saying, “She was very shaken when you left us, Bilbo.  She only lived two more years after that, and Dudo not quite another one past her.”

            “My dad’s dressing gown I could never have worn--he was quite a bit taller than I am, and had far more girth.  Had I tried to wear it, it should have looked much as if I’d tried to wrap myself in the open sided tent the Green Dragon sends to the Free Fair in Michel Delving for their concession.  I kept it for a time, then gave it to your father, and it fit him quite well.  But I wouldn’t allow your Aunt Dora to give away Mum’s, either, keeping it to remind myself how much I’d always loved her.  For years it sat in my wardrobe, a symbol of her memory; then, after I returned from my Adventure I took to wearing it.  Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea why I felt I needed to wear her robe, but other than the color there wasn’t really anything to indicate it had been originally intended for a lady rather than for a gentlehobbit.  And it’s always been comfortable and warm enough in winter and cool enough in summer.  I wasn’t much taller than she’d been, and with the open front and tie belt it’s always fit well.”

            “Much like our cloaks from Lorien, then,” Frodo observed.

            “I suspect very much like that,” agreed Bilbo.

            “Aunt Dora didn’t appear to recognize it that time she popped in on us during elevenses when we had been copying her book of manners.”

            “I doubt she would have.  When it was Mum’s it was always pristinely clean.  Have you any idea how much bacon grease spattered over it, or batter for griddlecakes?  Mum never wore it while cooking, but you know me--I practically lived in it mornings when I had no other commitments.”

            “I was always surprised you didn’t take it with us when we went visiting.”

            “Oh--that would never do!  In the wardrobe in the room I always stayed in within Brandy Hall I kept a dressing gown Gilda gave me shortly after I became Master of Bag End, and I purchased one to leave at the farm in Whitwell as well.  After all, I didn’t wish to have to carry such things as dressing gowns about with me along with all the other items I had to carry when out on a walking tour or a drive to see relatives throughout the Shire.”

            “But you took it with you to Rivendell.”

            “Yes, and I left it there while I went on to the Lonely Mountain, so it was there when I returned and took up residence.  They’d cleaned it for me as best as they might, and I no longer wore it when I came for breakfast, although I often wore it when they brought me breakfast in my rooms.  And by that time it had garnered another association.”

            Frodo’s expression was again intrigued.  “And what was that?”

            “That I’d only worn it in your presence when anyone ever saw it, my sweet boy,” Bilbo answered gently, “except, of course, for the time Dora caught the two of us looking most disreputable, debating the etymology of the word estel.”

            Frodo began to laugh, and Bilbo had to think that one of the sweetest and most welcome of laughs he’d ever heard, for it was truly the first time he’d heard Frodo laughing fully since the day of the Party.  He patted the dressing gown, and was certain that it, too, was pleased.

The following deals with considerations of sexuality in adolescents, and with Frodo and Bilbo's own thoughts on their own sexuality and how it was impacted by the presence of the Ring in their possession.  I do not believe it is inappropriate for consideration by mature teenagers, but would perhaps be an inappropriate topic for young children.

Regrets

            He found Frodo, dressed not in the silver robes the Elves had given him but in his plainest, most Brandy Hall garb he’d brought, standing on the headland peering eastward, back toward Middle Earth.

            Frodo was much recovered from the horrors, pain, grief, and isolation of those last three and a half years in Middle Earth, but he still had days when solemnity took him and when he mourned for what the Ring had stolen from him.  There was such a look in his eyes today, and the crease between his brows was deeper as he apparently strained for some glimpse of the land he’d loved so much he’d been willing to sacrifice himself to protect it.

            “Homesick, child?” Bilbo asked quietly.

            There was no indication of startlement.  Bilbo didn’t believe it was possible to truly take Frodo by surprise any more, for his hearing appeared to have been sharpened by what had happened to him, and he seemed to see shockingly well in even the dimmest light.  He always appeared aware when others approached him, and could indicate which direction one should look to find any of those he knew well.  Frodo gave a slight shrug but didn’t turn right away.  At last he said softly, “I’m not certain I’m homesick, but----”

            He stopped, then gave a sigh.  “You know how they’ve been having me talk about--about the time with the Ring, and what It did to me.”

            “Yes.  They’ve done much the same with me, you understand.”

            Still without turning to look at him, Frodo continued, “Yes, Gandalf told me.”  He was still for a time.  Bilbo was beginning to think Frodo didn’t intend to tell what bothered him when at last he murmured, “Do you remember?  I must have been--oh, twenty-four, maybe twenty-five.  I’d just begun having--having those­ dreams, the ones where----”  He looked down now at his feet, his mouth going into a thin line.

            “Dreams of the Sea?”

            Frodo shook his head impatiently.  “No,” he murmured.  “I’d been having those for much longer--in fact I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have those.  I used to call them my dreams of the moving water.  No, these were----”

            Bilbo suddenly understood.  “Oh, those dreams, of being with a lass.”

            The very tips of Frodo’s cheeks were almost scarlet, although the rest of his face was almost bloodless.  “Yes,” he admitted.  “And I’d just begun to--to--to come as a result of the dreams.  I didn’t know what to think of it--I was--excited, and embarrassed, and confused....”

            “As I think we all are when they start,” Bilbo agreed, moving to his younger cousin’s side and peering off eastward as well.  He understood how it was difficult to speak of this and look another in the eyes.  He was surprised, then, to feel Frodo’s hand on his shoulder, and looked over to find Frodo was looking at him, now the faintest of smiles to be seen overlaying this so-mature regret.  So often now Frodo’s gaze seemed positively ancient as if he had not fifty-three but five thousand years of life to remember.  What the Ring had shown him, particularly in that last year when It had been fully awake....  It was no wonder that Frodo had needed to leave Middle Earth to find a level of peace, much less healing.

            Frodo was meeting his gaze steadily.  “I was so grateful to you, you must understand, Bilbo, for you helped me realize this was normal, a step closer to the day I would be able to marry and start the family I wanted for myself.”

            Bilbo felt his own expression soften, his own smile begin to show.  “Oh, I know, my lad.  With me it was Grandda Gerontius who reassured me, there on a visit to the Great Smial.”

            “You didn’t talk about it with Uncle Bungo?”

            Bilbo gave a gentle laugh as he shook his head once.  “Talk about that with my dad?  Oh, I don’t think so.  Could you have spoken of it with Sara?”

            Frodo looked back eastward rather thoughtfully.  “I’m not certain--I think it would have been easier speaking of it with him than with Paladin.  I know, though, there was no way in the Shire I’d ever have tried to discuss it with Ferumbras.  Maybe with Uncle Rory....”

            Bilbo smiled again.  “Rory would have been a good one.  He’d given up being embarrassed by things.”

            “I think--I think I could have spoken of it with my father,” Frodo added.

            Bilbo nodded gently.  “Yes, I think he would have been open with you.  After all, I was the one to discuss it with him, you see.  Perhaps that made it easier to recognize in you what was disturbing you--you were just as embarrassed as he’d been.”

            Frodo looked back at him, and for a moment Bilbo saw the echo of the lad Frodo had been once.  “Well, I wanted again to thank you.  It made being a tween easier.”

            Bilbo lifted his hand to set over Frodo’s thin one on his shoulder.  It was cool, but not cold.  Frodo smiled that sweet smile of his, then looked off eastward again, his expression now regretful.  At last he spoke again.  “After a time the--the lass I dreamed of became Pearl.  I suppose that was only to be expected.  Or, at least most of the time it was Pearl.  On occasion it was Narcissa, even in the early days, and once it was May Gamgee.”

            Bilbo felt a surprising amount of satisfaction at that.  “May was an attractive lass, you know, and she was certainly drawn by you.”

            Frodo gave him a brief sideways glance and smile.  He was again quiet for a time before he continued, “When Pearl threw me over I was so confused.  And part of why I felt confused was--was because I realized this was right, that she and I weren’t really meant for one another.  But how could that be?  We’d both been so certain, and for several years, after all.”

            Bilbo laughed aloud.  “She set her cap for you before you turned twenty-one, you’ll remember, and she was still only in her teens.  Of course realizing that was a childish infatuation and admitting that to herself would have been difficult.”

            “But why did I feel so certain for so long?”

            “Frodo my dear lad, you felt certain because she was so certain.  Pearl has a far more forceful personality than you’d ever realized, and has had that personality since she was a child.  And you responded to it.”

            After considering this for a time Frodo withdrew his hand, sticking it in his pocket.  “I see.  Yes, I understand.”  He took a deep breath and held it, his chin lifting a bit.  “So, she was infatuated, and I was infatuated with the idea of her being infatuated with me.”

            “I suspect that’s the right of it.”

            “We had a talk, not long after you’d left and--and not long before Lalia’s death.  She told me then she’d been more in love with the thought of being married to me than with me.  I was surprised, for hearing that didn’t hurt that deeply.”

            “You’d had a good several years by then for your heart to heal, after all, my boy.”

            Slowly, “Yes, yes, I suppose so.  She asked me if I was still in love with her, and wasn’t hurt when I told her no.”

            “She’d grown up a good deal.”

            “I suppose so.”

            “At the Party you were dancing with a good many lasses, and several times with Narcissa.  I’d always hoped you’d choose her.  She was so much more your equal than ever Pearl was.”

            “And certainly she’d loved me as long as Pearl had.”

            “From the first time she saw you dance, she once told me.”

            “If it hadn’t been for the Ring, maybe....”  Frodo’s voice trailed off. 

            He was still for quite some time before he finally said, “There were a few times, there when I was just a tween, when I had those dreams, when they weren’t just of being with a lass, when it was of me approaching a lass who didn’t know I was watching her, and she was--was looking out at the stars or the Moon, or perhaps at children playing, and--and I’d approach her from behind.  I’d--I’d place my hand on her shoulder and--and she’d look at it, but wouldn’t shake it off.  And after a time I’d turn her to me, and lean over and kiss her, never saying a word to her.  She’d try to pull away at first, but then would--would give in and would kiss me back.  And she’d allow me--to----”

            After a moment Bilbo said, “I see.”

            “Then, after you left, when I was carrying--carrying--It--in my pocket, that dream became more common.  Only I wasn’t waiting to see if she’d shake my hand off her shoulder before I’d turn her to me and begin--begin forcing myself on her.”  Frodo’s expression was becoming stern, as stern as Bilbo had ever seen the Dúnedan’s.  “It took those--innocent--dreams and images, and twisted them.  And--and I thought it was me.  I thought I was a monster.”

            “So that’s why you never pursued what you might have had with Narcissa or any other.”

            “Yes.  At first I allowed the dreams as--as long as they weren’t about a lass I truly cared about.  Hyacinth Tunnely, for example.”

            “You dreamed about Hyacinth Tunnely?  My boy--what an appalling lack of taste!”

            Frodo gave a bitter laugh, but Bilbo could see the grief and anger in the younger Hobbit’s expression.  “I know.  It was only because I didn’t care for her I could let those dreams happen.  But then I did see the real Hyacinth in Michel Delving, and I found that the images of--of my dreams were becoming vivid, and I felt the--the urge to go over and do it--what I’d dreamed of.  I couldn’t stop myself--or at least I almost couldn’t stop myself.  This wasn’t just fantasy any more, Bilbo--this was a real lass I was contemplating doing this with, you see.  I could have--I could have--raped--her, and been happy to do it.  I was shocked, and I said No! to myself.  And after that, when the dreams would start I’d wake myself up.

            “I didn’t realize it was the Ring that was sparking these dreams.  So, It changed tactics.  I saw Narcissa when I walked to Overhill to spend a couple days with Folco and Wisteria, and the Ring started showing me doing that to her.  It saw that I--that I was drawn to her, and It wanted to take that attraction and turn it ugly.  When I didn’t answer It, It became angry with me.  I had to pretend to--to It and myself--that I wasn’t attracted to her at all.  For some years It allowed me to dance with the lasses, as dancing was something I’d never connected with--with loving a lass.  But then It started even attacking me there.  I stopped asking Narcissa to dance with me--was afraid I’d break off in the midst of a dance and--and force her there, right in front of everyone.  Then It started showing me images every time my eyes were drawn to a pretty lass.  Then it was when I saw other lads with their lasses.  One time it was Sam, walking with Rosie and Tom, and he had his arm about her.  And It wanted me--It wanted me to go and push Sam aside and force her to kiss me, prove to Sam I was--I was more--virile.

            “It would try to take me by surprise, and--and----”  He pulled his hands out of his pockets and examined them.  “I’d stopped biting my nails for a time, after you left.  Now every time I saw Narcissa or--or even Merilinde--I’d start digging my nails into the heel of my hand to fight the urges.  I had sores there.  Then I finally started biting them again.  At last--at last--It--just--just turned it off.  Oh, It would try still at times to draw my attention to others.  It tried Hyacinth Tunnely again, one time at the Free Fair, but now she was grossly fat, and I laughed at the image.  It even tried tempting me with the idea of lads!  Can you imagine?”

            Bilbo felt himself go very still.  “Yes,” he answered finally.

            “Yes?”  Frodo was examining him, and Bilbo felt himself flush.  “You mean--you mean--It tried to show you with--with me?”

            Bilbo nodded slowly, sadness filling him.  “It tried to take my love for you and turn it into something ugly.  I wouldn’t let It do so.  I stayed away from Buckland for a time--do you remember?--to avoid that, then realized I couldn’t do that.  It wasn’t fair to you, lad.  I forced myself to go anyway, and every time It tried to raise that image I raised a different one, of you nursing at your mum’s breast when you were a tiny bairn.  It couldn’t deal with that image for some reason--I don’t know why.  Of course, I didn’t realize the Ring was to blame, either, any more than you did.”

            Frodo nodded thoughtfully.  “With me--it was images of absurdity that I found worked.  And Gandalf told me, there when we were in Gondor, that I was even using my Light of Being against It, the time It tried to get me to--push Sam aside.  He said I’d begun using my Light of Being to fight It, and to limit It.  It was trying to move beyond me, to work on Sam, Merry, Pippin, Freddy--the others, and I raised a circle of my own Light to keep it focused on me.”

            Bilbo felt a great joy fill him.  “You were stronger than It.”

            “For a time--in the end It still took me.”

            “Not until you were at the end of your journey, my dear boy.  There, where no one could properly fight It.  You held It off, and held It off, and held It off.  Not until you had no defenses left could It take you, and the Creator had--had Gollum ready to save you at the last.”

            Frodo turned to look at Bilbo straight on.  “Was there ever anyone else for you?  I know you told me once that before--before It came to you there had been a lass, only she died in an accident when a carriage overturned or something.”

            “She was injured then--very seriously injured, and was in no shape to marry anyone.  She died some time later.”

            “I see.”

            “There was one Hobbitess I was drawn to.  She’d married a companion of mine from when we were tweens, only he died during the year I was gone.  I came back, and after I finally had the business of the auction cleared up I went to see him and found he was gone.  I’d visit her from time to time--see to it she was properly cared for and all.  I was drawn to her after about two years, and--and I had visions of----”  He gave a loud huff.  “Anyway, the Ring--I’m certain it was the Ring--It saw a chance to remake me in Its image.  When I felt those urges, I broke it off with her.  But I set up one of my more lucrative partnership agreements to benefit her.  She had a regular income coming in now, and I knew she would ever be taken care of.  I found, too, I could fight those urges with images of absurdity.  But I, too, was carefully looking away from attractive ladies, and later attractive lads.”

            Frodo looked off eastward again.  “I asked Gandalf, there in Gondor, if It had gelded me.”

            “Had It?”

            “No.  I--I began to be stirred again.”

            “Did you?”

            “Oh, yes.”  Frodo smiled in memory, and there was sadness there.  “I ought to have courted Narcissa.  I came home, and the first time I saw her again I realized that--that the old attraction was still there, and that it was still strong.  I was such a fool.  I ought to have accepted what happiness I could while I could.”

            “And now?”

            “I dreamt of her last night, Bilbo.”

            Rather delicately the old Hobbit asked, “Was it one of those dreams, then, lad?”

            “Yes.  And it--it was so sweet.”

            Bilbo put his hand about Frodo’s waist and pulled him close, and felt Frodo put his own arm about his shoulders.  What that Ring had denied the two of them!  He looked up and saw sparkling tears, unashamed, on Frodo’s face and lashes, and understood them completely.

For Queen Galadriel's birthday, if a bit late....

Rejoicing with the Dawn

            Sam woke once more to the beautiful singing of his friend and companion as Frodo stood at the window to their shared room and sang to welcome the new day.  Frodo’s singing had always pleased him before, back when they’d lived in the Shire.  Now, however, it was beyond pleasing--it was truly glorious, far more than it had been when Frodo had been merely Master of Bag End and the Hill.

            When at last the song was over and Frodo turned toward him, Sam, sitting up on his couch, smiled his greeting.  “That was wonderful, Frodo.  You seem to sing that ever more beautiful each mornin’, I swear.”

            His friend’s smile grew more dazzling.  You think so, do you?

            “Course I do.  When did you start singin’ a dawnin’ song?  I member all too well how often you’d not want to be up early, sleepin’ in till second breakfast or elevenses.”

            The resulting laughter filled Sam with its own pleasure.  Most of the Elves I’ve known have rejoiced to watch Anor lift above the horizon, as you well know.  How often did we hear Legolas start the day with a song, even if it was as we were preparing to spend that day sleeping so we’d be rested to go on by night?

            “Certainly Lord Strider’s Elven brothers would sing at sunrise there in the camp at Cormallen, or standin’ on the keel at the end of the Court of Gathering.  And what we’d hear in Rivendell and Lorien--it could be marvelous.”

            Frodo nodded his shining head, then his expression became more solemn.  When I first arrived I didn’t do much in the way of singing.  I was already much better than I’d been when we took ship; but I was so overwhelmed--far more than you’ve proved to be.  In many ways I was still far from well, I suppose.  There were still places where the poison of the Ring remained festering within my heart.

            He turned to look again out the window.  Bilbo was awake again, exploring freely, and I was staying so much within the summerhouse here, sometimes not finding the will even to rise.  Oh, I missed home so very much, and Merry and Pippin and Elanor and Rosie and you----  He turned back to meet Sam’s eyes.  Oh, how much I missed you all.  And I still needed healing so desperately.  I was receiving the draughts they brought me and not arguing about them any more.

            The first time I went outside I didn’t make it past the bench before the door.  The first time I went further I was given the athelas plant that grows there on the windowsill.  I can’t begin to tell you what that meant to me, remembering how you’d planted athelas outside my bedroom window at home in Bag End, and up atop the Hill, always intending it to help me strengthen and heal.  I held the pot in which the plant was growing and felt as if I’d just been given the promise--the promise I wouldn’t remain alone, once Bilbo went on.  The promise you’d come when the time was right, the promise I could hold that much of my former loves again.  It helped so much--helped me accept the healing offered me.

            I have no idea how long it was before I began singing--I just woke up one morning just before dawn and stood looking out the window, seeing the athelas plant against the lightening sky and smelling its wonderful scent, realizing that more were growing at home and that you and Rosie and your children were also waking each morning with the scent of healing to greet you.  And I was glad.  And as the Sun rose I began to sing--to sing my own joy that this was so.

            For years I’d sing to greet the day, seeing the golden and rosy light of dawn and in its reflection seeing in the mirror of my heart you and Rosie together, loving one another, loving your children, loving the Shire, loving Aragorn and Merry and Pippin and Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme and all the rest for me.  And I’d sing to give thanks for the promise that the world went on without me there, that you knew joy and peace as a result of what I’d been able to accomplish, as little as that might have been.  I sang, knowing that you were grateful I’d been there with you while I could be there, that you felt that the world was a better place simply because I’d been part of it for you for a time.  And I sang in hope that eventually the dawn would bring you to me, restore the very last of the joy in the Sun’s light I’d ever known.  And it came to pass at last--out of the east you came, and now I can look to the West with no further regrets.  The last of the wounds my heart took is healed.

            Now when I sing it is in gladness that my golden treasure has been restored to me, and I hope that the last wound your heart took from the Ring is also healed.

            Sam rose from his couch and walked slowly to stand right before his friend.  How did one answer such a statement with words?  He was unaware, but his own Light of Being was flaring more strongly than it had since his arrival at the quays before the City.  No one looking at that golden gleam could be in any doubt that this one’s heart was also rejoicing.  He reached to take Frodo’s hand in his own, closed his eyes and began to sing himself.

            In western lands beneath the sun

            the flowers may bloom in spring....

  * *

            Many about the isle turned toward the great gardens that grew north and west of the City, their attention caught by the great flaring of Lights to be seen there that morning.  It must have been like this when the Lights of Laurelin and Telperion were both at their greatest and blended before the courts of the Valar....

With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Enemy Vanquished

September 21, 1371

            “You’re certain you don’t wish me to bake the cake?” Bilbo asked for the third time.

            Primula Brandybuck Baggins smiled.  “I told you, Bilbo, we have that well in hand.  Young Lily Brown is working on that right now as we speak, and you know as well as I do that she’s a right dab hand at baking cakes.  Besides--as one of the two byrthings it’s not right you should have to bake your own cake.”

            “It’s only that I finally wangled that recipe for spice cake that Aramos and Bachelorbutton Millpond have always guarded so strongly, and I’d love to try it out myself.”

            That gave his younger cousin pause.  The Millpond spice cake had become an icon within the Shire in the past few years, having cornered the prizes at the Michel Delving Free Fair the last four years running in the cake baking competitions.  Oh, she was tempted...but she hardened her heart--if somewhat reluctantly.  “No--that wouldn’t be fair to Lily, I fear.  But how about you baking it for Drogo’s birthday?  It’s just next month, after all.”  And at Bilbo’s brightened expression, she continued, “And there’s no question you’re contributing to the party by housing my family and the Whitwell Tooks.  Yes, I know that we’re having Rory and Gilda and the lads there in Number Five with us; but you’ll have my mother and the rest of my brothers and sisters as well as Adalgrim, Paladin and Eglantine, and Esmeralda.  I’m rather glad the older lasses and their families have decided to take rooms at the Green Dragon--that would be rather much to have them here, too.”

            “Oh, I rather think I would have been able to house them, too--we could have fit them into the extra rooms I use for my wardrobe.”

            Primula shook her head in the wonderment of it.  “You do spend far, far too much on clothing, most of which you’ve not worn more than once or twice, Bilbo Baggins.  Time to sort it all out and give away those things you don’t really want to wear again, you know.”

            “But it gives me such pleasure to know that somewhere in all that I have the perfect outfit to wear to any function I might take it into my mind to attend, my dear lass.”

            “Well, hopefully my Frodo will grow up to be a bit more conservative about clothing than you.  Anyway, the cake’s to be delivered this evening at about six of the clock, I understand, and Drogo has a ham and a smoked goose coming from the Cotton’s farm at much the same time.  Young Tom suggested he’d come then once he realized that Lily was due with her cake at about that time--he’s quite taken with her, you understand.”

            Bilbo smiled with satisfaction.  “Yes, so I do understand, and I’m thoroughly pleased with the situation.  Tom’s shaping up a wonderful farmer, and Lily’s one of the best cooks in the region--certainly she’s at least the equal of Bell Gamgee.”

            “I’m glad you suggested inviting the Gamgees and the Cottons to the party as well as all the Bagginses and Nat Boffin’s family and all.  Although I hope that Odo Proudfoot doesn’t make an ass of himself again.”

            Her older cousin laughed.  “If he didn’t make an ass of himself I’d doubt it was truly Odo.  But I suspect he’ll not be too objectionable, Primmie.  Well, I believe the Whitwell Tooks will be here within the next couple hours, so I’d best see to it the bedrooms are truly ready for them and that we have a meal ready to go on the table when they arrive.”

            By nightfall most of the guests from outside the Hobbiton area had arrived, and both Bag End and Number Five were full.  A cart from the far side of Bywater had brought the great ham and even greater smoked goose from the Cottons’ farm; and a time later it left again, Tom Cotton with Lily Brown beside him on the seat, having most courteously offered her a ride home across the village of Hobbiton toward Overhill.  Exactly how she’d managed to be stranded on the Hill no one could quite say, but Primula had a strong suspicion that Bilbo had slipped a few coppers into the hands of her younger brother Carl at the same time as an idea into his head.  Certainly once she’d seen the cake into the hole and properly displayed on the sideboard in the dining room and was satisfied that what little damage had come to the icing on the trip over had been made right, young Lily had learned Carl and her family’s cart were no longer to be found.  She certainly appeared happy enough to accept the offer of a ride from the young farmer, and his face was decidedly cheerful as he slapped the reins and his ponies set off toward the turning of the lane.

            Saradoc and Merimac had insisted on taking Drogo off to the Ivy Bush, where they hoped to be joined shortly by Dudo.  Once her older brother Rory and his wife Menegilda had decided to take advantage of the near-privacy to retire to their guest room together, Primmie found herself unexpectedly at loose ends, having no one to entertain and nothing left to do for the morrow that needed to be done now.  So she slipped into her son’s room and looked down on him sleeping in his low cot, smiling to see the stuffed dog given him by his Auntie Dora on her birthday lying with its head on his outstretched right arm.  Ah, he could look so very innocent, her beloved little lad....  She carefully lifted the blanket she’d embroidered with a great dragonfly over him and brushed a dark curl away from his right eye, noting the soft smile that could be discerned on his face even while sleeping.  He was her beloved star-kissed son, her so desired child.  She sat herself in the rocking chair and picked up a woolwork ball off the floor, holding it to her and humming as she looked down on his sweet face, which seemed to shine softly in the dim glow of the rushlight.

*******

            Innocent?  When on earth had Primula Baggins ever thought of her son as innocent? she wondered as she tried vainly to find him.  She’d only wanted to see him dressed for the party to come, but he’d taken one look at the fancily ruffled shirt she’d thought to put on him and had said “No!” quite plainly before running out of his room and down the hallway.  Where he was hiding she had no idea, for when little Frodo wished to be silent, he was the most silent little Hobbit ever born into the Shire.

            A door opened and Menegilda came out of the privy, startled to find her sister-in-love standing, looking frustrated, in the passageway.  “What is it, Primmie?” she asked.  She looked at the garment the younger Hobbitess held in her hands so forlornly, and asked, “Frodo’s to wear that?”

            “Well, he’s supposed to, but he’s apparently decided he doesn’t like the looks of it and has run off to hide.  It was a gift from Lalia, actually--apparently she had it made for Ferumbras when he was a bairn, and she’s kept it all these years.  She sent it by way of Eglantine, with word that she hoped that Frodo would look as precious in it as her own little lad had done.”

            Gilda took it out of her hands and held it up, and she laughed outright.  “A precious laugh, if you ask me, Primula.  Oh, we can’t expect him to wear this--not today of all days.  Look at that ruffle there--and the color!  I ask you--red, and that shade of red at that?  It wouldn’t suit Frodo’s fair coloring at all, you know.  Is she coming?”

            “Yes, she and the Thain are to arrive with Ferumbras shortly before luncheon, I understand.”

            “That doesn’t leave us a great deal of time to see to the situation, then.  Hmm--perhaps it would be best to pour some grape juice upon it--she’d not expect him to wear it if he managed to have a great purple stain for all to see.” 

            But even his mother’s announcement that he wouldn’t have to wear that shirt after all didn’t make it any easier to find Frodo, for once he’d hidden himself he tended to remain there unmoving until found.  It was Bell Gamgee who finally discovered him lying under his mother’s dress of the day before in the laundry basket.

            “Sometimes, my beloved son,” Primula sighed as she accepted the child from her amused neighbor, “the fact you are a decidedly stubborn Baggins is made far, far too obvious.”

            “Don’ wan’ it,” he insisted.

            “So you’ve made plain.  Well, what about the green shirt with the leaves upon it?”

            His face cleared--that one had been one of his favorites for the past few months.  He looked at the ruffled monstrosity the Thain’s Lady had intended to see him wear that day, and appeared to approve of the purple blotch that marred its red color as his mother carried him to the nursery and saw him dressed.

            “The Sackville-Bagginses weren’t invited, were they?” asked Menegilda.

            “No, but they are likely to show up anyway,” said Primula as she buttoned her son’s braces.  “Otho is absolutely intent on keeping it before all noses that he is Bilbo’s proper heir, after all.”

            “Selfish blighters,” muttered Gilda, causing her husband’s youngest sister to turn her way in surprise, her eyebrows rising up toward her hairline at the decidedly common evaluation of Bilbo’s detestable younger cousin and his family.  “And it’s not so much Otho who wishes all to remember him as Bilbo’s heir so much as Lobelia, and you know it.  She’s always fancied herself as the wife to the Baggins and as the mistress of Bag End, you know.”

            “As if they didn’t keep the fanciest smial in the village itself,” muttered Primmie as she picked up her son’s brush and saw first the hair on his head and then that on his feet neatly groomed.

            “And look  how they got it,” pointed out the Mistress of Brandy Hall.  “It ought to have gone to Otho’s Sackville cousin, and we all know it.  Lobelia engineered the whole scheme to see him disgraced and his mother’s will rewritten in Otho’s favor, you know.  And by the time it came out finally that Teron had nothing to do with that lass in Overhill putting the dessert before the meal as she did it was too late--Otho and Lobelia were in and he was left to beg a place with his younger brother until he could save enough to purchase a hole of his own.”

            “Poor Teron,” Primmie said as she gave one last brush to Frodo’s left foot and set him down upon the floor.  “Now, don’t you go getting dirty again right away, sweetness, or I’ll have to put you to bed without any of your birthday cake.”  Nodding absently, the tiny child hurried out of the nursery toward the front of the smial.  “Three years old today, he is,” she smiled after him fondly.  “Drogo and I have been so blessed to have him, you know.  I hope Esme will come down soon,” she added.  “He absolutely adores her.”

            Shortly before noon they went up to Bag End, ham and goose and cake with them, so as to be ready to greet further guests due to arrive just in time for luncheon.  As soon as Thain Fortinbras and his party arrived all trooped in for the meal.  “He’s not wearing the shirt I sent over?” Lalia demanded.

            “Oh, I’m so grateful you so thoughtfully sent it,” Primula said, “but it appears that the first thing that happened was for a cup of grape juice to be spilled on it.  I have it soaking now, and hopefully we will be able to keep the stain from becoming permanent; but I couldn’t allow him to wear it once it was so badly spotted with purple.”

            “At least he doesn’t have to look a right mam’s lad in front of all these guests,” muttered Ferumbras in tones low enough his mother didn’t hear.  “I hated that shirt,” he added privately to Primula.  “Now, the one he’s wearing--that is such a perfect one for the lad.”

            Most of the other guests appeared to agree with the Thain’s son and heir.  Peony was cooing over Frodo, and Dudo and Camellia’s daughter Daisy was begging to hold him next while Esmeralda kept a jealous watch over him.  Primula smiled--not only did small Frodo adore his Auntie Smee, as he called her still, but Esmeralda had been enamored of her small cousin since the day he was born.

            “And what on earth happened to the carpet there near your study door?” inquired Dora of Bilbo.

            “Oh, that was Lobelia’s doing, actually,” Bilbo explained.  “She was visiting, and while I must be out of the parlor seeing to tea she took it into her head to visit the study and try to figure out the value of my inkstand.  She’d placed the bottle of red ink on the low table by the sofa while she checked the maker’s marks out----”

            “But that’s nowhere near the door to the passageway, you know.”

            “Yes, I’m well enough aware of that fact; but once it was down on that table that young scamp there, who was staying with me for the afternoon while his parents must be gone to Overhill for the day, was able to reach it, and he took it out into the hallway, removed the lid, and set to paddle in the ink.  He did pour it out onto the tile, but ink will spread once it’s spilled out, you know.”

            There were chuckles from several sides at that intelligence.

            Frodo sat in the high chair that had once been Bilbo’s own as all enjoyed the elaborate luncheon Bilbo had prepared with the help of Bell Gamgee and Esmeralda, who’d proved a good cook on her own part.  And as Frodo picked his way through his third bowl of mushrooms cooked with butter and bits of bacon, his father smiled proudly.  “Now, that’s my lad there, you know--see?  No one loves mushrooms more than we Bagginses do!”  At that Frodo popped a large mushroom into his mouth with all signs of enthusiasm.

            After the meal all went down to the field opposite the foot of the hill where a bandstand had been raised, and once a few folk showed up with fiddle and drums and pipes the dancing began.  Frodo sat upon his Uncle Bilbo’s lap, his eyes large, watching every move, bouncing to the music, until Esmeralda came to claim him, and took him to the edge of the dancing ground where she swooped to and fro with her young cousin in her arms, him delighted to be a part of the merriment.

            Not even the arrival of the Sackville-Bagginses was enough to put a damper on the party.  Ferumbras, who after six ales and three glasses of Old Winyards was feeling very expansive and genial, swooped Lobelia off immediately into the Springlering, while Nat Boffin managed to corner Otho to question him on what he expected he might do with a pipeweed plantation he’d just bought near Threadneedle.  Lalia, still upset that Frodo hadn’t worn her gift to him, made a point of making over Lotho--until he grew tired of the attention and purposely knocked her goblet of wine into her lap, then scurried off to hide behind his father.

            The gifts for all were almost all well accepted; and even though the S-Bs had not been invited there was even a gift for each of them--and for Lobelia, a very inexpensive inkstand complete with a bottle of red ink.  What exhilaration she might have felt at having been swept off into the dance was swiftly forgotten as the perceived insult went through her.  In moments she had Peony Baggins, who was rather afraid of her, cornered.  “And you know,” she was murmuring as Bilbo passed, carrying Frodo on his shoulder, “what they are saying about our dear Primula, don’t you?”  The ears of both Bilbo and Frodo twitched.

            A large table had been set up in the garden, and the party climbed the hill (Lalia huffing mightily as they reached the top) to it for the birthday feast.  The great ham and goose were carried out along with all the other dishes prepared, and all settled in to eat.  Bilbo and Frodo sat at the top of the table while Lobelia was settled rather pointedly opposite him, an arrangement it was obvious was not intended to be flattering, particularly as it appeared that the food on her filled dish as it finally reached her all seemed to be cold, although she could see steam rising from those on either side of her.  Peony was settled near the family of Rory and Primula’s sister Asphodel, where the tween immediately received the attentions of Asphodel’s son Milo, and Lobelia found that Menegilda, who sat beside her, was not in a mood to hear any of the gossip Lobelia wished to pass on, so was sitting seething with indignation that was, for the moment at least, inexpressible.

            At last the meal was over and the cake brought out on the tea trolley and settled to Bilbo’s left.  Bilbo stood up then to make his birthday speech.  “We would welcome you to our party, Frodo and I,” he announced, “all our beloved Bagginses and Boffins, Brandybucks and Tooks, Bolgers and Gamgees and Cottons, Rumbles and, of course, our redoubtable Sackville-Bagginses.  He is three now, and I am eighty-one!”  All cheered.  “It is such a pleasure to have you here to celebrate with us, of course.”  More cheering.  “And I hope that all of you are enjoying yourselves as much as Frodo and I are!”  Many Of courses.  “We are, for the moment at least, the oldest and youngest Bagginses living in the Shire, and most of those in between are present with us today.”  Still more cheers.

            “We welcome you again, and thank you for coming, and hope that you will be able to enjoy many more birthdays with us.”  As those final cheers faded, he took up the knife that had been set upon the trolley, holding it up.  “This is not Sting, of course, and with it we do not hold off great spiders, dragons, or Gollum, but I suspect with it we can effectively do battle with this cake, Frodo and I.  What do you think, my dear boy?” he asked, turning toward his fellow byrthing.

            “Yeah,” Frodo agreed, nodding his head very solemnly.

            Bilbo scooted his chair into position with his knee, then lifted Frodo easily from his high chair onto the seat where he stood between Bilbo and the cake.  Bilbo settled the haft of the knife in Frodo’s hand and placed his over that of his little cousin, and together they cut the cake into slices.  At last Bilbo lifted Frodo from his place on the chair and leaned down to whisper in the faunt’s ear.  The lad smiled, and pulled down Bilbo’s head to whisper a single word into his ear with a glance down the garden toward the far end of the table.  Bilbo looked, nodded seriously, and straightened.  He once again turned his attention on the rest of the guests.  “Frodo has asked for permission to serve the first piece of cake to a guest, and has said he wishes to deliver it himself to our beloved cousin Lobelia, who, seated as she was, was unfortunately the last to be served supper.”  So saying he lifted quite a large slice and set it upon a plate, and with great ceremony delivered it into Frodo’s hands.

            The tiny lad carried it most carefully, past Saradoc and Merimac, past the Whitwell Tooks, past Asphodel and her family, past Peony Baggins, past Nat Boffin and his wife, past the Cottons and Lily Brown, past Rory and Menegilda, and approached Lobelia most solemnly, obviously most proud at his feat of having carried it the full length of the table.  He raised his eyes to her, the blue of them triumphant as he lifted the plate to show her the delicious cake and thick frosting and lovely butter-cream rose that decorated it--and there on the sward Hamfast Gamgee kept so closely and smoothly groomed, he tripped, the plate flying from his hands and landing with a great splat against Lobelia’s ample bosom, some of the frosting splattering across her face.

            Menegilda was immediately upon her feet to assist the child to stand on his own while Rory made a great show of attempting to help wipe the cake and frosting from Lobelia’s bodice with his napkin while effectively smearing it but the further, but the rest of the guests were all roaring with laughter.

            “Sowwy, sowwy!” Frodo was saying, his face filled with chagrin as he looked up at Lobelia.

            What Lobelia wished to say was not clear, for she was so filled with fury and embarrassment she was incomprehensible.  But in the light of the child’s face, what could she say, in the end?  Particularly, as all were remembering, she’d not even been invited.  At last she allowed Otho and Lotho to lead her out of the garden to their waiting trap, with Hamfast hurrying to open the gate for her.

            Menegilda had been holding little Frodo, who’d been sobbing onto her shoulder, and now Bilbo approached her and reached out to take the child from her.  As Frodo was lifted away, Gilda looked down, expecting to see tears on those lovely long lashes of his--only to see not a one, just that spark of mischief that, for the moment, he shared with Bilbo.

            “You little scamp!” she exclaimed.  “You did that on purpose!”

            He smiled up at her sweetly.  “Worked,” he advised her, then turned to plant a kiss on Bilbo’s cheek.  “Happy birsday, Unca Bo,” he said.

            “And you, too, my dear boy,” Bilbo smiled.  “One enemy vanquished today!”

            So saying, he carried the child back off toward the head of the table.

Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

For Kitty and Harrowcat for their birthdays, and because Harrowcat asked specifically for this.

A Summer Night’s Peace

            Having kissed my wife, I slip out of our quarters.  I still feel as if living within these stone walls is new to me, although this is not the first time I have lived within the city or must stay for months at a time within the Citadel.  There was that time of crisis when Ecthelion was Lord Steward and came to believe--rightly--that assassins had been sent from Umbar to slay his son and Denethor’s wife Finduilas, who had just learned she had quickened with their first child.  That time I remained within the guest quarters within the Citadel for four months, watching for signs of Umbar’s agents, helping in the end to unmask them and see them spirited away, never to return to their patrons.  This time I have dwelt here less than three months, yet it seems so very much longer; and at times I feel the oppression of dwelling within walls of stone surrounded ever by more of the same.

            I leave the Citadel, and find myself shadowed, most discretely, by Orophin of Lothlórien.  This has been Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel’s gift to me while they remain in the city--the loan of their folk as personal guard at night that I do not require being followed ever by guards of the Citadel when I would walk abroad in the top two levels of the city.  There is more of a feeling of freedom, knowing that those who see to my safety are not bothered by my own restlessness in the depths of the darkness.  For I am often sleepless, and have been so for so long it is hard to say when it began.  Certainly the great journey we made from Bree to Rivendell and then south on the quest did nothing to help me sleep more easily.  Once Frodo was injured ’neath Amon Sul I barely slept for the two weeks it took to reach my adar’s home, and certainly I slept little enough until the shard was finally removed from the Hobbit’s shoulder.  Then after, we were again on patrol, seeking for signs of the Nazgul and their steeds, watching for movement of other creatures of the Enemy.

            So often we traveled and travailed for days and nights on end, ever on watch, particularly in those final weeks before we arrived at last to complete the breaking of the siege of this city.  And often when I sleep the memories of the worst times will come upon me, as they will anyone who has been forced to survive by slaying.

            The gardens behind the Citadel are beautiful beyond telling, but they are not enough this night.  Instead I find myself, as I’ve so often done since it was planted by the fountain, heading for the White Tree.  I can see it, there, shining in the darkness of the night, catching the least starlight as well as the Light of the ones who sit beneath it.  Legolas and Frodo rest there, and at the moment it is hard to say which shines the brighter.  Ah, my small brother of the heart--how it was you were given the heart and soul of an Elf or Dúnedan when you were born a Hobbit of the Shire I cannot say.  As is so often true of your people, you have had a core of sheer steel.  However, even the strongest steel can become brittle and break, should it be tried sufficiently; and like the blade I have carried at my hip since last winter, your core has fractured.

            Is there a fire here within Middle Earth, I wonder, sufficient to your reforging, or a Smith to see you remade?

            I see you turn toward me, but tonight you do not smile at my approach.  Your eyes are solemn, thoughtful, and when you speak your voice quiet. 

            “You do not stay by your bride this night?” you ask.

            “Nay--this night she preferred to await the attentions of her daernaneth and the Lady Mirieth,” I say as I sink to sit by you.

            You search my eyes as well as you might.  “You can’t have quarreled.”

            I feel myself laugh.  “Oh, no, small brother, there has been no quarrel.  It is only that since I began worshiping her with my body, the rhythm of her own has begun to change, and she has begun her courses.”

            You appear puzzled--I do not believe you have heard these matters described so; or perhaps having been raised by Bilbo, an unmarried male, you are unaware of the ways of womanhood.  But then you understand, as you now do so readily much that is uncommon to your people’s customs or manner of speech, as if the Enemy’s weapon had given you lessons in the ways of Men that need but small reminders for you to bring stray facts to understanding.  When you speak next your voice is tight with embarrassment, and I am certain that were there more light to see I would note your face had gone pale save for the apple of your cheeks, which must be quite flushed.  “Then it--it is different for those of Elfkind than it is for mortals?”

            “Somewhat, or so I understand.  But it is more than that--now that we are joined and our fëar have become bound with the sharing of our hroar, it is now confirmed that she has made the choice of the peredhil, and so the song of her body begins to reflect that choice.  So long might a maiden among Elves remain unmated that ellyth do not always have moon-cycles--not until they are wed, and even then only when they feel themselves ready to bear children.  I am not fully certain if she will continue to have regular courses from now on, or only until she has given birth for the first time, or until she feels she has borne all we can devote ourselves to properly.  I must suppose that time itself will show us the answers to these questions.”

            Even in the darkness I can tell the flush of your cheeks is more full.  “I have no experience with these things,” you say delicately.  I can tell by the very solemnity of Legolas’s expression he is doing his best not to laugh aloud and embarrass you further.  “I was too young for my mother to speak of such things with me, and my aunts never thought to discuss what--it was like with lasses.  Bilbo was quite frank with me about the--changes I was experiencing; but I fear the little I know about womankind I learned from Bilbo’s library.”

            Legolas can no longer contain himself, and seeks to cover his amusement with a fit of coughing.  You glare at him, obviously aware of the ruse.  I give him my own stare.  “Remember, my prince,” I say, “that in the yeni you have known there has been far more chance for you to learn how it is with ellyth than there has been for him to learn how it is with Hobbitesses, particularly as he has not lived with such as members of his household for so long.  During the time he lived among his Brandybuck kin I suspect he was sufficiently young and innocent that what he did hear had so little meaning for him that he gave it no heed, much as I did when I was a child.”

            There is sufficient relaxation in your shoulders that I realize that my last statement relieved you.  So wise and learned do the others think of you, does it distress you to admit that there are subjects of which you are ignorant so much that it is a relief to realize others also have been similarly lacking in knowledge?  I continue, turning to you, “Because I was training as a healer, my adar insisted I learn how it is with women among Men.  Certainly he would have me observe when such were brought to him concerning difficult pregnancies or common ailments associated with womanhood.  But for Arwen--although she has assisted Adar herself often enough in the near three thousand years of her life, still to know this in her own body is strange and, I suspect, somewhat frightening.”

            You nod, storing away the new information in that great archive that is your mind, and we sit now in more companionable silence.  At last Legolas comments quietly, “If Aragorn intends to sit by you, Frodo, then I think I will leave you, for I wish to go down to the gardens of the Houses of Healing to be with the trees there.  This one is young yet, and is more concerned with the two of you than with me.”

            “Thank you, Legolas,” you say.  “Sam would agree to remain in the guest house and sleep properly only because he knew you were with me.”

            Legolas smiles as he rises to his feet and lays a single, shapely hand to the bole of the White Tree in farewell.  “Rejoice,” he says to the Tree, “for your rightful Lord is with you this night, and the Ringbearer.”  He looks to the two of us.  “And so it does rejoice indeed, finding it comforts the both of you.  Frodo, Aragorn.”  He gives a profound bow as he has taken to doing at times, and then withdraws, exchanging a quiet greeting with Orophin as he passes.

            We sit alongside one another, still not speaking for a time.  One of the Guards of the Tree, in his ancient garb and helmet, shifts slightly from one foot to the other, while another stifles a yawn.  There where he has seated himself, Orophin begins to sing softly, a song of Telperion and Laurelin at the mingling of the Lights.  I am surprised, for he sings in Quenya, and most Silvan Elves of Middle Earth would rather be caught unclothed and weaponless than to admit they know the ancient tongue; yet the fact remains that their Lady has, for the past how many centuries, been a daughter of the Noldor.  Your head turns as you listen, your pale face shining the more brightly as you soak in the music, the words, the meaning, the beauty of it.  I can see the faint echo of your smile, and an aching pain.  I know now that what I’ve suspected for so long is true--that you do feel the Sea Longing within you, and strongly--far more strongly than you realize as yet.  When the day comes--if the Valar grant our request for you--I suspect you will be ready to go to Eressëa yourself.  I only pray that there you find the rest and easing for your gentle spirit you so deserve.

            At last, when the song is done, and Orophin now has turned to humming softly, I say quietly, “You have been avoiding us.”

            At least you do not deny it when at last you answer, “I find myself somewhat disheartened, Aragorn.  Each time I begin to feel somewhat better and more--myself, I learn that I do not recover properly after all.  I walk more freely about the upper levels of the city; but tire so easily and so suddenly.  I cannot dance any more, and have such difficulties sleeping so many nights.  My hand is better, and for that I thank your adar, but my shoulder continues to ache almost unceasingly at times, and at times my neck also disturbs me.  There is not much in the way of true pain or aching; but suddenly I will feel a burning sensation, or it will tickle and itch almost unbearably, as if the muscles were hurt and starting to tingle as they heal.

            “I am more impatient with others, and some of those who come to present petitions before you should not need the intervention of the King, for they know fully well what they ought to do without you needing to tell them.”

            “I agree,” I say, and I feel the smile again.  “But they are very like small children whose minder has been dismissed, who suddenly find that their father is now there to care for them instead, all competing for his attention.  At times I am impatient with them; and at others I find I feel very sorry for them, but love them for the very trust they show that I will do the best possible by them.”

            You shift without thinking about it, closer to me.  I am relieved, for all too often you hold yourself aloof from others, even from Sam.  You have been so isolated for so long by your adoption by Bilbo, by your role as Master of Bag End, by your role as Ringbearer, by your combination of continued discomfort and Baggins insistence that you must be seen as nearly well when it is most likely you will never truly recover from what was done to you as long as you linger in Middle Earth.  Sam has confided how often as the two of you journeyed he must hold you in his arms that you might feel sufficiently comforted and protected to allow yourself to sleep; now you need the comfort of that touch so deeply at the same time you hold yourself from it that you not leave him thinking he must devote himself wholly to you.  Merry and Pippin so often walk shoulder to shoulder, their arms about one another; and at last Sam realizes he has the right to walk so with them and they delight to include him in their friendship and companionship; but you, not wishing to inflict your weakness upon them, withhold yourself from joining them too much of the time.

            That you feel more free to allow me, as you would a brother, to comfort you with touch pleases me--pleases and humbles me.

            Perhaps, small brother, it is not just this people who delight to have me reassure them with my presence as they would a father--or older brother.

            I take your damaged hand and feel the changes there.  My adar Elrond is more powerful than I in healing, and has even greater appreciation for the manner in which the body functions than I do.  No longer do the muscles spasm within the hand, pulling on the flesh pulled over the stump of the lost finger; there is peace now where there had been distress since you awoke in Ithilien.  I am grateful that here, at least, he was able to set all things to as much right as possible for one who has lost a finger so violently.  I only wish that one of us could do more for the rest of you.  The wound where the great spider--Shelob, Sam has said they called her--bit you, that is not healed, either, any more than where the Morgul shard lay within you.  The scars where you were beaten and bound do heal, but still I fear others will be able to see the remains of them for as long as you live.  But it is the scars upon your very soul that worry me the most.  I was raised a warrior, knowing I must kill if others were to live; you were not.  I am yet disturbed by memories of what I have seen and have had to do myself to protect those under my guardianship; for you, who were raised in peace, where warfare was only alive in imagination and was shorn of its terrors and ugliness--how the reality of brutality and sheer hatred and envy has torn at you and continues to tear at you, along with the guilt that clings to you for not having been able to complete your task unaided as you’d intended.

            I feel the Tree seeking to reassure you.  Here, under this Tree as has happened a few times when I was within Lothlórien, I know the Elven gift of communication with such creatures.  I have heard many even without aught of the blood of the Eldar who have spoken of feeling the pulse of this Tree, of being aware of the current of its life.  I feel it respond to me as I approach it, as if it were a cat or dog lifting its head when one beloved approaches the house in which it has been sleeping.  And with you beneath it, the Tree all but purrs aloud, so pleased it is to shelter you, rejoicing its flowers bloom while you may see them, joyous to share its sweet odours with you.  And you shift closer still, pressing slightly against me, your warm, gentle presence relaxing more.  I feel your shoulders ease, and your breathing slow and deepen.

            You raise your eyes to peer at the stars through the boughs and leaves and blooms of the Tree, and you smile again.  “This reminds me of going atop the Hill, lying beneath the roof tree, as I did so often growing up.  There is no real roof tree on Buck Hill as there is there in Hobbiton--some low shrubs here and there along the ridge of it.  Throughout most of the Shire it is expected that there be a roof tree to prove that the hill into which smials are dug is viable and solid, and not hurt by housing our folk within it.  But the feel to the White Tree--it is even more comforting, somehow, than our faithful oak at home above Bag End.”

            “As I’ve said before, the Tree recognizes you and delights in your presence.”

            “I don’t fully understand why.  I don’t have the blood of the Sea Kings in me as you do.”

            “Perhaps it is merely that you have been the Ringbearer, and have known the personal blessings and protection offered you by Valar and Creator that you needed in order to accomplish what you did.  But, as a Hobbit you are more in tune with growing things and the rhythms of the earth itself than are most Men.  It is very likely that it responds to that.  When Sam approaches it I can feel it pull itself to attention as if to show him how well it does as he inspects it.  But with you it--it rejoices to have you near it, as if you were one born to be sheltered by it.”

            “How was it you found it?” you ask.

            As I tell of it I feel you listening, and picturing it within your mind.  “And there is a special Hallow, there, up high on the flanks of the mountain?” you ask, turning and peering about the bole of the Tree toward where the mountain rises behind its knee where the city was built.  “Is it similar to the hallow of Mount Meneltarma at the heart of Númenor?”

            “Similar, but not quite the same.”  I feel solemnity take me, and you return your attention to me, sitting up and turning to examine my face in the starlight.  “The Hallow there was fully sacred, and there only the King spoke, offering up the First Fruits, and the prayers of thanksgiving, and the prayers of petition in times of distress; but all might go there for quiet contemplation and communion.  The Hallow here is more a place set apart where the heart of the ruler, so often subject to the distress of others, might find peace and know the quiet needed to hear the voice of Iluvatar the better.”

            “And that was the first time you have been there?”

            I shake my head.  “No.  The first time I went there was shortly before Boromir was born.  There had been rumors that certain lords from Umbar were seeking to destabilize the realm of Gondor by sending assassins against the Steward’s heir and his wife.”

            “But if Boromir had not yet been born----”  You stop, realizing your mistake.  “Oh, but that is right--you served here not under Lord Denethor, but his father.”

            “Yes, small brother.  It was Denethor and his wife Finduilas who were threatened.  The rumors proved true, and I helped forestall the planned murders.  At my suggestion the assassins were not executed publicly, but instead were sent secretly out of the city.  I arranged for Thengel to accept them and place them as house carls within the keeping of certain lords in Rohan.  One only recently died of old age; the other sought to escape many years ago, and managed to end up captured by orcs come from the Misty Mountains into the White Mountains south of Isengard.  By the time Thengel’s Men tracked his captors into the valley where they’d taken shelter they’d already killed him--rather horribly, I was told.

            “At any rate, once it was certain that the assassins had been caught and the plot forestalled, Ecthelion, before he allowed me to return back to my duties with the army, took me up to the King’s Hallow himself.”

            “He’d guessed who you were, then?”

            “Yes.  Both he and Denethor believed me to be Isildur’s Heir by that time.”

            Your voice indicates how shrewdly you think.  “But where Ecthelion thought perhaps to welcome you, Denethor didn’t?”

            I nod.  “Ecthelion hoped that by showing me that place he could convince me to declare myself and my claims openly, there and then.  But had I done so, I would have known the open opposition of Denethor, and of those lords of the realm who opposed change in government and return to the sovereignty of the King.  As for alliance with Arnor once more--most here still believe that we in the north are little better than barbarians.”

            You laugh, and that laugh is good to hear.  “And had they seen you as we first did, the epitome of vagrancy, they’d have been the more convinced of that, you know.”

            I laugh with you.  “Yes, so it would have been.”

            “At least you clean up well enough, and have proved surprisingly wholesome under all the deliberate layers of travel dirt and sweat!”

            You relax even more fully and lie down with your head pillowed on my right leg, looking up straight through the limbs of the Tree at the stars.  You smile, but then, without warning, there is a spasm in your shoulder.  I feel you tense with it, see you rubbing at the scar of the wound.  I reach down and lay my hand over it, and you gladly move your own away.  As I open myself to feel deeply I feel you reaching out for the power of the Elessar stone I wear, and feel it give of itself gladly and easily enough.  Between us the spasm is soothed and the ache lessened.  It is a frustration that I can do no more than that for you; but, alas, there are some wounds that go too deeply for the Hands of the King to fully ease, much less to heal.

            “That is better, tall brother,” you say at last, and once more you set yourself to relax.  After a time you murmur, “That is another thing I cannot fully understand--how it is that I can touch the power of the Elessar like that.  Again, I have no Elven blood in me....”

            “But isn’t it said that the Fallohides were the clan that consorted with Elves, there in the valley of the Anduin?  How do we know that your ancestors have no Elvish blood?  After all, it is plain that there is a strong strain of Fallohide running through your makeup.  The Tooks were supposed to have been mostly of Fallohide descent, or so Bilbo told me.  And he has always insisted that the Brandybucks were at least as much Fallohide as they were Stoor, and that they’ve been interbreeding with the Tooks since they came into the Shire.  Some of the wandering Elvish tribes of the upper Anduin valley were decidedly individualistic, you know.  I can easily see some Silvan maiden seeing the beauty of the fëa of a charming Fallohide youth and losing her heart to him....”

            You stare at me openmouthed.  “An Elf?  With a Hobbit?”

            “Why not?  After all, there is supposed to have been a Fairy Wife amongst the Tooks, is there not?”

            You shake your head, not quite able to accept that I am as much in earnest as I am teasing you.  I go on, perhaps a bit relentlessly, “Elves and Hobbits, after all, have more in common than Elves and Men, particularly in your sharing of love for the land itself and all that springs from it.  Why is that harder for you to accept than that Elves and Men might come to marry?”

            You look to my own eyes.  “Perhaps because I’ve seen the latter.”

            “And in you and Sam I believe I see results of the former.”

            “Sam?  A Fallohide?  He believes himself the most common of Harfoots, I think.”

            “With his height and curiosity, and his instinctive appreciation of the most right thing ever to do?  And his lighter hair and appreciation for beauty?  Nay--Bilbo’s always believed that he has his fair share of Fallohide as well.”

            “Perhaps from the Goodchilds,” you return.  “But then they are all particularly deft-handed and devoted to beauty, the Gaffer and Mistress Bell’s children.”  Again you smile and look back up through the Tree’s branches, but in time your expression becomes thoughtful.  At last you say, “I must go home--and soon.  The Shire needs us.  I feel it in my heart.”

            “I wish you could remain here ever, Frodo.  I will miss you so once you have gone back to the Shire.”  I do not say, I fear that when I bid you farewell, it will be until I myself must turn my heart westward at last.

            “You will come northward in time, and will see those you love among us then.”  You do not continue, but I fear I will have gone on when that time comes, whether or not I accept the gift of which the Queen has spoken.  But after a time of thought you admit, “I do not truly wish to leave here and go back, although that is where my heart lies also.  But I am not worthy to remain here.”

            My heart twists within me.  “Do not say that, Frodo Baggins.  It is a misrepresentation of yourself.  Eru loves you so deeply, and who am I to go against His estimation of you?”  You look at me, and I see unveiled the pain I’ve known was there, hidden behind light words and isolation.  “You are worthy of the love and respect we all would give you.  Come with me now--I will take you to the King’s Hallow and let you feel the peace of it, and let Him speak the truth into your heart where you can hear His words plainly.  Rise up, small brother, and come with me.”

            But you shake your head, and I see distress rise in you.  “No, Aragorn--I am not ready--for that.  Please, tall brother, don’t make me!  What if what He says is----”

            When you do not continue, at the last I finish it for you.  “What if He says, You are not worthy?  I do not believe there is any danger of that.  And know this, my sweet, beloved small brother--all that was less than worthy in you was lost with your finger.  A contrite heart and willingness to serve others as you can, even to the offering of your life if it was necessary, says more to your true worthiness than anything else about you.  After all, when it comes to being perfect, none of us is, yet He loves us all the same.  Please, Frodo--rise up and go there with me.  Let Him speak peace into your heart.”

            But I see the grief and stubbornness of your expression.  “I do not need to go there to hear words spoken in my heart, Aragorn.  Too many words have I heard there, and they echo still.”

            “Then listen to the ones, Frodo, that speak of how well you have served and of how you deserve happiness.  I know those have been repeated there.”  As you give a shake to your head, I feel a sigh of exasperation escape me.  “Ah, my small, beloved brother, how can you so fall to the conceit that you are unworthy?  It was the great Eagles themselves that insisted first that you and Sam were to be named lords of all of the Free Peoples, and you know Whose servants they have ever been, if you know of Mount Meneltarma.”

            “But I do not believe I would be able to complete the climb--certainly not on my own.”  Your words are so low I must strain to hear them.

            “Then I would carry you, and gladly.”

            You set your jaw--that I can tell, and once again stubbornness takes you.  I feel even more distressed.  “Oh, my dear Frodo, Sam has told me how he had to carry you up the side of Orodruin at the end, and how he found you no burden at all.  Do you think I would not delight to carry you up this more beneficent mountain, and to a place not of dread but peace?”

            Your jaw relaxes some as you seek to search my eyes.  At last you give another shake to your head.  “You do not understand, Aragorn--I do not need to go up the mountain to find peace--not when I am able to feel the caring of the Tree and the warmth you hold toward me at the same time.  It is peace enough to be here, and I would not have you think you must carry me elsewhere for what I find now, without moving.  I would never be a burden to anyone again if it can be helped.”

            I brush my hand across your brow, pushing a lock of hair away from your eye.  “Nay, it is you that does not understand--you bore more than any mortal should ever have borne for far too long; and with that burden you bore me with you--me, my hopes and dreams, my destiny, even.  Certainly you bore about your neck the one chance there was I might reach my true desire--to take Arwen as my wife and know that completion.  You did that unknowing, as you bore the chance for the hopes and dreams of all who have survived this horrible war to know completion.  Never can I hope to recompense you for what you gave of yourself, any more than any other here within Middle Earth could do the same.  To lead you there, even if I were to need to carry you all of the way there and back, would be no burden at all, but the greatest, most humbling of delights for me.”

            You search my face still, and then suddenly you smile--smile that so wonderful, brilliant, sweet a smile of which only you appear able to give, and it fills my heart.  “I say again, gwador nín, I am at peace now, here and now, able to be by you, and it is all I wish at this time.  When I am able to do so all on my own feet, I will walk with you up to the Hallow; but I cannot do so now, and I know it.  Let us stay here, and let us merely be the brothers we dream ourselves--for tonight at least.”

            “Then of what would you have us speak?”

            “I think you know far more about my childhood than I’d ever wish anyone outside my family to know, knowing as I do how Bilbo has undoubtedly told you tales and tales I never wished to share.  Tell me of your own childhood, Aragorn.”

            “If you wish.”  And so I begin to speak, telling of loneliness and the desire for brothers of my own, of an age with me, I knew then; of white cats and my mother’s companionship; of hunts for lions through Adar’s gardens, of lessons and practice with bow and sword.

            But as I speak I know that the day will never now come when I might, in the flesh, lead you to the Hallow, for once you leave Gondor, I will never see you again in this life.  So it is that the next time I go there myself, I must bear you indeed, in my memory and prayers where I would have rather have borne you in the body.

            Yet I can tell that for you, this is enough, and my grief is lightened by your laughter and the peace that deepens about you as you listen.

Thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta

For Raksha

Concerning Walls

            There was a small figure standing, leaning on the parapet at the end of the Court of Gathering, looking across at the Ephel Duath as Faramir approached it.  At first he thought perhaps it was one of the pages come out for air, until he came closer and saw the dark curls blowing in the breeze.  No, this was no page--it was Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer.  He was dressed in his grey-green cloak over one of the outfits that Aragorn had ordered made for him, for he'd had nothing on him, Faramir had been told, when he was found.  He was still more slender than Faramir remembered him when they'd met in Ithilien, although he'd looked anything but well fed at the time.  At least his clothing was fresh and comfortable looking, and his hands were now clean and smooth, unlike the rawness Faramir had noted before, indicating he and his gardener friend had already had to climb rough outcrops before they were found in the woods along the road from the Black Gate.  One other detail Faramir noted--Frodo's nails had grown out--they'd been bitten to the quick when they'd first met.  But as he looked at the right hand where it lay on the stone Faramir saw a muscle spasm, accompanied by a tightening of the jaw in response to the pain across the stump that was all that remained of the ring finger.  What the Pherian--Hobbit--had experienced had been terribly cruel, Faramir realized more strongly than ever.

            He'd paused, but as Frodo turned to acknowledge his arrival, the young Steward gave a courteous bow.  "Master Hobbit.  May I join you?"

            "Gladly, sir," Frodo answered him, inclining his head.  "I'm not truly certain how it is we're expected to address you now, as I still think of you as the Captain we met there," indicating the forest to be seen on the opposite side of the river with a gesture of his head.  He looked back at the far side, looking somewhat northward of the site of Osgiliath.  "We were fairly far north of there, considering how long it took to come by ship south from Cormallen, which I know was very close to where we met.  The road through the ruined city leads to the Crossroads where the statue of the old King stands, does it not?"

            "Indeed."

            "Do you know what King it was that was depicted there?  Not, of course," he added looking back at Faramir apologetically, "that I'd recognize the name anyway.  Was it Anárion, or Elendil?"

            "No--if I remember correctly it was Atanatar the Second.  He was called Alcarin, the Glorious, and was, from what I can tell, one very proud of his accomplishments, and undoubtedly rightfully so.  But Gondor was already falling from the greatness of her glory even then.  Mablung has told me that at our Lord Elessar's bidding the head was replaced on the statue and the base cleansed of the obscenities left by the Enemy's folks."  He looked beyond Osgiliath as if by doing so he would see the Crossroads itself.  "The symbols they left on it were so crude.  Sometimes we would pause as we passed it to cleanse them away as we could.  As many were gouged deeply into the base itself, however, I suspect it will need to be fully reworked in order to remove them all."

            Frodo nodded thoughtfully.  "It was the last day on which there was any true sunlight when we reached there, and that not until sunset when the westering sun finally got below the reek.  To see the gold of the stonecrop and the circlet of white blooms on the fallen head--after the gloom and desolation of the day, somehow it gave us heart, Sam and me, as if secretly he was crowned in glory, and the Enemy didn't realize he was already defeated."  He looked up at the height of the dark mountains and shook his head.  "And we climbed that wall!  I barely remember it, save for the great weariness of it.  The only good thing was that the steps were properly outdoors."

            Faramir straightened in surprise.  "Properly outdoors?"

            Frodo looked up at him.  "Yes, outdoors.  We Hobbits don't usually build houses or dig our smials on more than one level, so we have no steps inside, usually, although we will have ladders to lofts in our barns.  We'll have steps up to our doors and to the tops of the hills into which we dig our smials, but none inside if we can help it.  There are slanted ramps in places for Brandy Hall and the Great Smial to connect some of the different levels, for there were a number of smials in the ridges of Buck Hill and Took Hill that were dug at different times and later joined together; although most of us going to upper doorways and halls go out and up the steps outside."

            "So your homes are usually of a single level?"

            "Usually, although some farmers will have a second story where they store things in upper lofts and storage rooms."

            "This city must seem very strange to you, then."

            The Hobbit nodded.  "Yes, very different.  The houses are so imposing, so close together and so high--three stories seems to be almost the norm on the lower levels of the city from what I noticed as we came up through it.  And things are so straight, as well as high."

            "And houses aren't--straight, there in your land?"

            "Roofs tend to be low and--and hill-like.  We rather like rounded shapes, you see--although my family has always dwelt in smials delved into hills or banks."

            Faramir thought on that, the fact that these Hobbits lived so close to the earth that they built their homes--when they weren't dug into the ground itself--in imitation of ridges and hills.  "It sounds a comfortable land," he commented.

            "Yes.  It was easy to go berrying when I was a tween, for all I had to do for most berries was to climb the Hill itself to the ring of berry bushes the Gaffer and Sam planted about its crown.  The ring gave us more privacy when we went up to the top--or me, actually, as Bilbo rarely went up that high any more, as well as offering a good crop of fruit in the seasons for the various berries.  It used to be one of my tasks to check the bushes and harvest the berries when they came ripe, although I used also to go out into the woods to fetch back brambleberries and wild strawberries from there."

            "You gathered your own berries?"

            "Of course.  Didn't you?"

            "And where within the city do you think we'd find them growing?  Although my mother did plant some sloes in her own private garden."

            "We had gooseberries, currants, raspberry canes, huckleberries and blueberries, and a bed of strawberries toward the south end of the circle.  And Sam had covered the Hill with all kinds of wild flowers--poppies, Queen Melian's lace, strawflowers, anemones of several kinds, buttercups....  It was very beautiful."  Frodo's face reflected homesickness, Faramir thought.

            "And your home was--was dug into the Hill itself?"

            "Yes, about halfway up it.  At the bottom was Bagshot Row.  There were five smials dug into it there, mostly straight back into the Hill, with most of the rooms with no windows.  Number Five was where I was born--it was the largest, and was at the far end, dug somewhat along the curve of the lower Hill, so it actually had a couple bedrooms that did have windows.  It was where Bilbo's father was born, although he dug Bag End up higher on the Hill, and had the Lane built up to it.  Much of it, I suspect, was done with Aunt Belladonna's dowry, actually.  Once I was Master of Bag End I let Number Five to some of our Proudfoot cousins.  I felt it ought not to stay empty as it had done for some time after my parents moved us to Buckland."

            Faramir tried to imagine the land and homes as his companion had described them.  "It sounds a pleasant place."  Frodo nodded.  "You will be glad to return to it, then."

            But the Hobbit was shaking his head, a stern and grieving expression in his eye.  "I sold it--to a cousin who does not deserve and will not properly appreciate it."  He was looking off at the dark elevations opposite them again, then looked over his shoulder at the shadowed slopes of Mount Mindolluin against the light of the fading day.  "Bilbo told me of mountains, but I'd never thought to see so very many of them--far more than he'd ever hinted to me existed in the world.  And these are the White Mountains, and those the Mountains of Shadow."  He looked back and forth between the peak that overlooked the city and the walls of Mordor.  "And now the sunlight falls there, and they are shadowed no longer.  What will your children know them as, I wonder?"

            Faramir shrugged and he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the top of the parapet and his hands clasped.  "I suspect eventually the name for them will be changed, although when that might be who can say?  It is odd--I'd never thought the day would come when I would have children--or at least I've not thought so since years before I was accounted a Man grown.  And now--mostly due to the efforts of you and your friend Samwise, it is likely that I will."  After a moment of mutual silence, he asked, "And for you--there in your own land of the Shire--is there one you love as I find I love the Lady Éowyn?"

            He noted the stillness that had fallen on the Hobbit immediately, although he could see no physical difference in his stance, and little change even in his expression.  Yet he sensed an invisible wall had long ago been erected about this one's heart, a wall he'd managed to prod with his questions.  At last there was an answer, uttered in a distant voice:  "Once I thought to marry, but she chose another in the end.  That was many years ago, then, before I was even of age--and before It came to me."  Faramir remained still to see if Frodo would say any more on the subject, for he found himself markedly curious.  At last, in a determinedly casual tone, Frodo continued, "Perhaps once I was considered desirable--but now?  I've sold away the beautiful home and gardens I inherited and own now but a country house in Buckland, some miles from Brandy Hall.  I am now definitely identified in the minds of the folk of the Shire as old Mad Baggins's equally mad Baggins heir, who has hared off out of the Shire on a second mad adventure.  When I return with my finger gone and my health in a shambles, who would even dream of considering me, do you think?  And who would I seek to inflict myself on?"

            "Surely once your folk understand where you went and why----"

            Frodo turned his face upward defiantly.  "You think they will understand?  Your typical Bolger or Brockhouse cares nothing at all for aught that happens outside the Shire, and from what I can tell only a very few folk saw the Black Riders when they came seeking me."

            Faramir felt himself stiffen in shock.  "They went there--the Nazgûl?"

            Frodo nodded as he looked again out at the Ephel Duath where the sunlight lingered.  "Yes--they had learned that a Hobbit of the Shire named Baggins found It beneath the Misty Mountains seventy-eight years ago, and came in search of It--fortunately arriving as we were leaving Hobbiton.  They pursued us all the way to Rivendell."

            "When they came across the bridge in Osgiliath----"

            "You knew of that?"  His blue eyes were examining Faramir intently.

            "We were there--Boromir and I, when they came across it.  We could not hold them back, but pulled down the bridge after them and leapt in to swim the water to the western shore.  We thought to make a barrier of the river itself, as though it, too, were a wall, that no others might easily enter our lands and slay our folk."  Troubled to learn why the Nazgul had crossed the Anduin, Faramir turned his own eyes back toward Osgiliath. 

            Frodo was still examining him, however.  "So--you have felt their terror twice as they crossed the river, then--when they came across to seek the Shire, and when they came across this time with their army."  He shook himself and also looked off eastward.  "We saw them march out of the Morgul Vale.  It seemed that there was no end to the line of Men and orcs."  He shuddered.  "The Ring--It wished for me to put It on to reveal myself, but this time--this time I fought It successfully."  He shuddered again, and looking at him Faramir saw how very pale he'd gone.

            "You were very brave," Faramir said, "continuing on in the face of that terror."

            "What else could I do?" Frodo asked.  "There was no means to return home save to go through--through Mordor.  You were braver--leading your Men back there after you'd come back here.  Pippin and Gandalf both told me of it, and how Gandalf and the second time Prince Imrahil rode out to offer support to you and your Men.  They tell me that your Men would follow you anywhere, so deeply did they trust you; and that until the Southron dart took you they stayed by you in spite of--them."

            Faramir nodded.  For a time they stood together in silence.  Finally Frodo continued in a low voice, "Hobbits of the Shire aren't going to understand all this, you know.  Most of them are happy to think that nothing that might be outside the bounds of the Shire has anything to do with us.  And although there was a time I felt my countrymen needed something to waken them to the realization that there is more to the world of Arda than just the four Farthings and Buckland, now--now I don't want them to have to understand just how awful things have too often been in the outer world.  I don't wish them to have to learn of the nature of evil, of betrayals and ambushes, assassinations and warfare, orcs and trolls and other evil creatures."

            "You would wall out the rest of the world?"

            "I doubt such a thing is even possible, but, yes, I suppose that I would."

            After a time, the new Steward of Gondor took a deep breath, held it briefly, then expelled it.  "It is unlikely they can remain truly ignorant of the rest of the world forever, Master Baggins."

            "Probably not," agreed Frodo reluctantly.  "But I'd rather my folk didn't learn to live in fear and suspicion as so many Men have had to do, or to know the great grief of the Elves.  I try to think of my young cousin Geli having to see her beloved Sancho losing a leg due to a Southron sword or weeping over him with an orc arrow embedded within him, and it turns my heart cold.  Or to think of little Pando having to face a line of trolls--for all he loves to play at Túrin and the dragon, I'd never wish his life to truly be in danger."

            "But if he is never tried, Frodo, how can he ever learn of what he is capable?"

            Frodo nodded again, thoughtfully, looking out once more at the darkening sky over what had been Mordor, and then straightened, smiling softly, to see the stars beginning to shine there, to the east.  "Bilbo was the one to tell me of the first time the Gil-estel was seen shining in the sky, just before the Valar came to oppose the growing might of Morgoth and his forces.  While we were in Mordor, there was one night when the winds were strong enough to sweep away the wall of clouds some, enough that Sam could see it shining down on us there.  I was too lost to pay much heed--if I gave any, I suppose.  I barely remember it, although he's spoken of it a few times since we awoke.  Star and crown of blossoms--common enough sights, but how they helped reassure us that Sauron didn't understand the simple hope that infects all life that can appreciate beauty."  He smiled more fully.  "It was worth it, I think--all that time of grief and misery, knowing that my beloved cousins won't lose all their innocence as so many out here have had to do."

            "To know that my children may have to fight at times to protect what is good and worthy, but not against the overwhelming evil that sought to claim us," Faramir agreed.

            The two of them stood so for some time longer, and in time Faramir realized that he'd covered Frodo's hand with his own.  For all this Hobbit had been fenced about by the legacy of the Ring--yet that barrier had now been breached, and it was the Man's hope one day the remains of that wall would tumble down completely and be buried beneath vines of colorful blossoms.

Thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta

Of Coins and Kittens

            “Well, if you really must know, I simply have need of a coin.  And no, Sam, it doesn’t need to be any particular denomination--a brass farthing would do perfectly.”

            Sam wasn’t completely certain what this was about, but his beloved friend and Master had been growing increasingly secretive recently.  He reached into his pocket to bring out the small purse in which he kept his handy coin, and opened it.  There were several brasses and three coppers, and a few silvers.  He looked at Frodo from under his brows, reached for a brass, then changed his mind.  Instead he pulled out a silver and held it out.  “Here then, Mr. Frodo,” he said.

            “Oh, that’s far too much, Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo said, looking almost alarmed.

            “Well, I thought as if’n you was thinkin’ o’ goin’ down to the Green Dragon with Mr. Folco when he comes as this would at least get each of you a couple halfs.”

            He watched Frodo’s eyes carefully.  Frodo reached reluctantly for the coin and took it, holding it tentatively in his hand, looking at it for a moment before closing his fist about it.  “Thank you, Sam,” he said.  “Oh, and I found this and wanted to give it to you.”

            This was a small model of a Shire house, complete with chimney pot, that had stood on Frodo’s mantelpiece for the last few years.  Found it?  How can one find something that was sitting out on the mantelpiece?  “How’d it get lost?” he ventured.

            “Oh--I must have knocked it down a few days ago--found it fetched up under one of the wing chairs in front of the fireplace in my room.  It’s--it’s just that I want you to have it--it’s been reminding me of you every time I look at it lately.  I mean, Sam, that this just wouldn’t be the home it is if it weren’t for you and Rosie and little Elanor here.”

            Sam accepted it, still uncertainly.  That crease between Frodo’s brows relaxed at least a bit as the older Hobbit released a breath he’d apparently been holding.  He gave a slight nod as if mentally ticking off one more chore completed.  As Frodo started to turn away Sam stayed him with, “But I thought as you’d told me a younger cousin of yours carved that for you.”

            Frodo searched his eyes with that look he’d had recently, much the same look he’d given things in the Shire a few years earlier when he’d been planning to go off alone into the wild to rid himself of a treasure that had proved to be a curse instead.  “Yes, one of my younger cousins did carve it for me--but I find lately I’ve been keeping far too much that ought to go to others, Sam.  I know you’ve always admired it, for you’ve always had a love of woodcarvings.  And I know that this one of my cousins wouldn’t begrudge me seeing it into your hands.”

            The earnestness of that pronouncement touched Sam’s heart somehow.  “If’n you’re certain, sweet Master,” he said softly, and saw that beautiful smile he’d come to love so show itself briefly.

            “I’m certain,” Frodo said, equally softly,  “Oh, I’m very certain.”

            Sam knew he’d somehow managed to seal a bargain he didn’t quite understand between the two of them, one he knew he’d understand only when the time for it was right.  He was that much more certain, however, that Frodo was planning on leaving the Shire again, and probably soon.  And this time, Sam knew, he wouldn’t be coming back.  No, he’d go off to be by old Mr. Bilbo for whatever time as there was left for them to be together, and then he’d stay on in Rivendell, most likely.  He had the idea that somehow the coin and the little Hobbit house were significant to that, although he didn’t know exactly how.

            Frodo gave a slight shiver.  Sam was immediately alert.  “You cold then, Frodo?” he asked.

            His friend nodded.  “Yes, I am again.  I think I’ll go lie down for a bit until Folco arrives--get under a blanket for a time.  Ever since I had that nasty cold last autumn I seem to take a chill far too easily.”  He rubbed slightly at his shoulder.  “I’ll just go see to it--that I put the coin where I need it.”  He gave another gentle smile and turned down the passageway toward the study and went in.

 *******

            Frodo looked at his chair and smiled.  Rosie’s kitten was couched there, its paws carefully tucked under its body.  Well, he didn’t really need to disturb it to see to what needed doing.  He had the envelopes he needed ready on the desktop, after all.  He reached out for the smaller one and slipped the silver coin into it, making certain it ended up inside the folded paper that was already there.  There was a candle burning on the mantel he’d left there before he’d gone in search of Sam; he picked it up and spilled some of the fragrant wax over the flap, then pressed his stickpin into it.  Once the wax had firmed up, he slipped it into the larger envelope of grey silk in which he’d been keeping the title and deed to Bag End, along with the papers transferring those to Sam and Rosie as of the Birthday.  He’d have them gone over by his personal lawyer and then try to make it to Michel Delving to Will Whitfoot’s office to see them registered.  Sam didn’t realize it as yet, but with that silver coin he’d just purchased Bag End.  Brendi already had his will and several other documents he was reviewing; this was one of the last pieces of business he needed to see to before he left the Shire for good.

            Once he’d locked the silken envelope into the drawer of his desk he went over to the sofa and arranged the pillows there, and then laid himself down on it, pulling the blanket folded over its back over him.  He was grateful for its warmth and softness.

            He heard a very soft thump, then felt the sofa give slightly as Nasturtium joined him on it, walking along its arm to get over his left shoulder, then stepping down to curl itself against the place where Frodo had been wounded almost three years earlier.  Once settled, the kitten reached over to nuzzle at his ear, giving it a sandpapery lick before tucking its head close under Frodo’s curls, purring.  Its gentle comforting weight helped ease the chill pain that was gathered about the wound, and Frodo found himself relaxing the more due to it.  He felt the warmth of its breath against his neck, and a faint tickling as it stirred the hairs there.  He reached up to stroke its flank, and Nasturtium responded by snagging a claw into his cuff, catching his fingers against it.  As Frodo relaxed the more, he smiled faintly.

            And so it was Sam found the two of them, a few moments later, both sleeping remarkably comfortably.

Lack of Discretion

       Pippin looked down from where he sat on one limb of the tree where he and Merry had taken refuge at where Sam stood waiting, his face set, his arms crossed, a skillet in one hand. He peered around the trunk of the tree at his cousin and commented conversationally, "You know, I don't know why it was I thought it was a good idea to place a mouse in his rucksack as a joke. Why didn't you talk me out of it?"

       Merry nodded thoughtfully. "We're lucky he doesn't have any rope with him, or I suspect the two of us would even now be hanging from one of the trees in this forest. It's a good thing he's afraid of heights, don't you think?"

"Oh, I do think you're right about that, Merry." Then after another time of silence he added, "Do you think he'll be cooled off by the time Frodo finishes fixing supper?"

Thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta

The Ritual Disturbed

            Ah, it had captured the one bearing the Servant of Morgoth’s token, a small focus of Power and great dread and will entrapped in a Ring of metal.  It had dragged the Ringbearer and his companions into its small, hollow hall, both enjoying and hating the presence of living beings about it.  The bodies of those who’d once slept in this tomb had long since fallen to dust, and the little that remained of their essences that had lingered in this place had held but contempt for the wights that sought to despoil their mortal remains and last resting places.  When the wights had been bound within the great downs area that held the barrows of Cardolan those spirits had watched the wroth of the wights be spent as they struggled against the bindings, and had simply proceeded to abandon this place to the newcomers.  The boundaries set on the wights were powerful; none who lived within Arda, however, could control the destinies of those who were the blessed dead.  These did not so much pass the boundaries that held the evil spirits as they simply went otherwise, somewhat at right angles from all visible bounds, for they were no longer caught in the dimensions of Arda and were able to turn directions the wights had not been able to perceive for better than the three ages of the Sun.

            But these four were still living, and might be used to wreak great mischief.  The wights of the Barrowdowns had been fully wakened and riled by the approach of the Ringwraiths.  Angmar himself, who had first induced them to enter the tumuli, was in the number that now sought these through their lands to the west; the wight who’d claimed this tomb both wished to do him worship and to punish him for bringing it here to be so bound.

            Cold be heart and hand and bone....

            The wight found the bonds of corporeality in these living victims pleased it--at least for the moment.  It had rendered them unconscious, setting on them as dreams what memories it had been able to garner from the spirits of those who’d been buried here--warrior husband, fair lady wife, hapless son only wakening to the needs of his folk when the assault came by night that had left them dead.  That assault had been beaten off by others, a costly small victory that only stayed the final defeat by the Enemy’s agents a few more years at most.  One of these four was most susceptible to the influence of such memories, and twitched as he relived the experiences of the lord, lady, and princely son as they awoke to the fact they had set insufficient guard to long survive the night.  Like dolls the wight stripped the four of them, setting its will on the fragile nature of their clothing and seeing it all dissipated, leaving a few coins and oddments about their now-pale bodies, and the Ring lying on the torso of the one who’d carried It in a pouch formed by specially wrought folds of the clothing itself.  Such a practical arrangement momentarily intrigued the wight, but then was forgotten as it planned the ritual designed to draw Angmar here.

            Were Angmar himself to enter this place, it wondered briefly as it found gravecloths it had carefully preserved and dressed its victims again as a child might be expected to play with dolls, would he also be caught by the bindings set upon the Downs by the sons of Eärendil and the Istar?  Angmar bore one of the Rings of Power wrought so long ago by the Elves of Eregion aided by the Servant of Morgoth; would the power of the ring he bore yet in his fleshless state, augmented by that of the one that lay on the torso of this one here--the wight paused to give what passed as a jab at the body of the Ringbearer and saw with satisfaction the body pale the more--would it be enough to bring down the boundaries and allow the wights held here to flee this place at long last?

            Then there was a moment of other-sight, as it looked at the True Shapes of those who lay here--a Youth of mischief and wisdom, one of Authority, a shining Guardian whose weapons went beyond mere blades and points, and the mithril shining of one of those great spirits who stood ever against the darkness.  A Star-Child--here, within the mortal lands?  But then the vision faded, and he saw merely the mortal forms that for them, caught as they were within the world of Arda, now defined them--simple, foolish Halflings, not educated in the great wisdoms, barely aware of the eternal struggle against balance the wight and its kind, led and encouraged for so long by Morgoth himself, had ever fought since they’d fled from the Source of Light.  And, having spent their own Light, they’d ever envied that held by other spirits, whether moving freely upon the winds or caught within corporeal bodies.  Well, although this wight had learned long ago it could not take the Lights of others any more than it could touch the current Master’s Ring, yet the Wight would see the ones before it sent back beyond the Bounds of Arda if it could be done that they not reach the fullness of their potential and serve to restore the balance once more as it could see they were intended.

            ...Cold be body under stone.

            It had laid the three together on the stone table where once lord and lady had been placed side by side.  The Ringbearer’s form, now dressed in fragile garments that had been wrought to show forth the potential of the youth they’d once clothed, lay upon the narrower stone bed on which the body of that youth had been placed.  Further beyond them had been the chamber in which the father of the lord, who had been one of the greatest warriors and rulers of Cardolan, had been buried--the Wight had taken that for his own dwelling place, and little enough remained there to remind any of that one at all.  But it pleased the wight to bring out the jewelry it had gathered from the dust when it had swept the barrow clean of the reminders of the bodies the barrow had been raised to protect.  It set ancient rings upon the fingers of its victims, and marvelously wrought circlets upon their brows, placing the one once worn by the lady upon the head of the one meant to be the golden Guardian.  A torque it found and twisted about the neck of the Ringbearer.  An arm bracelet once worn by the past king it placed about the upper arm of the one who still dreamed the attack on the home of the king’s son and his family.

            They cannot see what lies ahead....

            Weapons it brought forth and settled about the bodies.  Too small these to carry swords; nay, the long knives buried foolishly here to arm hands without life to wield them it lay at their feet instead.  Then it smiled--in the manner of smiling amongst wights--to set the oldest and most fragile of the blades by the Ringbearer himself.  A parody of a royal burial it sought to perform, with the victims anything but royal or warriorlike--or, as yet, dead.  Ah, but that could be remedied easily enough.

            It searched and found the sword once borne by the king himself, wiped at it with the remnants of the King’s shroud, and settled it over the throats of the three who lay there together on the larger bier, then settled down to envisioning precisely how it would call Angmar here.  At last the ritual was in its mind, and one last time it looked down upon the bodies of the four of them.  The one open to the dreams had gone deathly still, his twitching at last halted.  Good.  Now it prepared to perform the rite--only to realize it must take on a corporeal form to do so.

            This was its first true stop, for there was but one corporeal form it could take, and such a ludicrous one--that of a vague, floating torso with one extraordinarily long arm and a bony hand, its fingers particularly long and skeletal in nature.  It was this form it had taken when it had followed Morgoth from Aman to Middle Earth, and it had been in that form it had been caught for the time He had sat upon his throne in Angband.  The form was eerie enough, but of little use save to torture and frighten captives held within Morgoth’s dungeons.  But when the greatest of Elves were held there, those who could not be broken to become orcs, they had laughed at the form in spite of their captivity; and when Beren was brought there they joked that it was what had become of his missing hand.  A bitter jest, but one in which the Man had shared--while he could.

            When at last Angband had fallen, that form had finally been destroyed and its spirit freed; but it had hidden itself from Manwë’s winds beneath the stones of Thangorodrim itself, coming forth only when the armies come from Aman had gone back again.  And so in time it, greatly diminished from its original purpose and what it had been under Morgoth, had been called with others of its kind by Angmar to this place, intended to grow once again in power and terror until they might again wreak destruction on the lands of the living--only to be bound here, helpless once more.

            It settled itself on the cracked stone table where the king’s body had lain, and worked on cloaking itself in the hröa it had once taken to itself.  At last it managed, and it flexed the bony hand that had caused screams of terror and revulsion in so many of the Master’s captives.  Good--that hand worked to its will.  So it began singing the invocation it had crafted, focused itself within the hand, and began creeping out of the king’s chamber toward the hilt of the King’s sword, ready to use the power of their deaths to summon the Lord of the Ringwraiths here to break the bounds.  Angmar might have the Ring--once those bounds were broken and the wights allowed to burst free once more.

            Only as it reached for the hilt it felt a great pain instead as the solidity of the hröa it had drawn about itself was cut--and by the Ringbearer himself, clutching the Ring tightly in one hand as with the other he wielded that Dúnedain-wrought blade.  The wight felt the hand fall, helpless in its moment of agony.  It had forgotten just how much pain was involved in having hröa damaged!  It twitched, rolling for the moment beneath the stone table where the Ringbearer knelt, having defied both the influence of the wight and that of the Ring he held.

            The Ringbearer at last stood upon the floor of the barrow, but on the far side of the table from the wight where it focused in the hand.  It sought to drag itself toward the Halfling, only to stop when, having lifted the King’s sword and cast it aside, he began to sing.

            How had the Halfling learned that song--a simple one, but one that was in tune with the Song Itself?  Had it been capable of such a thing, the hand that now embodied the wight would have covered its ears, for no longer could it delight in the Song any more than it could do so with Light and Breath.

            And the Halfling’s song was answered as Iarwain approached.  That name was one of the few the wight remembered of those who’d shared its beginning.  One of the greatest of the lesser Singers, one who in the Time of Making had followed in the train of Irmo and had been a fellow of Melian.

            But when Arda was at last formed, Iarwain had broken from service to the Vala, having become enchanted by the mortal lands and the fragile beauty they possessed.  He’d entered into Middle Earth and there had taken on the limitations of the form he held now, the form intended for the greater and lesser Children of Iluvatar.  Almost he’d forgotten his origins--almost, but not completely.  And never had he forgotten how to Sing----

            The wight managed to roll its hand upon its fingers, and used them to scurry into the further chamber, hiding beyond the cracked bier of the king, until....

 *******

            The barrier the wight had constructed at the doorway to the further burial chamber fell, and into the chamber Iarwain entered, a blaze of righteous Wrath.  And at last the Wight was able to move partly into the shadow realm of Possibilities, although it was still tied to the corporeal form of the hand.  Well, if it had thought Iarwain’s dedication to the form he’d taken so long ago at the wakening of Arda kept him from following, it was now proven mistaken.

            What did you think to do? Iarwain demanded.

            Too long have I been caught between worlds, the wight answered him.  Too long have I and my fellows been bound within the Barrowdowns.  We seek release.

            And to find it you would slay a part of the Hope of Middle Earth?

            What do you care?

            You served under Morgoth, but I never did so.  But if Sauron rises where his Master failed, he will seek to allow Morgoth to enter in again, and all in the end will perish utterly.  I would not give up the hope of eventual return to Eru’s Presence for the petty desires of the likes of you.

            Petty! demanded the wight in its turn.

            I chose my own form of service to the Creator of all, and I know the delight and grief of it.  Never will I turn from serving the Song, Iarwain declared, and he smiled, drawing to himself Light and Song as weapons the wight could not resist.

            It fled, snapping back into the hand behind the king’s bier, and there Iarwain followed him, a smile of disgust and triumph on his face.

            “You say you seek freedom?  Then freedom shall be granted to you!” he murmured, then began singing in the Joy of Life Granted as he brought those yellow boots of his down upon the hapless hand. 

            In the realm of possibilities the wight cowered as Iarwain’s great weapon wrought of Song and Light clove it, and at last it cried out as indeed it was ignominiously freed of its last hold on its hröa and its ties to Arda.

 *******

            Standing guard over his fellow Hobbits where Tom Bombadil had shooed them outside the barrow, Frodo heard the shriek given as the Wight at last was destroyed, and he watched in horror as the roof to the barrow fell in upon itself.  The fall of the roof, however, appeared to have offered the Master no harm of any note as he emerged from amongst the fallen stones and turves, still singing nonsense, one arm loaded with treasures, dusting his shoulders off with his feathered hat.  Swiftly he bounded to the sides of the four of them, turning them momentarily away from the burial mound to the sight of what he spilled upon the ground that they not see the final rising of shadow from it as what had been intended as a servant of Light, Song, and Breath was blown apart by the latter, having been conquered by the former.  But there was a secret portion of Frodo’s spirit that detected that passing anyway, and recognized the phenomenon a year later when it occurred again on the steps of Bag End, now putting meaning to the reports of the great shadow-shape, crowned by lightnings, that had risen from the shards of Barad-dûr.

            As for Tom himself, he paused but one moment in the ruins of the mound, caught for an instant in the vision of the True Shapes of these four, but particularly that of the Prince of Stars who stood guard over the other three.  Only a few others of such had he seen, one of them the young prince who’d been laid in this tomb originally, slain before he could come to his promise.  But one other had come here not all that long ago as the immortals counted time, a mere sixty years or so as the Hobbits and Breefolk knew it, a young Man of the Dúnedain, son of Kings crowned and uncrowned, the King-to-be if all came out aright.

            And here was the twin to the other, the other he knew walked abroad through the mortal lands.  As he turned the four Hobbits away from the dissolution of one who’d been intended to serve all of Eä, Bombadil sensed once more that other Prince of Stars waiting outside the boundaries of the Old Forest, waiting for these to come forth.  Well, he thought as he sang to call the errant ponies and his own Fatty Lumpkin to himself, he would see to it that the one waiting out there wouldn’t do so any longer than was needful.

            “Come, my merry folk,” he began, as once again Tom Bombadil sought to beguile them to their destinies, distracting and instructing and confounding them with his capering and song and mixture of joy and nonsense that was in truth sense beyond understanding.

For Flying Challenge for her Yule gift!  Beta'd by RiverOtter, and my thanks to her and Fiondil!

The Perfect Gift

            “And what is this?” Aragorn asked as his smallest Guard dragged quite a large bundle, securely wrapped in heavy canvas tied with strong twine, into his office.

            “It’s part of my Yule gifts for my family this year,” Pippin answered.  “I’ve been collecting them since we returned from Ithilien, and as we’re now preparing to return to the Shire I’ve been gathering them together, and realizing there is no way in Middle Earth I’ll be able to carry all this home with me, even if we had three pack animals.  It’s just that my mum would be thrilled to have some of this silk, and my da would love this saddle I found in the market last week.  I know it was originally intended for a child of Men, but it would a good fit for him, and it will always remind him of me with the falcons worked into the leather and stirrups.  And I found a set of wooden storage bins that my Auntie Jade will be able to use, for she just loves baking; and some stock pots that will be perfect for Aunt Esme, and a roasting pan that Uncle Sara will like the next time he prepares his duck.  His roast duck is really very, very good, you see....”

            “And why are you bringing them here, Peregrin Took?” the King asked, interrupting the list of gifts before the day could get much older.

            “Well, I know that you’ll be sending some wagons of supplies north to the Rangers that patrol the borders of the Shire and the Breelands--you were discussing it with the Council just last week, you know, and I thought....”  The flow of talk trailed off as Pippin looked at him with an endearing mixture of wariness and hopefulness that Aragorn was certain was well practiced, undoubtedly honed through years of usage on his parents, uncles and aunts, and older cousins.

            “So, you are somehow suggesting that I just might see this bundle slipped onto one of the wagons loaded with arrow points and spearheads, I take it?”

            “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

            The moment of exasperation he felt faded as he looked into green eyes filled with pleading, and he found himself laughing out loud at the audacity of the young Took.  “All right, Pippin--you win--but only the one bundle.  Anything else you might wish shipped north will have to wait for the wagon Gimli’s bringing to the Shire in the spring--do you understand?”

            Apparently aware he’d pushed the situation as far as he could hope, Pippin agreed.

            “I’m rather surprised,” Aragorn commented as he worked the bundle into a corner near a storage cabinet with the Hobbit’s help, “that you’ve begun collecting Yule gifts already.  It’s only July, after all.”

            “Oh, I learned when I was still a small child that you can’t ever truly begin gathering birthday and Yule gifts any too early; and that when you see the absolutely perfect gift for someone, it’s best to get it then, for there’s a good chance that if you think it’s perfect, someone else will think so for their Aunt Marguerite or something like, and then it’ll be gone by the time you’ve thought it over and come back to look at it again.  It happens all the time, you see.”

            “Did you carry this up here yourself?” Aragorn asked, once it was settled as carefully as possible that it not fall down on him should he brush up against it.

            “Merry helped me get it to the ramp while he was on the way to take his turn standing honor guard at the tomb where Théoden’s body lies, and one of the Guards there helped me carry it up to the top; but I carried it the rest of the way.  I just hope Uncle Ferdinand will like the bows--they’re for training for the archers who are at the command of the Thain in offering service to the King and for protection of the Shire itself.”

            Considering the weight of the bundle, Aragorn again stood in awe of the basic strength of Hobbits, who, he’d learned, could bear more in weight than the sizes of their bodies might indicate.  He knew from experience that Sam had chosen to carry a pack the weight of which would have been more than most Men would be willing to bear; and all four Hobbits had carried more than their share of the weight of what must be brought with them between Bree and Rivendell.  “And you have bows there, also?” he asked.  “Then, as this is at least in part intended as weapons for our northern reserves, that will lessen the feeling of guilt for those who must add it to their carts.”

            He saw Pippin’s face lighten, for he’d clearly not thought of that justification for his request.  “I know it doesn’t make it all right, don’t you know,” the Hobbit commented, “but it does make me feel at least somewhat better.”

            Having finished going over the documents he must study for the day, Aragorn waved to indicate he was leaving the room anyway, and Pippin preceded him out into the hallway.  “I don’t think I thought to consider Yule gifts this long before the event before,” the Man said as he secured the door behind them.

            “Well, I’ll admit I usually don’t do so, either; but there are so many things one can purchase here that just aren’t available in the Shire, such as a saddle like that, or some of the toys I bought for my nieces and nephews and younger cousins.  And the quality of paper here is superb!  I’ve purchased a good deal for various aunts and uncles who seem to think they have it in them to rival Frodo’s Aunt Dora for correspondence--she was as renowned throughout the Shire for the amount of written advice and wisdom she shared as is Sam’s dad, the Gaffer, for his spoken advice.  And both of them have always advised to think long and well upon what to give as gifts that they be the right ones for the person and the occasion.”

            As they walked together back toward the wings for the living quarters where the Fellowship was to sup together with King and Queen ere they left Gondor in a few days’ time, Aragorn thought on that.  He had so much to rejoice about and be glad for--and some to grieve about as well, as he thought of finding Halbarad’s body in the wake of the defense of the city and the growing isolation he saw drawing about the person of his friend, Frodo Baggins.  Oh, how he wished he might find that perfect gift Pippin had spoken of for Frodo--and even more so, he realized, for his beloved Arwen.  There she stood with Lothiriel of Dol Amroth and the Lady Galadriel by her, just within the doors to the hallway off which the living wings opened, and how his heart lifted just at the sight of her!

 *******

            That evening after they’d eaten he kissed his wife and left her in the companionship of her father, brother, and grandparents, and walked out to the walls with the Hobbits and Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli having excused themselves to return to the guesthouse to see to some of their own packing.  Frodo walked first to lean on the walls to look at the night closing over the Mountains of Shadow as he so often did, that faint smile of relief he usually displayed when doing so showing as he again assured himself the skies over that land remained open to Sun, Moon, and stars.

            “I’ll rather miss seeing them myself,” Merry commented as he drew out his pipe and his striker set.  “To think how they were for that first week you all were gone from the city--and then to see the wind tearing away the clouds and the light flooding down on all that had been in darkness for so long!  We all stood watching as if we could not fill ourselves with the glory of it!  And if you could only have heard the singing of the Eagle!  That the Great Eagles can speak the tongues of Men and sing out such joy!  None within the Shire will believe it!”

            He got his pipe alight and stowed the striker set before moving downwind of Frodo to lean forward on the parapet.  He took a satisfying puff before turning his attention to the Man.  “So, you agreed to have those carrying supplies northward carry home Pippin’s Yule gifts, did you?”

            “Yes, he convinced me of it.  Have you been gathering such things, too?”

            “Yes, although most of what I’m leaving behind are going to be birthday gifts.  As my next birthday is almost a year from now, it doesn’t really matter how long it takes them to get to me, as long as it’s all there in June.  Oh, I got a few Yule gifts, too, but most are smaller things I can carry in my pack or easily have sent after me.  Mistress Loren and Lasgon have promised to send one packet to me in three months’ time--it should arrive in plenty of time, and shouldn’t burden the message carriers too much.  Mostly I’ve had garments made or purchased relatively light things that aren’t particularly bulky such as scarves and shawls or jewelry.  Although for my birthday I have on order some glassware from Master Celebrion’s workshop Gimli’s to bring--I only hope it survives the journey in the cart.  But he’s to bring a great bowl of green volcano glass, a bit smaller than the one Frodo gave to you and the Lady Arwen, that I’ve ordered for my mother, and a pink one for Aunt Eglantine.  Aunt Lanti tends to like things in pink, I find.  And there are some candle sticks for Aunt Rosamunda, similar to the ones Frodo ordered for Faramir and Éowyn.  Most Hobbit holes aren’t fit for such things, but they will look marvelous in Budge Hall, I believe.  Those are massy enough they ought to survive if properly wrapped, or so I’d think.”

            “I’m looking forward to having a few days after we return to do some searches of the city myself,” Aragorn agreed, pulling his own pipe out of his belt and accepting the offer of Merry’s leaf pouch.  “I’m trying to decide now just what I’ll give Arwen for Yule, or what we call Mettarë.  I’d certainly like for it to be something especially beautiful and fitting.  Perhaps something to remind her of the land she’s left behind and her childhood home.  Have you ever considered such a gift?”

            “Marigold Gamgee makes some of the most delicate lacework you can imagine,” Merry said.  “For the birthday before I left I had her do a shawl for my mother in which she pictured the contours of Brandy Hall, with my portrait on one end and that of my father on the other.  Mum loves it dearly.  I bet we could get her to do something similar for the Lady Arwen, with images with meaning for her.  Do you think she’d like that?”

            Aragorn thought for a moment as he lit his pipe and puffed it into life, then smiled.  “Yes, I think she would indeed like such a thing,” he said.  “How does she do this?”

            “It’s in the way she hooks her lace is all I can tell you.  Would you prefer the shawl made of linen or silk or wool?”

            “She can do this work in a variety of fabrics?”

            “Well, of course.  You can use different yarns or threads, depending on taste and intended purpose; you just need to use the right size hook for the yarn or thread you’re using.  What would you prefer?”

            “I’m not certain.”

            Merry nodded thoughtfully.  “Most of the pieces Marigold uses for items to be placed over tables or to add to dresses she makes of silk or flax threads--or cotton, when we can get it, or the very finest of woolen threads.  She uses different twines and cordage for mats or rugs.  Then there are all different kinds of yarn for use in garments to wear or for yarn work blankets to lay over beds or the back of sofas, for new bairns and the like.  For a shawl for a table or dresser she tends to use finer yarns or threads; for one to wear people usually prefer for it to be made of a softer wool.  But the softer and more woolly the yarn, the more difficult it can be for the image to be seen and recognized, or so she told me when I commissioned the shawl for my mother.”

            “I see.”  Aragorn knew his mother had been considered a weaver of note, as was true of the Lady Galadriel; and the same was said of his wife as well as being among the greatest of embroiderers in all of Middle Earth, and certainly he’d seen enough of the women of his own folk weaving and doing woolwork in the years he’d served as the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Eriador.  Yet save to admire how a dress or shawl might flatter a woman he’d never thought much about how such weaving and woolwork was transformed from mere fabric into such garments as women wore.  “I’d like for it to be soft for her to wear it, but definitely fine enough to show the images well,” he decided.

            “Perhaps a blend of silk and fine woolen fibers, then,” Merry advised.  “Any idea of color?”

            Again Aragorn thought deeply as he puffed on his pipe.  With her dark hair and fair skin, his Arwen tended to look particularly beautiful in almost all colors he’d ever seen her in.  But now he had to actually think to decide what colors those were.  White; blue--he thought of the dark blue garments she’d made for the two of them to wear to their wedding banquet and found himself smiling at the memory of just how her gown had flattered her, then thought of something to wear over that gown to accentuate it.  “White,” he decided.  “A creamy white.”

            “Creamy white.  That sounds good, although whether or not Marigold has any such yarn or thread is, of course, a matter of question.  Maybe tomorrow we can go down to the First Circle and look for some suitable threads.  Then there’s the question of whether you would wish it to be square, rectangular, triangular, or oval; do you wish beads worked into it; do you wish the lower edges fringed or plain....”  Then he frowned as he took his final puffs on his pipe.  “And there’s the problem of whether or not it could be completed in time.  It took Marigold three months to make that for my mother, you must understand.  Perhaps you should look for your woolworker somewhat closer to home, as it were.”

            “But I know none here in Minas Tirith,” Aragorn objected.

            “That could indeed pose a problem,” Merry commented as he knocked the compacted ashes out of his pipe.

            “Pose a problem for what?” asked Frodo as he turned away from the wall.

            “You remember that shawl I had made for Mum last summer?”

            “The one you had Marigold make?  Yes--it was beautiful, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Aunt Esme so touched in my life.”

            “We were just discussing having her make such a thing for our Lady Arwen for Yule, but I doubt she could get it done in time, even if we were to have the perfect yarn to take with us.  He’d like it done in a fine, creamy white silk thread, you see--something soft and fine, to match our Lady herself, I think.  Am I right?” Merry asked, looking up at their King.

            “Oh, indeed,” Aragorn agreed.

            Frodo said thoughtfully, “She must have used about eight of the skeins of the finest yarn Aunt Lanti spins to make that shawl.  For our Lady Queen, I’d think she’d need about twice that at least, for Lady Arwen is much taller and has wider shoulders than your mother does.”

            “Who’d need yarn?” Sam asked as he joined them.

            “Your sister Marigold,” Frodo explained as they turned to include him in the discussion.  “Aragorn was considering having her do a shawl similar to the one she did last year for my Aunt Esme, only for the Lady Arwen.”

            “A picture shawl?  She won a fine prize at the Free Fair, first one of them as she done, there about six year back.”

            “Yes--I remember. It had the portraits of your mother Bell and the Gaffer worked into it, against the background of the pattern of panes for the front window there at Number Three, didn’t it?”  His face fairly shone with the memory of the beauty of it.

            “Yes, it were beautiful--and the Gaffer has it laid over the table in the front room, he does, for all t’ see as they come in.  And our May--she’s to have it after he’s gone--we’ve all agreed, we have.  Marigold did it in a linen thread--took her months and months to finish.  But it’s a thing of beauty if’n anythin’ is.”

            “What’s a thing of beauty?” Pippin asked as he and Gandalf walked over from where the two of them had been talking together, further down the wall.

            “That picture shawl as Marigold made of my dad and mum,” Sam told him.

            “Oh, the one she won all those prizes for?  My mum loves it, and would love to have a table shawl like that of her and Da.  I’d thought of having her make one for Mum for Yule or my birthday this year, but I doubt we’ll be home in time for her to finish it.  It took her months and months to do that one.  I know she wants one, and especially after how the rectangular one Marigold made for your mum turned out, Merry.  She’ll not be content until she, too, has one of Marigold Gamgee’s shawls.  But what got you on the subject?”

            “We were discussing whether or not she might make something like the one she made for Mum for the Lady Arwen,” Merry explained.

            “Oh, there wouldn’t begin to be time,” Pippin sighed, his brow furrowing.  “Although there’s a lovely old woman near the fruiterer’s and the bookstall there in the market in the Fourth Circle who does similar work.  I was watching her the last time I went down to purchase fruit for the guest house.”

            “There’s someone here in Minas Tirith who does such work?” the King asked, intrigued.

            “Yes--she makes mostly small mats to set on tables showing the shape of the city against Mount Mindolluin, although she did a marvelous one of your face, Strider, that I bought to give to my sister Pimpernel for my birthday.  She’ll be the sister who’d most like such a thing, you know.  I tucked it into my pack last night.”

            “It’s a wonder your pack doesn’t just burst apart with all the things you’ve tucked into it,” Frodo commented, shaking his head.

            Pippin made a face at him, then turned back to look up at his king.  “You might consider having her make it, although she’d probably wish for you to purchase the yarn for it yourself.  I know--you don’t have a public audience tomorrow, do you?”

            “No, I don’t.”

            “Nor any envoys you have to make over?  I thought not.  Why don’t we make one last visit to the lower city together, and I’ll introduce you to her.  Her name is Mistress Aiden, and she’s just remarkable.”

            *******

            So it was that the next morning, after the King finished his visit to the Houses of Healing, he came to the guest house on Isil Lane where the rest of the Fellowship had been staying to find the four Hobbits and one Dwarf were awaiting him.  “I need to stop at a silversmith’s shop in the Fifth Circle as we return,” Pippin added.  “I found my ‘I’m home again and you have to forgive me’ gift for my mother there, and he’s to have it completed today.”

            Amused by the title he’d given to this set of gifts, Aragorn asked, “But what about one for your father?”

            “I have that already.  It turns out one of the Dwarves in the party from the Lonely Mountain is a maker of clockworks, and he was finishing up a pocket watch one evening when we were down at the Wounded Drum together.  I had him engrave it with my da’s initials and the crossed bow and riding crop that’s the sign of the Thain.  I had to promise him a barrel of Longbottom Leaf, but with what pocket money I had on me at the time he let me have it.”

            “It’s one of Lani’s best pieces,” Gimli noted with satisfaction.  “Hobbits have always had a fascination with timepieces, so he took the chance, one he realized there would be Hobbits here, that one of them might be interested.”

            “You didn’t take it, Frodo?” Aragorn asked as they finally stepped outside the door and started down toward the lower city.

            “I have a perfectly good pocket watch waiting for me back in the Shire,” Frodo sniffed.

            “I’m rather surprised you didn’t bring it with you, considering how attached Bilbo is to his.”

            “What?  And what if I’d fallen in a river or something with it on me?  I had no idea at all before we left the Shire I’d find myself traveling with a Dwarf; and Dorlin had advised me that the making of clocks and watches tends to be an obscure one, even for Dwarves.  Now, he did put the mantel clock in the parlor back together the time Pippin took it apart....”

            “I didn’t mean to!” objected the Took.  “I was what?  Seven or so?  I think even you might have examined it to try to find out how it worked, had your family stayed in Hobbiton longer.”

            “You did mean to, Peregrin Took!  As a small child you tended to leave a trail of destruction behind you wherever you went, and at that time for some reason I still can’t fathom Merry was encouraging you in it.”

            “With you and Bilbo having to watch so over him, I was able to get into the study and read Bilbo’s book.”  Merry’s voice was oh, so reasonable, and even a bit on the smug side.  “For me, that was the start of my participation in the Conspiracy.”

            Aragorn glanced sideways.  Frodo appeared somewhat exasperated, Merry very complacent, and Pippin aggrieved.  As for Sam, he was shaking his head, not bothering to try to hide the grin on his face.  “They’re much as they was then, Strider,” he advised their friend, “for all ’twas twenty years back.”

            The Guardsmen at the gate watched after their King and his companions and unobtrusive personal guard as they walked by, down into the Fifth Circle, for the King was laughing freely as he passed, his head thrown back in delight.

 *******

            Many of those who held stalls in the great marketplace in the Fourth Circle were still opening panels and setting out goods.  The fruiterer was moving baskets of fresh fruit from his small cart onto his counters, while the nearby bookseller was carefully arranging his wares to attract attention.  Frodo’s eyes were inevitably drawn there, and Aragorn felt a pang in his heart as he saw the hunger for more knowledge he saw in his friend’s eyes competing with the realization he couldn’t take all back to the Shire with him.

            A woman who sold fabric was busy carefully lifting aside the canvas covering of her cart, folding the heavy material and stowing it inside the stand.  Her best bolts she set out neatly on the counters of her stall, setting the finest bolts of silk back where they might be easily seen but not easily soiled by overhandling; she finally stood the bolts on the bottom level of her cart up on end to show them off to whoever might be passing by.  For a moment Aragorn wondered why she didn’t have a stall amongst the other sellers of fabric, for he noted the quality of her wares was actually quite good, before he realized her strategy--the stalls on the outside of the market were among the least expensive to lease; and by being one of the first such stalls encountered by those entering the market she increased her chance of making good sales.

            But the stall to which Pippin led them was on the far side of that of the fruiterer, a smaller stand with blue surfaces.  On the counters an older woman, plump and rosy-cheeked and much resembling a Hobbit herself, was setting out rows of white mats. 

            “Hello, Mistress Aiden,” Pippin greeted her.  “I brought a friend to meet you.  He’s wanting to have a shawl made for his wife for Mid-winter.”

            “A shawl, is it?” the woman asked, peering toward the Man who accompanied the Hobbits.  “Is she comely?”

            Aragorn felt an instant liking for the woman come over him.  “Comely, you ask?  Ah, but she is one of the comeliest of women remaining within Middle Earth, although I must suppose that Master Samwise here might just insist that his own Rose might just be comelier.”

            Sam appeared surprised and pleased by Aragorn’s sally, and even Frodo’s eyes shone with approval.  As for the woman--she laughed out loud.  “Ah, yes, that’s indeed as how it is with menfolk,” she managed at last.  “Even my old Berengold says the same of me, and refuses to think of it as blatant flattery.  So, you’d have old Aiden make a shawl for your lady?  And how long is it since the knot was tied?”

            “Ay, but a matter of a few weeks only.”

            “No wonder it is, then, that you are eager to name her amongst the fairest in the land.  Is she fair or dark?”

            “Fair of skin, dark of hair, eyes of clearest grey.”

            “Then she’s of the pure blood, then?” Mistress Aiden asked, smiling.

            “Of the purest,” Aragorn answered her with such a reverent tone that the woman straightened, obviously suddenly aware of the identity of the Man who came to her stall, accompanied by the four Halflings and a Dwarf.

            “But, you’re the King!” she gasped, going into an awkward curtsey.

            Aragorn felt dismay go through him.  “Please, Mistress Aiden--do not stand upon protocol here within the marketplace.  I merely came, as would any person desiring your services.  Although, of course before going further I would like to examine a sample of your work to determine whether or not you appear to have the skill I’d like to see.”

            “But, of course--a sensible Man you are, too, my Lord King,” she said as she began rooting under the counter.  “Oh, you might look at what’s there on display, but they are but pieces for those as visit the White City, don’t you know.  The best pieces I don’t have up as yet.”

            She brought out a square basket and carefully searched through it until she found a piece under the rest.  “Here--I’ve but recently finished this one for Mistress Elisien in the Fifth Circle--one of her great birds as a gift to her husband’s mother.”  She shook it out and set it upon the countertop--Aragorn recognized the peacock of Valdimar and Elisien of the city, superbly depicted in the lace.

            “How well done!” he commented, running a single finger over the fabric.  “Oh, I assure you, Mistress Aiden, I cleansed my hands before I came out today, and have handled nothing to make them greasy or dirty.  As my beloved is herself a weaver, seamstress, and embroiderer of great skill, she has taught me well how it must be when one approaches work such as this.”

            Again she laughed.  “Ah, a practical sort, and well trained, I see.  Yes, if indeed our Lady Queen is as good as you say, it is best that you be accustomed to keeping your hands clean afore touching her work.”

            He paused.  “You are from Eriador?” he asked, his eyes brightening with interest.  “It can be heard in your speech!”

            She flushed.  “Oh, yes, my Lord King.  I was born in a far village, one called Staddle on----”

            He interrupted with a sense of triumph.  “On the far side of Bree Hill?  Ah, but I know it well enough, believe me.  Remember, I, too, was born within Eriador and served amongst our Rangers there.”

            “You were a Ranger?  You really were?  How odd!  I remember as how when I was a young child the Rangers were thought dangerous and fearful.  It was a surprise to come here as a girl and find that the Rangers were thought to be amongst the bravest of Gondor’s forces, for they saw more of the Enemy’s evil creatures than any others.  Was it in truth the same for you?”

            Aragorn gave a small nod.  “Yes, it has ever been thus for us.  But how did you come here from the Breelands?”

            “My father was a merchant--his family specialized in fine leather.  They’d been told the best leathers came from the northlands, so that was where he went.  He met my mother and remained there as the family’s agent for some years, until I was perhaps twelve.  Then he returned here.  He also began purchasing fine woolens--amongst the best woolens have ever come from the Breelands and the Shire, you know.”

            “So I’ve ever felt as well.  And I’ve learned much of the woolens we’ve ever purchased came from the family of Pippin here.”

            “Is that so?”  She looked at Pippin with interest.  “You are from the Tooklands in the Shire?”  At his node, she smiled.  “It was a surprise to see Hobbits here in the marketplace, for I’d not seen them since I was a child.  It was a Hobbitess as taught me woolwork and the making of the picture lace, you see.”

            The Man felt a sense of satisfaction, for here was another tie to the northlands, and a reason both he and Arwen would treasure the proposed shawl the more.

            She pulled out another mat from the basket and hung it from ties suspended from the rail to which the upper canvas protecting her stall was affixed.  Aragorn looked up and saw it held the portrait of himself, wearing the Elendilmir.  He paused, for it was quite a good one.  As for Frodo, on examining the lace portrait he turned on Pippin.  “Is this what you wanted those portraits for, Peregrin Took?  I thought you wanted them only for memory’s sake!”

            “Well, this is for memory’s sake, Frodo Baggins.”

            “But you had Master Iorhael do another one of me, too, and you know I do not wish my picture to be widely available throughout the realm of Gondor!”

            “Master Iorhael did that--the artist from the Fifth Circle?” Aragorn asked.

            Pippin glanced sideways at his king, then warily back toward Frodo briefly before turning to face Aragorn and saying, perhaps a bit too brightly, “Oh, Iorhael did them of all of us.”

            Something in Frodo’s expression hardened, and the Man sensed that once he had his younger Took cousin alone there would be a confrontation between the two of them.  Gimli gave Pippin a suspicious look.  “But I’ve barely met Master Iorhael.  Are you saying he did portraits of me, too?  And what about the pestilential Elf?”

            Concerned, Mistress Aiden looked from the Dwarf to Frodo and back.  “I was give pictures of all the Fellowship, much as I asked the young Hobbit here.  But if you wish as I’d not use them....”  Her eyes fixed uncertainly on the Ringbearer.

            “I’d truly prefer you not do ones of me, Mistress--please,” he said with earnest pleading.

            Pippin frowned, then turned to her.  “Well, you do have permission to do the one of me!” he said firmly.

            Merry’s expression was almost as exasperated as Frodo’s.  “Those were intended just for you, and you know that Pip.  Really!”

            “Well,” the woman said, “the only ones as I’d done into panels as yet was those of the King and of Captain Boromir, you know.”

            Aragorn sighed.  “You have full permission, Mistress, to continue making the ones of myself, I suppose.  You say you have ones done of Boromir?”

            She produced one, and Aragorn had to say they were remarkably faithful, for portraits worked in lace.  “How did you do this?” he asked.

            She pulled out a large piece of paper on which faint blue squares had been worked.  “I have a block at home, you see, as has a special bit of linen netting attached to it.  I dip the netting into a light blue ink, and then can press it against paper to leave the lines indicating the squares as I form when I’m hookin’ my thread.  I have the picture drawn on the paper, and I make certain as I’m working that I fill in those squares as are colored in by the drawing.  It works right well, I find.”

            Aragorn was intrigued.  “How clever,” he commented. 

            She drew out one that had been filled in with a view of the old White Tree, and allowed him to compare it against one of the mats on which she’d done that particular pattern.  “This one I’ve done so often as I know it by heart--can do it almost without thinkin’ on it, I can.  Although I’d like one done of the new White Tree as it grows to do now,” she added.  “I have a good one of Lord Denethor as I used to do, and one of our own Lord Faramir, too, as is right popular.”

            Aragorn examined the ones done of Denethor, Boromir, and Faramir with interest and approval.  “Oh, but these are very good,” he smiled.  “You don’t happen to have one of the Lady Finduilas as well?”  But she hadn’t.

            The talk now turned to the project he wished to see done, of a triangular shawl showing the facade of the Last Homely House across it, a portrait of Lord Elrond on one corner and one of the Lady Celebrían on the other.  She produced a large sheet of her lined paper on which he tried to draw the design he wished done, but even as he did it he realized he was failing to do his imagined shawl justice.  Back in the days when he’d been known as Estel he’d done a good deal of drawing and even some painting, but he had to admit he was no great artist.

            He looked up to see much the same expression on Frodo’s face as he’d seen there the first time the Hobbit had seen him dance.  “Is that supposed to be the house in Rivendell?” he asked.  “And is that supposed to be the Bruinen?”

            “Well, I’ve not done much in the way of sketching anything other than maps and flowers for many years,” the Man explained rather defensively.  “And I don’t really have much time to do more today, as I must be back in a few hours to meet one last time with the Council about how matters are to be conducted while we are away to Rohan for King Théoden’s funeral and the handfasting of Faramir to the Lady Éowyn.  Perhaps I could involve Elladan with it--he’s a fine one with drawing sticks.”

            “Now, there’s one as I wish I had a good picture of so as I could do hers to sell along side that o’ the Prince,” Aiden sighed.

            “I’ll tell you what, Aragorn,” Frodo sighed, as if he were making a concession he worried he might regret, “I know you won’t be able to work on this much as we travel due to being so much by your lady’s side.  But if you’ll allow me to work with Lord Elladan, I could get it done without drawing her attention to it, I think.  We could get it done while we’re in Edoras, and send it back as unobtrusively as possible.”

            “That would do well,” Aragorn said slowly.  “And you’d need him to do the portrait of the Lady Celebrían anyway, as of course I never knew her.”

            “And if you’d like I could see to it you get one of the Lady Éowyn and the young White Tree as well, if you’ll promise not to do the portrait of me as long as I’m still living in Middle Earth,” Frodo added.

            She smiled broadly.  “I agree, Master Frodo,” she said.  “Now--for the thread....”

            From her stall Aragorn, Pippin, and Gimli walked down to the First Circle where they visited a particular weaving hall where she assured them they could find appropriate threads and yarns, and told them how much of each weight she felt was necessary for the proposed shawl for the body, edges, and lower fringe.  “And if’n you decide as you’d like beads worked into it,” she added, giving directions to a purveyor of stone beads as well.  Meanwhile Merry accompanied Sam and Frodo, laden with a fair supply of the lined paper, back up to the guest house in the Sixth Circle.

            At the weaving hall they were greeted by the master of the shop, and were soon examining threads and yarns.  Aragorn found precisely the shade he wished, adding a dark, shimmering blue to match the gown he was having this made to complement to work into the fringe.  They went next to the bead shop and found there the onyx and lapis beads needed for the project, at which time they headed up through the city to the shop of the silversmith in the Fifth Circle of which Pippin had spoken.

            The bracelet chain set with great pearl, dangling blossoms, and silver falcon figure intrigued him.  “This is what you’ve had made for your mother, then?” he asked.

            “Yes--the pearl for my sister Pearl, the two flowers for Pimpernel and Pervinca, and the falcon for me,” Pippin agreed.  “And the matching ear drops here are for my sisters.

            Aragorn smiled as he examined the set, then made up his mind.  “I won’t be having all the portraits I’d originally thought of worked into the shawl; but if I could do a separate charm to serve as reminders of each one she’s loved....”  He smiled more broadly.  He swiftly made his own order for a chain bracelet for his Lady Wife, choosing from amongst the tiny figures the smith had made up the first few to be hung from it, and making up his mind to search everywhere he went for symbols for the others he wished to see remembered on it for his wife.

 *******

            Frodo finally did the sketch he felt caught the Lady Éowyn one evening during the ride to Edoras, making certain he was not seen drawing by the King, whose plans for a memorial to the four Hobbits disturbed him.  He had no intentions of inadvertently allowing Aragorn to use his own drawings to make such a monument.  And the evening after the handfasting of Faramir and Éowyn Frodo pleaded a headache and excused himself from the company to retreat to the room where he and the other Hobbits were to sleep, where he stretched out the carefully pasted-together pages he’d determined would serve as the model for the shawl and began the drawing.

            “This is marvelous!” Elladan breathed as he looked down on the almost completed pattern Frodo had done, including the narrow panel of elanor blossoms worked along the upper edge and the niphredil above the lower fringes.  He examined the portrait of his father, and smiled with pride.  “Ah, yes, this is perfect,” he said.

            “I can’t do one of your mother,” Frodo admitted, “so if you’d agree to supply that.”  He indicated where it belonged.

            Aragorn saw the completed pattern the next day.  “It’s beautiful,” he murmured.  “Yes--it is perfect for her.  But I must say this isn’t your usual style of drawing, my brother.”

            Elladan merely smiled.  “I don’t always use the same style, little one,” he said with that careful edge of patronization Elves could capture so perfectly.  Aragorn shook his head, then hearing his Arwen coming he indicated his Elven brother should see the pattern rolled while he went out to meet and delay her that she not see.

            *******

            Elrond listened to his fosterling’s plans for the bracelet with interest.  “You would have me help gather small figures to represent those she’s loved throughout her life?” he asked.  Celeborn, who stood behind his daughter’s husband, looked thoughtful as well.

            “I can provide charms I feel are appropriate for those I know of--for you and my brothers, Erestor and Glorfindel, for the Lord and Lady here, and a few others I know she loves and cares for.  But I do not know all she has loved over the yeni she dwelt here before I was born, many of whom were slain or sought the Havens long ago.  You would know better what symbols would mean the most.”  He turned to Frodo and Merry, who also had been drawn to this last conference.  “And if you could supply charms to represent those of us who made up the Fellowship,” he asked.

            “Not Pippin this time?” Merry asked.

            “Knowing Peregrin Took, he’d take it over with a relish,” Aragorn sighed.  “No, this time I’ll defer to your taste.”

 *******

            A week before Mettarë a packet was delivered to the Citadel of Minas Tirith by an Elf of Rivendell who’d come by way of the Golden Wood; a day later a wagon driven by a Dwarf arrived from the Shire, laden with a barrel of cider, barrels of Longbottom Leaf and Old Toby and a smaller barrel of Goolden Lynch, a barrel of ale from the Prancing Pony, and other gifts sent by his friends from the Shire, the Iron Hills, and the Lonely Mountain.  Two days later a rider from Rhovanion arrived with more gifts from Dale and Eryn Lasgalen.  Aragorn’s own gifts had gone out much earlier, and ought, he knew, to be arriving at their destinations.

            He was able to identify those packets intended for the Queen’s gift, and went down to the jeweler’s shop to see them added to the bracelet of charms.

 *******

            On Mettarë Aragorn awoke early.  The Hall of Kings had been filled with garlands of winter flowers and greenery and stands of candles; in their own private sitting room there were swags of evergreens and mistletoe brought from the mountains and Rohan, added to with holly sent from Eregion and hemlock and fir sent from the Shire.  The feast hall of Merethrond, he knew from memories of days long past, would glisten tonight.  Carefully he set his gifts for his wife upon the table.  He’d not seen the great shawl--Aiden had it already sewn into a bag of white linen when he went down to fetch it away.  Oh, how he prayed she would like it.  He then went down the hall to the private kitchen for the wing to see to preparing a breakfast such as he knew she would prefer this day, and was bringing it back to set upon the table when she came out of her bathing chamber dressed in a fine dressing gown.

            She examined the linen bag and the carefully wrought wooden box with interest.  “And what are these?” she asked.

            “Gifts to the lady of my heart and soul,” he advised her.

            She smiled in a manner as to set his own heart racing, and she looked to open first the box.

            “Oh,” she breathed as she lifted out the bracelet with its many charms hanging from it.  There was a silver harp tinted a delicate green with an emerald dangling from it for her mother, and a slightly larger one enameled in dark blue set with a sapphire and a blue quill hanging from the same ring for her father.  For Elladan was an easel; for Elrohir a running horse.  A mithril flower with golden petals spoke of Glorfindel; an inkhorn of Erestor; a message carrier of Lindir.  An eight-pointed star of mithril with a shining emerald in its center symbolized her husband himself; a partially unrolled scroll was for Bilbo; a small book whose enameled silver covers could indeed open stood for Frodo.  A loom and miniature hand mirror indicated her daernaneth; a mallorn leaf her daeradar; a mithril swan ship Círdan.  She examined it with wonder and tears of longing as she saw charms that plainly were meant to remind her of some who no longer remained in Middle Earth, and others who were nearby.  Gandalf’s hat had been reproduced in silver, as well as Gimli’s axe, Legolas’s bow, and Boromir’s horn. 

            “Who does this symbolize?” Aragorn asked, indicating a sphere of crystal.

            “The Lady Nimrodel,” she said softly, “and the swan with the beryl set in its breast is the symbol of Lord Amroth.”

            Carefully he fastened the tinkling thing about her wrist, and she touched some of the charms gently--a trowel for Sam, a pipe and mug for Merry, a small falcon for Pippin.  A second star set with a diamond obviously spoke of her father’s adar; a  soaring gull of his naneth.  She examined a silver comb.  “My mother’s friend Calistië, who served as her handmaiden and confidant.  She was slain when my mother was taken.  And this is for her husband Curufil, who was chief of her guards.  Their young son Curufimir sailed on the same grey ship as did Naneth.”

            At last she turned from examining the charms to consider the linen bag.  She fetched her thread scissors from the box upon a nearby shelf and snipped the closing threads, and pulled out the enclosed garment----

            ----and paused with awe, carefully shaking out the folds until it could be examined.  “Home,” she breathed.  “Oh, Estel!”

            And as he helped settle it over her shoulders she looked down on the portraits done in lace of her father and mother, her eyes shining with tears of mixed joy and longing.

With thanks to RiverOtter and SurgicalSteel for the Beta

Note:  This story discusses sexual matters, but hopefully not in a fashion to cause distress to the readers.  It should be acceptable to more mature young folk. 

Particularly for Lindelea.

In Defiance of the Dark

            “I wish you might accompany me to the Houses of Healing when you can bring yourself to do so,” Aragorn had said shortly after the Fellowship returned to Minas Tirith and his coronation as King of Gondor.  “No, you might not be a healer yourself, but just by being yourself you hearten those who are ill or have known great injury.  You help them to forget for a time that they are in pain or that they have lost limbs.  You bring the scent of an innocent land and an innocent people into their sickrooms.  You help them know they are not forgotten.  So many cannot bring themselves to visit those who are ill, while others here are from far away--from the Ringlo Vale or the furthest reaches of Langstrand.  Their families and closest friends cannot make the great journey here to sit by their sides as they recover.  To have anyone visit them who simply sees them as they are and as they are able to be and who can help them know they are not alone is a blessing beyond price.”

            Frodo wasn’t certain that was true; but there was no question that he would hear the words “The Cormacolindo comes” run ahead of him through the Houses, and when he’d enter a room or a ward he would find those housed there sitting up, watching the doors expectantly, pleased smiles of anticipation replacing grimaces of pain.  And the healers and their assistants, as they followed behind him, found that their patients were heartened and more at ease than they might have been for days, or accepting a procedure that the day before would have terrified them.

            Sometimes he would be asked to describe the Shire and the lands to the far north he’d traveled through.  More commonly a young soldier would describe his home and his parents, younger brothers and sisters, a sweetheart or young wife left behind, or the anticipation of seeing how much a child had grown.  Now and then he’d sing for one, slowly feed one too weak to do so himself, hold an invalid’s cup for a third, recite Bilbo’s poetry.  One older officer who’d had part of his scalp removed by the slash of an Easterling’s sword discussed the writings of Sephardion with him, an ancient philosopher whose works regarding Númenor had made their way into Bilbo and Frodo’s library.

            The Healers themselves were heartened to see him sitting by their patients or to have a brief word with him in the hallways or as he sat by them in their wardroom, sharing a cup of an herbal drink or accepting a few bites of some treat the cooks had prepared to tempt his appetite.

            There were a few patients that he looked forward to visiting with, such as the young Man Ionil who’d been so badly burned and who’d been struggling so gamely against the myriad infections that had attacked him, or those children who were within the Houses who were recovering from more innocent injuries or illnesses.  He was not allowed to enter the rooms of those who suffered diseases known to be easily passed from one to another, although he was encouraged to speak with some of these from the heavily screened doorways; but on this one day he found himself going beyond the greatest building in the complex to one of the other three he’d not yet visited, drawn he knew not by what inspiration or whim.

            The woman healer on duty was surprised to see a small figure enter the doorway, and stood rapidly and came to see who was this child who entered her domain, for it was not a place where those who were very young were likely to find comfort; nor were many of those who rested in this house likely to respond well to the presence of a child who might wish to play or call out loudly.

            “May I aid you, young sir, during your visit to the House of Rest?” she asked, then looked into his eyes as he looked up at her, and realized this was no innocent child after all.

            “I am sorry,” he said softly, “for I’ve not come here before.  It was only that Aragorn had asked me to roam through the Houses to speak with those who might need heartening, and I’d realized I’d not been into the smaller buildings at all.”

            She wasn’t certain who Aragorn was, but she certainly knew enough to recognize the Ringbearer, and had heard that the King himself had authorized him to visit the ill as he might wish.  “Certainly, my lord,” she said, her tone very respectful, although she was not certain just what he might be moved to do with those who rested here.

            “Thank you,” he said with a polite nod of his head.  His cheeks had burned when she’d addressed him as “my lord,” but he held himself proudly enough as he turned away from her to explore the place.

            The level of the ground floor was given to offices and treatment rooms of various sorts, and one larger room where he found there was a great mineral bath.  He finally turned himself to climbing the stair to the upper levels, and here he found well-lighted hallways and wholesome scents.  There were few enough patients within this building, but when a room was occupied it was clean and filled with objects of beauty and peace.  Most of those who lay in its chambers were elderly, and usually had a family member sitting by them, speaking quietly and offering what food or drink the patient would accept.  He quickly realized that this was meant to house those who were dying that they might spend their last days surrounded by peace, tranquility, and beauty.

            One room he approached held only a woman, sitting in an invalid’s chair near the window looking outwards.  Her hair was dark and lovely, and he realized that if she indeed were dying it was not of old age.  He pushed the door more fully open and went in.

            “I don’t wish any food brought me,” the woman said in a soft, tired voice as if this was something she’d had to repeat over and over.

            “That’s good, then,” he responded, “for I’ve not brought any with me.”

            She turned her head slowly to look to see who it was who’d come in at that, looking at him with surprise and, he realized, a growing curiosity.  “And who are you?” she asked.

            A face that had once been beautiful beyond measure he saw, but one that now was contorted with pain and something else.  He remembered his tutor Tumnus Brandybuck from when he was a lad.  He’d had a great mole on the side of his face, one that one day had begun to grow remarkably and evilly.  There was what appeared to be a tumor growing under a place where a scar showed the healers had already attempted to remove the growth at least once.  Her face on that side sagged, and her eye was covered with a patch--probably if she were like Tumnus had been she could not blink that eye any more, he realized.

            His initial feelings of revulsion were eased quickly as his memories of his older cousin and former lessons master filled him and as he saw more signs that she had once been very beautiful indeed, and as his curiosity regarding her grew.  “I hope that you don’t mind my entrance,” he said politely.  “It is only that my friend, who labors in the Houses most days, suggested I visit those who are housed here.”

            “Few enough ever think to visit me,” she said.  “It is a pleasure to have the loneliness defied, I think.  Nay, enter and be welcome.”  She waved one hand at a second chair.  “I hope that it is not too high for you,” she said.

            She had a strong accent, one that was quite arresting, and that in her was most attractive.  Her hair was far coarser than he’d ever seen, and a blue-black color such as he seen previously only among the Southrons Captain Faramir’s Men had ambushed.  Her visible eye was a dark brown, and almost almond-shaped.  Her skin was darker than he’d ever seen in a woman, although it didn’t appear to be tanned, and he noted that the palm of her hand was a more normal pink than was the brownish back of it.

            Her hand itself was well-maintained, smooth as if she regularly had rubbed it with oils and as if she’d done little enough in way of labor with it--not the roughness seen in the hands of those who spun or wove regularly, or who scrubbed floors or walls for a living.  There was to her the look almost of a great lady; yet there was also a wariness he sensed in her, one that he realized she’d managed to hide from most of those who’d met her but that she could not hide effectively from him.  He drew the heavy chair over, then boosted himself up into it to face her.  She was examining him with as much interest as he felt toward her.  “You are not of Gondor?” he asked her.  “Not originally, I mean?”

            She shook her head.  “No--I was born in Khand, and was sold to the houses when but a child.  My parents were heavily in debt, and I suppose I must have fetched a good price.”

            He looked at her with confusion.  “You were sold--here?” he asked.  “I had no idea that any who dwelt within Gondor was enslaved.”

            She laughed, and he realized that she must have once laughed easily and rejoiced to have the chance and excuse to do so again.  “Nay,” she said, still very amused, “not these houses--the houses of pleasure within my own lands.  There I was educated in the arts of pleasing men, and once I was nubile I was properly--initiated.  Because I was judged very fair and had a keen wit I was given only to the greatest of customers, and one day I learned I’d found favor in the eyes of a high officer of the armies of Harad, and was purchased by him.  I became a part of his harem, and when he was sent to assault the garrison on the Poros he brought me with him along with many of his other preferred slaves.

            “He was a cruel Man, however, and I’d come to detest him.  Also, what he did with some of the children he’d bought for his own purposes was--unspeakable.  One such child he’d brought with us--a fair girl, and one from these lands to the north, one taken by slavers from her village near the banks of the river.  His battalion could not take the garrison on the Poros, so he was encamped there for some time.  One night, after he’d abused me and had plans to go to the child early the next day, I took my courage in both my hands and decided that the time had come to escape him.  He’d never bound me, thinking me tamed by my years of captivity, and I was often instructed to bring him his meals.  I put an herb into his food and into his drink that would cause him to sleep very deeply, and sat by him playing upon the zithern until he at last drowsed.  Then I settled him into his bed and took the keys with which the other slaves were shackled, and went out, telling his guard I was sent to bring the girl to him.  I brought her into his tent, then took his dagger and cut a slit in the back of it and we fled out into the desert.  By the time I must suppose he awoke--if indeed he did so--we had already put ourselves in the hands of the officer for the garrison of the Poros.  He had a group of younger Men escort us out and northward, and in time we were brought to a place on the river where a ship from Dol Amroth took us to the Prince’s city.”

            “And there you stayed?”

            “Had I stayed there would I be here now?” she asked, a slightly mocking tone to her voice.  “Nay, there was little enough for the likes of one such as myself to do there.  I spoke not their tongue at the time.  I was fortunate, I must suppose, that he who received us at Poros spoke enough Khandri to understand my plea for refuge.  The child was, I hope, returned to her family.  I know that a Man and woman were brought to us where we were kept for a time in a fair house within the Prince’s city and she threw herself into their arms, and went with them gladly enough.

            “But for me--what was there for me to do?  I had been trained to one purpose and one only--to pleasure men with my body and wit; and little enough call there is for that here within Gondor.  For the most part those who rule this land are of what I am told is the pure blood, and such have little delight in the ways of their bodies save with their lawful wives--or so I am told.  Bloodless, my people would call them.”

            Frodo felt himself respond to what he felt was perhaps an insult to Aragorn’s lineage.  “They are Dúnedain,” he explained rather stiffly.  “They have Elvish blood within them, and the Elves rarely know more than one with whom they will share their hröa during their lifetimes--which I trust you realize is supposed to be as long as Arda remains.”

            “Is that the reason for it, then?” she asked.  “I will not say that all are like that--but most of those who I felt resembled the last Lord of this land gave me interested looks, but nothing more--instead it was as if I were something to raise their ardor for their own wives.”

            She sighed and closed her eyes, and Frodo saw a wave of pain take her--saw her setting her teeth to endure it.  His own sympathies were roused by her expression, particularly as he so often endured the same.  He slipped from the chair and approached her, took her hand and held it.  He could hear the shallow breathing and mostly suppressed grunts of discomfort, and squeezed her fingers to allow her to know she wasn’t going through this alone.  As if that appeared to signal to her that his hand was there, she shifted her own grip and held his, squeezing tightly momentarily as a new spasm took her.  He allowed it, knowing all too well how the simple fact another was with him had helped him hang on through his own pain.  He squeezed back once more, holding onto her as much as she was hanging onto him.

            At last the spasm was over and she sat back.  He saw a cloth hanging over a basin nearby, slipped his hand finally out of her grip, and went to fetch it.  It was clean and dry; the water in the pitcher that went with the basin was still warm and scented with healing herbs.  He managed to pour some of the water into the basin and replace the pitcher, then dipped the cloth into it and wrung it out.  He returned to her and began to sponge off her now grey face.

            At last she spoke, “Your hand is as gentle as that of the new King.”

            He paused as he looked into her face.  Her eyes were still closed with weariness, but a hint of color was returning to her.  He resumed his cleansing, saying softly, “Then Aragorn has been to see you?”

            “Is that his name?  I thought they’d called him by another name--Lesser or something similar.  Odd name for a King--Diminished.”

            “E-less-ar,” he enunciated carefully.  “Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, he who wields the Elfstone, the Renewer, the Far-strider.”

            “You are a kinsman?”

            He was astounded at that one--astounded and amused.  “Kinsman?  Ah, but that would be most difficult, as I am a Hobbit--a Perian or Pherian or Halfling as they call us outside our own lands.”

            “You are your own people?”

            “Yes, we are.  There are four of us who came south with him from Eriador--myself, my younger cousins Meriadoc and Peregrin, and my gardener and friend Samwise.”

            “There are other peoples than just Men in the northern Kingdom?” she asked.

            “Yes--Dwarves, Hobbits, and Elves; as well as orcs, trolls, and mountain giants.  Then there are the Great Eagles and the Ents, although I’ve not met the Ents as yet.  It’s Merry and Pippin who have met the Ents.”

            She smiled slightly on the one side of her face still capable of doing so.  “A new people.  I’ve seen what your folk call orcs, of course--they followed ever in the wake of the Black Ones when they came to us to carry that one’s latest commands.”

            He found himself going still, and at last she opened her eyes once more to look at him.  “So,” she said at last, “you, too, have known their attentions.”

            “Yes,” he answered shortly, starting to lift the cloth once more, realizing he’d let his hand drop when she’d mentioned the Black Riders.  But now he was knowing his own discomfort.  Seeing the pain now in his face she fumbled her hand out and drew the damp cloth from it, allowing him to clutch at his shoulder.  He leaned back against the chair behind him, biting at his lip to keep from crying out. 

            She dropped the cloth and reached out for his left hand to hold it as he’d held hers.  “Here,” she said soothingly, “here is my hand for you to hold.  You are not alone, my lord.  You are not alone.”

            At last his spasm also eased, and he weakly opened his eyes to look up at her, wondering if he looked as tired to her as she did to him.  “We’re quite the pair, you and I,” she said, a touch of amusement again in her voice.  Her eyes dropped to the hand she held.  “Your hand--it is so cold.  They wounded you, then.”

            “Yes, last year in the fall.  They came north, seeking my elder kinsman Bilbo or me, and at last found me near Weathertop--Amon Sul.”

            She shivered.  “To be pursued by such as those,” she whispered.

            There was a knock at the door to the room, and a Man asked, “Mistress Lilith?  I’ve brought a pain draught should you feel the need for it.”  He entered, then paused as he realized she was not alone.  “Oh,” he said, “Lord Iorhael--you have come here?  How wonderful!  Ah, but has your own pain found you?  I will send for the King--he is within the main house----”

            Knowing his cheeks must have gone quite pink at the use of his title, Frodo shook his head.  “It is past, Eldamir.  There is no need to take Aragorn’s attentions from those who need them more than I do.”

            “Then I will bring you a cup of the herbal drink that he has indicated you prefer.  Is there aught else I can do for you--perhaps bring you some bread and cheese?”

            “Perhaps some shortly--I could not accept it now--so soon after....”

            “I understand, Small Master.  And you, Mistress Lilith?  Could you eat some?  Or perhaps you would prefer some of the smoke the King has suggested to ease the nausea and stimulate the appetite?”

            “Perhaps he needs it more than I do,” she said consideringly as she examined Frodo’s face.

            But Healer Eldamir was shaking his head.  “Not for his condition, or so the King has said.”

            “We have embarrassed him, to know he is also discussed for his health,” Mistress Lilith pointed out.

            “I am not that ill!” Frodo objected, pulling his left hand free from hers.

            “And neither are you that well,” she responded.  “I have seen those who have died from the spreading dark coldness the Black Ones leave in their wake, and feel it in your hand.”

            “That was months ago,” he said stubbornly.

            They were quiet for a time, and at last Mistress Lilith sighed, “It would appear that in your case, as in mine, the damage is too deep and widespread to fully respond to the King’s hand.”

            After a moment Frodo looked back to meet her gaze.  “So it would appear,” he agreed.  “Then Aragorn has seen you, also?”

            “Yes--the first time three days past.  There is little he can do--the growth has gone too deep--is throughout me now.  They removed it once, but could not find all of it; so it returned.  But his coming gave me heart--for a time.”

            She shivered suddenly once again with pain, and both Hobbit and healer offered her once more their hands, to help her remain grounded through it.  When at last it eased somewhat she opened her eyes once more and looked at each gratefully.  “I thank you,” she whispered, then swallowed.

            “The draught,” suggested Eldamir, “it will help ease the spasms.”

            “And it will--it will send me dozing,” she replied, her voice weak yet determined.  “Nay--with such a manling as this beside me, why should I wish to sleep now?  All too soon I shall sleep indeed, and I--I suppose I will do so--gladly enough.  But let me fill myself as I can with what beauty I can take with me first.”  When the Man looked at her uncertainly she added, “I promise--if--if it gets worse I will--will allow him to feed it to me.  Please?”

            After sharing a glance with the healer, Frodo gave a nod.  “I’ll stay by her for a time, then, and will give her the draught when she will accept it.”

            “Then I will go, and leave her in your keeping for now.  And I will send food and drink for both of you.  You still have much weight to replace, my friend.”

            Frodo turned his face away from the Man’s, nodding reluctantly.  “As you will.”  He looked back to the woman as the healer left.  “It appears you speak excellent Westron now, although you’ve indicated it was not always so.  Tell me how it is you learned it.”

            So she told him of meeting a ship’s captain in Dol Amroth, a widower who’d desired a fair woman to serve as chatelaine for his home, and how she’d accepted his offer.  “He taught me to speak the Common Tongue, and I taught him much of the ways of pleasure and gave to his home a good deal in the way of comfort and grace.  He often entertained when he was there within Dol Amroth, and found he could count upon me to see to it that his guests were treated graciously, and that excellent meals were prepared for them yet with economy; and that they were well entertained during their visits.

            “But there came the day he sailed from the port and failed to return.  His ship was lost in a skirmish with Umbari pirates.  Whether he was taken captive or was slain, who can say?  Only he did not return.  After at last word came that for certain his ship had been attacked, his sister came to claim his house.  That her brother should have taken one such as I under his protection disturbed her, and she had me shown out, with little to take with me, although at least she left me some jewels he had purchased solely for me.  She would not wear herself any thing he had purchased for my sake.  And she allowed me my clothing and a few things I had given him as well.  But she made it plain she would take it amiss should any others within Dol Amroth take me, and I must leave the city.

            “One whose ship harbored in the port of Pelargir did offer me passage to that city, and along the way accepted--my attentions as payment.  He was not of the pure blood, any more than had been he who kept me in the Prince’s city.  But it proved that he had a wife in Pelargir, and he begged me not to allow any to know what had passed between us, and I agreed.

            “I was able to take rooms there, and in time I gained custom.  Among other skills I had been taught how to ease muscles tightened by exercise or worry; I attached myself to a public bath house where I offered to both men and women the benefits of my skill; and a few would visit with me in my own place, for company and conversation and what pleasure they would seek with me.  I was comfortable there. 

            “At last another patron became taken with me, and he would insist on bringing me here to serve, again as chatelaine in his house.  Three years past I found a growth on my face and came here for what aid they could give me.  They cut it away, but could not remove all, apparently.  And now?”  She shrugged, looking about the room.  “And you, Lord Iorhael?” she asked.

            He knew she could see his flush.  “Please--call me Frodo,” he asked.  “That is the name given me by my parents.  I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire, at your service.”

            She nodded in response to the half bow he’d given from where he’d been sitting once more in the chair.

            He continued, explaining his birth in Hobbiton, subsequent moves first to Buckland and then to Whitfurrows, the deaths of his parents, removal first to Brandy Hall and then to Hobbiton as Bilbo’s adopted heir.  She listened attentively, and neither seemed to notice when Eldamir returned with a tray with food for the two of them, setting it between them.  He set a bowl of a rich broth for Mistress Lilith, and a second mug of a lighter one for Frodo; plates of cold meats and cheeses and slices of several fruits lay between them, accompanied by a bowl of strawberries for each.  He smiled to see both sitting so intently, then withdrew.

            “My best friends are my younger cousins Fredegar Bolger, Folco Boffin, Merry Brandybuck, and Pippin Took, and my gardener Sam Gamgee.  Of my cousins Folco lives closest to me in the village of Overhill; Pippin next in the Great Smial in Tuckborough where his father’s now Thain; Freddy lives in Budgeford along the Road going East toward the Brandywine Bridge; and Merry, of course, lives in Brandy Hall in Buckland where his father, my cousin Saradoc, is now the Master, Uncle Rory having died some years back.  Sam grew up on Bagshot Row along the bottom of the Hill, near the hole we lived in when I was born.  Bag End is better than halfway up the Hill, looking west over the Westfarthing of the Shire.

            “When it was learned that I must leave the Shire I sold Bag End to my Sackville-Baggins cousins, Lotho and his mother Lobelia; and my own possessions were removed to a cottage some three miles from Brandy Hall in Buckland, near the gate in the High Hay, from which I would be able, it was hoped, to leave easily and unremarked when it was time.  How close the hunt was, however, we would never have dreamed, for the Enemy’s Nazgûl had come to the Shire in search of me, entering near the Sarn Ford and coming to Hobbiton the evening we left for Buckland.  They hunted us back eastward again, losing us between the Woody End and the Marish, there just west of the Brandywine River.  Almost they caught us at the Bucklebury Ferry; early at the next dawning we slipped through the gate into the Old Forest, and were away.”  He paused to drink from his mug, and she tucked a napkin into the neck of her nightrobe and carefully spooned soup to her own mouth, fastidiously swallowing each spoonful and wiping her face with a second cloth before taking another.

            At last, when each had finished about half the broth set for them, he settled his mug back on the low table, and she laid her spoon again in the bowl.  As he reached for the tumbler of water brought him, she took the invalid’s cup and drank from it thoughtfully, then wiped again at whatever might have escaped through the slack corner of her mouth as she examined him with increased interest.  At last she asked, “And why was it that the Black Ones came so far to search for you?”

            He found he was unwilling to speak of the Ring to one who knew naught of It.  He shook his head as he thought what to say.  At last he said slowly, “Many years ago, long before I was born, Bilbo was convinced to go out of the Shire on his own adventure.  At one point he and the Dwarves with whom he traveled were dragged down beneath the mountains by goblins.  They escaped from the orcs, and--and Bilbo found--something--that the Enemy wished found--for his own purposes.  He brought it home, and before he left the Shire he left it to my keeping, never knowing what it was he’d found.  Slightly over a year ago Gandalf--the Wizard known here as Mithrandir--realized what it was I’d inherited, and counseled I leave the Shire and bring It to Rivendell.  And--and there I agreed to take It further.”  He stopped speaking, now wishing to say no more about it.

            “And you know our new King?” she asked at last, hoping to entice him to speak again.

            “That he does,” said Aragorn’s voice from the doorway.  “Frodo is one of my most beloved of friends.”

            They both turned toward the door, Frodo with the eagerness he now knew whenever he heard Aragorn speak.  “Eldamir didn’t send you this way, did he?”

            “He advised me as to where you were, but also said you appeared comfortable enough, and that you were speaking with a lovely lady.”

            Frodo felt he must be flushing once more, and saw that Mistress Lilith again appeared amused.

            “And you, Mistress--how are you this day?” Aragorn asked.

            “The pain comes and goes,” she sighed.  “I’ve known two worse times since Lord Frodo came to me, but not so bad as to need the draught.”  She glanced back at the Hobbit, and the one side of her face lifted into her half-smile.  “He grows pale and his cheeks alone redden when he is troubled, I see.  I am not certain what it is that disturbs him so.”

            “It is the title,” the King informed her.

            “There are no lords among Hobbits,” Frodo explained.  “If you must use a title, please refer to me as Master Frodo or Mister Baggins.”

            “Ah,” she said, looking at Frodo with more interest.  “So your rank is a matter of this land, then?”

            “He is a lord of all the Free Peoples,” Aragorn assured her.  “The Great Eagles themselves have cried out his ennoblement and that of Samwise Gamgee for all those who have ears to hear to know.  He is merely convinced that his own folk will not begin to appreciate what has been done.”

            “I don’t want my people to have to appreciate what has happened out here,” Frodo corrected, and the Man and woman both turned to look at him.  “Those within the Shire haven’t had to deal with much beyond an occasional cold winter for most of fourteen hundred years.”

            “Do you forget the white wolves crossing the Brandywine, or the Battle of the Green Fields, or even the pursuit of Aranarth and the forces of Arnor after Arvedui disappeared into the far north, Frodo Baggins?” the Man asked him.  “Your folk have never been fully isolated from the outer world, no matter what anyone might have wished for them.  And each time they have had to deal with the outer world they have acquitted themselves well enough, as I trust they always will.  And we of the Northern Dúnedain have ever rejoiced that this has been true.  Why else do you think we have guarded your borders so faithfully?  Or do you think we have fully forgotten the aid offered us by Bucca of the Marish?”

            “Although you yourself have said that you would guard borders of what settled lands there are whether or not the services of the Dúnedain were recognized,” Frodo responded.  “Didn’t you point out that we simple folk of the Shire and the Breelands remained simple mostly because of what your folk have done, watching over our borders in secret?”

            Aragorn was smiling.  “Trust you to remember that,” he said.  “And indeed it has been ever so, although, as Gandalf keeps reminding others, Hobbits are nowhere as simple of creatures as we tend to deem them.”

            “Ah,” Mistress Lilith commented, “at last he smiles in return.”

            The King nodded.  “And each time he smiles it brightens the world of Arda.  We are fortunate to see it first hand.”  Frodo could feel his cheeks flame, but he couldn’t help smiling along with his friend.

            Aragorn returned his attention to the lady.  “Now, Mistress, if I might examine you.  Do you feel...?”

            For some time he asked questions and listened to answers, and listened also to her heart and breathing, and let his hands rest over certain parts of her body.  At last he straightened, examining the cup the healer had brought her earlier.  “I will ask Master Frodo to help me with it ere he leaves me,” she promised him.  “But I would enjoy his company while I may.  It is so long since one so courteous--and comely--has visited me.  I would not fall asleep betimes.”

            The Man nodded.  “I understand.  Then, as I must soon return to the Citadel, I leave you my blessing, for there are a few more I would see before I leave the Houses.”

            After he’d left, she shifted more comfortably in her chair.  “Now,” she said at last, “tell me what it is like in your land.  Are all as you are?”

            He spoke for a time of the Shire and its people, describing the Thain and the Master and the Mayor and their families; how the four farthings and Buckland lay in relationship to one another.

            “And there is none for you there?” she asked at length.

            He shrugged, looking away from her somewhat.  “I once loved a woman of my folk, but it was before either of us was of age.  Then suddenly she decided she didn’t wish to marry me after all.  She married a second cousin to both of us, and has two children now.”

            “And no other woman of your people would have you?” she persisted.  “Or was it, not being able to have the one you desired, you would not have another?”

            He gave a slighter shrug, looking thoughtfully out the window.  “I am told that the lasses have been casting glances at me for many years, although I never truly noticed until Pearl pointed it out to me, there before she threw me over.  And I will admit there have been a few who once drew my eye....”

            She was searching his face when he glanced back at her.  “Or is it now that youths catch your attention?”

            He was shocked at those words.  “Lads?  Stars, no!”  He was certain his cheeks must be flaming as he turned away.  At last he said, “I have heard of such things, of course.  There are questions, I’ll admit, when a Hobbit doesn’t appear to pay the least attentions to lasses.”  He turned back to look into her uncovered eye again.  “But not for me.  Oh, there were thoughts, once, but never the--never the desire to act on them.”

            She nodded thoughtfully.  “I see.  I am sorry if--if I have caused your mind discomfort.  I have seen those who prefer children, or those of their own sex.  Raised as I was in the houses of pleasure, I saw much that--that perhaps I would have preferred not knowing.”

            Her face was paler now, and she looked very weary.  “I think,” she said softly, “I am ready for the draught now.”  He took up the mug and helped her drink it, realizing how weak was her grasp.  It took her a time to get it all down, and often she must rest between swallows.  At last she eased back in the chair.  “If you will ring the bell--I must have aid to return to the bed.”

            He found the bell in question, and after ringing it returned to be by her, holding her hand.  Her eye was closed now, and she was continuing to swallow.  “Will you,” she asked, “will you return to see me again?  I would like it.”

            “If you desire,” he assured her.

            The one side of her face that answered to her mood lifted.  “It would ease my heart,” she said as the door opened and a healer and an aide entered to help lift her into her bed.

 *******

            He came to visit her every two to three days after that.  Sometimes she would be sitting in the chair, but as time passed she was more often lying in her bed.  She was losing flesh day by day now, and seemed much weaker by the end of the third week of visits.  As he entered, she turned to look at him.  “Welcome, Master,” she whispered.  “It is ever good--to see another--come to me--who--who is not a--healer.”

            That she needed to take breath between words now indicated, he knew, that she had not much time left.  “Does no other come to visit you?” he asked her as he lifted himself onto the high stool that had been set by her bed for his visits.  She managed a slight shake to her head.  “Not even he who brought you here to Minas Tirith?” he continued.

            She gave a gasp of a laugh.  “Lauril?  Nay--not he.  I hear--I hear another--another fair woman--serves him now.  When I was--was no longer fair--he--he stopped coming to see me.  Nay--” she said in response to his rising upset at the idea, “nay, I will not--will not fault him.  Never did he--he think of me--as--as anything but--an ornament--for his household.  Such as I--we do not know the--the--luxury of reassurance--that we are--loved.  Not as--as you have known.”

            She allowed one finger to trace the veins on the back of his hand.  “I sorrow--sorrow--you have not--have not known--physical easing--of the sort--of the sort I--was trained to offer.  I do not--do not--fully understand--why this did not happen for you.”

            He shook his head.  “Had it not been for--for what I received when I came of age, I suspect I would have done so.  I’d begun to--to realize--that other lasses were yet looking at me.  Oh, there were many lasses who used to look at me when I was younger.  Hyacinth Tunnely--not, of course, that I had any interest in poor Hyacinth.  She was quite shallow, I fear.”

            She smiled her half-smile.  “Nay, I cannot see you--with someone--shallow.”

            He smiled in return.  “Nor could I.  Now, Narcissa--Narcissa Boffin, that is--yes, I could imagine myself with her.  Before----”  Again he found himself reluctant to name or reference the Ring, and tried to think how to tell her without having to explain why.  At last he continued, “Once my heart began to heal from Pearl throwing me over, I realized just how much Narcissa loved me and how much she--how much she----”  He took a deep breath.  “I realized how much she was filling my imagination,” he sighed.  “But then--then I came of age.”  Again he tried to think how to tell her without having to speak of It.  “As I said before, Bilbo had found--something--something important--years before, before I was even born.  No one knew what It was, not until just before we left the Shire.  Then Gandalf came to test It, and we realized I must leave the Shire and get--It--out of there.

            “So I left the Shire.  Gandalf made me bring Sam with me, and Merry and Pippin wouldn’t stay behind.  We met Aragorn along the way, and he brought us to Rivendell, although I was--wounded--about a two weeks after my birthday, at Amon Sul.  I almost didn’t survive then.”

            “That is--that is why--you have been ill here?” Mistress Lilith asked him.

            He shook his head.  “That adds to it, but I was wounded again, and my--my burden was very heavy.  The last time I understand I was but barely clinging to life when Gandalf found us and Aragorn--called Sam and me back.  They tell me we slept for two weeks straight.  We woke to find the army about us, there in Ithilien, where they’d camped to allow those who were worst wounded to recover enough we could make the rest of the return here to Minas Tirith.  I’ve recovered a good deal, but nowhere as much as the others have done.”

            She gave the slightest of nods.  “I can see,” she whispered.  “You strengthen, even if it is--slow, while I weaken.  You will promise me something?”

            “What is it you would have me do?”

            “To live--to live as much--as much as you can.  You are yet young....”

            “It’s almost eighteen years since I came of age.  I’m nowhere as young as the others.”

            She shrugged one shoulder elegantly.  “What is that--eighteen years?  I’ve lived thirty-two sun-rounds, but feel--ancient--compared to you.  Perhaps I am not a--lady of the realm, but I have known--pleasure.  Pain, too--yes; but mostly pleasure.”

            “It’s not as though I have known a life of deprivation,” he said gently.  “My parents and my aunts and uncles and cousins and Bilbo have all loved me.  And at least--at least I know the beginning of what it feels like to know the love of a lad for a lass.  Pearl and I had thought to wed, you know.”

            “I am jealous,” she said, smiling briefly.  “But at least--I was able--to meet you and your friend, the King.  That is a--good memory for me to take with me--when I must leave this world.”

            “And there was none you ever knew you could have loved as a husband?” he asked.

            “One, perhaps--my Captain--my Androd--there in Dol Amroth.  Always he was kind to me.  Or--or there is you.”  Her eye had a decided twinkle to it, but he realized that at the same time she was fully serious.

            Frodo felt his cheeks flame.  “I am a Hobbit, and no Man, Mistress Lilith.”

            “Yet are you not--are you not one--one of the most constant of mankind, whatever the race--that there is, Frodo Baggins of the Shire?” she asked.  “It is no wonder--the women of your race--look after you, I think.”

            He again felt his cheeks flush as he held her hand.  She gave a slight laugh, smiled up at him, then turned her head and drifted into sleep.

            At last he rose and slipped his hand out of her slack grip, and quietly left her to her rest, returning to the main House.  He found Aragorn in the treatment rooms where he was examining one of those who’d been freed from the ships of Umbar, an older Man with a long scar down his face where he’d been caught by a scimitar on the day he’d been taken as a slave.  Aragorn was examining the Man’s shoulder and back.

            “The shoulder muscles are truly beginning to heal at last, Captain,” Aragorn was saying.  “You should be ready to return to your home in another month.”

            “My sister will be both very happy and very distressed,” the Man said.  “When I was thought dead, she went to claim my house for herself and her family.  I’d always had a larger and more comfortable home than she and her husband had been able to afford.  I fear that many of those of my things I’d loved best are already gone, for she has never had appreciation for the beauty of workmanship of items wrought elsewhere.  Nor would she be likely to keep those things that had belonged to my late wife.”

            “Will she have kept on those who served you in your house?” the King asked as he began methodically kneading a warming ointment into the skin over the injury.

            The Man shrugged.  “There was but the husband to our old housekeeper, both older folk who used to serve myself and my wife, there before I was widowed.  Brigeth, who was housekeeper, died of age two years after my wife.  I cannot see my sister dismissing old Melnith.  She who served as my chatelaine after Brigeth’s death--however--where she might have gone to no one appears to know.  Harthildiel never approved of her, I fear.  She said nothing openly before I sailed that last time; but it was obvious she felt that such a woman was far, far beneath me and an embarrassment.”

            “She is a woman from Gondor?”

            “Nay--she came from the Southlands.  She’d been a slave and was freed by our soldiers some years earlier.  She was very beautiful and accomplished.  I don’t believe I ever fully appreciated how much I’d come to depend on her before I went on my last voyage.  The whole time I was rowing in that galley I found myself planning how, whenever I managed to achieve my freedom once more, I’d take her properly to wife.  Fivriel would not have minded seeing me remarried, I think--she was far more accepting than Harthildiel has ever dreamed of being.”

            The King was now finished, and turned to a basin and ewer nearby, pouring water into the basin and cleansing his hands, finally wiping them on clean toweling before he turned to aid the Man to redon his shirt.  “Well, it is my hope that you learn what has become of her, sir.  I will see you again in three days, then.”

            “Indeed, my Lord King, and I look forward to that day,” the Man said as he tied the last lacing.  He straightened to his full height before giving a graceful bow.  “Until I see you next, then?”  He then noted where Frodo stood inside the door and appeared startled.  “My lord?  Please pardon me--I’d not realized any other had entered the room.  I offer you the joy of the day!”

            “And you, Captain,” Frodo said, bowing in return, feeling it not worth the effort to try to disabuse the Man of the idea he needed to be addressed by his title.

            The Man went out, and Aragorn, having unrolled his sleeves, looked down at his friend.  “And who have you been seeing this day, small brother?” he asked.

            “Ionil and some of the younger soldiers,” Frodo answered, “and then Mistress Lilith.  She is weakening rapidly, I fear.”

            “I pray her death does not cause you too much distress, Frodo.”  Aragorn’s voice and expression were soft and filled with compassion.  “I cannot say how much longer she might linger.”

            “Oh, I know,” Frodo replied.  “When I saw her first, I could see where it must lead.  You see, my Cousin Tumnus Brandybuck, who was my lessons master when I was a lad in Brandy Hall, had a tumor grow from the mole on his cheek that left him much the same as Mistress Lilith.”

            “And the cancer caused the one side of the face to fall as has happened with the lady?”  Redonning his surcoat over his shirt, Aragorn was checking the room to see that it was fit to leave to the needs of whoever might use it next.

            “Yes.  And you say that cancer means crab disease?”

            “Yes.”

            “What is a crab?” the Hobbit asked as they finally passed out into the hallway.

            “It is a creature of the sea, although in warmer climes there are a few varieties that live on the land rather than in the water; and there are some crabs that prefer to live in fresh water rather than salt.  They usually have a heavily armored body and several jointed legs, with grasping pincers on the two front, great legs.  A crab is a strange creature that cannot easily move forward--instead it scurries sideways to reach its objective.  So it is with the tumorous growths--they seem to creep sideways into place, then attach themselves to wherever they grow, eventually gathering most of the blood vessels to themselves to aid in their growth.

            “Had I had the chance to remove the tumor the first time perhaps I might have been able to get it all, for Adar taught me how to do so, and I’ve removed a few others over the years.  Once the growth reaches a point, however, then the seeds of the growth will scatter throughout the body as has happened with Mistress Lilith.  Now it grows in many places throughout her body and brain, and it does not respond fully to my power or that of the Elessar.”

            Frodo nodded thoughtfully as the two of them left the Houses together.

            Aragorn continued, “Did she speak much today?”

            “Some, although it grows more difficult for her to breathe.  I fear she feels very lonely, and so she rejoices the more in our visits.”  Then, after walking quietly through the gardens, he added as they approached the street, “She said--she said that there have been two she could have loved in her life, one of them the one who made her chatelaine in his house there in Dol Amroth.  She said he was very kind to her.”

            “And who was the other?”

            Frodo shrugged, and he could feel his friend’s eyes upon him.

            “She said you?” Aragorn asked, amused and touched.  “She admitted she is attracted to you?  Bless the lady!”

            “Aragorn!  What can I do for her?  I’m but a Hobbit after all!”

            “Frodo Baggins, I doubt you’ve been ‘but anything’ in all your life.  ‘But a Hobbit’ indeed!”

            “But we’re not even of the same race!”

            “So what?  Beren loved Lúthien and Tuor married Idril, after all.  And Thingol took Melian to wife, while he was merely an Elf and she a Maia.  It’s not as though a man of one race has never found his happiness only with a woman of another in the past,” he said, looking forward resolutely at their path, an unexplained sternness manifesting itself.  “Why can a woman from among Men not be attracted to one of the best of men from among Hobbits?”

            Frodo stopped and looked up at the Man.  Realizing that Frodo was no longer by him, Aragorn also stopped, turning to look at him.  The Hobbit realized his hands were balled up at his sides, and he felt overwhelmed by grief.  He could feel his lip trembling.  At last he marshaled his voice.  “And what can I do for her, or any woman of any race, Arathorn’s son?” he asked in a low voice.  “You know, perhaps better than any, just how little of me It left.  You know better than any other how the pain returns, how difficult it is for me to eat properly, how weak I have become, how easy it is for me to be overwhelmed.”

            “And I know, perhaps better than you yourself, that there burns in you yet the Fire of Life, strongly enough to light all of Arda and Ëa as well.  For all of what those of her own people brought her to, yet Mistress Lilith has that Fire of Life within her as well, and Light calls to Light at this moment.  Her body may be weakening to dissolution, but she does not lose her joy or Light with it.  For all she was made to share her body with many, cheapening the love in the act, yet she, unlike many others, has not lost her appreciation of the joy of the gift of such pleasure.  And she wishes that you might not have to remain bereft of that gift yourself.”

            The Man stepped close to Frodo, and knelt to look him in the eye.  The street had been empty, but now a few came through the gate from the Fifth Circle and paused to see their new King kneeling down to speak, face to face, with the Ringbearer.  They retreated enough to allow the conversation to remain private, but watched with fascination, for they were coming to truly love these heroes of the fight against Mordor.  “Frodo, you deserve happiness and fulfillment on all levels.  Can you not see this is true?  She can see it.  Stars above--even Sam can see it, although there are few more discerning than he is!  We all wish to gift you with the joy you deserve, and the love you need to fulfill you.”

            For a moment longer Frodo stood still, searching his King’s eyes; then, his eyes filled with sadness, he turned and walked away toward the guest house.  Frustrated, Aragorn rose to his feet and watched after him.

 *******

            They’d brought a new stool into her room--one with a rest for his feet and a back and arms to it, and with cushions carefully tied in place to make it more comfortable as he sat in it.  He was leaning back in it, holding her hand and singing softly under his breath the song about the Moon getting drunk in the old inn that had led to so much uproar in Bree, for she had expressed a love of hearing him sing.

            Suddenly he felt her hand grip his briefly, an indication she’d wakened.  He opened his eyes and leaned forward.  “Welcome back,” he murmured.

            “To waken--to find you--leaning over me--smiling--it is worth the pain,” she breathed.  “Not long now--not long--then I will rest indeed.  But I do not--begrudge it--not when--I--have had you--beside me.”  The half-smile she gave lifted his heart.

            He held the invalid’s cup to her mouth so she could drink the draught left for her.  She didn’t turn it away any more, although she’d fight the tendency to sleep as long as she might.

            When she’d drunk what she could he carefully wiped her mouth with the damp cloth left for that purpose.  Not only was she herself fastidious, but the healers had explained that should liquid lie on her skin for too long it could cause sores; knowing how deeply the loss of her beauty grieved her, Frodo had been faithful to help her protect what could be kept for her comfort.  He knew that one of the female aides would come in two or three times a day to sit her up and change her gowns and brush her hair--her one beauty she’d not lost to the disease--and to rub a sweet-scented ointment into her skin to soothe and protect it.  She might be dying, but at least she was being allowed to die with her dignity intact as much as was possible.

            When he’d replaced the cloth on the table by him, he turned to see that she was looking deeply into his eyes.  “I would--give you a gift, Frodo Baggins,” she whispered.

            “You’d give me a gift?” he echoed.  “You’ve little enough to share.”

            “This--is one--I have--even now,” she replied.  “Please, kiss me.”  When he paused uncertainly, she continued, “Yes, kiss me--as a lad kisses--the lass--who stirs his heart.”  She searched his eyes, and smiled.  “You did--once kiss your Pearl, did you not?”

            It was little enough she’d asked of him, he knew; and greatly daring, he leaned forward over her face, and kissed her.

 *

            Aragorn was entering the room, and stopped, shocked to stillness to find the Ringbearer kissing Mistress Lilith--and most thoroughly, he recognized.  A thrill of joy filled the Man, for he knew that both were deeply wounded; but for the moment they were sharing the sign of the greatest hope those who live upon the earth might share--love and a desire to defy the darkness by sharing what could be shared toward the renewal and continuation of life beyond the terms granted their bodies.  And although Aragorn had never condoned the tendency he’d seen in some Men to couple regularly and indiscriminately, he appreciated why at some moments even the greatest and most continent felt compelled to find some woman with whom to spend themselves just before great battles or in times of greatest stress.

            He’d learned of Sam’s love for this Rosie Cotton he’d known all her life; Merry had one night spoken of the attraction he’d felt for some years to Miss Estella Bolger, while Pippin had admitted watching his sisters with their beaux and his own fumbling attempts to appreciate the attractions of kissing.  Frodo, however, had not spoken of his own romantic adventures; and other than Pippin once mentioning that his parents had once hoped his oldest sister would marry Frodo, he’d heard little other indication that Frodo had been drawn to the women of his folk, even though all three of the others had indicated the Hobbitesses of the Shire had been readily drawn to Frodo Baggins.

            He was certain that the Ring Itself had something sinister to do with the fact that Frodo had remained alone.  One time Frodo had admitted that the Ring had tried to influence him to force at least one Hobbitess; and he’d fought the compulsion, for he would not be that kind of person.  Certainly the Ring had caught the echoes in Aragorn’s own heart of his love for Elrond’s daughter, and had tried to convince him that should he take It for his own It would grant him authority to take her in defiance of her father’s will; and at the end, when he’d felt the Eye focus on him as he stood before the Army of the West before the Black Gate, he’d felt Sauron seek to suborn him with similar arguments.  That Frodo had had to fight similar battles with the Will of the Ring for almost two decades had roused Aragorn’s sympathy and feelings of protectiveness; that for a moment Frodo and a dying woman were sharing an unsullied moment of physical pleasure pleased him beyond measure.  It would not go beyond kissing, he knew--she could do no more--not now; and he suspected that the Ring had somehow burned the ability to be fully roused by a woman from Frodo once It had realized he couldn’t be forced into such corruption as It had desired to make of him.

            But there could be no question that Frodo Baggins could kiss.

            He heard a hiss of breath in his ear, and realized that Gandalf stood by him, also watching with a level of satisfaction.  “Yes, what he might have known had It not come to him,” the Wizard murmured softly.  “He and Pearl or that Narcissa Boffin who loved him just as long could have known such joy together, and would have filled the Shire with such a blessed progeny.”

            Apparently Frodo heard that, although he didn’t break away betimes from the kiss.  However, it ended soon enough.

            She looked up into his face, and appeared fully satisfied.  “Ah,” she said clearly enough, “you have not lost all, sweet lord.  It is long since--I have known so--so satisfying--a kiss.”  She gave a quick glance at his lap, and her half-smile almost became a smirk of triumph.  “You see--you have not--you have not been--totally unmanned--not as you had feared.  I am most pleased.  Now, when you--when you return to your--own folk, seek her out.  She will have you--of that--of that I am--certain.”

            Frodo’s face was almost stark white, and his cheeks themselves flaming brightly as he raised his eyes in defiance to meet those of King and Wizard; he then looked back down into hers.  “I cannot say I will be able to do that,” he said.  “But I thank you--for your gift.”

            “I will rest now,” she sighed.  “Go now--with your friends.  I will be here yet--tomorrow.  Of that--of that I am sure.”  She waved her fingers at him and watched as he lowered himself from the stool, accepted the final squeeze he gave her hand, then turned her head away, and smiling still on the one side of her face, closed her eyes.

            Aragorn had promised himself he would not speak of this once he left the door to Lilith’s room; but it was quickly obvious Gandalf had no such reservations.  “And how long has this been going on?” the Wizard asked Frodo as they approached the stairs down to the lower level.

            “Nothing has been going on.  She merely wished to gift me with a kiss, and I accepted it.”

            “You responded well to her gift, and from what I can tell she was perhaps receiving far more than what she was giving you, Frodo Baggins.  And do not believe, my beloved Hobbit, that I am shocked or upset at all.  It was a very generous deed on both your parts.  You both have need of such assurance against the darkness that would take you.”

            Frodo paused, and looked up into the Istar’s face, searching it; and after a moment the wall of reserve he’d erected finally gave way.  His eyes were brightened with unshed tears of relief and other emotions, and he gave Gandalf a tremulous smile before he turned away and descended the stairs, intent on returning to the guest house and then perhaps going down to the Fifth Circle where he now had a friend who owned a shop that sold art and writing supplies and who was himself an artist.

            “Then there were Hobbitesses that stirred his heart,” Aragorn said softly once Frodo was out of sight.

            “Oh, indeed--Pippin’s older sister Pearl and Narcissa Boffin.  Actually, I think all were glad when Pearl chose to end their relationship, for I don’t believe she loved him nearly as well as she loved the idea of being in love with him, if you understand what I mean.  From what I can learn, both ladies fell in love with him at about the same time, when he was still but a lad of twenty.”

            “A lad of twenty?  I was certainly certain when I came to that age that I’d seen the one lady in all of Middle Earth who could stir my heart,” the Man replied.

            “As I well know.  Why do you not tell him why you desire he should remain longer here?”

            “It will be a more wonderful surprise when he realizes what I would have him share with me when the day comes.”

            “As you desire, my beloved Lord King of Men--and Hobbits.”

 *******

            On the next morning Aragorn was waiting in the treatment room when the former captive of the Umbari slavers came in, carrying a casket in his hands.  The tall captain was stiffly erect as he entered, and his face was troubled.  Aragorn examined his visage.  “You have had disturbing news?” he asked.

            The other raised his eyes to those of the King.  “She is here--here in Minas Tirith,” he explained.  “Apparently when my sister took possession of my house she had the guardsman escort Lily out of it, and she let it be known that she would cause trouble to any Man who looked in favor on her.  I was going past a jeweler’s shop when I saw a woman going in, carrying this--it is a casket I gave my Lily not long ere I left her that last time, to hold the jewels I had given her.  A Guardsman saw me confront this woman, and heard my tale that I was the one who’d given the gift of it and what it contained.  He took it when the strange woman admitted I’d had no sight of its contents, and he opened it and demanded to know what it contained.  When I’d described five pieces of jewelry exactly, he had the woman give it to me, and asked how it had come to her.  She had become the mistress to a trader from Pelargir, and this had been the property of his former mistress, and had been left in his house when the former mistress had become ill and he had been advised that she was dying.  She’d thought to sell the jewelry it contained and keep the money for her own.

            “So,” he continued, “I have what I’d given her, but still am left wondering what has happened to her.  Where is she, here within the White City?”

            For the King, however, the final pieces of the puzzle were clicking into place.  “Did the woman say of what disease the former mistress was dying?” he asked.

            “An evil growth,” the Man sighed.

            “Let me examine and treat your shoulder,” Aragorn said, “and then I would have you meet one who lies in the House of Rest.”

 *******

            Frodo came out of the guest house at Aragorn’s insistence.  “Is Mistress Lilith indeed dying?” he asked as he fastened the leaf brooch of his Elven cloak.

            “I fear she is indeed.  However, at the last a part of her own treasure has been restored to her, and she would have you come to see before she goes.  Please come, Frodo--for her sake.”

            Together they passed through the main House, and then across the walk to the doors to the House of Rest.  Aragorn led the Hobbit up the stairs and to the door to the familiar room.  As he entered, Frodo realized that Mistress Lilith was not alone--sitting familiarly on her bed beside her was a Man--the captain he’d seen Aragorn treating for damage to the muscles of the shoulder who’d been freed from the Umbari ships.  He was fastening a necklace of shining peridots about her shoulders, then laying her back, carefully arraying her shining hair about her.  “Ah,” he said as he finished at the last, “I knew you were as beautiful as ever you were, my beloved.”

            He looked up and saw the King and Ringbearer paused in the doorway, and smiled.  “Oh, my Lord King--you have brought him!  Oh, Master Frodo--my Lily has told me how dear you have become to her, and how much in your way you reminded her of me.  I know we have not much time, but the King has said he will marry us to one another, if one would stand by us.  Will you do so--stand witness to our joy?”

            Frodo felt the twist within himself that grieved that her captain had been restored to her, but an even stronger feeling of triumph, one that surprised him with its intensity.  “Yes,” he said quietly.

            Aragorn drew him to the bed, where Frodo climbed onto the carefully padded stool to sit alongside her.  The healer who ruled this house and several aides came in after them to fill the room with flowers, and at last the King took out of his scrip a marriage cord and a rolled marriage contract.  The healer and a female aide together raised the wedding song, and at last the King began, “Behold, today two come before you to be handfasted together, to wed one another and to bind themselves to cleave only to each other from this day forward.  Is there any who dares speak against this marriage?”

            And as the King spoke the ritual of marriage, Frodo Baggins sat by bride and groom, his own Light blessing the union of the two who raised this last defiance against the Darkness.

Particularly for Fiondil, in return for many hours of reading recently--although I don't quite see some things precisely as he does.

My thanks as always to RiverOtter for the Beta.

Judgment and Healing

            I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire.  I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire.

            The repetition of this declaration of his identity had been all that the Hobbit could find to fully hold to as Maiar and the Great Elves of Tol Eressëa had surrounded him, doing battle with what lay, now nowhere as quiescent as it had been for the past three years since Shelob had bitten him with her mandibles and injected her poison--and a bit more--into the back of his neck.

            I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire.

            A special compress of athelas leaves and other herbs and substances he’d not recognized had been placed over the reopened wound, and had been held in place by specially wrapped bandages.  At least seven Maiar surrounded him as Gandalf--Olórin--carried him across the island.

            Why do you not merely remove yourself and the little one to the Fanes with your thought, brother? asked one of those who served as escort.

            Olórin was shaking his head.  “Nay, gwador,” he answered aloud.  “He is mortal and has been under the shadow of death too many times, and although he is much recovered his state is yet very fragile.  He could not bear such an experience and still hold to his hröa; and should he lose that, he would, I believe, leave the Bounds of Arda completely, before he has known all he was intended to know here upon Tol Eressëa.  Would you see him leave us ere the Becoming is complete, and before he appreciates all that it means?  He yet fears he will lose himself, much as he’s feared since he first began to appreciate just what it was Bilbo had left to his stewardship.”

            Frodo turned his head away, feeling sick and lost, much as he’d felt when he sat atop Asfaloth, turned to look back in defiance at the Nine ranged across the Ford of the Brúinen from him, and saw them ride into the water and the river rising in wrath to sweep them away.

            I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire, he repeated once again within himself, the litany that helped keep him tied to himself.  He felt the stirring within the wound and felt his stomach again roil, although he’d not been able to keep anything down since the attack on his identity and body had begun that morning.  The Maia holding him paused, dismayed by the returning nausea.

            Hold to yourself as you can, Frodo, the Hobbit heard in his heart.  We are with you, and we will fight for you.

            Perhaps you should let me go.  I am not afraid.

            Not of death, perhaps, commented a different Maia, one in the costume of the hunt, his face stern and proud.  Merely allow us, dear one, to remove completely the threat to peace that abides within your neck, and know yourself whole and inviolate once more ere you leave us.  You have come too far to go without fighting this last threat, and without knowing the fullness of what you are meant to be.

            Frodo closed his eyes.  And what is it I am meant to be? he asked himself as much as the Maia.

            To learn that, beloved child, you must choose to remain.

            Not to evil, my friend, came the more familiar thought of Gandalf.  Never to that--not here.

            Frodo was not aware that he smiled faintly, although the former Wizard saw it and took heart from it.  He held the Hobbit slightly closer to his breast, sharing what strength he could.  He knew that if Frodo were to let go now he would be safe enough with their Atar; but he wished for his small friend to know more--to find fulfillment at last in the life granted to him here in Aman so that when he did indeed find his way to the Presence it should be with his Light shining freely in joy and delight, not shrouded in defeat and memories of weakness and regret.  If only he could have known the joy and pleasure of marriage and fatherhood, Olórin thought.

            And would you have had me leave a wife before she was certain what that meant? Frodo’s thought replied.  He again shifted slightly in the Maia’s grasp.  “Gandalf--set me down--I’m going to be ill,” he whispered, his face even paler.

            The Maia paused, and knelt, helping Frodo to kneel also as at last Frodo lost control of his stomach, although all he could bring up was some bile.  Other Maiar appeared with cool, damp cloths to wipe his face and brow, and with water to help cleanse his mouth and a light wine to aid in the settling of his stomach.  Then Olórin helped him stand, wrapped the Elven cloak from Lorien once more about his body and then accepted a light blanket to protect him as well, and at last lifted him again into his arms, turning again westward to the Fanes.

            I hate feeling so helpless, Frodo thought, giving a sigh and turning his head toward the Maia’s chest.

            “There is no reason, Iorhael--none at all.  You have been weakened by this latest insult to your integrity, but that shall be soon mended.”

            After a time Frodo stirred again, and Olórin was surprised, for he’d thought the Hobbit had drifted into a doze.  He looked upwards toward the Maia’s face.  “I--I might not--survive this?” he asked.

            “The ties between hröa and fëa have been weakened, Frodo.  I will not lie to you about that; and it is no simple thing for one who is mortal to be in the presence of the Valar.  But I suspect you will come through this--if you desire it.  Just remember, my beloved friend, that Bilbo wishes that he be the one to greet you when at last you travel where we are bound not to follow as yet, and not the other way around.  He has bound himself not to go on until your choice is decided.”

            And will it be merely my choice? Frodo’s thought asked.  I am not as strong as I was when I was younger, after all.  And do not seek to convince me how young I am--however the Ring preserved the illusion of youth, you know as well as I do how much the carrying of It aged me and weakened my body.

            There was no reassurance that the Maia could give to that, merely held his beloved burden closer and hurried his pace toward the grove that was now visible, marking the entrance to the Fanes.

            A pavilion had been raised to house the Hobbit, but Gandalf stopped short of it--and Gandalf indeed he appeared at that moment.  The Hobbit appeared further reassured by the scents of pipeweed and horse and long journeys that now emanated from his bearer, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

            “No, no pavilion, nothing that shuts him from the sight of stars and Sun and Moon,” Gandalf admonished them.  “Not for this one at this time.  He will not rest comfortably without natural light at most filtered by leaves able to fall on him--this we learned as he lay in healing sleep within Ithilien.”

            The Elves who tended the Fanes paused, nonplused by this rejection of their preparations; but one of Nienna’s Maiar, after looking deeply into the face of the Hobbit, nodded her agreement.  So be it, she confirmed.  Remove the pavilion, and let the Ringbearer lie amidst the natural world he so craves.  She looked at one of those who followed the Lady Yavanna, one who’d also been close to Lord Aulë.  He is one closely tied to the earth, to richness and fulfillment.  Can you think of a place within the Fanes where he will be best able to know peace and accept the attentions of our Masters and Mistresses?

            I can think of such a place, came the return thought.  Bring him, gwador.

            Turning, the new Maia led the way through a copse of mellyrn and willow to a natural bowl, one Frodo seemed to see as doubly encircled by great standing stones capped with equally great lintels.  The memory of the similar ring lying between the Old Forest and the Barrowdowns swept through Frodo, and he gave a barely suppressed whimper as Gandalf brought him between the stones toward the center of the ring.  There he saw a blue stone lying, cold and as unyielding as had been the slab on which the barrow-wight had laid him, and it was toward this they advanced.  Over the slab towered a silver monolith, its sides polished and reflecting back as it were the light of the moon, its top appearing tipped with gold.  As Olórin made to lay him down Frodo sought to hold tightly to him, and it took another, clad in indistinct grey, to gently loosen his grip and help place him on the stone--not that it felt precisely like stone once he was lying upon it.  But now those memories were sweeping him, and he found himself lost within them, until he pulled in on himself and closed down his awareness of it all.

*******

            Iorhael!  Iorhael!

            Frodo ignored the call, sitting with his knees pulled up to himself, his hands holding tight around his knees, his face pressed against his arms.  He continued his mantra:  I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire.  I am Fro----

            He felt a stirring behind him, felt a great hand reach down to caress the back of his head.  A sweet morsel you’ve been, a cold voice spoke in his mind.  Ah, such a sweet morsel.  Too bad you drew me away from your little land when you did--I could have enjoyed myself fully there--drawn all lives into myself, sated myself on them.

            That caused him pause, as he looked up at a face--a face of a fell beauty, a ruined, glorious visage that smiled lasciviously down at him.  Without thinking he rose, and as he rose, without realizing it he changed.  The figure that had seemed small and vulnerable was now tall and shining--still too spare, but its will as hard--and sharp--as if it were a sword cleaved of adamant.  Leave the Shire--the land I’ve loved all my life--at your questionable mercy?  I think not, lady, he assured her, and his tone was as cold as her own.  Nay--if I would not leave the tool of your Brother’s Will there to cause even more ruin, why do you think I would leave you there to destroy land and people at your leisure?

            And you would think to successfully oppose me?  He could easily see the mockery in her glance, the hunger in her eyes.

            And how long have you sat, helpless to go further, in the tiny cell in which you’ve been imprisoned these past three years? he asked.  He could not realize the strength of his defiance that shone forth in his gaze, the clarity of his thought as opposed to the murky appetite that obscured hers.

            Neither noticed the others who came to surround the two of them, as the shining forms of Maiar came closer to encircle them, and as greater, brighter forms approached outside that circle.

            She shrugged, and the whole world seemed to lurch with her shoulders.  Perhaps I am no longer able to take the foolish folk of your land, but certainly you are more than enough to give me strength to once again take for myself a bodily shape, and so confront those who’ve hunted my Master and myself for these past ages.

            Perhaps.   His eyes did not flinch from hers.  But you have not been able to leave the prison formed for you by your daughter, have you?  And if I, a mere Hobbit, can manage to contain you without meaning to do so, how can you believe your fellows will be easily bested?

            She paused, uncertainty for the first time showing in her alluring, repulsive face.  Then she straightened.  I will have you, at least.  Your gardener friend is no longer beside you to succor you.

            I say to you what I said to Sauron’s Nazgûl--if you want me, you must first come to take me.

            Without moving he yet now stood facing her across an abyss, one that moments before she’d reached across to touch him, but that now divided them beyond the length of her arm.  For the first time she looked about her, and saw on all sides the Maiar on guard and those who stood beyond their circle.  She licked her lips uncertainly.

*

            See the fire lit and blazing brightly, he heard, and he felt Gandalf on one side and the one in the hunting costume on the other, supporting him, while a female Maia knelt behind him as he sat crouched, his head leaning forward against his knees.  The Maia who’d led them to this place knelt in front of him and was holding his hair up and out of the way.  He felt a cool blade laid to the wound where Shelob had bit him, poisoned him....

*

            She could move easily across the abyss--or at least at one time she would have been able to do so.  She was herself a Maia, after all.  However, it had been a long time since she’d attempted to move about unclad in hröa, and she was no longer certain she’d regained all of her abilities.  This form of imagination that he’d imposed upon her as he sat naked within the realm of Possibilities in which the two of them had found themselves, here to where he’d fled the terror of the memories of the barrow of Tyrn Gorthad, was close enough to what she’d once taken to herself when she clothed herself in likeness to the Children of the One, she realized.  Her hands were perhaps not as shapely as she’d made them look, but were serviceable.  She gave him a fell smile as she started forward----

            ----and realized that if she moved any more she would fall.  She stopped, dismayed and even more uncertain than she’d been.

            Those who ringed her stepped forward, and the one facing her stood even taller, his expression stern and totally denying her the physical reality she wished.

* 

            He felt as the blade cut into his flesh, although he felt no pain from it.  I will probe the wound.  Hold the mirror to shine the light onto and into it.  Then, after a pause, I am surprised he sits so still and does not complain.

            Olórin gave Frodo a piercing look.  I do not believe his fëa is currently all within his hröa.  He straightened some, and Frodo felt the fingers tighten on his shoulder.  Our Lords Manwë and Tulkas have sent many of their servants to follow his fëa.  They are warding him about.

            The Elven healer who’d leaned over Frodo’s neck paused, removing blade and fine tongs, eyes fixed on the Maia who’d served so long in Ennor.  “Not in his hröa?  How is it his fëa has gone free?  And where is it gone?”

            The Maia went very quiet, as if listening.  Finally he murmured, “The shadow realm.  No!  Not as the shadow realm--he sees it this time as the realm of Possibilities it was intended to be.”  His Light began to shine more brightly as he grew more excited, then it sharpened as he grew more alert.  Our masters and mistresses are there, also, on guard.  He faces an enemy.

            An enemy?  There was disbelief in the thought expressed by the Elf.

            “Quickly--you must find the focus of the infection and remove it!”

            The Elf gave a nod and bent over the Hobbit’s neck, using the fine blade to press open the side of the wound, then gently inserted the tips of the tongs.  The second Elf manipulating the mirror adjusted the angle to best illuminate the wound.  “Something moves here,” the first said aloud.  She reached her tongs further in, then suddenly gave a small lunge, closing the tongs on something black, bringing out----

*

            Elves and Maiar straightened, and at the pressure on her hröa Ungoliant snapped back within the form she’d been building, even as in the realm of Possibilities Eonwë stepped forward, a stern look on his shining face, a great sword of Light in his hand.

            We deny you, Ungoliant.  We deny you our company.  We deny you your prey.  We deny you further place within Arda.  You have spent your Light, have turned from the Song, have sought to steal the Breath.  Here is the End of it!

            Again she licked her lips, raising her hands as Eonwë raised the sword.  Within the circle of stones where Frodo sat with his hands clutching his knees, the Elven healer lifted up the black spider held within her fine tongs, a look of disgust in her eyes as she examined it, then casually cast the form, its legs writhing, into the fire that burned nearby.  And the Hobbit turned his head to watch----

            ----as the shining Prince watched as the sword of Light was brought down on the shape of the fallen Maia----

            ----and with a scream of mixed fury, disbelief, and terror, Ungoliant was no more.

            It is time, beloved child, Manwë informed the spirit he saw before him, for you to return to your hröa.  And it is to be hoped you will fight for the right to live.

            Must I?

            Would you go on ere you knew the pleasure due you, best beloved?  Before you learn all your hungry heart would know?  Before you know the fulfillment prepared for you?  For you will be fulfilled--we promise it.

            A shining figure came beside her spouse, and the shining soul straightened in recognition and that special awe and delight he’d ever held for starlight.  And would you have your friend come and find the abode prepared for you lying long emptied, finding you’d already fled this life?  He will come bearing great gifts for you, you know.

            That argument reached deepest into the spirit’s awareness.  It bowed deeply.  He could not allow Sam to come vainly....

*

            And he found himself back--back wholly within himself as a compress of steeped athelas leaves was pressed to the wound on the back of his neck and once again clean bandages were wrapped to hold it in place, and he was eased back again to lie down once more--but it was not on the unyielding surface of stone he lay, but on the cool springiness of thick grass that clothed a mound of earth itself.

            And as he looked upward the great monolith that towered over him was changing from mithril stone with golden tip to become a mallorn of great size and majesty, and the air about him was scented with the glory of growing things.  As Olórin released his head it lolled slightly sideways, and he saw they were not surrounded by a double circle of standing stones topped with lintels of more, but by great linden trees whose branches intertwined, with a circle of rowans beyond them, white with blossoms.  He breathed deeply of the cool, scented air, smiled, and relaxed.  A good place to be, here at the end of all things.  And he smiled as he let himself go, glad somehow it was sunlight shining on  him, although he’d always thought to leave this life under the glory of the stars.  But this reminded him of the steadiness of his Sam.... 

            His eyes rolled up as his body went slack.

*******

            And what do you do here, in the shadows of the very Gates once more?

            I’d thought to let go and be done.

            And have you forgotten already that you live not only for yourself, but for the hope of the one to come?  The face of the Vala of the Final Healing looked down on him with stern gaze.  Now is not your time, Iorhael.

            I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire----  But he felt disappointment--and yet, at the same time a degree of relief--as the Gates were closed against him, and he once more felt about him the confines of his fleshly body.  He felt that body take a deep, shuddering breath....

*

            “He’s returned to us.” 

            Frodo heard in Gandalf’s voice the same relief he’d seen in the eyes of the Wizard when he’d awakened in the grove in Ithilien, there near the Field of Cormallen.  Ah, he thought as he took yet another breath, it appeared that once more he was doomed to live....

            And is it such a bitter thing, Frodo Baggins of the Shire? he heard within his heart from the Voice that had been with him ever since he’d been freed from the enthrallment he’d so long known to the Ring.  He took comfort in the Voice.

            “He’s smiling,” he heard the healer Elf murmur as he slipped into sleep.

            “He’s realizing he was never truly alone,” Gandalf said, and now Frodo could hear the echoes of Olórin within Gandalf’s voice.  The last words seemed to reach him as if he were listening from deep under water.  “Our Atar is with him.”

            He slept.

*******

            They slipped a soft, white blanket woven of silk, velvety and light, over his body as he slept.  Now and then they’d lift up his head and press him to drink, much as he and Sam had been given fluids as they’d remained in healing sleep under Aragorn’s care in Ithilien after their rescue.  When this happened he’d approach awareness, then slip away again, smiling to remember his tall brother of the heart, then grieving for the distance between them.  Now and then the blanket was lifted, the bandages changed, his body cleansed.

            His position was being shifted regularly, and he was being checked for bedsores and the like.  His skin was anointed with a gentle oil, and now and then he’d taste broth on his lips as he unconsciously licked them.  He heard the songs of Elves about him, and the deeper, more primal songs of Maiar; and in the times of quiet as stars and Moon illuminated the circle within which he lay, the distant joyful, mithril songs of the stars themselves.

            He was coming to awareness when he heard a new debate.  “He is not particularly strong of hröa, my Lady.”

            This we know, but he cannot wait longer.  It is time now for us to take over the care of this great one.

            “And if he cannot bear the glory of you?”

            Do you believe, our son, that his fëa will ever be in danger?

            His eyes opened to see Olórin bowing low before a shining Lady.  “Nay, my Lady Estë--indeed the only time I truly feared for him was when my brother’s tool took him at the last, ere It was taken from him.  And I still offer thanks to you for his release from that.”

            It was not wholly due to our intervention, Olórin.  Although he could not hear the Voice of our Atar within him for the interference of the Ring, yet he was not truly alone even then.  She turned then from the Maia to look down on Frodo, and Frodo felt his body take a sharp breath at the beauty of her visage----

            ----just ere he fled.

***

            “And what do you do here?”  The voice was filled with amusement.

            He looked away from the distant shining of the Sea, rolling in its great dance between shore and sky, singing its Song in glory, to see who it was that had come beside him.  She sat herself by him, dressed in a gown of soft green the very color of the spring burgeoning forth all about them.  At last he answered, “I’m not quite certain where I am.”

            “No, I must suppose you are not.  Well, child, you sit upon the lower slopes of Taniquetel, looking out at the beauty of the Encircling Sea.”

            He nodded slightly.

            At last she continued, “Why did you flee me when I came to you within the Grove?”

            He shook his head uncertainly.  “I’m but a mortal....”

            She smiled, and he could not help but respond to the joy of that smile.  “Mortal in body perhaps, but your fëa has ever been immortal, you know.  I cannot tell you precisely what Iluvatar has prepared for the fëar of such as you once you’ve cast off the hröa that clothes you ordinarily here within Arda, for that knowledge was taken from us as we entered within Arda to rejoice in the company of the Eruhini.  Of one thing am I certain, however--it will delight you once you come to it.”

            He nodded as he turned to look again at the Sea.  The Sun was sinking now, and the western sky was beginning to show forth all colors, rejoicing to welcome Arien back to its embrace.  He took a deep breath of appreciation, then paused as he felt her touch his shoulder, his breathing suddenly abated.  She sighed.  “Ah, child, but how very deeply you have been hurt.”  Compassion filled her voice, and her fingers were cool upon his neck as she gently probed the place where the wound had been.  “And even when the thrall ring of our fallen brother was taken from you, your flesh yet held her imprisoned.  I must suppose it was good you bore her back here, that she not escape and seek to make herself the next tyrant over what she could take of Endorë,” she murmured.

            He turned to look at her.  “I’d not thought,” he began, then paused, uncertain what to say.

            “She sought to stir frequently enough,” she sighed, examining his eyes.  “And each time she awakened and sought escape, you would dream of her, did you not?”

            “Mostly I’d dream other things--how Aragorn was coming to rescue me, only the orcs of the tower in which I was imprisoned fell on him and those with him, slaying the rest, wounding him, seeking to take him prisoner also.  Or I’d see the Ring all about me, mocking me with my inability to deny It at the last.  Or----”

            She laid a single shapely finger against his lips, stilling him.  “I see.  Well, that is behind you now.”

            They were quiet for a time.  At last he whispered, “I could not save Sméagol.  Nor Saruman.”

            “You reminded them of the promise of redemption; saving them was beyond the likes of you, however.  And do not believe that you failed in your responsibility toward them.  What you did was enough for them to accept or deny what was offered by those far greater than you.  In the end it was their responsibility to choose, not yours to choose for them.  Or would you become as our brother became, or as Sauron allowed himself to become--or Saruman at the last?”

            He shivered.  He turned his attention back to the sunset, and watched in delight as the sky shone forth its colors, then began to darken.  He was aware of a great glory behind him, and he turned, just in time to see a great Ship rise from the slopes above him.  He stood and straightened to watch it rising up, shining brightly in the growing dusk.  He could feel the light of it fill him as he watched Eärendil begin his nightly journey.  “Ah!” he breathed, feeling almost drunk with the glory of it.  He felt her hand tighten on his shoulder in agreement.

            “He sees you as a child of his spirit, and hopes one day to meet with you in person, when you are stronger.”

            Again he nodded, smiling.

            “Do you think that now you could return again to your body, for of what good is it to heal the hröa if the fëa does not deign to return to it?”

            He turned to look at her again.  Although night had now fallen, he could still see her as if the brightest of daylight lay on her alone.  At last he smiled at her, gave a bow, and----

***

            ----and found himself back within his body, Gandalf again leaning over him, the Wizard’s beard tickling his throat.  There was joy in the Maia’s face as it at last reverted back to that of Olórin.  “So, our Lady Estë found you, did she?”

            “Yes,” the Hobbit whispered, and he felt himself smiling in reaction to that of the Maia.

            Estë tended to him throughout the night; and near dawn she was joined by her consort.  Irmo smiled at him as he again bathed Frodo’s body.  You have ever been open to dreams, Iorhael.  Now let those engendered by our brother’s equally fallen lieutenant no longer trouble you.  I will show you far more profitable ones....

            In the midafternoon he woke from a doze to find a different Valië bending over him, dressed in silver grey, her hair an ashen color, her eyes as grey as those of any Dúnadan.  He realized he was weeping, and that she wept with him, her compassion helping to ease much of the regret he still bore.  She, too, was bathing his body, and he wasn’t certain whether it was with water or with her tears, but realized it wasn’t particularly important to discern which.  She smiled at him at that thought, and it was as if the clouds parted to allow in brilliant sunshine.

            Indeed, Iorhael--it is not important which.  The cleansing is what is important.  She gently touched his brow, and again he drifted down into sleep, a sleep as healing as any imposed on him by Aragorn.  At the memory of his tall brother he smiled, wishing he could be by his friend’s side.

            Aragorn stood by the White Tree, the minstrel Faragil with him.  “It grows so tall now,” the King was saying.

            “Indeed.  If only Frodo were here to see.”

            Aragorn sighed as he nodded.  “So I would wish it also, did I not know he knows there an even greater Tree yet, the daughter of Telperion.  May he rejoice in that vision!”

            And the minstrel began to sing, signing a hymn to Yavanna he’d learned from the Lady Arwen, in which the Man by him joined.  Frodo felt himself glorying in hearing his brother sing yet again....

*** 

            He awoke in the grey before dawn.  The air was rich with the scent of blooming flowers and ripening fruit, and over him knelt a glorious form, rich with delight, crowned with cherries and strawberries in a wreath of woven vines, purple grapes as a stole over her shoulders.

            Your tall brother sees your people as especially my children, even as my consort is thought the Father of the Khazad.  A quaint yet delightful fancy, and with more than a hint of truth to it, I must suppose.

            He smiled up into her face, and felt the comfort of rich earth beneath him, smelling the tang of the earth from tilled fields or a newly dug smial surround him as Aulë joined her.

            So, this is the one whose iron will saw him further even than that of Elrond or Isildur, is it?  A delight to see you, child.

            The eastern sky was brightening, and he watched with regret as the last stars faded, then turned again to look on the Smith of the Valar.  Aulë was leaning over him, gently straightening the gem that he still wore, the Queen’s gift to him, to lie over his heart.

            And the products of Nerdanel’s forge have reached the ones who needed them, the thought came to him.  We must rejoice in that.

            She also wishes to come to know you, child, Yavanna assured him.  Are you hungry, best beloved?  Could you accept some fruit?

            She assisted him to sit, and carefully fed him a single grape, then a cherry, then held to his lips a goblet filled with the juice of the orange fruit.  Pomegranates and pears did she feed him, bite by bite, and the seeds she took away in satisfaction.  We will see them planted near your abode, Iorhael, to delight you and feed you in the future.

            Others came to him at various times, Valar and Maiar, seeing to his needs, tending his healing wounds, cleansing his body and his spirit both.

*******

            The sky clouded, and when sunset came it was muted.  He lay, slightly tense, knowing that soon he must leave here, and either pass through the Gates for certain or--or return to the land of the living yet again.  Although Bilbo lingered there, waiting to see to what choice he would turn to at last.  And if he were to leave now--what would Sam find on his arrival?

            There was a flash of lightning, illuminating the grove about him, causing the mallorn over him to shine in golden and mithril glory.  Rain swept down, and he sat up, drawing up his knees as the drops sheeted over him.

            Fitting weather, I suppose, commented the Lord of Mandos, for the night’s business.

            Indeed, my beloved Husband, agreed another voice Frodo didn’t recognize.  He turned to see a Lady, distaff in hand and a steel hook for woolwork tucked negligently over her ear, who stood by Námo’s side, looking down on him.  Knitting needles were pushed through her hair to hold it in a carefully braided bun, out of the way of her work; a tapestry needle already threaded with golden floss was pinned to her sleeve, and a shuttle of green thread was thrust through her girdle.

            Others were gathering about them, and soon Frodo found himself standing upright upon the mound, rain running down his form, as they regarded him.

            Manwë examined him.  Are you ready, son of Primula and Drogo?

            “Ready for what?”

            To be judged.

            And so it began.  He saw his life playing before his eyes--the birth in Number Five, and his welcome by parents and aunts and uncles and--and by Bilbo!  The childhood first in Hobbiton and then in Buckland.  He saw the mischief and the learning, the curiosity and the delight--and the tempers!  Ah, he’d never thought of himself as having a marked temper, but it appeared he had possessed such a thing in spite of his fantasies of himself.

            There were the tricks he’d played on those who’d taken advantage of him in the past, or who’d insulted himself, his parents, his state as an orphan, Merry, or Bilbo.  There were each and every time he’d taken advantage of others, using their own weaknesses against them.

            Was indeed love of dogs a weakness, Frodo, or a delight in bread pudding?

            That question gave him pause.

            There were the floods that managed to drive them from their lovely hole by the Brandywine; the losses of the small son and daughter his mother had known since his birth.  I didn’t even realize she’d lost a child then, he thought as he looked on the events surrounding the loss of that unborn son.

            You were very young, most likely far too young to appreciate it, Iorhael.  But your mother and father took comfort in the fact they at least had you, and lavished that much more love on the one child that did survive.

            One of the hardest things to watch was the time surrounding his parents’ deaths.  He felt the grief and horror of that time--then felt divorced from it, as if he were being shielded from the worst of it.  He saw how he’d used his relatives’ compassion toward him at times to get his own way or to avoid rightful punishment, and then how others had seen his sensitivity to the loss of his parents as a weakness to exploit for their own purposes. 

            He grieved for the young person he’d once been as if it were another, and he felt Nienna holding him, weeping with him.  He saw the isolated soul he’d become for a time, what with the strictures wound about him by his aunt and allowed and even abetted by the rest of his relatives in Brandy Hall, as he’d not been allowed to take part in strenuous activities or to suffer what they saw as discomfort.  He tasted the anger and frustration again, and then the joys of when he was able to overcome those limitations, when he was able to escape around the borders of the restrictions and find joy and fulfillment in spite of them.  No, he’d never received the pony he’d wanted as a child; but he’d found joy in walking and feeling the grass and earth beneath his feet.  He’d not been allowed to play at battles of snow balls; but he’d drawn them, and had dipped deeply into the histories of other battles fought long ago and elsewhere, and had seen beneath the glamour of glory woven about them by bards and minstrels to the harsh reality that sometimes such things were necessary but not desirable for themselves.  Early in his readings of the histories shared with him by Bilbo he’d begun realizing that each time someone within the story had died there were those who’d loved them who’d suffered that loss as he’d suffered from the loss of his own parents.  Nor had he seen much in the reasons for war that was commendable.  Certainly the actions of the sons of Fëanor in attacking Sirion had been inexcusable--save for the succoring of the children Elrond and Elros.

            He paused, looking up at the Valië who still held him.  “Was that Maglor’s chance to redeem himself?” he asked.

            One of several.  He acquitted himself well there.  But this is your judgment, not his.

            And so it continued.  Although he often wept, he never cried out or sought to discontinue the experience.  He saw how easily Pearl’s regard for him had captured his attention and self-conceit, and how he and she had both come to mistake fascination for love.  He saw how, once she’d realized she didn’t love him after all, considering how easily she’d been convinced any future children they might have could easily be weak and die early, he’d been hurt and even furious, but had done his best to turn his fury into grief as being easier to bear.

            And then the memories focused on the others who had captured his attention at one time or another.  Why was it that you never explored the possibility of a marriage with Narcissa? he was asked at one point.

            “At first....”  I didn’t see or recognize those who saw me with desire for so very long, not until I was certain I loved Pearl and she showed me.  I was flattered--and aghast, I think, to realize how many lasses saw me as desirable.  And then--then there was the Ring.  It was seeking to make me into Its image.

            The rain was stopping, and the cloud cover was slowly lifting, moving steadily eastward.  Now it was the period that he held the Ring that was being examined, and he became cold inside, seeing how It had brought him to isolation once more, how he’d pulled in upon himself, often feeling anger at being imposed upon by the very relatives he’d always loved.  He saw how his restlessness had grown, and how he’d fled from his growing awareness of the temptations laid in his way by going out on his walking tours, by suddenly leaving Hobbiton to travel to Brandy Hall or to tramp through the Binbole Forest or to explore distant parts of the Northfarthing.

            “It wanted me to--to take, to force change, to seek to mold others.  It wanted me to be masterful.  I couldn’t be that way--to destroy what already was well made and served adequately in the imagination I was actually making things better; to seek to force a lass to love me by mastery rather than through caring.”

            Only when he saw his life after the Ring was destroyed did he approach being distraught, as he saw how weak and pathetic he’d become, as he saw his actions as being too little too late....

            Are you so very certain you were so ineffective?

            “I could have done more....”

            Are you omnipotent?

            That startled him.  “Of course not!”

            Were you at your greatest strength?

            He shook his head.  “I was so very weak by then.”

            Perhaps it wasn’t for you to redress every wrong that had been wrought.  Perhaps it was for others to do as well as you.  You led the way.  Is that not enough?

            And so it went.

            At last it was done.  The storm was long past now; the sky was clear, and the stars shone down on him in brilliant glory.  He was still weeping, and Vána held for him a cup.  Drink, child of Eru, and know peace.

            So he drank, and at first it tasted--well, not bitter, but tart.  But the drink was soothing, and he needed it after all the tears he’d shed during the long night.  And when it was finished, the taste it left in his mouth was----

            Sweet?  Wholesome?  Joyful!  But how a drink could be joyful he could not say, then realized he did not care.  It was enough that he felt more than comforted.

            My cup runneth over, he heard in the depths of his heart.  Yes, that was it--his cup was running over.

            Now, Vairë noted, to see you properly clad.  And the others drew back, allowing her and her handmaids to do their work.  After her Yavanna saw to the dressing of his hair, and Aulë set a circlet of finely wrought mithril about his brow, while the Lady Varda herself settled his now clean cloak from Lothlorien about his shoulders and clasped it.

            At last he was allowed to sit upon the mound, and most of the Valar withdrew, leaving him at last alone with one.  Námo considered him gravely.  At last Frodo spoke.  “Do I come with you now?”

            Are you so desirous to give over the burden of your hröa, beloved child?

            “No, not really, not now.”

            Are you in any great pain or discomfort?

            Frodo found himself taking stock of his body, then suddenly smiled.  He shook his head.  “For once, no.”

            Then I don’t need to take you in charge?

            “No, I suppose not.”  He was still for a time, then said, “The one thing I miss most greatly is my innocence.”

            And were you given nothing in return?

            He thought for a time, and without volition he heard himself whisper, “The Voice speaks again within my heart, as it did when I was a child.”

            And do you know what voice it is you hear?  The Vala looked genuinely curious.

            Frodo finally said softly, “Wisdom?  Of--of Eru Himself?”

            The Lord of Mandos shone out with splendor, and although he didn’t realize it the Hobbit responded in kind.  Wisdom indeed have you come to know and accept, although your name was always well given.  And your compassion has been multiplied many times over what it was.  Just as all creatures must offer up their virginity if they are to take their place in the dance of reproduction, so one must offer up innocence to truly hold proper authority, wisdom, and compassion.

            For a time the two merely sat together.  At last Frodo’s thought reached out.  I am not truly fully healed, am I?  If it were possible to return to Middle Earth, I would not live long.

            That is true.  Does it bother you?

            Frodo shrugged.  “No, I suppose not.  It’s enough, I think, that I am given time to appreciate what is here.”

            Námo smiled.  Indeed, my blessed Lord Iorhael, I must agree.  Now it is time, perhaps, to rest.  Tomorrow you must return, for your Bilbo is anxious to be about his own business.

            Frodo nodded.  “Yes--he’s passed up the Old Took and has been able to sate himself with Elves.  Although he’s been wanting to show me some of the sights he’s found in his own journeys about the island.”

            He felt the laughter in the Vala’s heart.  Indeed!  He’s been pointedly ignoring the summons to come to me for years!  I suppose we can afford to wait a bit longer, and let him give his last bit of instruction to you.

            “I will miss him--but I won’t hold him longer.”

            The Vala helped him lie down, and produced a light blanket to lay over him.  After Frodo slept he summoned Olórin.  At last he is ready to return--when he is rested.  The last of his fear has been cleansed away.

            We never heard him cry out.

            No--your brother’s artifice already showed him far greater terrors than he’d known ever on his own.  His endurance is perhaps the greatest we’ve ever seen.

            And now he is well--truly healed?  But the expression of compassion on the face of the Vala told its own tale.  “Then--then it is possible he might reach the end of his strength and leave us at any time.”

            Indeed.  Then what will you do--seek to protect him?

            “Is this yet another test of my resolve, my lord?  Protect him?  We’ve already seen what that kind of treatment brings him to!  Nay--not protection.  Cherish him we all will, for whatever time he might remain with us.  But to seek to protect him will only drive him from us that much the sooner.”

            Then cherish him, and let him cherish in return.  He’s found his peace.

            With that the last of the Valar left the Grove, and Gandalf sat cross-legged upon the ground as he’d done so often during his time within Middle Earth.  And as he waited for the Sun to rise he sang softly to himself snatches of songs he’d learned over fifteen hundred years.  And as at last the Hobbit awoke it was to hear,

            “Around the corner there may wait

            A standing stone or secret gate....”

            Frodo smiled as he stirred and pushed himself up on his elbow, rubbing at his eyes, the mithril circlet slightly askew.  “Good morning, Gandalf.  What’s for breakfast?  And how long am I to wear this foolish thing?”

            Olórin’s laughter shook the limbs of the surrounding trees.

And most especially for Shirebound, who's managed to inadvertently spark another Tol Eressëa tale.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

A Storm of Glory 

            “What is with you, my dear boy?” Bilbo asked.  “The way you’re looking about it’s as if you expect a great hammer to fall out of the heavens onto you at any second.  If I’d known you’d be so anxious I would never have suggested this ramble.”  The last few days had been increasingly close, and Frodo had become increasingly--intense--as each passed. 

            Frodo gave a mild shrug, although the furrow didn’t disappear from between his brows.  “There’s going to be a storm,” he said as if that explained everything.

            Bilbo paused, looking more fully as his beloved younger cousin.  “And since when are you worried about storms?” he asked.  “Aren’t you the one I had to pull off the top of the Hill more than once because you were fascinated by lightning?”

            “That was before,” Frodo answered, not needing to say any more.

            “And that was then, Frodo Baggins,” Bilbo corrected.  “If you look only for bad memories, I fear that will be all you’ll find.”  He turned and led the way around the hill ahead of them, wisely avoiding going up at a time when such a storm as was promised might fall.

            On the other side of the ridge they found a headland looking out over the sea, and not far away stood the home of an Elven family, surrounded by gardens of both flowers and vegetables, an ancient orchard of fruit trees beyond it, fully leafed as summer settled over the island.  As the clouds rolled in from the northern coast Bilbo first glanced up, and then back to his cousin.  “We’ll seek shelter there,” he decided.  “I have no intentions in Arda of allowing myself to depart by way of a cold and the lung fever.  Come!”

            Frodo gave a slight nod and pulled the cloak from Lothlorien more fully about him, following closely in the older Hobbit’s wake.  The air was becoming even closer, and personally Bilbo was looking forward to the storm to ease the feeling of lowering awareness.

            The door was opened at the first knock, and an elleth who was clearly Teleri in heritage stood in the entrance, apparently somewhat bemused to find two Hobbits on the walkway before her home.  “Yes?” she asked in Quenya.

            “My nephew and I--well, we’ve been doing a bit of a walk-about, and it’s apparent a storm is due to hit at any time.  Might we take shelter in your apple shed?”

            “The Cormacolindo?” she asked, apparently finally recognizing who they must be.  “But for the Cormacolindo and his kinsman--not for the likes of you or any the apple shed.  Nay, we have room and to spare!  Enter and be welcome!  I am Rhysellë the Orchardist, wife of Tedril the Sailor.  Welcome to our home!”

            She showed them to a sleeping room, and pointed the way to the room of refreshment and bathing chamber beyond that they might ease themselves and bathe.  “I shall have our evening meal prepared soon,” she promised.  “My daughters are completing their later chores, and even now my husband returns to us--as Lord Ossë allows, that is.  It appears that this evening he chooses to sport right below our home.”  She gave a rueful smile and shrugged and left them to their ablutions.

            Both took advantage of the bathing room, and Frodo set aside his Hobbit garb to wear one of the silver robes he’d been gifted with on his arrival on the island.  Bilbo produced a silver-backed brush from his pack and saw to it the hair on their feet and heads was properly groomed, and with a final look in the mirror at himself at last pronounced them both ready for polite company. 

            Frodo was smiling at that.  “You think, then, that Aunt Dora would approve?” he asked.

            The old Hobbit laughed.  “Other than the fact she’d find your garb outlandish she’d approve thoroughly,” he assured him.  “Dear Dora--the world is a poorer place for her going.”

            “She was devastated when you left the Shire, you know,” Frodo sighed as his elderly cousin returned the brush to his pack.  “I don’t think she ever recovered from it.”

            At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the two turned to see it open and a young elleth look in.  “Ama wished me to tell you that the evening meal is ready,” she said, then paused, her eyes growing wider with recognition.  “Oh, but I know you,” she said.  “I met you at the winter solstice feast in the city!”

            “You danced with me,” remembered Frodo, and once more his smile could be seen.  “I found it good to be able to dance once more.”

            “I’m certain you did,” Bilbo said, laying his hand on his younger cousin’s shoulder.  “However, right now my stomach is reminding me that I am a Hobbit, and a hungry one at that!  Move on, move on my lad!  Don’t keep your elders waiting when a meal is ready!”  Laughing, the two of them followed the young elleth to an inner courtyard where a table was laid on a covered porch, and an older elleth brought a basin of scented water with which to lave their hands as well as a linen towel ere they took the seats indicated by their hostess.

            The meal was excellent, although Bilbo saw that Frodo ate little of the fish laid before him.  However he attacked the vegetables and fruits with obvious pleasure.  He’d eaten less meat since his return from the Fanes than he’d been accustomed to consume, although he didn’t appear to take any ill effects from this choice.  He accepted cheese gladly, and praised its savor, and Bilbo relaxed, reassured by Frodo’s obvious enjoyment of the meal and the courteous praise he offered.

            “I should entertain--Hobbits--more often,” Rhysellë commented, her smile filled with humor.  “I’ve not received this much praise for my cooking for at least a yeni or two.”

            “Oh, we Hobbits take our food very seriously,” Bilbo responded, “and a good cook is a treasure to be praised and cherished in our eyes.”

            They all laughed.

            A wind was rising as they finished their meal.  There was a gap in the structure of their home that looked to the Sea, and Rhysellë often glanced that way as if searching for signs of her husband’s return.  At last she sighed.  “Ah, it appears Tedril has turned back toward the mainland and will take harbor there.  It is never wise to intrude upon the Lord Ossë as he dances in the winds and waves.  It has been long and long since I’ve seen him on this side of the Straight Path.  I wonder what it is that brings him near the shores of our lands, as he generally favors the waters surrounding Endorë, or so my husband has told me.”

            Frodo looked up at the growing cloud cover with concern.  “I hope that the wind and rain do no damage to your home, garden, and orchard,” he said, although Bilbo sensed that his true concern lay in what he would experience as the storm actually hit.

            “Ah, but our home is sturdily built, and Lord Aulë’s folk saw to it that the stones of it were well laid and the slates properly placed.  And if we were to lose a few tiles in the storm, what of it?  They can be replaced, and obviously require it should they break loose, after all.  At least he has been sufficiently thoughtful to wait until the blossoms were set; and the fruit is sufficiently small little will blow from the branches.  Some of the blossoms in the flower gardens might be lost; but more will bloom afterwards, and the sweeter for having been well watered.  Would you like some more wine?” she asked.

            They were abed soon after the setting of the Sun, a tray of sweet buns covered with a fine cloth and mugs of juice of some fruit Bilbo didn’t recognize lying on a table beside the bed the two Hobbits shared.  Bilbo sat up reading for a time until he was certain that Frodo slept before he put out the lamp that he’d been provided with and slid more deeply under the light blanket.  He gently laid a hand on his heir’s shoulder to feel it moving gently in time to his breathing, offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Frodo had known what healing he’d been given.  He was smiling as he fell asleep to the sound of surging waves and winds through trees and the eaves of this house....

 *******

            The hammers of the Dwarves were loud as they pounded out war axes and swords.  “It is true that for the moment we are at peace,” Gloin told him as he showed Bilbo the forges of Erebor, “but how long will that last, do you think?  Nay, the storm is yet building, and it will do no good to take no thought of shelter until the last moment.  Thranduil may receive our gifts of new weapons reluctantly, but he ever finds hands ready to learn to wield them.  Much as we Dwarves and the Elves hold one another in suspicion, it will do no good to allow that to come between the alliance needful to continuing to stave off the Shadow.  Now, over here my son Gimli is working on a fine throwing axe....”

            Another crash of thunder, and Bilbo awoke to find himself alone in the bed.  Frodo!  Where had his beloved lad gone?  Was he cowering somewhere in a sheltered corner?  Fearful, the old Hobbit rose and searched through the room.  No proper dressing room in this house for Frodo to take shelter within, and no wardrobe, either--merely wonderfully worked hooks upon the wall to hold extra clothing should they be required.  He worked at the too-high latch to the door until he managed to open it, and went out to check the room of refreshment as it was known here and the bathing room--Frodo was not in either.  There was no one in the day room, and none in the small but delightful library they’d allowed him to visit after the meal.  He wandered back to the hallway just outside the main day room when a flash of bright lightning drew his attention to the fact that the front door was blowing back and forth upon its hinges as the wind of the storm raged.  The door was open?  Had Frodo in his fear and confusion fled not to shelter but out into the very storm that tore at the sea and land, waves and trees?

            “Frodo!  FRODO!” he called as he made it to the doorway.  But his calling was thrown back in his teeth as a great roll of thunder followed the distant lightning strike, and a closer strike crashed down nearer the shore, its accompanying peal of thunder almost immediate.

            He was no longer alone--Rhysellë and her daughters Lordeth and Livwen had also come out of their chambers.  “What is it?” Rhysellë asked him.  “How is it the door is now open?  I know that I fastened it well that Ossë’s rain not enter the room....”

            “I fear my young cousin was roused at least partly by the storm, and has fled out into it,” Bilbo explained.  “He was badly damaged by the final war there.”

            “Ah, yes--so we have been told by the Maiar and those of our folk who came with you,” she answered him.  “So many when first they come here to Tol Eressëa startle at storms or sudden noises of any kind.  Lordeth--go and fetch Master Bilbo’s cloak--he must not go out into the storm unprotected.  Livwen--fetch mine from my room, if you will.  Bless you, my beloved daughter.  We will go out to seek Lord Iorhael.  You two will remain here lest he return, and prepare a soothing draft and warm towels and blankets against our coming.  And fasten the door behind us--I fear Lord Ossë has little regard for overturned possessions or dampened fabric.”

            Soon the two of them were out in the storm.  She led them first to the apple shed, which was still properly fastened with the bar in place on the outside of its door.  Still she opened it and they went within, but nothing was there save a sleepy pair of pigeons sitting their nest near a ventilation window.  They did not find him in the orchard, nor in the well house nor the small structure in which the tools for working the farm were stored.

            “Would he have approached the Sea?” she asked him, having to shout over the wind.  Another flash of thunder lit their surroundings, and they looked toward the bluff as the thunder rocked them and the wind and rain tore at their garb----

            ----And saw him, there on the headlands some distance away.  They ran that way, then realized that they were not the only ones hurrying to come to him as Olórin appeared from the west.  In moments he was by their side.

            “It’s the storm, Gandalf,” Bilbo shouted.  “I fear it frightened him--it’s too bad, really, for he always loved storms when he was younger.”

            They were almost upon Frodo when the Maia held out his hand to stay them.  “Afraid?” he breathed, although they yet heard him.  “Afraid?  Ah, but I think our Iorhael is anything but!  Behold!”

            And they could see that Frodo was dancing, there upon the headland--dancing in delight and joy as lightning fell upon the waves below them and thunder rolled about them.  The wind blew his hair about his head in a ragged halo as the glancing light fell upon it, and the silken nightshirt Sam had sent with him for his journey that he’d carried in his light pack and worn that night was plastered to his form by the rain.  But they needed no lightning now to see him, so brightly did his own Light of Being shine about him!

            As he turned their way in his dancing and saw them he called out, “Bilbo!  Oh, Bilbo--come and dance with me!”

            Totally confused, the older Hobbit came nearer, seeing the joy in Frodo’s face.  “You’re all right, my star-kissed lad?” he asked.

            “All right?  All right!  Ah--yes--all right and more, my beloved uncle!  The fear is gone, Bilbo--don’t you understand?  I’m free--free at last!  And the storm--isn’t it marvelous?”  And he reached out his hands to take Bilbo’s, drawing him to join in the dance.  And as the wind danced with them they performed the Bounder’s Jig together, the rain falling instead of the coins of copper and bronze usually showered upon the performers of this dance back within the Shire, the lightning making each drop as bright and rewarding as any offering ever tossed by delighted Hobbits.

            When at last the storm calmed, the clouds swiftly dissipated and the sky grew lighter.  As morning approached the stars gave their final shimmer of joy, as if they took their light from the shimmering form of Frodo Baggins, who now stood in a more quiet transport of delight to look up at them.  Olórin held out his arm--Bilbo saw that the Maia held Rhysellë protectively to him on the other side.  The older Hobbit accepted the sheltering embrace gladly, suddenly feeling cold as his sodden nightshirt weighed on him--he saw that somehow he’d lost his cloak, which lay nearby upon the sward.

            From the Sea below them a light arose, and to his own delight and satisfaction Bilbo saw at last the form of Ulmo’s greatest vassal manifest before them all, the face of his wife Uinen beside him, obviously amused.  Ossë examined the party upon the headland with interest.  I must say, small mortal lord, he said with deep respect, that it was an even greater delight to dance within the storm with you to keep me company.  Shall we consider doing so again in a year or two, do you think?

            And all present laughed in mutual delight.

For Vistula the Dunadan for her birthday.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta. 

New Quarters

            Rosie Cotton searched her Sam’s eyes.  “You’re foolin’ me!”

            “No, Rosie, I’m not.  And he means it--means every word of it.  He wants for us to come live with him, there in Bag End.”

            “As his servants?”

            “No--as his brother and his brother’s wife--that’s what he told me.  And I’ll tell you this, my Mr. Frodo--he don’t say things like that lightly.”

***

            On their wedding day she saw the room prepared for them--not a smaller room at the far end of the hall, but the master bedroom itself.

            So much does he think of my Sam! she thought with wonder.

Home Is where the Heart Is

            Ah, here he comes, Drogo--he’s awakening at last.

            Son, are you indeed waking up?  Yes, sweetling--you’ve had a time of it, haven’t you?  But you’re safe now.

            He felt the warmth surrounding him, the love there waiting to greet him, once he opened his eyes.  For just a moment longer he kept them closed, prolonging the anticipation, enjoying the feel of familiar arms encircling him, smelling the faint odor of Longbottom Leaf that had always surrounded his father, and the slightly tangier scent of Old Toby that had always been a sign that Bilbo was visiting, and his mother’s violet water with which she’d always rinsed her linens....

            And at last he opened his eyes, seeing his mother’s smiling down into his, his father just beyond her shoulder.

            He’s here at last?  That question stopped him, for the familiar voice was not that of a Hobbit at all, and had last been heard at Amon Hen, demanding the Ring--save for the echoes of it calling for forgiveness he’d barely been aware of as he’d fled up to the Seat of Seeing....

            He turned to look up into the visage of the Heir of Denethor glowing in joy.  Boromir no longer looked as he had then.  And the figures that surrounded him were not precisely as they’d been before the boating accident in the Shire, either. 

            He’s completely out of his reckoning for the moment, commented an amused Belle Gamgee, her eyes shining, garbed as a simple Queen.

            So we see, laughed his Aunt Menegilda, now gloriously tall and fair, her arm negligently around the shoulders of a shining prince that must be the True Shape for Uncle Rorimac.

            Frodo looked around, saw the golden Guardian that Sam had become, and laughed with delight.  Throwing his arms about the glowing figures of former mother and father, he turned to face the Teacher Bilbo had become.

            Well, my dear boy, would you like to meet the one who’d first hoped for the honor of being your mother within Arda?  Let me introduce the Lady Gilraen....

            Gilorhael?  Even that voice was familiar as he looked into eyes as filled with love and joy as were those of the one who’d once been Primula Brandybuck Baggins.  And his mother easily loosed him to the embrace of the other who could as easily have been his mother....

            Funny, this embrace felt no different from that of the one who had served as his mother.

            Mummy--and Nana!  He laughed with growing pleasure, and found himself smiling up into the eyes of he who had been Fredegar Bolger.  Freddy! he laughed.  My brothers begin to gather!

            That we do, Freddy smiled back, as well balanced and finely garbed as any knight of the realm who'd ever graced Aragorn's court in either Minas Anor or Annúminas.

            Filled with a joy that could no longer be contained, Frodo suddenly moved apart to begin dancing, catching Bilbo and Drogo and the unknown other one who stood with them--he felt the aura of great responsibility and authority to him, and knew he danced with Arathorn son of Arador, who danced as lightly and skillfully as the three former Hobbits, and then Sam was joining them as well, having just been released from Gilraen’s and Rosie’s joint embrace.  Song surrounded them--sustained them--filled them; and their dance added to the Song as they rejoiced in the renewed Reality about them.

            And then Rorimac and Fredegar and Saradoc and Paladin were joining the dance, and those who’d been women of the Shire and the Angle created their own circle outside that of the menfolk.

            And when Frodo found that Boromir danced beside him in equal joy to his own he laughed with sheer delight!

            He caught the eyes of Primula as she flashed past, hand in hand with Gilraen.  It’s such a joy to at last be at Home with you, dearling, he heard in the depths of his being, and knew that Another’s voice had joined hers.  He spun in the glory of it all.  Indeed, he was Home.  Until their other brother and his beloved could join them, who could ask for more?

Especially for Radbooks, Pearl Took, Soledad, and Lindelea, with nods to Fiondil and Alassiel.  And with thanks for a delightful tea!  Heh!  And great thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta.

The Lost Restored

            His Light was unveiled as he lifted up his arms and called, and Gwaihir, Lord of the Great Eagles, came to him.

            “What would you have of me?”

            “Call for two of your vassals--we must fly more swiftly than the steeds of the Nazgûl.”

            “The north wind blows swiftly, but we shall outstrip it, my friend.”  So saying, the great bird leaned down as low as he could so that the Wizard could clamber up his back and settle himself just above Gwaihir’s wings.  Gandalf flattened himself as well as he might against the back of the Eagle’s head as the great creature raised his wings and sprang into the air, crying out to call to him Landroval and Meneldor, two of his closest kin, and with but the briefest of circles over the battlefield the three Eagles headed south and east to where Orodruin was tearing itself to pieces.

            As they approached they could see two figures balanced precariously on a hillock of slag and ash at the bottom of the volcano, each leaning in against the other to hide their eyes from the horror about them.  As the Great Eagles swept closer they swooned away and fell, their fingers still touching even as they looked to give over their lives.  Landroval swooped down and scooped up one of the figures, while Meneldor caught up the other, both turning immediately to speed away northwest again.  Once Gwaihir circled recklessly through the ash and fumes let out by the ruin of the mountain, dodging debris as both desperately sought for the other who ought also to be there.

            “I see nothing!” Gwaihir called over his shoulder.

            One last sweeping gaze did Gandalf give before going still, listening within, then crying back, “Nay--there is nothing left here for us to find.  He perished with the Ring Itself!  Hurry--we must go more westerly.  The Dúnadan has been brought free of the devastation of Sauron’s creatures to await us!”

            Three great beats of the mighty wings and the Windlord was even with the others, then leading them over the Ephel Dúath to where Aragorn had been carried by Shadowfax, back to where most of the healers had been left within the far northern confines of Ithilien.  As they swept over the last of the escarpments of the Mountains of Shadow they saw that the healers’ camp had been set in readiness, that fires were already lit and kettles of water set to heat, that blankets had been made ready, and that the first of the wounded were being brought to them in the wagons sent now onto the battlefield.  And they saw the King himself standing near an open place where they might light, already reaching to take the body held by Landroval even as he noted that held by Meneldor and that the only burden borne by Gwaihir himself was the swiftly dismounting Wizard.

            “Are they alive?” he asked briefly.

            “Barely.  There is hope--Estel.”

            “But not----”

            “Nay, although I’d looked to carry him out in my own arms, were he to be found.”

            Aragorn nodded distractedly as he looked back to the meager body held by Landroval.  Gandalf could see the muscle of the Man’s jaw work, the grief and compassion he was even now schooling that he be able to do all that could be done for these two small heroes....

            But the third!  “I feel Gollum may yet have a part to play, for good or ill, ere the end.”  Was that not what he’d said to Frodo?

            Why, Atar?

            He recognized himself he could not survive Its destruction, my faithful servant.  Even these did not look to survive that.  They were willing to sacrifice themselves that the rest of Arda might remain safe.  Their sacrifice is accepted and their lives given back again to know the full fulfillment due each of them.  But It stole even more from him than it did from either of these.  At least he is now safely passed through the Fire into my embrace.

            The Istar cradled Sam’s body to him, carrying it within the tent where baths had been set ready for them.  There were burns, cracked skin, blood almost baked onto clothing and skin, on his sleeves and shoulders, in his hair and down his face, although Gandalf was willing to wager a goodly portion of it was Frodo’s.  He could see, however, two wounds on the head--one on the temple and the other on the brow.  And the thinness--Sam Gamgee was never intended to be emaciated--this he knew with every sinew of his being.  But what must Sméagol have been like, then?  He gave a glance at the totally limp form Aragorn was already setting down on the makeshift table and felt his insides clench, for Frodo was even sparer than he remembered Gollum having been....

            Could they even be called back?  Looking at the total slackness of Frodo’s body he wondered, even as he felt the authority of the King in the invocation Aragorn was murmuring steadily under his breath as he removed the cloak from Lorien from about Frodo to see him bathed.

            There was a bustle about the tent that held them as they worked to cleanse the blood and filth from the bodies of these two.  It was quite some time before Legolas looked in briefly to tell them that Peregrin had been found.  Gandalf looked up from where he was just beginning to dry Sam’s hair, startled to realize it was now evening.  Aragorn was even then lowering Frodo’s body one last time into a fresh tub of water, hoping to strip it of the last of the grime and blood before he saw it anointed and settled onto a cot.

            Aragorn was as weary as he’d ever seen the Man as they finally straightened from the cot where the two of them had been laid, called back to their lives within Arda and lying together deep in healing sleep, at least for now.  “I need proper beds for them, with multiple feather mattresses with lavender and rosemary and rose petals worked into them.  With no fat to their bodies their skin will soon begin to break down seriously if there is not a good deal of padding under them.  Perhaps a sheepskin with fleece for each of them to lie on...clean sheets.”  He looked at the healer who’d worked side by side with them here, a young Man whose competence and great compassion had drawn Aragorn’s attention during the long night after the victory in Minas Tirith.  “Eldamir, if you will bring what you can to see to the closing of the wound on his hand--we may have bone splinters to remove....”  He was almost swaying as he stood.

            “You must rest, Lord,” the healer cautioned.

            “I must see to Pippin first,” Aragorn rejoined, drawing to himself the power of the Elessar stone he wore.  “He will not come back to himself  for the others, I fear.”  He looked down on the two, too-still forms lying there.  “I will return, my small brothers, my valiant ones.  And when I do I hope to bear word of Pippin’s progress toward healing again.”

 *******

            By the next evening they were moving further south, and now each of the three desperately wounded Hobbits was wrapped in a separate sheepskin.  A laden wagon had approached the island of Cair Andros two days previous, driven by a farmer from near the ancient town of Halabor.  He carried fifteen sheepskins with the pelts still attached and two bedsteads with him.  “I am no fighting man,” he explained to those who labored there on the island, “but I would help as I can.  These skins were to go to Halabor to be sold at the next fair.  But I’d ween the healers could do with them.  The bedsteads belonged to my daughter who married a year back, and my son who was slain by raiding easterners who took much of our flock of sheep.  May they comfort someone here....  And my wife--she sent posies of flowers and herbs to help sweeten the air, and pots of ointment made of the lanolin our sheep produce into which pounded herbs and flowers have been mixed.  May they ease those who have fought hardest.”

            From the fortress of Cair Andros were brought featherbeds stuffed with finest down from a storehouse long ago stocked by the healers and thankfully ignored by the orcs who’d taken the island.  These were added to the wagon, and the wagon ferried across to the east bank of Anduin and driven as far as the Field of Cormallen where it had been agreed the main army would encamp, well away from the noisome lands that lay between the Dead Marshes and the ruins of Mordor.  Once they reached the new camp where the trees grew in groves and the ground was covered by grass rather than undergrowth and the land well drained, the Hobbits, along with all of the rest of the wounded, would rest the better.  Aragorn carried Frodo’s body in his arms as they rode, even as Elladan carried Sam and Gandalf carried Pippin.  Perhaps they ought to have traveled in the wagons with the rest of the wounded, but Aragorn had stated his belief they would more easily stay with them should they lie in arms they sensed belonged to ones who cared for them.  Certainly Shadowfax was carefully choosing his way so as to jostle Pippin as little as possible.

            Even so he felt the Hobbit seeking to shift in fevered dreams.  “Hush, sweetling,” he murmured even as he’d heard Paladin Took murmur the same once when he’d visited the Shire when Pippin as a lad had been ill.  “Rest easily, beloved one--you are not alone.”  He looked back to where Aragorn rode nearer the wagons of the healers, knowing that the Man wished desperately for some movement from the Hobbit he carried.  With that thought he held his own beloved burden the closer.

            They are warded about by many who love and honor them, faithful one.

            He could sense many of his brethren who’d long served Estë and Irmo--and Námo--encircling the company and remaining close to the emergent King and the one he bore, and was grateful.  And by Aragorn, unnoticed, he thought, marched Eonwë himself. 

            Aragorn was sitting Frodo up as he rode, preparing to trickle more precious fluid into his mouth--a task that must be repeated frequently, considering how dry the two bodies had been when found.  Sam had obviously been stinting himself for Frodo’s sake during the last stages of their dark journey; yet now, although he had not the strength to suck as yet, Sam at least would automatically wrap his tongue about the lamb’s nipple attached to the water skin used with him, and would swallow naturally.  Frodo, on the other hand--he seemed at this point to be only able to swallow for Aragorn, and care had to be taken that he not strangle on it.  They’d had to use boluses on the Ringbearer--an indignity Gandalf and Aragorn agreed would not be told to him once he was awakened.  Aragorn was singing the invocation for healing as he coaxed Frodo to accept the slow drops of thin broth.  When at last he looked up to catch the Wizard’s eyes there was a look of guarded triumph that told that Frodo had been able to accept more than he’d had before.

            And I would have gladly shredded fish with my bare hands and fed it to Sméagol, he thought.

            At least he rejoices now not to need such service, Olórin.  Gandalf could feel the humor and love that reminder carried, and smiled, beginning to hum an ancient lullaby under his breath as he carefully slipped the nipple of the bottle he carried into Pippin’s mouth.  He smiled as, even though deep in healing sleep, Pippin yet sucked eagerly at the broth contained within it.  My beloved, greedy Took, he thought.  Greedy for food; greedy to learn, greedy for all that life can bring you.  Ah, but it’s brought you a good deal of pain this time--but as we all know, once you’re able to sit up again you’ll be eager take in all the beauty of this place and the joy of being with those you love that you can.  He was aware of an unseen but familiar hand upon his shoulder, and a helpful breeze gently brushed a curl away from Pippin’s eyes.

            At last they reached the proposed camp.  A litter was brought to lay Pippin upon, and once he was carried to the healer’s tents where accommodations had been set for his cracked ribs, broken leg, and splinted hip, Elladan came forward with Sam to surrender him to the Wizard in Pippin’s stead.  Eldamir had ridden ahead of the main host, and had seen the two bedsteads unloaded and set up within a stand of beech trees, and even now Berevrion of Annúminas and Elphir of Dol Amroth were themselves seeing the straw mattress covered with featherbeds, sheepskins with pelt side up, and fresh linens.  They’ve been rinsed in violet water, he realized as he laid Sam’s body gently on one of the beds. 

            Aragorn paused in the act of laying Frodo on the other.  “His spirit is stronger,” the Man murmured.  “The scent--it heartens him somehow.”

            “Violets are a flower he and his Aunt Esme both favored, as I recall,” Gandalf grunted.

            Aragorn was suddenly pulling the form he held away from the bed, and the Wizard could see the spreading streak of dampness down his side.  Gandalf was instantly alert, knowing how the body could react at the moment of release, but Aragorn was quickly smiling ruefully at him.  “Another detail we will not share with him once he’s fully back with us,” he whispered as he saw the slight form unwrapped, and he called for fresh water to be heated for the cleansing of the Cormacolindo.

            *******

            He wasn’t certain what had happened, but he no longer felt any heat about him--indeed things were comfortably cool.  Yet he was aware of a great Light about him, and he was reluctant to waken fully lest he find himself once more in the Sammath Naur with the glare of the Fire about him.  He’d--he’d fallen--he was dimly aware that was true.  He’d fallen--fallen with the Precious!  But now that thought brought him not delight but disgust.  How--how had he come to want that?

            Waken, beloved child.  The nightmare is past, and it is time to rejoice in the Day given you.  The voice was familiar, but he had the feeling it had been long and long again since he’d last heeded it.  He sensed humor when it again sounded in his heart.  Last heeded?  Oh, I agree it has been a time since you heeded me, but once you did know me.  Waken.

            He came to full awareness, and realized there was indeed Light and to spare about him, filling him, cleansing him.  He looked down--and saw hands he barely remembered, the flesh pinkish rather than grey; his feet covered with a down of hair rather than being smooth and slightly webbed.  And about his face fell not lank strands but a curtain of hair, dark brown and with a slight curl to it.  How long had it been since he’d felt such about his face and neck?

            “Sméagol?”

            “Sméagol!” 

            He looked about and saw them coming, and he cringed back, remembering what he’d done....

            Do not fear, child, but listen to them.

            “No!  Oh, no--not now!  Sméagol hurt them--betrayed them--killed him--killed him dead, he did!  No--don’t make me----”

            But there was no time for further protests, for they were upon him--Déagol; his grandmother; his father, who’d disappeared when he was almost too young to remember, taken by the orcses; and his mother, who’d died not long afterwards along with the sister who hadn’t lived more than an hour.

            And Déagol put his arms about Sméagol, at which Sméagol whimpered with fear; but there was no shaking--only a fierce hug.  “Oh, Sméagol--you have come!  I’ve wanted to thank you--you saved me from that!”

            He tried to pull away, but the hug grew fiercer, more filled with joy.  “But I hurted you--I hurted you, I did!”

            “Yes, you did--but to waken here and find I was freed from that thing!  Oh, Sméagol, you can’t believe what It wanted me to do!  It wanted me to hurt you!  It wanted me to hurt Grandmother!  Oh, Sméagol--It didn’t wish me to be happy any more, or to delight in the river and the sun and the good food we had....”

            And Sméagol knew, knew all too well just what kind of life he’d spared his friend, the friend who’d been as a very brother to him!  How could he have felt It was more important than Déagol--than his family?

            And his grandmother was reaching to take him into her embrace next.  “Oh, my precious one--how I sorrow I didn’t see you’d been taken by something greater than you!  But you’re free of It now--you’re our Sméagol again!”

            And then his parents were embracing him, expressing their grief that they’d been forced to leave him behind; and he saw a shy figure he realized was the sister lost to him with his mother....

            But two he looked to see were not there.

            Master--Master--where is he?  Where is the fat one?  I betrayed them, too!  Sméagol betrayed them--hurt kind Master!

            Yea, you hurt both of them--there is no disputing that.  But know this--in doing so, you saved them--saved them both.  Behold!

            And he looked as directed, and saw----

            ----Saw the one who’d tied him and led him with a rope about his neck back to the Elves--the nasty Elves----

            ----The Elves who brought him fish and fruit and fresh meat and sweeter water than he’d known in years and the juice of wholesome fruits; who gave him not a bare cell but a spacious room with a soft bed; who brought him out of doors to the tall tree and allowed him to climb it that he might feel the wind on his face and begin to rejoice in the beauty of the world again.  Nasty, had he called them?

            And even this one had not treated him badly until after he’d bitten the Man’s hand.  At the time the act had felt sweet; but now he realized it had been vile, and he hated himself for having done so.

            By the Man was the Wizard, the Grey One with the Light at his heart--he’d threatened Sméagol; threatened him with fire!  He’d frightened Sméagol, he had!  Made him tell his secrets!  Made him admit he’d killed his cousin, and been expelled from his family hole!

            But the Wizard had first been kind, if impatient.  He’d asked nicely, and hadn’t truly hurt Sméagol after all.  And he’d called for bread and fish and a flagon of water, and had advised the Elves to be gentle with him.

            And he saw the fat one--and Master--Master who’d loosened the rope from about his ankle, who’d spoken to him kindly, who’d looked at him as if--as if he were a person again, a real person, not just a freakish creature with no worth left to him--Master, who’d truly understood what had happened to him--Master, who’d wished good for him!

            And even the Fat One, for all his wariness and hard words, had never truly hurt him!

            Look at them!  Look at what they’d come to!  Master shouldn’t look that way, as if he--as if he were dead!  Again he began to whimper, although at once the Light was again wrapping Itself about him with comfort and reassurance--and love, even as he stood securely--and safely--between his grandmother and Déagol, his parents behind him, each with a hand on his shoulder.

            Look again, best beloved.  See how they are being held with competence and love, how they are being cared for, how that love protects them even as now you again feel that protection about yourself.

            “But his hand--Master’s hand--it’s wrapped in bandages--Sméagol did that--I did that--to get that!  Sméagol did that--bit off his finger!”

            It was needful, child--It had taken him at last, and had It remained with him he would have been lost.  Yes, you took It, but did not seek to master It and so It could not take you, either, at the end.  It was enough for you to hold It once more, even as It betrayed you that last time--betrayed you and Itself.  Rejoice, child--It can betray no one else, not ever again.  You did what was needful, and now you know your reward.  Too much of darkness and isolation have you known.  He gradually brought you back toward the Light, and this is all he wished for you and more, that you might be once again Sméagol and no more slave to It.

 *

            Gandalf felt eyes watching him and Aragorn and paused, turning to look up.  He felt that Love focused on the four now within the grove, and realized that the Light of Eternity was pressing close to the barriers of Time that someone might be reassured.  He felt strengthened, and noted that his friend was also responding to that special warmth as he focused his attention on seeing Frodo’s body cleansed and anointed and dressed anew in a clean shirt donated by one of those who’d marched with them to the Black Gate--the Men who’d survived the battle competed for the honor of sending what they could to the needs of the three Hobbits.  He thanked that Presence for Its concern and reassurance, and turned his attention again to seeing Samwise made comfortable.

 *******

            Eldamir was looking into the tent where the Wizard rested in the early afternoon.  “Mithrandir--Mithrandir--it has happened!  He moved, Mithrandir--he not only moved his head--he turned himself slightly in his sleep!”

            Elation filled the old Man’s body he wore as he swiftly rose.  “At last!  Does the Lord Aragorn know?”

            “I sent the guard from the door of the enclosure to bear word to him.  He knows by now!”

            Aragorn was already emerging from his tent as Mithrandir let the flap to his fall behind him, and the look they shared was full of mutual gladness and thanksgiving to the Powers who also saw to the strengthening of these two.

            Merry sat on a stool between the two beds, holding a hand of each in his own.  “Frodo turned on his own, Gandalf!” he said with a fervent gladness as they entered.  “He turned on his own!  He’s getting stronger!  Oh, Aragorn, isn’t he getting stronger?”

            The word was spreading swiftly through the camp, and they began to hear cheers and the joyful sound of laughter and singing from the Men.

            The initial pavilion raised over the two beds had been removed once it was realized that Frodo and Sam were distressed by it.  Now only a carefully anchored canvas curtain stood about them, sheltering them from drafts and the importuning attentions of curious soldiers, many of them desperately young and thoughtless.  There was no roof to block sunlight, moonlight, and starlight or the sight of clouds and sky--only the shifting leaves of the sheltering beeches were between the Hobbits and the brightest of the light of Anor when she was highest.  And they rested the more easily for this.  As Aragorn leaned over Frodo’s bed there was the slightest hitch of protest in his breathing, the least movement of Frodo’s head as he sought to escape the slight shadow.

            “Oh, Frodo--you do come back to us, do you not?  Ah, my beloved small brother!”

            “Go, Merry, and tell Pippin.  Even though he’s not awake yet himself it will bring him easing to know.”  So saying, Gandalf lifted the Brandybuck off the stool and set him on his feet.

            “Yes--I need to tell Pippin!  Oh, Gandalf, I’m so glad!”

            As Merry hurried off to rejoice in holding Pippin’s hand and sharing the news the Wizard moved the stool to the foot of the beds, allowing Aragorn to kneel between them and hold the hands of each in his own, watching with joy in his heart.  It appeared Frodo would live indeed!

            Some time later he made his way to the tent where Pippin lay on a low cot padded again by one of the sheepskins.  Merry lay sleeping on the second cot that had been set there by his younger cousin’s, one hand lying open with Pippin’s near one lying on it, as if Merry had been holding it as he drifted off.  Gandalf smiled with gentle pleasure as he lifted Merry’s blanket and carefully covered the sleeping Hobbit. 

            As he straightened, he heard a weak voice whisper, “Gandalf?”  Pippin’s eyes were cracked open in his face, which was bruised from his helmet having been pressed into it as the troll had fallen of him.  “Gandalf?”  This time the whisper was perhaps a bit stronger.  “Am I...?”  He blinked, then continued.  “No--suppose not.  I hurt--hurt too much.”

            “You hurt too much for what?”

            “To be--dead.”  The whisper sounded utterly reasonable.

            The Wizard had to suppress a laugh.  “I must suspect you’re right.”

            “It’s over?”

            “The battle?  Yes--it’s over.”

            “Not dead--we won?”

            Gandalf’s smile returned and grew wider.  “Yes, Frodo and Sam--they made it!”

            “The Ring--It’s gone?”

            “Yes!  The quest was accomplished.”

            “Safe?”

            “Safe?  Who?  Frodo and Sam?  Oh, yes, my dear Took--they are safe now.”

            “Merry?”

            “He’s right here--here beside you.  He fell asleep waiting for you to awaken.  He’ll be most disappointed.”

            “Don’t--don’t tell him.  When he--when he wakens, I’ll--I’ll wake up then.  Let him--let him think--the first time.”

            “If you wish.”  Gandalf brushed the hair from Pippin’s brow fondly.

            At last the Took asked, “Gollum?”

            “Dead.  He died, taking It into the Fire.”

            Pippin gave a slight nod, then grimaced with the pain the movement, slight as it was, cost him.  “I see.”  Then, after a moment he added, “Poor creature.”

            Gandalf was touched that the Hobbit was concerned.  “Yes, poor Sméagol.  But now you should rest.”  He picked up an invalid’s cup filled with water that lay nearby and held it to Pippin’s lips; the Took drank gladly, but seemed as glad to close his eyes and relax, smiling slightly as Gandalf guided Pippin’s hand back to touch Merry’s once more.

            “My Merry,” Pippin whispered, and slipped back into sleep.

 *******

            Frodo lay back, filled with conflicting emotions.  He was alive--and Sam was alive, and beside him.  How had that happened?

            He’d known from the time he’d held the Ring up for the members of the Council of Elrond to see It that he could not bear to let It out of his possession, a realization that had been confirmed later when Bilbo had asked to see It and he’d seen his beloved older cousin as a slavering, wretched creature hungering for It.  It had been mostly as a result of that realization that he’d offered to take the Ring to Mordor.  Hadn’t Gandalf himself commented on how Frodo was already sufficiently ensorcelled by It that he’d not been able to throw It into the parlor fire in Bag End?

            He’d been warned by both Gandalf and Aragorn that the Ring would draw evil creatures to Itself, and hadn’t that been true?  The Black Riders had hounded them from Hobbiton to the Fords of the Bruinen; and there’d been the Wargs in Hollin, the inexplicable wrath of Caradhras that had almost destroyed them during the abortive attempt on the pass, the assault by the Watcher within the water before Moria, the attack by the orcs and cave troll while they’d gathered about the tomb of Balin, the coming of the Balrog culminating with that confrontation between it and Gandalf and Gandalf’s fall.  And over the last few nights they’d been aware of the renewed hunt along the route of the River, and Sam and Aragorn had both admitted to seeing Gollum following their boats, propelling his log with his own hands and feet to keep up with the Elven crafts.

            Gandalf and Elrond had both warned him that the Ring would call to others within the Fellowship and would seek to corrupt them.  Certainly he’d recognized that as true there within Lórien, and he’d not truly been surprised by Boromir’s attempt to wrest It from him at Amon Hen.  The idea that the rest of the Fellowship were also under Its assault had finally hit home, however, as a result of that struggle.  How could he remain with them when he knew It was working to twist the reasoning and hearts of all of them?  Isildur hadn’t been able to destroy It so long ago, and he was by report one of the greatest of Kings; Men were apparently particularly susceptible to Its siren call.  The idea that Aragorn might fall victim to the same influence terrified him, and for the most part due to his own realization that while he had no qualms against defying Boromir or question of his own ability to escape the warrior the same was not true in the case of Aragorn.  Aragorn had a deeper mind and a stronger will than did the son of the Steward of Gondor, and a far better appreciation for what others might be moved to do.  Frodo had no illusions that he might be able to either withstand Aragorn’s reasoning or his strength of body or will or to evade him for any length of time even if he were to put on the Ring and use It to disappear.  As to what he might be able to do should Legolas or Gimli be caught by Its lure he had no idea.

            The final reason he had broken from the others on that fateful day they’d rested at Parth Galen, however, had been due to the decision that he would not take anyone else to certain death.  From the moment he’d realized someone must carry the Ring to Mordor to Its destruction he’d known it was most likely whoever did that would not return; his surety that this mission would cost the lives of all who took the last steps up the mountain had simply grown all along the way.  By the time they’d left Lothlórien he’d been certain this was true, and his greatest dread had been having to separate from the others, knowing all would fight his decision--except perhaps Aragorn.  Merry, Pippin, and Sam would have been the worst, and they were, of course, the ones he wished most to see live to return home.  But how was he to slip away, or find his way to, much less into Mordor?  The only way into that land he’d ever heard of was through the Black Gate--and how he was to enter there in secret he could not imagine.  But that gate must open to allow troupes of soldiers to pass through it.  Perhaps he could watch it long enough to see how it was manned, and perhaps find a way to get weapons and armor or clothing sufficiently similar to that of a group that appeared to come and go regularly that he could perhaps follow one such line through the gate.

            He’d not been comfortable if the Ring weren’t in his pocket for some years, and to assure himself that it would stay there he’d sewn loops into the pockets of his trousers and waistcoats, and had had one of his Bolger cousins who did some work in the making of jewelry make a fine chain of soldered rings and the sturdiest clasp available to thread through both loops and Ring.  Even so, there had been a couple evenings when he’d been at the Green Dragon when he’d found the Ring hanging by Its chain from the pocket as he prepared to leave, and had sensed growing anger and frustration from some outside source when he’d pushed It hastily back where It belonged.  He'd had the impression that Ted Sandyman might have tried to relieve him of the contents of his trousers pocket on one of those occasions; but the second time he was certain no one had been anywhere near that side of him or his waistcoat to have caused the Ring to become dislodged.  He himself had felt particularly distressed that second time, feeling abnormally terrified just by the thought of It being lost to him.  He’d told no one--he’d not even mentioned the events to Gandalf, suddenly convinced that if the Wizard were to learn of them he’d find reason to remove the Ring from him, naming him an untrustworthy as well as an unworthy steward for the wonder of It.

            Now he realized that the Ring had merely been seeking to see to Its own priorities, binding him to It by cultivating his obsession with It, and seeking to place Itself where It might be picked up by other bearers It sensed would be less wary and more likely to enter situations where It could move to still others and then more others until It could return to the hand of the one It considered Its rightful Master.  And there was no question he’d not been able to seek to do It any possible harm the time he’d tried to follow Gandalf’s directions to toss it into the flames of the parlor fire.  He could have sworn he’d done just that--and found his hand was instead deep into his pocket, automatically preparing to clasp the chain closed to keep It safe instead.  And when Gandalf had suddenly seized It from his hand and flung It into the fire himself Frodo remembered the almost overwhelming power of his rage at the Wizard and his terror for Its safety.  Certainly the relief at holding It again in his hand had far outweighed his surprise to find that Gandalf was right--that It was indeed cool as he closed his fingers about It once more.

            He’d thought on that incident, about his feelings when he showed the Ring to all at the meeting of the Council, and how Bilbo had appeared to him there in Rivendell often during the journey down the river.  He’d offered the Ring to the Lady Galadriel.  How he’d come to that pass he wasn’t certain; nor had he the slightest idea of what he would have done had she actually accepted the foul thing!  He’d been warned that to have the Ring taken from him would possibly break his mind.  Was that true?  Well, he rather suspected that was possibly understating the situation.  He was somewhat amazed that he’d not reacted even more strongly when Boromir tried to take It from him than he had.  That he’d felt such dismay to learn that the Man had truly fallen to the power of the Ring (at least for the moment) rather than fury at the warrior’s effrontery at trying to claim It was less than he’d expected to experience.

            Nay, it was the image he’d had in the orc’s tower of Sam as an orc pawing at the precious thing----  He shuddered as he realized how he’d thought of It--the precious thing!  It was precious to Isildur; Gollum had addressed It as the Precious; Bilbo had even described It as precious!  As for himself....

            “He both loves It and he hates It, as he loves and hates himself,” Gandalf had explained.  Well, certainly Frodo could now understand the sentiment, although he wasn’t certain he truly loved himself at the moment.  In fact he rather thought he hadn’t loved himself much for quite some time.

            His thoughts were getting muddled.  He tried again to make sense of it all.  He’d not been so much angry as terribly dismayed and frightened when Boromir had tried to take the Ring, and more frightened at what the Ring would do to Boromir should he find It in his possession than at what he’d feel should he lose possession of It.  He’d felt frightened when he realized how close the Enemy was to finding him as he sat in the Seat of Seeing on Amon Hen, and more frightened as he finally stood on the bank in those last moments before he slid the boat into the water to cross the lake above the falls of Rauros, knowing he was going to his death--alone, for he knew by then that he couldn’t just drop It or throw It away.  At that time he knew that the only way in which he could be certain of the destruction of the Ring would be to throw himself into the Fire and take It with him.  How could he otherwise make certain that It was destroyed?  How many times as they made their way down the River had he contemplated simply slipping that cursed chain with the Ring threaded upon it over his head--dropping It once more into the waters of the Anduin--seeing It lost for at least another Age of Middle Earth?  Save he--he alone--had vowed to do no such thing--not to throw It away or see It in any way left once more where It could possibly be found by the Enemy’s people and come back to him.  Not, of course, that he’d found himself able to do more than contemplate the idea as he looked at the surface of the river.

            When he’d discovered he no longer wore It when he awoke in the orc’s tower he’d been driven to distraction, certain as he was It had been discovered and was already on Its way back to Sauron himself.  But it wasn’t until he’d seen It in Sam’s hands and he’d then seen Sam--his Sam--as an orc himself, gloating over It, that he’d truly felt his own integrity was indeed shivering away under Its assault.  Had he slapped Sam then?  He wasn’t certain--some memories of the quest after they broke from the others were so muddled--or were simply missing--or seemed as if they’d occurred to someone else completely.

            Why had he agreed to take Sam with him when he’d broken away?  Sam shouldn’t have come with him at all--he should never have left the Shire, in fact!  His breath began to hitch as he thought on that.  Merry and Pippin--they should have remained safely in the Hall and at the Great Smial, not come so far to face the evils of the world as they had.  Sam should have married his Rosie by now, not gone gallivanting off into the wild as he had on a hopeless quest.

            Now, it certainly didn’t prove itself quite so hopeless, did it?

            He deserved better!  He deserved a better master--one who wouldn’t disturb his heart with histories of lands and people that had nothing to do with him.

            Nothing to do with him?  The Shire might be rather isolated, but does it not exist in the world alongside lands of Elves, Dwarves, and Men?  And do not the actions of other peoples affect it in the end?  Have wolves and orcs not entered the Shire?  Do Elves, Dwarves, and Men not pass through it?  Where were you when you first met representatives of each of those races?  Where were you when you first became aware that Evil sought to enslave all lands and peoples, and determined quietly in your heart you would oppose that Evil if you could?

            Frodo paused at that thought.  He’d been what--perhaps thirteen?--the first time he’d heard Bilbo, totally serious, discussing the further ramifications of his own quest with Uncle Rory, Uncle Sara, Merimac, and Paladin Took.

            “If you think that what’s going on in the outer world has no effect on us here in the Shire you are very wrong, Rory my beloved cousin and friend!  Look at that new plow you bought last year--who made it?”

            Rory had shrugged.  “I bought it out in Bree.  I’d not seen a design like that before, you know, and there’s no question it’s more effective than the one we used to use most of the time--not to mention the old one’s about worn out.  My grandda must have bought it a good hundred fifty years back, after all.”

            Bilbo had nodded.  “The metal was most likely mined by Dwarves, perhaps in the Iron Hills east of the Misty Mountains.  They probably also did the smelting and initial tempering of the metal, then traded it to the Men of the upper Anduin valley.  From what I saw, the design is one commonly used amongst the Beornings.  They probably actually crafted the plow, and purchased the wood used in the tree for it from the Elves of Mirkwood, and the leather for the traces from the Men of northern Eriador.  The Elves of Rivendell patrol the northern pass over the Misty Mountains to keep it open for those folk who pass back and forth through it.  The Beornings most likely sold the completed plow and others like it to traders from Dale or Eriador; they carried them through the mountains and the lands of the northern Men of Eriador to Bree; you went out to Bree and saw it at the fair there and purchased it to use here in Buckland.  You showed it to Adalgrim, who did drawings of it and showed those drawings to the craftsmen of the Tooklands.  Now that plow is being reproduced here within the Shire, and its like are probably being similarly crafted and used from Dead Man’s Dike to Tharbad and perhaps beyond.

            “It’s only because Dwarves, Men, Elves, and Hobbits all wish for the same thing--that all may be fed without breaking the heart and sinews of those who till the earth--that this new plow was made available to all.  So it’s ever been--an artisan of one race creates a new tool that is then passed to all other peoples, and somehow all races contribute to its making.

            “So it is with evil as well.  According to the Elves, goblins were twisted to their current shapes first by Morgoth and then by Sauron; and the Necromancer of Dol Guldur certainly made use of them--of goblins and the great wolves known as wargs, of trolls and the great spiders and other evil creatures.  And some of these have invaded the Shire in the past--goblins in the Battle of the Green Fields--the white wolves during the Fell Winter.  I’ve now faced goblins and wargs and trolls and spiders in my own journeys.  If you think that we would be spared if the Dark Lord were to rise again, you’re foolish.  He would send them again--and again and again until the Shire is laid waste and its people slain or enslaved as he did against the lands of Men, Elves, and Dwarves in the Dark Years of the Second Age.”

            That statement had made a deep impression on Frodo when he was young, and he had indeed vowed privately to himself that he would do all he could to oppose evil when he came across it.  Not, of course, that he’d found much in the way of evil within the Shire....

            You think not, Iorhael? queried the voice.  How many bullies have you and your friend Samwise deterred from lording it over children and others who were ill prepared to protect themselves effectively?  How often have you forced your cousin Lotho and the one who follows him so closely to pay for or return items you caught them pocketing in the Hobbiton market or elsewhere?  How often have you realized someone was being cheated or coerced and you have intervened on that person’s behalf?  How often have you spoken up to remind your fellows that it is wrong to ignore the suffering of those who, through no fault of their own, find themselves unable to provide for themselves and their families?  Evil is evil no matter the scale on which it is practiced, and not only have you fought it personally, but your example has inspired others to follow your lead.

            But Sam and the others would have done better to remain at home....

            Would they truly?  They might have been somewhat more comfortable had they remained in the Shire; but no Child of Iluvatar is guaranteed comfort.  And you do not yet know what each has been able to accomplish for the safety of Middle Earth and its inhabitants.  You do not yet fully appreciate what your own actions have accomplished, in fact.  Nor do you know for certain that those who did remain in the Shire have remained untroubled.  Think on the visions granted you in Lothlórien and on Amon Hen.

            He found himself shuddering, remembering the images of great armies of evil creatures approaching villages and cities, the eaves of forest kingdoms and the foothills of the mountain fastnesses.  Then he remembered Elrond suggesting that it might be best to send the two younger Hobbits back to the Shire as he was certain evil threatened it, and Sam dashing tears from his eyes as he turned from Galadriel’s Mirror, having seen his old dad wheeling what he could of his possessions away from Number Three in a barrow, declaring that as much as he worried for the Gaffer and the rest of his family and friends he’d go home by the long way or not at all.

            If only I’d remained in the Shire, perhaps I could have protected the Gaffer....

            And who, then, would have carried the Ring out of It?  Did you not do so in great part to protect those you love from Its destructive power?  Could you have done both at the same time--protected the Shire by remaining within It and by leaving it?  Since you could not do both, it was needful to allow those who remained within the Shire to see to their own protection.  And know this--there were those who were sufficiently forewarned to help stave off much of the worst that might have happened.

            Then evil did touch the Shire?

            Do not seek to take upon yourself responsibility for all, child.  You are not one of the Valar, and even they are neither all-powerful nor all-knowing.

            For a time Frodo’s mind gnawed only at the shadows of uncertainties, seeking something he might rightfully take blame for.  At last he thought, I ought to have been able to stop Gollum from taking It from me!

            He could feel the great sigh the voice gave.  Stubborn one!  Would you deny him his responsibility for his own choices and doings?  You forgave him the manner by which he took It from you, there upon the mountainside, recognizing that without his actions the quest would have failed.  Do you seek to take back that forgiveness now?

            No, but I ought to have thrown myself into the Fire with It--he’d be as free of It as I am now!

            And just how free of Its taint are you?

            That question stopped Frodo’s train of thought cold, and an even deeper shivering went through him.

            Nor would he have survived Its destruction--nothing you could have done would have extended his life further.  He carried It far, far longer than you did, and already his life had been extended many times what it ought to have been for his kind.  Only because his life was already bound to the continued existence of the Ring was he able to survive the loss of It to Bilbo’s keeping and then yours.  Would you have had him die to no purpose, simply for the glory of you being the one to die to see It destroyed?  And then, what of the life of the one who lies by you?

            Frodo turned his head to look at Sam, seeing the beloved form by him, too slender but not unhealthily so as had been true within Mordor--he remembered grieving at how much weight Sam had lost as he held him that last time, there when he was certain both of them would be dead within moments.

            Ah--how close it had come to both of them being dead.  He was not particularly glad that he himself had survived; but at least Sam had done so--Sam who had his Rosie awaiting his return, his Sam who had so much to live for, who would be the lover, husband, father he, Frodo, would never now be.  He had a sudden vision of Sam, as richly dressed as ever Bilbo had been, sitting at the Mayor’s desk in Michel Delving, a mug of ale by him, a young Hobbit lawyer presenting documents to be registered and filed, the lawyer’s attitude most respectful and indicating he was glad to be standing before one who had once been thought merely a gardener.

            Merely a gardener--as if there had ever been anything “merely” about Sam Gamgee!

            The voice agreed, Indeed, Iorhael.  Far more worthy than he’d ever considered himself he has proven.  We are well pleased with him, as we have been of the one who did pass through the Fire.

            It was with that thought in mind that Frodo slipped into sleep; and it was so Aragorn found him, with a gentle smile on his lips, when he came at the news that the Ringbearer had awakened.  So it was that, although he’d so wished to tell Frodo how glad he was that the Hobbit had both survived and awakened, he gently confirmed the doze Frodo knew as he carefully unwrapped the injured hand one last time, knowing it would be best that Frodo be able to see the loss had been limited to the one finger and no more.  He then gently brushed Sam’s forehead, and knew that the sturdy gardener would waken soon also.  Good!  He’d given the orders for the feast today, and he planned to see Merry and Pippin properly dressed to impress Frodo and Sam with the honor given them ere they saw the two of them.  They’d been honored yesterday as full knights of Rohan and Gondor, and had been acclaimed by the full host.  Today would be the day to do so for these two, the Ringbearers.  Gently he kissed the forehead of each Hobbit before he left to dress himself in the best garb available.  He would give full honor to them himself!

 *******

            He sat at the Feast between his father and mother, leaning forward over steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and fried, sliced turnips and platters of lamb and ham to speak with Aragorn, who’d been placed directly opposite him, when there was a pause in the chatter and all turned to the entrance to the Garden where the Feast was kept.  Two Maiar had appeared, leading a group of others those sitting about the great Table did not recognize at first.  They were Hobbits, and most likely primarily Stoors in heritage considering how dark their hair was and the fact that one of the two younger ones sported the hint of a beard on his chin.

            But it was the other one who’d caught Frodo’s attention, the one whose father and mother flanked him, the one leading the shy young Hobbitess by the hand, smiling to see her eyes light with delight and anticipation as she prepared to join the rest of the Company.  This young Hobbit was not dressed precisely as did the Hobbits of the Shire, although the trousers he wore were no longer than was common amongst the Hobbits Frodo had ever known.  It was the rope belt that led Frodo to recognize him, the same rope belt with a fish hook thrust through it he’d seen daily for several weeks’ journey between the Emyn Muil and the Pass of Cirith Ungol, the last thing his attention had fixed upon as he’d lain in agony on the stone of the Sammath Naur, that pale bone fish hook reflecting back the light of the molten stone pool below them.  His gaze rose to the eyes, and saw the same healing yet haunted gaze that had looked back into his own when he’d looked into a mirror within Minas Tirith and the Shire after his return.

            He who’d been Frodo Baggins of the Shire rose so swiftly his chair fell over behind him.  He ignored Sam’s look of concern that there might be a meeting that would somehow mar the joy of the Feast; he ignored the fact that one of the two Maiar who flanked the newcomers was Olórin.  His attention was fixed solely on the tall young Hobbit with the longer, straighter hair, as dark as his own, the finer features he sported, the eyes now clear and dark brown, twinkling to indicate this one had been as filled with curiosity and determination as had ever been the Baggins before him.

            Compelled, this one stepped forward half-warily, pulling himself up to his full height, only slightly shorter than Frodo himself, to face the Baggins, examining him much as the Shire Hobbit was doing.

            “So,” Frodo said softly at the last.  “At last you arrive to join us.”

            “Yes, Master.  You haven’t changed.”

            Frodo saw the look given his right hand, and held it up.  There were yet but three fingers and one thumb there, the third finger not reclaimed by him, for he’d come to acknowledge he accepted himself as he was, and the missing finger had become the symbol that he was loved, flaws and all, by all who knew him and the Creator Himself.  The newcomer gently reached out and took that hand, felt it all over, ran his finger from outstretched thumb to tip of little finger and back with a sense of wonder as he ran it across what ought to have been merely a stump, for the finger that could not be seen could be felt and traced.  He raised his eyes the color of a conker to meet those of the blue of the summer skies, and his face broke out in delight.  “You’re healed, Master!”

            “As are you, Sméagol!  Oh how long I’ve wanted to thank you!”

            “Thank me?  Thank me for what?”  Sméagol’s expression was startled and almost dismayed.

            “For saving me from that!  Oh, what I nearly became!”

            Sméagol could see no irony in the eyes of Frodo Baggins, only true gratefulness.  His mouth began to stretch into a wide grin.  “And I’m grateful, too, to you and Bilbo Baggins--for reminding me I was meant to be a Hobbit, too.  Your acceptance of me--it helped me find myself once It was gone.”

            At one and the same time they were throwing their arms about one another, their Lights shining fully as they embraced one another in joyful fervor.  My special brother!  It was impossible to say which one’s thought declared that first.  And then Frodo was dragging his companion to the table where a new chair had appeared alongside his own and Sam was already beginning to fill a new plate with wonderful delicacies, and Frodo was seeking to introduce his fellow to his parents as Sméagol was doing the same for Déagol and his family.

            Olórin looked on with joy and felt that familiar Presence at his shoulder.

            These lost ones are restored fully to their heritage now.

            Indeed, the Maia’s thought replied as music began to sound and Frodo began dragging others, including Sméagol, out to dance first the Husbandman’s Dance and then the Bounder’s Jig.  With a thought Gandalf made a golden rain of shining sparks that fell about Iorhael and those he loved most and those who loved him most in return, just as coppers, brasses, and a few silvers had been tossed about those who’d danced alongside Frodo Baggins when he’d performed the second dance within the Shire.

Beta by RiverOtter.

By Ship or Grave

By ship or grave, soon I must leave
the life that I’ve known.  For that I should grieve.
   But now the time comes I find I grieve not.
   I’ve found that to die’s not as hard as is thought.
Nay, it’s to live that is hard, now I find,
so little peace do I know in my mind.

By ship or grave, soon I must go
from the home of my heart.  Oh, Sam, let me go!
   Hold me not to this life; set me free of the Shire,
   for I’ve giv’n all I have, and all spent is the fire
of love for our people, of love for the land;
only ashes are left, one lone ember in hand.

By ship or grave I must soon get me hence.
O Merry mine, I know you must sense
   that my time, it has come. It’s time to be free
   of mem’ries and pain and the hollow I see
in the depths of my heart.  It scoured me out!
I need to be free of self-hatred and doubt.

By ship or grave.  Pip, surely you see
my heart, it is empty, and it yearns to lead me
   to seek delight elsewhere if such can be found.
   I’ll be soon o’er sea--or ’haps laid in the ground.
Oh, Pip, comfort Merry; hold fast to my Sam.
It’s here you belong to fulfill this sweet land.

By ship or grave--the time, it comes fast!
Each time I draw breath one more hour gallops past.
   Sweet Rose, hold him close; let him not follow me
   for it’s here in the Shire his fulfillment shall be.
May your smile give him comfort, your arms keep him warm,
and the love of your children keep his spirit from harm.

By ship or grave.  What a choice given me!
Yet though I am loved here, no comfort I see.
   My heart’s ever restless, for I find I yet seek
   the deceit of the En’my; I’d yet hear It speak
in the depths of my mind--how I hate It, and yet,
how bereft It has left me.  I cannot forget.

I fear it’s by grave that I’ll leave Middle Earth,
for barely they reach me with joy or with mirth.
   I see thy sweet smile through a grey veil of grief.
   Oh, Elanorellë, my time with thee’s brief!
Of all my Sam’s children it’s but thee I’ll know.
Greet them for me, Ellë, after I go.

I now choose by ship, if it possible be.
I’ve suffered the East; the West now I’ll see.
   Gandalf, hold my hand and please show me the way,
   and bear with my fear of the end of the Day.
A new Day I’ll know if I’m granted the grace.
May the breath of the Valar dry the tears from my face.

So I chose the ship, and it bore me away
through the darkness of Night to the Light of the Day.
   The Elves bore me up and the Maiar eased my pain,
   and by grace my dear Bilbo did by me remain
Till I once again could stand straight on my own;
and then he went on, beyond West he has flown.

I give thanks for the ship; I give thanks for the Love
that freed me from emptiness, that raised me above
   the pain of the mem’ries, the ache of the grief;
   that brought me to healing, and ease and relief.
I thank thee, sweet Eru; I praise you the more
though now my heart thrills to the thought of the Shore--

--the Shore beyond ships or the reach of the Sea,
the Shore that is promised to mortals like me.
   I’m glad I’m no Elf, e’er doomed to remain
   within bounds of Arda in Time’s great domain.
With Sam by my side I know one day I’ll see
the realm of Beyond, sweet Eternity.

Beyond ship or grave, my true home I’ll know.
And there will be more there to see and to show
   to those who come after.  I’ll greet each in joy!
   And new Purpose I’ll find for my spirit’s employ.
The blessings work backward the grief to fulfill.
I rejoice that You blessed me, and I’ve dwelt in Your Will.

By ship, not by grave, the Hero went hence,
who offered his life in our sweet world’s defense.
   He’d not thought to live once It was destroyed;
   yet he was returned, and his presence enjoyed
as long as he stayed.  Then he went away.
His example we bless.  For his easing we pray.

My birthday mathom to all of you!  Sam and I don't quite share the same day, although it's the same month....  And thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

The Birthday Blessing

            April sixth having come again, the King had come forth at dawn itself to watch the miracle of the day.  As Anor lifted her head above the Ephel Dúath the buds that had been building upon the White Tree began to open--first one, then three more, then six, then nine.  He watched in great pleasure as by the moment more and more blossoms all about the tree opened themselves, filling the Court of the Tree with their marvelous scent, wondering if Samwise Gamgee knew how his friend liked to spend the morning of Sam’s birthday.  He knew Frodo would approve.

 *******

            In the Garden of the Tree of Tol Eressëa there was rejoicing as the day progressed.  More and more blossoms seemed to be opening by the moment, and the Ringbearer was in a transport of delight, a delight gladly shared with the Elven children who had accompanied him here just ere dawn.

            “Aragorn must be thrilled, if the Tree before the Citadel is blossoming even as is ours here,” he confided to young Livwen, who’d become one of his favorites among the young ones who seemed to follow him in droves.  “As for Sam--he’d so love to see this glory!”

 *******

            Rosie woke as the first light crept in through her bedroom window.  She saw Sam was already up, and knew he was either out in the garden rejoicing in the day, or perhaps down already in the Party Field to watch the blooms upon the Lady’s Gift, as he commonly called the mallorn there, begin to open.  Wondrous it is, she thought, how it always seems to bloom on my Sam’s birthday.

            She rose and looked out the unshuttered window, peering downward.  Yes, there he stood, reflecting the gold and silver glory of the tree.  How Master Frodo must smile.

Written for the recipe-fic challenge on LiveJournal.  And with thanks to RiverOtter for the beta!

His Daily Bread

            Frodo awoke to the scent of baking bread.  He took a deep breath, rejoicing in the odors of yeast and flour, treacle and honey.

            “Ah--brown bread today!” he thought as he sat up.  He took stock; the sun was shining; his stomach was calm and head clear.  With only a mild ache to his shoulder, he found he looked forward to Rosie’s brown bread spread with sweet butter and May’s currant jam.  Today, he thought as he rose and began reaching for his shirt, trousers, and braces, it is good to be a Hobbit of the Shire.

            Frodo Baggins smiled.

Honey Wheat Bread

(directions for bread machine)

            1 cup lukewarm water

            1 teaspoon salt

            2 tablespoons honey

            1 tablespoon treacle (molasses)

            2 tablespoons soft butter or margarine

            2 cups whole wheat flour

            1 cup high-gluten bread flour

            1 package dry yeast

Place ingredients in bread machine in order given.  Set machine to “Whole Wheat” and “Light Crust.”  When bread is finished, rub butter over surface of bread and slice.  Excellent with currant jam!

With thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta.  Written for the LOTR Community Father's Day Challenge.  And with special thanks to Andrea.

The Extraordinary Son

            “Why not now?” said Sam.  “It’s not much more than six o’clock.  And I want to see my gaffer.  D’you know what’s come of him, Mr. Cotton?”

            “He’s not too well, and not too bad, Sam,” said the farmer.  “They dug up Bagshot Row, and that was a sad blow to him.  He’s in one of the new houses that the Chief’s men used to build while they still did any work other than burning and thieving: not above a mile from the end of Bywater.  But he comes around to me, when he gets the chance, and I see he’s better fed than some of the poor bodies.  All against The Rules, of course.  I’d have had him with me, but that wasn’t allowed.”

*

            The thought of his old dad being forced out of his comfortable, cozy home and into a brick monstrosity such as he’d seen along the Road as they’d come west from Lotho’s gate and the Shiriff House just inside it made Sam’s blood boil.

            “I knew,” he muttered to himself as he beckoned Jolly Cotton, Robin Smallburrow and one of the Boffin lads to him, “as there was mischief a-goin’ on here.  Lord Elrond--him all but said, and I did see him with a bit of his things in a barrow, there when my Mr. Frodo ’n’ me was lookin’ into the Lady’s Mirror.  Well, let my Gaffer be hurt, and that Chief of theirs’ll find hisself in bad straits come mornin’!”

            He caught Mr. Frodo’s eyes on him, all concerned, and realized that his Master had heard every word--but then, that had been true of him most of the time since he’d been stabbed by that Morgul knife--seemed to of sharpened his hearing, it had.  He gave a shrug and what he hoped was a reassuring nod to Frodo, who gave a brief, slightly worried smile in return.

            Frodo stepped toward him.  “Go quickly, Sam, and meet with us at the Cottons’ farm.  I doubt that any of these Men or whatever else they might be can reach your father before you can, and I think they will think twice ere they seek to face one of us who carries a sword.  But I do not wish for your father and Marigold to remain unprotected through another night any more than you do.”

            “Will do, Mr. Frodo, sir.  Will do.  And don’t you go pressin’ yourself too hard with me not by you to see to what you need, hear?”

            Frodo’s smile shone forth briefly.  “Thank you, Sam-my-lad.”

            Somehow hearing his master echo one of the Gaffer’s names for him gave Sam greater heart, and he gave his Master another nod before turning away to go seek his father.

*******

            Saruman rose with a sour feeling in his stomach, although he’d not allow that to show to those under him.  He found Gríma sitting hunched on the pallet that served him as a bed in the main room of this shed Saruman had taken for his own, and Lurtz, his primary lieutenant here in the Shire, was seated at the small table.  The former Wizard would rather have stayed within Bag End itself; but it would take considerable cleansing before it was fit again for habitation.  Why the Men and half-orcs he’d sent to Lotho Pimple’s side had taken it into their heads to befoul the place as they had he had no idea.  Well, actually he did know--the last word he’d sent into the Shire ere his arrival was to make certain that this precious Chief should begin to realize he was nowhere as much in charge as he’d thought; and his Men had, after all, been chafing at the idea they must answer to such a one as this for some time.  And so they’d done; and since the removal of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins to the Lockholes they’d turned to defacing Lotho’s precious hole with a vengeance.  Until he managed to have the place cleansed, this shack would have to do, he supposed.

            He looked on Gríma with distaste.  Since they’d been turned out of Orthanc the former counselor to Théoden had allowed himself to deteriorate markedly, and no longer stood up to his suggestions at all.  The former Wizard wasn’t certain whether of not he approved of this, although it effectively reduced the number of arguments he had to deal with.  “What news?” he demanded of Lurtz.

            Gríma glanced over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the unglazed window out of which he’d been staring.  Lurtz gave the former counselor to Théoden a disparaging stare before answering, “This morning--word from the Bridge.  Apparently the four Hobbits what went south come back, and set the Shiriff House there in an uproar.  Sent all the Shiriffs from ’round here to arrest them at Frogmorton.”

            “Too soon,” Saruman muttered.  “They ought to have remained on the road at least another week--then things would have been too far advanced to allow them to  undo them easily.  Curse them!  Did Gandalf come with them?”

            Lurtz shook his head.  “No one come but four Hobbits.” 

            The former White Wizard thought.  “Who are closest to this Frodo?”

            The Man shrugged.  “Ones closest to him went with him--his cousins and his gardener.  There are two cousins supposed to be close to him still here within the Shire, one in the Lockholes and the other in Overhill.  Pimple had that one’s home dug out--him and his old mum live in a run-down hand’s cottage on the farm his cousin runs.  The Bolger cousin’s family’s living in misery in an old storage hole on the edge of Budgeford.”

            “What of the families of the three who accompanied this Frodo?”

            “Those’re Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took, and his gardener, Samwise Gamgee.  We’ve not yet been able to get into the Tooklands or Buckland successfully.  There aren’t no boats to be found along the river what’ll carry any of our folk across; and those Shiriffs who’ve tried to get into Buckland for us have all been caught and sent running, beat or covered with honey or offal and garbage or something like, while those of our folk who’ve managed to get past the pits in the road’ve never got back.  No idea what’s become of ’em.”

            “Honey?  Garbage?”

            “I’m told it draws hornets.  Last one to come back was sick with stings.”

            Saruman’s eyebrows rose.   “Ingenious.  We shall have to remember that.”  He thought.  “And so far all we have been able to do is fire those fields on the borders of Buckland and the Tooklands.”

            “Yeah.  Our folk’ve caught two Tooks recently--one’s dead, and the other’s in the Lockholes.”

            “Yes--I know.  I saw him yesterday while I was there.”  He shivered, for what had been said to him by this Ferdibrand Took had been disturbing, particularly when the Hobbit, and the former Istar was certain he was now blind, had nevertheless informed him that his Light was spent.  What did a mere mortal know of the Light of Being?  And how could one who could no longer see even detect it?  “Tell me what you have been told of the Tooks and the Bucklanders,” he directed.

            Lurtz shrugged.  “The Brandybucks and Tooks are the two biggest families here in the Shire.  They’re related--I’ve been told by Pimple and the Bracegirdle what works with us they’ve always married each other.  It’s said the Tooks have Faerie blood, whatever that means; folks think them’s hard to predict, though they’re canny enough, I suppose.

            “The Brandybucks of Buckland are a stubborn bunch, and right independent.  So far all attempts to take anyone what lives in the Hall’ve failed.  Bill Ferny and Harry Goatleaf from Bree advised our folk not to try and get into Buckland from the east through the Old Forest; none what’s tried’s been seen again, neither.  We’re told the trees are aware and hate all with two legs.”

            His expression sour, Saruman examined the pitcher than sat upon the table, identifying its contents as cider.  Having little choice in the matter, or so he judged, he poured a measure into a waiting mug as he thought on what he’d just been told.  “Another wakened wood?  I wonder if Iarwain remains there?  He will need to be dealt with eventually.”  He sipped at the cider, deciding it wasn’t very good.  “And the parents of this Frodo Baggins and his companions?”

            “Baggins’s folks drowned when he was a child, and there’s no brothers nor sisters.  Merry Brandybuck’s got no brothers and sisters, and his closest folks beyond Frodo Baggins all live in Brandy Hall; while the sisters of Pippin Took are holed up with their folks in the Great Smial and we’ve not been able to get near to any of  ’em.  Merry Brandybuck’s the son of the Master of Buckland.  Peregrin Took’s the son of the Thain and family head for the Tooks.”

            “And we cannot reach family members for either one to use to influence this Frodo Baggins or his companions?”

            “No.”

            “What about the fourth--the broader one, the one who didn’t follow Gandalf to Orthanc?”

            “Samwise Gamgee--Baggins’s gardener.  Sandyman says his mother’s been dead for years, and his dad used to live in one of the holes Lotho Sackville-Baggins dug out at the base of the Hill.”

            “And where is his father now?”

            “Don’t know--Lotho Pimple had those what lived in the base of the Hill run out so’s he could dig out the holes there--decided to wipe ’em away.  Some of the others might know.  They say his brothers live in the Northfarthing, while his sisters live somewhere in Hobbiton, though I don’t know where.  This changing of names when they marry makes it too confusing.  None of the Hobbits I’ve talked to’ll answer questions on where such folks are--not since----”  He stopped speaking, and shrugged elaborately with a considering sideways glance at Wormtongue. 

            Not since Worm here killed their precious Chief? thought Saruman, and his lip curled.  Although they don’t know for certain--not yet!

            Aloud he said, “Find out where this Samwise Gamgee’s father lives, and let me know.  We will undoubtedly be able to use him.”

            Lurtz rose and gave a salute and left, pointedly ignoring Gríma.  After a moment the Dunlending-cum-Rohir said, “I’d advise not trying to seek to hurt the Ringbearer or the one who accompanied him.”

            Saruman sneered, “And what would you know of it?”

            Wormtongue turned to look at him.  “He carried Sauron’s Ring from here to Mordor.  I suspect he is much stronger than he looks.”

            “He is weak and sickly.  And he is merely a mortal, after all.”

            “And you are so much more, now your staff----”  He had no chance to finish the question, for Saruman had risen and struck him across the side of his head.

            “You know nothing about anything!” he hissed.  “Not all was lost with my staff!  And I still have this!”  He held up his hand to show the ring he’d wrought for himself, decorated with serpentine runes.  “The Grey Fool had forgotten about this, after all!”

            Gríma shrunk inside himself, clutching the place where he’d been clouted and cowering against the wall.  But he wisely kept his mouth shut.

            Saruman turned toward the ill-fitting door.  “Not all was lost with my staff,” he repeated.  “I still have untapped power.  And I will make this Ringbearer rue the day he returned to the Shire--I swear it!”

*******

            It took much of the day to find one of the lads who knew what had become of those moved out of the holes that had once lain at the base of the Hill.  “Them?” asked a former Dunlending named Erzant.  “Pimple had us build houses this end o’ the road from Bywater--said as none’d take him serious should he leave’m homeless.”

            “Why’d he dig out the old holes anyways?” Lurtz asked.

            Erzant shrugged.  “Wanted the whole o’ the Hill fer hisself, first.  An’ those what lived there was still this Baggins’s tenants--was still payin’ their rents to Baggins’s banker o’ discretion, what he could learn.  Was furious when him realized Baggins hadn’t sold him them holes along wi’ the big’un.  Didn’ wan’ any beholden to Baggins livin’ that close to him, seems like.  Then, him was certain as them’d dig upwards from their holes into his--steal all his and his momma’s riches--such’s them was.  Foolish one, Pimple.”

            “Surprised as he’d have you lads a-buildin’ houses for Shire-rats.”

            “Hoped as it’d keep us busy an’ out o’ trouble with the rest o’ the Shirelings, I s’pose.  Them was already watchin’ us, them was.”

            “Know as which one’s the Gamgee?”

            “Yeah--what of it?”

            “Sharkey wants ’im.”

            “Wha’ fer?”

            “Use ’im, o’ course.  Plans to use ’im ’gainst the four what come back, should they get this far.”

            “Tell ya what--shouldn’ o’ sent them fool Shiriffs to Frogmorton--should o’ sent us instead.  We know how to deal wit’ them what thinks them can stand up ’gainst Sharkey.”

            “Well, too late fer that.  You show me where them houses are--wasted all day a’lookin’ fer this ’un on me own.  We needs t’ get holt o’ this Gamgee ’n’ get him back t’ Sharkey double quick, we does.”

            There were three rows of shoddy houses built cheek-by-jowl over the site of a former common garden place.  “Firs’ row’s the one what the imps what was dug out o’ the bottom o’ the Hill’s livin’ in.  Fine places,” his fellow said with a laugh.  “Winnows as don’t open er close right, good pumps in ’em--Pimple insisted on that, him did.  Didn’t say as them should be set in any wells, though.”  He laughed again.  “Sof’ fool, that Chief o’ theirs.  Good thing’s we don’ have t’ lissen t’ him no more.”  He examined the houses across from him.  “Not sure’s which one has Gamgee ’n’ his daughter in’t.”

            “Daughter?  Thought as all his childerns was married an’ moved off savin’ this Samwise.”

            “Nah--there’s a daughter still at home, too--skinny li’l thing her is.  On’y pretty thing ’bout her was her clothes--them was right pretty--till them was all took by those Gatherers ’n’ Sharers o’ Pimples--his orders was the Gamgees was to have all took from them.  Wanted t’ punish ’em fer that Sam goin’ off with the Baggins upstart, er so’t seems.”

            “Then what’s the chief o’ the Gatherers ’n’ Sharers, then?  He could tell us!”

            Erzant smirked at him.  “Him’s leader o’ them Shiriffs what was sen’ off to Frogmorton, him was.”

            “In the name o’ the Eye!” spat Lurtz.  “These rats won’ answer me when I asks ’em anything!”

            “You ’spect sommat differnt?” Erzant asked him, shaking his head.

            Just then another of Sharkey’s folk spied them and came running.  “Lurtz,” he gasped out, almost out of breath.  “Boss wants you double-quick.”

            “But I was just fetchin’ that Hobbit what he wants!” Lurtz objected.

            “Too late fer that--them Hobbit’s what got the ones at the gate all hot ’n’ bothered--them jus’ rode in off the Road into Bywater, bold’s brass, and sent Brankin an’ five others runnin’.  The Boss wants’em dealt with--now!”

            “How many o’ our chaps have we got?”

            “’Bout thirty, mebbe.”

            “Where are they exactly?”

            “There near the new mill.  That lout Sandyman raised the alarm.”

            Sighing, Lurtz gave Erzant a look.  “Well, ’pears as we’re needed, then.  Go round up clubs fer ever’one.”

            Erzant nodded, and together they turned away from the row of houses lying in the growing shadow of a late autumn sunset.

            Within his own house, the Gaffer watched through the gap that had formed  between two rows of bricks, breathing a sigh of relief they’d gone.  He’d sent Marigold off to Daisy’s place earlier in the day, having a feeling that things had been too quiet since the last visit from the Gatherers and Sharers.  No, ’twouldn’t of done had them two of Lotho’s Big Men actually come a-calling.  He wondered what had drawn them away, and again whispered, “Ah, Sam-me-lad----’tis time t’come home, don’t ye know!  Hurry, son--don’t know as how long we c’n continue t’hold them fools off!”

*******

            An hour or so later the Gaffer, who’d retired in the face of wood and candle restrictions, heard another row outside--voices of Hobbits, raised in spirited discussion.  He couldn’t tell precisely what they were saying--it was all he could do to admit even to himself that his hearing had decreased a good deal in the past year.  Most likely it was due to living in this drafty hovel rather than in a properly snug hole, he thought.  That cold he’d had last winter hadn’t done him any good, he knew.

            “Over there--fourth house in!” he heard.  Sounded like Jolly Cotton.

            Shivering, the old Hobbit got out of his pitiful bed and grabbed up a club he’d been provided with by one of Daddy Twofoot’s lads, and set himself behind the door.  The door couldn’t be properly locked, they’d learned, and he refused to wedge a chair under the knob each time he went to bed--well, the actual fact was that he couldn’t seem to remember to do that each time.  Well, let them come--he was ready!  But the thought that it was young Jolly who’d led them Big Men here hurt, it did!

            But it was a more familiar voice that called out, one he’d almost despaired of hearing.  “Gaffer!  Dad!  You in there?  You doin’ good?”

            “Sam!” he breathed, and the club fell and clattered on the laid-brick floor.  He scrabbled at the door, trying vainly to pull it open.  “My Sam!  Sam-me-own--if’n you ain’t but the most blessed ninnyhammer as I’d never thought t’see agin!” Finally the door fell open, and he saw his youngest son’s relieved face and foolish smile once more, as Sam stood there, weak with relief, peering into the darkness.  The older Hobbit threw himself on Sam’s neck.  “Come, lad--where’n Middle Earth you been?  Nah, don’ mind me, lad--just you couldn’t of come at a better time.  Them Big Men o’ the Chief’s--they was thinkin’ o’ takin’ me earlier, I’m thinkin’.”

            Sam pulled back, alarmed.  “You sure about that, Dad?”

            “Reasonable sure, son.  There was two of ’em, right over there, with those awful boots o’ theirs an’ cudgels to hand, lookin’ at the houses an’ mutterin’ atween themselves.  Then another ’un come ’n’ called ’em aways.”

            “Must of been couple of them as we just captured.”

            “Captured?”  The Gaffer straightened, and looked--really looked at his son.  “What’s this ’bout catchin’ folks?”

            “We’ve come home, Gaffer--Mr. Frodo, Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin and me, and we’ll be gettin’ all these Big Men out of the Shire.  We didn’t go all the way to the Mountain and back to see half-orcs and ruffians in charge here.  Mr. Frodo--I’m not goin’ to let what he did be for nothin’--you watch and see.”  The look in Sam’s eyes was steely--determined and steely.  Never had Hamfast Gamgee seen such an expression in his child’s eyes, and he was half afraid he might have had quite a different Samwise Gamgee come back to him.  “Black Riders from here to Rivendell and beyond, orcs in the Misty Mountains and all the way to the Mountain, and then these fools here in the Shire when we get back   Just ain’t fair!  Good thing as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin’s soldiers now!”

            “Black Riders?  You mean them black folk what come askin’ questions ’bout the young master the night as you lads left Bag End?”

            “Yes, I mean them.  They won’t be back, though.  What we can tell, them’s all destroyed now, once the Ring went into the Fire there at the Mountain.”

            “What’s this ’bout mountains?”  He realized that his son didn’t feel quite right in his embrace and pulled back to examine him.  “Them’s right strange clothes, lad.  Since when you started wearin’ metal weskits?”

            “That’s where we went, Dad--to the Mountain in Mordor--Mr. Frodo--him had to get rid o’ the Enemy’s Ring.  And this is what lots o’ folks wear there, outside the Shire--have to, to keep’em safe.  Too many enemies out there.  Well, come on--we’re goin’ to the Cotton’s farm tonight.”

            The Gaffer felt a pang of alarm.  “Can’t do that, lad--the Chief--him don’t ’low folks t’be away from their places at night--don’t like them wanderin’ about even in the daytime.”

            Young Jolly answered, “Don’t think as the Chief’s much able t’object, Gaffer--not with a sizable lot of his folk captured.  We’d best get goin’, though, as it’s gettin’ darker, and we don’t know as how many of the Big Men didn’t fight but is lingerin’ about the edges, if you take my meaning.”

            “What’d him say, son?” the Gaffer asked, who’d not understood more than three words of ten of what Jolly had said.  “And how’d anyone manage to catch any o’ them Big Men?”

            “It was Mr. Merry as done it, Dad.  Him and Mr. Pippin, they’re soldiers now.”

            “And how did Mr. Brandybuck an’ Mr. Took get hold of any soldiers?  And where’s them goin’ t’put them?”

            Sam sighed.  “Dad--we can discuss this later--let’s get you out of here.  It’s awful!  Don’t the privy work?”

            “Privy?  Nah--ain’t worked right since we was forced t’come here.  And that Lotho--if’n him didn’t ruin my taters!”

            “Let’s get some clothes for him,” Sam said to Jolly and Robin.

            “Don’t hardly have nothin’ left--them Gatherers an’ Sharers took almost ever’thin’ as Marigold an’ me had.”

            “And where is she?”

            “With Daisy an’ Moro--sent her off.  Somethin’ just felt off today.”

            He saw the further relief and approval in Sam’s face.  And somehow that pride made him feel warm all over.

            In moments they’d gathered what clothing and possessions they could find and were headed off toward the Cottons’ farm, the Gaffer leaning hard on Sam’s arm.  As they walked Sam tried to explain where he’d gone with Mr. Frodo and his cousins, but the Gaffer just wasn’t taking it all in.  “Ye don’ say?” he kept saying.  “Fancy that!”

            Sam sighed again.  “We’ll talk of it once we’re there and settled in,” he said.  “My Mr. Frodo--he’ll help get it all sorted out, he will.  The King’ll stand ahind him, too.”

            “What King?” asked Robin Smallburrow.

            “The King--our own Strider--he’s the King now--we went south with him, and was aside him when they give him the Crown and Sceptre.  Haven’t you been listening?  The King’s come back, and we know him!”

            “Who knows him?” demanded Robin.

            “We do!” Sam said.  “Mr. Pippin, Mr. Merry, Mr. Frodo and me--we all know him!  There’s a King again, and I’ll tell you as he’s well worth the honorin’.”

            The Gaffer looked at his Sam, standing so straight, his face with a pride that lit him up like a home at Yuletide, a smile that the Gaffer had only seen before in relation to Mr. Frodo.  He found himself shaking his head with the wonder of realizing there was one more that his Sam loved as he did his Master.  And then Sam was shaking himself.  “Ah--time now to be gettin’ on--I want to check on my Master, and I want to see Rosie--make certain as she’d really here, waitin’ for me!”

            Then they were at the Cottons’ door, and it was opening to accept them.  The Gaffer’s eyes widened at the sight--the farmhouse was as brilliantly lit as it had ever been; the fire on the hearth burned defiantly bright in the face of the growing chill of the early November night; the smell of a rich stew and fresh-baked scones filling the kitchen.

            And there at the table sat the son of the Master of Buckland, somehow much bigger than he remembered him.  Why, Mr. Merry must be a-sitting on cushions, considering how much taller he sat than Master Frodo, who’d always been amongst the tallest of Hobbits the Gaffer had ever known.  As for Master Frodo----

            He’d lost weight, for one thing--looked much as he’d looked when he first come to Bag End back when him was but a young tween, slender and somewhat wary.  And there was a crease there atween his eyebrows, one as told of worry and probably some pain.  For once, Hamfast thought, Master Frodo looked very near his proper age, and he wasn’t quite certain as he liked it.  Didn’t seem right--not for this Hobbit of all Hobbits in the Shire.  But in spite of the thoughtfulness of his expression, his face still lit up when they were admitted to the kitchen and were escorted to the table.  “You found him.”  But then worry crossed Mr. Frodo’s face again.  “But Marigold?  Where is she?”

            “With Moro and Daisy, Dad tells me,” Sam assured him.

            “I saw her just afore we joined the fight,” young Tom told him from his place at the table.  “I asked Moro t’stay with’em, you see, with Daisy and Marigold.  The way this Sharkey is, I’d expect almost anything from him.  I doubt as he’d think twice about usin’ those as you love against you as he could, Sam.  He’s a vicious one, and the Big Men will do about anything as he suggests.”

            “Good evenin’, Mr. Baggins,” the Gaffer began.  “I’m glad enough to see you back safe, but I believe as I have a bone to pick with you, in a manner o’ speakin’, if I might make so bold.  Now, what fer did it ever enter yer head to sell Bag End to that Lotho Pimple?!  That’s where the problems all started, I’ll have you know.  And while you been trapessin’ about, chasin’ Black Riders up and down mountains from what my Sam tells me--and I don’t half understand that fully, I’ll have you know--they been and dug up Bagshot Row and ruint my taters!”

            Mr. Frodo grew pale, although the apple of his cheeks became quite decidedly pink, and the Gaffer realized that he’d made the young Master fully appreciate the enormity of his decision to allow Pimple and his detestable mother to take possession of Bag End.  Almost he was sorry he’d said anything, seeing the distress in the Baggins’s eyes, but at this point he decided it was best all this was out in the open.

            He could see Mr. Frodo considering how he should answer.  “I’m very sorry,” the proper Master of the Hill finally said.  “But now that I am back I shall do my best to make amends.”  And looking into those blue eyes, he knew that Frodo Baggins would do his best to do exactly that--Frodo was not merely seeking to placate him, but had just pledged himself to seeing the Shire renewed and things put back right as much as was possible.  Well, he knew well the value of the word of a true Baggins like Frodo or Bilbo Baggins, and he felt a good deal of relief in his heart.

            “Well,” the Gaffer responded magnanimously, “you can’t answer fairer’n that.  Mr. Frodo Baggins is a true gentlehobbit, as I’ve ever said, no matter what’s true of some others o’ the name, beggin’ yer pardon, sir.  An’ I hope as my Sam’s behaved hisself and given full satisfaction?”

            He noted the relief in Mr. Frodo’s face, and the growing pride--ah, how proud Mr. Frodo had ever been of the Gaffer’s Sam and the special friendship between them.  “Perfect satisfaction, Mr. Gamgee,” he said with a special smile at Sam.  “Indeed, if you will believe it, he has become one of the most famous of people of any race in all the lands, and they are making songs celebrating his deeds from here to the Sea and to beyond the great River!”  He turned to look the Gaffer full in the face so that the old Hobbit could be of no question as to the truth of what he would say.  “He helped to save all of Middle Earth, sir, and the King himself is proud to call him friend.”

            His Sam was flushing at the praise, but was also grateful to his Master, the Gaffer noted, as all noted how Rosie’s eyes were shining.

            “It takes some believin’,” the Gaffer said, “although ye can see as he’s been mixin’ in some strange company.  But where’s his proper weskit?  I don’t hold well with wearin’ ironmongery, ye see, whether it wears well or no.”

            Sam flushed even redder, while Mr. Meriadoc broke down into a fit of helpless laughter, and even Mr. Frodo was choking on the swallow of drink he’d just taken and had to have his back pounded upon.  At last the Brandybuck rose, and the Gaffer realized he hadn’t been sitting on anything, but had truly grown taller--unprecedentedly taller--than any Hobbit ought to be.  His face was filled with glee.  “I’ll have you know, Mr. Gamgee, that the King himself requested that mail given to him, and it was made originally for the son of a great King, long, long ago, or so I was told when we returned to Minas Tirith.  When my cousin tells you that the King himself is proud to call your son his friend, he’s speaking the full truth--our Lord Strider loves and honors your Sam more than almost anyone else in all of Middle Earth.”  His laughter was gentling into a glowing pride.  “He’s known as ‘the Faithful’ and ‘the Steadfast’ and ‘the Hopeful,’ your Samwise, and his wisdom and courage and determination are honored by Men, Elves, Dwarves, Ents, and Eagles.  Goblins fear him, and evil folk quail at his look of displeasure.”

            The Gaffer feared that if his poor Sam managed to flush any more his hair would turn red!  “Now, Mr. Merry, you needn’t say that----” he began.

            “You know how embarrassed you made that Lord Wasnior from Umbar, Samwise Gamgee.”

            “Well, him was bein’ right foolish and you know it!”

            “As you made clear.  He’ll be very careful with what he says should he meet another Hobbit, you can believe.  You all right now, Frodo?”

            Mr. Frodo was still struggling with his choking.  “I’m all right,” he finally managed.  “Oh, that was so funny!  Thank you so, Mr. Gamgee.  Indeed, Sam wears the mail of princes, and no one deserves it more!”  And the Gaffer noted that the great love the young Master had ever borne for his son had deepened during their long absence.  “I’m proud to think of your son as the brother of my heart, even as is true of the King himself.”

            And with that thought the subject was dropped, and all turned to filling empty bellies--all, he noted, but Mr. Frodo, who ate heartily enough at first, but quickly was reduced to pushing food about his plate with bread and fork rather than truly eating.  And soon after that old Tom was showing Frodo to a room in the large farmhouse where he might sleep the night.  Ah, yes--his grandparents had boasted a family of ten children; at least there was no dearth to rooms in which to house the guests they’d accepted.  The Gaffer watched after with concern to match that on his son’s face.

            He and Sam were given the same room, one old Tom Cotton had once shared with his brother as they'd grown up here among their still-young aunts and uncles.  The large bed was comfortable, and the hastily produced linens and thick blanket were luxurious after so long sleeping beneath the one thin coverlet left him by the Gatherers and Sharers.  “I’m surprised as them thieves left you any extras,” he commented to Lily Cotton as she finished tucking in the blanket.

            “One good thing about livin’ on a farm--there’s places and places to hide extras at need; and it’s obvious most of the Big Men don’t appreciate Hobbit sensibilities.  Not what we was hit as hard as some.  They’d take extra food from us, but left most of our goods alone, although they took my promise ring as Tom gave me years ago.  Anyways, you two ought to be comfortable enough.”

            Sam asked, “Might I be free in the kitchen a mite afore I go to bed, Missus Cotton?  I’d make up some of the tea as I brew for my Master.  Seems to help him sleep better when he has it in him.”

            “Of course, Sam--you’re free to do whatever you please.  He’s lookin’ rather--peaked, if I might make so bold.”

            “Him went through a long bout of it, Missus Cotton--a long bout of it.  But now as we’re home I intend to see him built back up, if’n it can be managed.  What they said of me--how the King loves me as a brother--well, it’s even more true of him, you see--the King loves him even the more.  But it came at a price--a high price.  I’ve learned--it ain’t easy to become a hero, and it can scour you right out, it can.”  And with that he went out for a time, following Lily back to the kitchen.  At last the Gaffer could hear Sam’s voice in the next room, answered by Mr. Frodo’s higher, clearer one, both soft.  Then he heard the closing of a door, and at last the opening of the one for this room.  “You awake still, Dad?” Sam asked quietly.

            “Yes--still wakin’, I am.  And yer Master?”

            “He needed the tea tonight, I’m thinkin’.  I hope as he’ll sleep deep, and without dreams.”

            The Gaffer watched as Sam undressed, carefully slipping the metal shirt over a chair.  “Yer not plannin’ on continuin’ to wear that?” he asked.

            Sam considered it thoughtfully.  “Until all these Big Men is gone--yes, Dad--I’m goin’ to wear it.  These folk ain’t like Strider and his kin or the Men of Gondor--these is footpads and thieves and worse, and will undoubtedly knife you as easy as look at you.  And I’ll see to it as Mr. Frodo wears his mail, too.”

            “But him wasn’t wearin’ no metal weskit, lad!”

            “Oh, but he was--under his clothes--that Dwarf mail as Mr. Bilbo brought home years ago--the mail as he’d kept in Michel Delving’s Mathom House till he left the Shire.  Mr. Bilbo--he gave it to Mr. Frodo when we found him in Rivendell--yes, Dad, he’s still alive, livin’ amongst the Elves, he is.  He gave the mail and his old sword to Mr. Frodo, and he’s carried them ever since.  But it’s thinner and can be fully hid under his clothes, so that’s where Mr. Frodo wears it.  And until I’m certain as the Shire’s safe again, Mr. Frodo’s goin’ t’wear it, he is, same as me and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin.”

*******

            It was that foolish Brankin who first stood with five others to threaten the four newly returned Hobbits, and who’d insisted on leading the thirty who’d marched into Bywater.  Lurtz had finally agreed to let the dolt have his way, although he sensed that these four Shire-rats weren’t likely to be easily cowed and indeed were heartening their fellow Hobbits to stand effectively against them.  So it was that Lurtz stood back and watched as Erzant followed Brankin into the ambush within Bywater, and he was a witness to just how poorly this group had read Hobbits of the Shire.  He was shocked and disturbed--these Hobbits could win against them--Saruman’s own folk!  And he was determined this wouldn’t happen.  He’d get that Samwise Gamgee’s father so he could be used against the four newcomers if it was the last thing he’d do.

            But when he reached the three rows of shoddy brick houses at the end of the Bywater Road he realized once again he was too late, as he watched three Hobbits, one with a sword worn negligently at his side as if he were long accustomed to its presence, bring out a fourth, worn with years yet still lively.  He was, he realized, too late to give Sharkey that advantage.  No, they’d have to rely on proper weapons and their size now--these Hobbits had always been intimidated by the sheer size of them as Men.

            With that thought in mind he headed to the farm toward Waymeet where that group was likely to come.  They had established an armory there of sorts....

            When, the next day, he found himself amongst the captured, Lurtz wasn’t certain how it had happened.  He had walked right into another ambush, had been caught on the side of the head by a farmer’s hoe and had an arrow in his shoulder, and was now being treated by a Hobbit healer who was being advised by one of the exceptionally tall Hobbits who’d accompanied the Ringbearer.

            “You’ll have to break the shaft, then pull it through,” the tall Hobbit was saying.  “With that head you’ll not be able to pull it back without doing significant damage, you see--he might even lose the use of his arm if you were to try, or so Aragorn explained it to me.”

            Uncertainly the healer nodded, and soon had it out of him, then was packing the wound with healing herbs and bunched cloth, then was winding it with proper bandages.  “I’m not so certain just why we’re even trying to help them,” the healer commented as he finished tying off the cloth.

            The tall one was looking sideways at the one identified as the Ringbearer, who wore typical Hobbit garb as opposed to the warrior’s gear worn by the two tall ones and the Gondorian surcoat over his gilded mail worn by the Hobbit he’d seen the night before as he’d escorted his father to safety.  “Frodo’s demanding it,” he said quietly.  “I don’t properly understand it, either; but then Strider did much the same, apparently, after the battles he was engaged with--once folks laid down their weapons he saw to it they were treated mercifully and better than they deserved, and then he had those who wished to return to their homes escorted to the borders of their lands, while those who didn’t wish to do so--usually those who’d been injured whom he’d treated himself--were questioned and finally settled in places where they had the best chance of living good lives afterwards.  Now, we’re in no position to see any of these escorted all the way to Dunland, and certainly Strider won’t wish them to return to Isengard; but we will show them our borders.  Should any of them seek to return to the Shire, however, I suspect even Frodo won’t be upset should we shoot them outright, although I suspect we’ll give most to those of the Rangers who will soon resume warding our borders.  Although I’d relish sending a few through the Hedge, myself--see what Old Man Willow and the Barrow-wights make of them!”  He gave Lurtz a very serious look.

            Lurtz lay back, and a Hobbit woman came by and laid a blanket over him, one he found himself hugging to his shoulders as he turned on his good side and closed his eyes.  Then he felt a gentle hand on his brow.  “You awake enough to drink somethin’?” he heard a voice say.  It was the golden Hobbit, the one with the broadest form of the four who’d returned. 

            He sat up with some difficulty, and the Hobbit held a large mug, such as Hobbits used when drinking ale, to his mouth.  It was some kind of herbal drink, and one that both slaked thirst and heartened one as it was swallowed.  For some reason he couldn’t fathom, once he’d drunk Lurtz murmured, “Thank you.”

            The golden Hobbit’s expression immediately grew less stern, even approving.  “Well--then your mum did seek to teach you some lessons--once upon a time.  Good enough then.  It’s time, don’t ye think, as you went back home to her again--saw to her welfare for a change?  I don’t think as Saruman’s in much shape to offer you much of a life from now on, if’n he’s the one as saw you here.  We’ll be sortin’ out the Boss and the Chief today, you see.  King Arvedui the Second give these lands to us, the Hobbits of the Shire; and the King Elessar’s confirmed that gift once again.  We Hobbits as live here gets to decide who stays and who goes, not ruffians and footpads and fallen Wizards.  You understand that?”

            Lurtz nodded.  Just then the Ringbearer himself approached, a basket of bread in his hand.  “All well in hand here, Sam?” he asked, his voice cultured and musical.

            The one called Sam turned, an unconscious smile crossing his features.  “Yes--and I found one as has some true manners, even.”

            The Ringbearer’s eyes searched Lurtz’s--and he felt both frightened and then heartened beyond what he’d ever felt before.  The Ringbearer might be slight compared to the rest, but there was a level of authority to him to which that put forth by Sharkey was but a pale copy.  “Manners in a former enemy?  Good--may they continue to stand him in good stead as he goes forth to seek a new life for himself.”

            A benediction?  He’d been given a blessing by one of these Hobbits--one of these ratlings?  It was at that moment that Lurtz found himself turning fully away from what he’d been, however; and his life once he left the confines of the Shire became something of which he could feel proud.

*******

            On awakening the first morning there in the house on the Cottons’ farm, the Gaffer gave Mr. Frodo a good look over before they left for the village proper.  He couldn’t see as the Baggins was wearing any mail under his clothes; but he had to admit it had been years since he’d seen Mr. Bilbo’s mail shirt, and he couldn’t rightly remember as just how thick it might be.  However, Frodo did, at Sam and Merry’s insistence, wear the swordbelt and sword the Gaffer remembered from the days it had hung over Mr. Bilbo’s study fire.

            Sam wasn’t happy that the Gaffer had decided to follow those who went into Bywater and later to Bag End, but at Nick and Nibs’s assurance they’d keep an eye on the old Hobbit he finally agreed.  So it was that he was there to see the Battle of Bywater and then the confrontation between Mr. Frodo and that Sharkey, and realized that all four of the Travelers had recognized the villain.  But it wasn’t until Sharkey started to leave and passed by Frodo Baggins, suddenly stabbing at him viciously with his hidden knife, that the Gaffer realized first the full hatred felt by this one, whoever and whatever he’d been, for Mr. Frodo; and then that what Sam had said was true--that Frodo did indeed have that fine metal mesh under his clothing, for as he turned to face Sharkey again the Gaffer could see it shimmering through the new rent in his clothes.  And as Frodo spoke, the Gaffer could sense the strength of the authority in the old-young Hobbit--authority and compassion.  Even Sam, whose sword had been held at this Sharkey’s throat for what he’d tried to do to his beloved Master, stood up and withdrew his sword at Frodo’s word. 

            “No, Sam--do not kill him, even now.  For he has not hurt me.  And in any case I do not wish him slain in this evil mood.  He was great once, and of a noble kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against.  He is fallen and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope he might find it.”

            What it was Master Frodo could see in the eyes or heart of this great ruffian Hamfast Gamgee could not imagine.  Sharkey got to his feet slowly, his eyes fixed upon those of the Hobbit with----  Well, the Gaffer was certain he saw a number of emotions in that once-fair face:  hatred and envy, respect and frustration--and weariness--a great, overriding weariness--a wish to set aside what he’d been doing to return to something quite different.

            Afterwards the Gaffer was to think often on what the strange ruffian said to Frodo Baggins; of how wise and compassionate--and cruel he was.  How compassion could be cruel the old Hobbit wasn’t certain, but he’d noted that Master Frodo had denied none of it.  He’d noted also that Frodo Baggins had failed to protest the words promising him neither health nor long life--and realized that this was a truth Frodo had already accepted for himself.  The very fact he didn’t protest only seemed to increase the ruffian’s fury toward him, until he lashed out at that Worm-creature who’d followed him into the Shire, releasing all the pent-up resentment on him.

            One of the Took archers stood near the Gaffer, Nick, and Nibs, and when the Worm-creature snapped at Sharkey’s taunts he automatically raised his bow and let the arrow nocked to the string fly before the Gaffer could protest.  And so the Man died, a shadow of what he must have once been; and all watched the grey pillar of ash appear to rise above the body of the one he’d slain, only Master Frodo and Sam appearing to appreciate what they saw happening.

            Little was left of Sharkey--a shrunken form; a pile of rags; a single ring that was picked up with a grimace by young Pando Proudfoot, and swiftly hidden away by Sam in an old salt-cellar brought out from Bag End, one that must have been Lotho and Lobelia’s, as the Gaffer had never seen it afore.

            They returned to the Cottons’ farm then, and Master Frodo appeared unable to eat at all, at last pleading a headache and retreating to his room.  Sam sighed, then set himself to brewing some more of his special herbal tea for his Master, then took it to him, closing the door as he went in.

            The Gaffer followed his son at a distance, and once the door was shut he approached and laid his ear to the wood.  “I do not think I could keep it down, Sam,” Master Frodo was saying.

            “You need somethin’ in your stomach, at least, and this may help ease you at least some, Master,” Sam responded.

            After a time, Frodo said quietly, “And did you see--the pillar of black cloud--like what we were told was seen when--It--went into the fire?  I was right--he and Sauron were of the same sort originally.  But it was so--pathetic, Sam!  He was a great one--one of the servants of the Powers--and all he could come to in the end was--that?”

            “He’d spent his Light, Master,” Sam said.  “’Twas next to nothin’ left of him.  All as was left was what darkness as he’d gathered to hisself, and even that was little enough compared to Sauron.  He’d become puny--little and petty, a spirit of malice, gnawin’ at isself for it couldn’t reach out to truly capture the Light of anyone else, not the way Sauron had.  You heard Strider, tellin’ as how Sauron had learnt to make altars to hisself and grow on the lives of them as was kilt for him.”

            “At least he’d not progressed to that, or at least I hope not; although I suspect he was on the verge of it when he was captured by the Ents.”

            “Now you drink the rest of that, Master, and sleep awhile.  I’ll be nearby in case them nightmares strike you--don’t be too proud to call for me, understand?”

            “Yes, Sam,” he heard the Master say.  Then he added, “Aragorn and Gimli were right, you know--naming you Fully Wise.”

            “Now, Mr. Frodo----” 

            The Gaffer often had difficulty hearing conversations going on around him, yet he never questioned he’d heard every word between these two.  Well, he had a thing or two he wished to say to the young Master, once his Sam was gone.  He retreated to the bedroom given him and Sam, and waited until he heard the door to the next room open and then close, at which time he himself went out to knock on Mr. Baggins’s door.

            “Enter,” he heard, and the Gaffer smiled as he turned the knob and went in.

            The jacket, waistcoat, and shirt Frodo had worn had been removed, and the silvery corslet had been arranged over the back of a chair.  Frodo wore now only a quilted shirt of some kind, one of a style such as the Gaffer had never seen before.  Seeing the direction of the older Hobbit’s attention, he said, “Aragorn had this made for me to wear under the mithril shirt.  We don’t know what became of the leather padding that came with it after it was taken from me in Torech Ungol.”

            “I’m glad as ye was wearin’ it today.”

            “As am I--I would not have relished dying as a result of murder committed by a former Wizard.”

            “Wizard?  Him was a Wizard?  Like Gandalf?”

            Mr. Frodo turned his head away, nodding slightly, and closing his eyes.  “Yes--and intended to be the greatest of the five.  But he fell from his wisdom, and we all saw to what he came in the end.”  He rubbed his eyes with his hand, and for the first time the Gaffer noted that there was a finger missing from it.  “Alas, Saruman.  What you might have done and become had you been faithful!”

            They remained still for a time while the Gaffer considered the missing finger and lost weight, and the silver to be seen at Master Frodo’s temples, and the echoes of pain in his face and very posture.  At last he asked, “You said as they call my Sam ‘the Faithful’ and all.  What do they call you?”

            The younger Hobbit’s eyes opened and he dropped his hand into his lap, suddenly aware that the loss had been noted, his eyes apparently focused on the gap where the finger was gone.  At last he answered, “Frodo of the Nine Fingers.”

            Finally deciding that was all Frodo intended to say, the Gaffer asked, “And that’s all?”

            Frodo shrugged.  “Oh, there is a good deal more, I suppose.  Not that the rest of it matters any.”

            “You lied to us folks of the Shire as to why you was leavin’ Hobbiton, didn’t you?”

            “Not really.  I just did not tell everything.”

            “And Sam wasn’t goin’ with you to take care of the gardens at Crickhollow.”

            “No--he went with me because he was caught spying on Gandalf and me, because he could not let me go into danger on my own.  And the others went for the same reason.”

            “And you brought him back.”

            At that Master Frodo’s eyes lifted to those of the Gaffer.  “No, Master Gamgee, I did not bring him back--no, instead he brought me back.  He kept on by my side even when I ordered him to stay back, I hoped safe.  But now I have learned that even had he remained here in the Shire he would not have been safe.  They would have tried to use him against me--Lotho and Saruman--this Sharkey as you knew him.  Not even going away kept the Shire safe--and that is why I left in the end--to keep the land I loved safe.  I failed in that.”

            “And how could you goin’ of kept the Shire safe?”

            “Saruman--Sharkey--and the Black Riders--they were all after the same thing, and would have destroyed the Shire to find it.  Although I suspect the Black Riders and--and their Master--would have been far more--efficient--about doing it than Sharkey and his Big Men proved.  At least by taking It away I was able to draw the Black Riders after me.”

            “Then you did manage to save the Shire after all,” the Gaffer suggested.  “I’ll admit as I didn’t like them Big Men, but none of ’em made my skin crawl like them Black Folk.  At least the Big Men was proper folk, mean and selfish as they was.”

            At last Frodo nodded, although he didn’t add anything to what he’d said.

            After more consideration the Gaffer said, “I wanted to say somethin’ to ye, Master Frodo.  You know as I’ve always thought as my childern ought not to of mixed with you, as my Master’s kin.  It don’t do in most cases for those as work fer a livin’ t’tie their hearts to those as is meant to be their masters, after all.  But I couldn’t stop it with my Sam.

            “I don’t know as yet as what went on out there, but there’s a good deal more to my Sam now than there was when you lot disappeared as you did.  I’m not certain as to what all it means, nor if I like it all as yet.  But there’s no question as he honors you as much as you seems to honor him, and I’ve seen now as how Mr. Merry and even Mr. Pippin listen to him as if they know he knows things.

            “Mebbe my Sam saved yer life as you say, and mebbe him’s truly the wise one ye call him; but him’s bigger, I think, ’cause he’s been by you and learnt all as ye and Master Bilbo have ever sought to teach him.  I doubt as he’d of been half the Hobbit he is t’day if’n it hadn’t been for you.  And I thank you fer that--and fer seein’ to it as he’s come home again.”

            There were tears in Master Frodo’s eyes, and he was wiping at them with the back of his hand.  At last he said, his voice slightly broken, “Thank you, Gaffer.  Thank you for raising such an extraordinary son.”

            And when that night Sam came to join the Gaffer in the big bed, the old Hobbit sat up once Sam had slipped away into sleep, watching the face of his youngest son as he dreamed, seeing the serious, responsible Hobbit he’d become.  Yes, he thought, a most extraordinary son he’d raised.  Master Frodo was fully right on that score.

oOo

            Some of the dialogue was taken directly or adapted from that given by the Master in “The Scouring of the Shire.”

For Marta for her birthday--eight drabbles.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

A New Life

            Aragorn first noted the young warrior among the group of Easterlings attacking from a position to the east of the slag hill on which his troupes stood.  He was taller than many of his fellows, and his hair was far lighter than was true of most of the Rhûnim, as was true also of his mustache.  He was determined, though; that Aragorn had to admit as he saw three of his kinsmen and two Rohirrim turn to face this newest threat.

            He put the young warrior from his mind--a great troll and two orcs were advancing on him, after all.

 *******

            The young warrior woke, apparently inside an enclosure of some sort.  Someone was carefully wiping his forehead with a damp cloth.  “So,” a voice said in his own tongue, “you come back to us, do you?  Do you think that you could swallow some water, and then perhaps some broth?”

            He could see nothing--suddenly frightened, he put his hand to his face and found bandages wrapped about his eyes.

            “Soft now, my son,” the voice advised him.  “You lost an eye in the battle, and we seek only to preserve the sight in the other.  It will soon be uncovered.”

 *******

            He was settled on a bench while the healer worked at unfastening the bandages about his head.  “We are in a rather dark tent,” he was advised.  “We will soon know whether the right eye has followed the left.”

            The last of the cloth strips fell away, and gently a pad was removed from the left, and finally from the right.  He first realized there was a glimmer of light behind him, and the shapes before him resolved in time into the faces of two Men--but they were not Rhûnim!

            “By the Dark Lord,” he whispered.  “I’ve been taken prisoner!”

 *******

            “They have been very kind to us,” whispered the one who lay in the next bed, whose lung had been pierced and yet looked to recover.  “We are treated with courtesy and gentleness--and respect.  Lord Abdurin ordered us all killed, since we were sore wounded; but the folk of the Stonelands would not do so.  Indeed their new captain insisted instead we be given all aid possible, and he labors himself amongst the healers.  Imagine--a warrior who yet is a healer himself.  He has spent much time over you, easing your thrashing when you were yet out of your body.”

 *******

            “What would you do?” asked Gondor’s new captain, whose name was yet unknown.  “Have you family at home?  A wife?  Children?”

            He shook his head.  “No--no wife, no children.  None would accept me into their clan, for my father was a slave, one of the Horse-folk west of you.”

            “You fought well.”

            “But I am the son of a slave, and am now half blind.”

            “You have lost the use of one eye, but have use of the other.  You could still do much for your people.”

            He shook his head bitterly.  This one knew little of his people, apparently.

 *******

            He stood at the entrance to their camp; the new King was to come among them, set each on his way.  He watched the tall Man moving amidst his guards, and recognized the healer captain in him.  His mouth fell open.

            Some of his fellows yet chose to return to Rhûn.  Others chose to accept service to families or on farms within Gondor.

            “I still have no thoughts as to what I could do with my life, great Lord,” he said.

            The King’s small companion stepped forward.  “I know an artisan within the Fourth Circle who would welcome an apprentice.”

 *******

            It was difficult work and exacting, learning to blow glass.  But there was a delightful satisfaction in seeing the sand melt, then to see the glowing blob taking shape from the breath of the glassblower, to see colors emerge, swirling in a dizzying manner.

            “Master Frodo did well to send you to me,” Master Celebrion told him with satisfaction.  “You have a good eye and a ready imagination, and are willing to do all you are set to do.  I am well pleased.”

            Arafim smiled.  Trading sword for bellows and metal straw and molten glass had given him great satisfaction.

*******

            He entered Rhûn in a caravan sent out from Minas Tirith, and was surprised at how comfortable he felt, how reassuring he found seeing the robed figures he’d ever thought his own--until he’d learned one had ordered his death.  The traders were welcomed and given much honor, and at the first market he set out his wares.

            A woman lifted up a fine ewer he’d crafted, looking with delight at the colors that swirled through it.  “How lovely!” she said in her own tongue to the boy who’d come with her.  “How much?” she asked in accented Westron.

            “For you? ...”

Written for the July "Summertime" challenge at the LOTR Community LiveJournal site.  Beta by RiverOtter.

New-fangled Ideas

            Sancho Proudfoot found his older brother in the dooryard, the old pump from the kitchen of their smial in his hands.  “Watcher doin’, Pulgo?” he asked.

            “Lookin’ at this here pump,” the older lad said.

            “Why?” the younger one persisted.

            “Tryin’ ter find out as how it works.”

            “Why?”

            “’Cause I just want to know.”

            Sancho started to ask again, but thought better of it, considering Pulgo’s expression.  Unlike their mum, Pulgo did not take well to being asked Why? multiple times in a short period, and the smaller lad found himself remembering a bit too well the last thumping he’d had from his brother.

            Apparently assured he’d quelled that next Why? with a look, Pulgo turned his attention back to the pump.  “I needs t’take it apart,” he muttered to himself.

            Sancho couldn’t help himself.  “Why?”

            “T’see as how it looks inside,” Pulgo explained.  “But Dad’s not likely to let me use his tools, and Grandfa won’t let me touch Cousin Belo’s....”  Belo Boffin, a second cousin twice removed on their dad’s side and a third cousin once removed on their mum’s, lived in Overhill, and worked installing and repairing well pumps, which meant he also dealt in pipes and other plumbing repairs.  Pulgo, who had a fascination for turning wheels and things that go thump, tended to follow Cousin Belo around when he came to Hobbiton, and spent much of his time when visiting in Overhill in Belo’s shop, examining the pumps he was building and repairing.  The last time he’d been there and had disassembled one, however, old Odo had about relieved him of at least three layers of hide, making it obvious that if he touched any of Cousin Belo’s wares or pumps or tools again he’d do more.  As for his dad--well, since the last time Pulgo had borrowed (and lost) two hammers, a small tin of nails, another of screws, and a driver while trying to build a playhouse down near the Water, Olo had taken to locking his tools up in the smaller storeroom, and it was as much as Pulgo’s life was worth to be caught pilfering the key to that.

            “Where can I work on this?” he wondered aloud.  “I mean, Cousin Belo’s already said as he don’t want it; but you know Grandfa--him don’t want me workin’ on things like pumps.”

            At that moment they heard the slam of the side gate to the gardens of Bag End, which they could see from the dooryard in which the two of them stood.  “Now, you finish them herb beds, lad,” they could hear the Gaffer calling to his son Sam, who worked with the old Hobbit.  “But afore that--well, this latch’s workin’ loose.  Ye’ll have to fetch some tools from the shed there to tighten it up, although I’ll have to suggest t’ Mr. Bilbo as he should think a’ replacin’ the whole gate.  Wood’s goin’ soft, it is.  Well, get to it, lad--want them herb beds clean o’ weeds when I gets back, hear?”

            A moment later they watched him descending the Lane toward Sandyman’s mill and turning off into Hobbiton proper.  Probably heading into the market square for supplies, or maybe he’d turn off to Bywater to fetch that new set of shovels that had been ordered last week. 

            The two lads stared that way, and then a smile broke out on Pulgo’s face.  “I know as where I can work on this!” he said.  “Come on!”  So saying, he led his little brother through the gate and up the way to the Lane up to Bag End.

 *******

            Sam looked at the two Proudfoot lads with uncertainty.  “And why must you be a-workin’ on this pump here, in our workshed?” he asked.

            Pulgo gave a great sigh.  He and Sam were almost of an age, Sam being but a year older than he; but he felt the gardener’s son was too stodgy by half.  “I told yer, Sam--Grandfa won’t let us work on it at home, and anyways we don’t have no tools.”

            “Yer dad’s got some right good tools,” Sam pointed out.

            Pulgo shrugged.  “Mebbe him does, but he won’t let me use them.”

            “Why not?”

            “’Cause I lost some of his.”

            “Well, whatever tools is here ain’t mine, you’d best member, Pulgo Proudfoot, so I can’t see as I can let you use them.”

            “I only lost my dad’s ’cause I took ’em off.  I won’t lose these, I promise Sam.  I won’t even take ’em out of the shed.”

            It took some persuading, but at last Sam agreed to let them work in the shed.  “But if’n you don’t put the tools right back where you found them,” he warned, “I’ll most like thump the both of you.”

            Pulgo slowly nodded his agreement, for he knew that Sam Gamgee didn’t utter idle threats.  “I promise,” he repeated, and at last took the pump on into the shed.

            He had the pump taken to bits in an hour’s time; it took him four more over the next three days to put it back together.  It took him even longer to take it apart again, replace the damaged leather and a few parts with what he found there in the shed, to get it working again.  He and Sancho took it out to the well in Bag End’s garden to try it, using some of the extra pipe the Gaffer had squirreled away in the shed against whatever needs for such things as Mr. Bilbo might have in the future.  Once he was certain that the pump now worked, Pulgo set himself to study on how it might be bettered.

            “Mum said as her elbow was a-hurtin’ her with all the pumpin’ as needed doin’ with this one as it was then,” he explained to Sam and Sancho as he carefully replaced the pipes back where he’d found them under Sam’s watchful eye.  “There has to be a way to make it easier to pump.”

            Sancho was barely listening.  He was playing with the wheel for the garden wagon that the Gaffer had been rebuilding, two of its spokes having given way.  The old Hobbit had it slipped over a metal rod he had suspended between two large clamps to simulate the axle for the wagon, and Sancho was enjoying setting it spinning and watching the spokes melt into a blur before his eyes.  “Here, Pulgo,” he called, turning away from the workbench to call his brother over.  “Looka this!”

            “Look at what?” Pulgo called back.

            “This!” Sancho said, pointing at the spinning wheel.  “The wood bits--they disappear!”

            “Things don’t just disappear,” Pulgo objected as he came over.

            Sancho’s face was going stubborn.  “Do too,” he insisted.  “Cousin Bilbo disappeared when him wore his magic ring--him told me.  An’ these disappear, you spin the wheel fast.”

            Pulgo watched as his little brother demonstrated, at last admitting, “Well, I guess as yer right, Sancho-lad.  They do seem to disappear, don’t they?”

            Sancho, vindicated, gave a satisfied smile as he reached out to give another push to get the speed of the wheel faster once more.  “Told yer so,” he said.  One more slap and the wheel was fair humming.

            Suddenly the older Proudfoot lad went still.  “That’s it!” he whispered.  “That’s it--how to make the pump better--a wheel!”

 *******

            It took a few days to find a wheel they might use, Sam having made it very plain that if they messed with the one for the garden wagon he’d thump them twice as hard.  But Ned Boffin’s little sister had a doll pram of which she’d been very proud when younger, but now rarely used; and one evening after supper Pulgo slipped over to their smial and went into the garden shed where it was kept and--borrowed--a wheel from it.  He hurried up to Bag End with it, spying through the hedges to see where Cousins Frodo and Bilbo might be, finding them sitting together on the bench outside the front door, smoking their pipes and talking quietly.  “And the stars, Frodo--you can’t believe how beautiful the stars looked as we camped one night at the top of the pass, coming back to Rivendell.  They are so much clearer up in the mountains, you see.”

            “Maybe because you’re closer to them?” Frodo asked, after blowing out a lovely smoke ring.

            “That just might be it, my boy.  Of course, we didn’t see them at all when we were going to the Lonely Mountain, for it was storming then when we were climbing up the pass.  Now, that crossing was miserable--truly miserable.  I tell you, lad--the time for adventures is when the weather is good.”

            Pulgo could hear Frodo laughing as he carefully made his way to the back gate and quietly let himself through it, hurrying to let himself into the workshed so he could put the wheel in the area where he was keeping his pump and the parts he was gathering.

            The next day he was looking to attach the wheel to the pump in place of the lever handle, finally enlisting Sam, whom he’d found to be very clever, to figuring a way in which the rod could be attached allowing it to actually be lifted up and down.  “Well,” Sam finally said after studying the problem for a while, “if you use somethin’ here to allow this length to move back an’ forth like, and put a peg here toward the rim of the wheel, it could be used to lift and plunge the main pump rod.  But you’ll need a ring on the end of the rod and some kind o’ bushin’ to get it to work, don’t you see?”

            Pulgo worked on the problem for four days, finally finding the best materials late on the afternoon of that fourth day and then working hard to get it all put together, intent on trying it out the next day.  However, he’d reckoned without his grandfather....

 *******

            “Where’s yer brother?” Odo demanded of little Sancho as the family sat down to tea.

            Sancho gave his grandfather a sidelong look.  First time he’d heard his mother call he’d told Pulgo, then left him, knowing that as intent as his big brother was there’d be no way of getting him to leave Cousin Bilbo’s workshed until he was convinced he had the pump together and ready to test.  Fortunately his parents weren’t paying much attention to Olo’s dad.

            “And you should have heard that Lobelia!” his mum was saying to his dad.  “‘Well, Mr. Griffo Boffin,’ she says, ‘if you think as my son would scrump apples from your orchard you’re plain silly.  He’s of age now, you see, and far too old to be scrumping to begin with.  And he’s no thief!’  As if Cousin Frodo and Sam Gamgee hadn’t caught her precious Lotho and that Ted Sandyman trying to steal two birds off Matt Silverwater as sells roasted chickens on the edge of the market, and as if every merchant in Hobbiton hadn’t lodged complaints at one time or another about the two of them.”

            “And as if she weren’t as big a thief as her lump of a son,” Olo agreed.  “Still say as she’s the one what nicked your silk kerchief as I bought you at the last Free Fair.  Yours is gone, and suddenly she’s got one what’s just the same as the one what’s missin’?  Tell me as that don’t sound suspicious.  And Bilbo’s not the only one as has said silver spoons always seem to go missin’ whenever Missus Lobelia comes a-callin’.”

            “I asked you, Sancho--where’s Pulgo?” Odo persisted.

            “Dunno, Grandfa,” Sancho answered.

            “But he said as he’d be a-lookin’ after you,” his grandfather said.  “You mean as he’s been lettin’ you run about unwatched?”

            Sancho, stung with concern for his brother, insisted, “No, Grandfa, him’s been keepin’ a good eye on me.  Been sayin’ as I must stay by him and not run off, him has.”

            “Then why weren’t you by him today?”

            “I was!”

            “You was?  Then where is he now?  You just said as you didn’t know as where he is, after all.”

            Sancho was caught now!  His parents were now looking at him with interest, too, the gossip about Missus Lobelia forgotten for the moment. 

            “Yes, Sancho dearest, just where is Pulgo?” asked his mother in a tone of voice that didn’t allow for lies or evasions.

            Sancho’s eyes darted from his grandfather to his mother.  At last he said, “At Bag End.”

            “Bag End?  What’s the lad doin’ at Bag End?” demanded Odo.  “Won’t be standin’ for anyone as lives in this hole spendin’ time with old Mad Baggins, after all!  It’s not respectable, I tell you!”

            “Oh, him’s not in the hole with Cousin Bilbo--him’s in the workshed.”

            “And just what’s a Proudfoot doin’ in the workshed for Bag End?”

            “Working?” suggested the child.

            A few moments later he was being dragged by his ear out of the smial and up the road to the Lane and Bag End.  “Baggins!” Odo was calling.

            The Gaffer came to the front gate and looked down at where Odo stood in the lane with little Sancho by the ear.  “The Masters ain’t here, Mr. Proudfoot, sir--gone t’the Great Smials for a meetin’--be home termorrer.”

            “Where’s my grandson?” Odo demanded.

            Hamfast paused, uncertain, looking from Odo’s round face to that of the small child who stood, obviously reluctantly, beside him.  Odo followed the gardener’s gaze to look down to Sancho’s screwed-up expression and flushed, finally letting go of the lad’s ear.  “Not Sancho here--his brother.  This one says as Pulgo’s been workin’ in the workshed.”

            “How come as a Proudfoot’s workin’ here in the workshed for Bag End?” asked the Gamgee, echoing the question Odo had put to Sancho back in the Proudfoot hole.

            “That’s what I want to know!” Odo returned, heading up the steps, pausing once to glare at Sancho to let him know he was to follow.

            They found Sam kneeling down to work beneath the bedroom window for the young master, weeding tool in hand, a basket beside him.  That he’d been active here and there about the gardens was evident by the state of the blooms, for all about him the garden was looking splendid; the roses ran riot over the fence, and the other flowers along the path were in full bloom.  When his father stopped by him, the younger gardener looked up, the smile he started to give the Gaffer fading rapidly as he noted who followed him.

            “You know sommat about this one’s grandsons muckin’ about in the workshed here?” the Gaffer asked.

            Sam rose, facing his father squarely.  “Yessir,” he answered.  “But they’ve not been doin’ aught wrong, Dad.  They’ve been workin’ on a pump, seein’ as how it works and findin’ out if’n there’s aught that might be done to make it better for their mum.  Pulgo’s said as afore it was replaced just workin’ it made his mum’s elbow hurt.  I’ve seen to it as they only work in the one place and leave all else alone, and that they clean the tools and leave ’em where they belongs.”

            “But you’re out here and young Pulgo’s in the shed alone?”

            “Once I was sure as he’d do as I said and not touch nothin’ as didn’t have to do with him, I went about my own work, Dad.  I’m not lettin’ it get in the way of my own chores, Gaffer.”

            There was the slightest twitch to the Gaffer’s mouth that let Sam know that his father was actually proud of him, so he lifted his chin a bit higher.  “That’s all and well, son,” the gardener said.  “However, it seems as old Mr. Odo here don’t want his grandsons a-hangin’ out here at Bag End.”

            A small but decisive nod from Odo confirmed this.

            “That’s too bad, Mr. Odo, sir.  They’ve been good’uns to have about, and are tryin’ t’make things maybe better for their mum, after all.”

            “I just bought a whole new pump for the smial--we don’t need the old one fixed nor ‘made better,’ no matter what these pups think,” Odo declared querulously.  “You take me to Pulgo now.”

            Hamfast Gamgee stiffened.  “Mr. Odo, sir, not meanin’ any disrespect nor nothin’ like that, but this is my son as you’d be orderin’ about, and right now he’s doin’ the work as I set him.  I will take you to the workshed.”

            Realizing he’d overstepped his bounds, Odo gave a terse nod for the Gaffer to lead the way.

            They found Pulgo standing near the workbench, the pump standing upright against a slab of wood lying on the ground.  As the door creaked open he called, “Sancho, that you?  Come look--it works perfect!”  So saying, he slapped the wheel into a faster spin.

            “So--this is what you’ve been up to--wastin’ time workin’ on pumps, have you?” demanded the Proudfoot family head.

            Pulgo froze, then turned slowly about.  “You don’t seem to worry none about Cousin Belo a-workin’ on pumps, Grandfa,” he said, his face wary.  “Maybe Dad could prentice me to him.  I like workin’ on such things, you see.”

            “But you’re my grandson, and I don’t want my family gettin’ into such business.”

            “Why not?  ’Tis honest work, isn’t it?  Honest and needful?  And I’ve come up with a way as won’t hurt Mum’s elbow so much.  Look!”

            But Odo’s temper was up, and he clouted the lad alongside the head, causing him to lose his grip on the pump and for it to fall clattering to the floor of the shed.  “I don’t want you wastin’ time on the likes of this, nor spendin’ time here at Bag End.  It’s not respectable, hanging about Mad Baggins’s place, you see?  And we’re respectable folks, us Proudfeet!  Now, you get yourself home, and you’re on water rations for the rest of the day!”

            In moments the three Proudfoots were gone, and the Gaffer was left to pick up young Pulgo’s pump and lean it neatly against the wall.  He was disturbed to see such a scene acted out here in his Mr. Bilbo’s workshed, but who was he to question the actions of gentlehobbits like Mr. Odo?  But he would never have shamed his sons that way when they were only thinking of ways to make things better for their mother.  His face grew sad as he thought of his lost Bell, wishing she were here to see what a responsible group of children as she’d given birth to, and especially their Samwise.  Ah, well--what was done was done.  With that thought in mind he went out of the shed and fastened it shut behind him.

 *******

            It was three days before Pulgo slipped away again, sneaking up to Bag End around the far side of the hill and into the gardens over the low place in the hedge.  Once he found Sam sharpening the edge of a trowel near the entrance to the shed he whispered, “Sam--yer dad--him didn’t get rid of my pump, did he?”

            Sam was startled as he swung around.  “Mr. Pulgo?  What you doin’ here?  Your gaffer’ll be angered if’n you come here again, you know.”

            “So what?  He’s wrong, and we both know it.  My pump--your dad didn’t take it apart nor throw it away, did he?”

            After a brief pause Sam shook his head.  “No, that he didn’t.  It’s not his, after all, so him wouldn’t think to try to get rid of it.  Fact is, he thinks it’s a good design and that you were doin’ good to think on what might help your mum like you was.  It’s still in there.  But he doesn’t want you gettin’ into trouble with Mr. Odo, so he doesn’t want you comin’ up here no more.”

            “Did he tell Cousin Bilbo about it?”

            “Mr. Bilbo?  Nah, no reason to do that.  But he will if’n he catches you about again.”

            “He didn’t catch me the last time, so I’ll make sure he doesn’t catch me now.  Come look at how I made the pump better.”

            There was no question the pump appeared to work right well--except when it stopped midway through a turn and the wheel froze until Pulgo managed to work the joint he’d made free.  “Gonna have to talk to Cousin Belo ’bout this,” the lad admitted.  “Mebbe him’s got a better idea of how to fit it together.”

            “You goin’ to Overhill to talk with him?”

            “No.  The Sandymans are havin’ a pump put in at last, so he’s workin’ there at the Mill.  Not that old Sandyman the Miller’s pleased to put coin in a Boffin’s hand, mind.  I’d show the pump to Ted--him likes a good piece of machinery, after all; but him’d just steal the design.”

            Sam shook his head.  “Ted Sandyman--actually work if’n he don’t need to?  Not him.  But he would try and steal the pump isself, I’m thinkin’.”

            Pulgo nodded his head thoughtfully.

            Sam didn’t see him for three or four more days, and he suspected Pulgo was spending some time down at the Mill helping Mr. Belo and running his questions past him.  Sam was kept very busy, for Mr. Bilbo was readying for a visit from the Brandybucks, and they’d undoubtedly do a good deal of eating out here in the gardens during the visit.  The summer was growing warm now, and he had to spend a good deal of care seeing to it that the flowers were all properly watered.  Could maybe do with that pump of Pulgo’s, he thought to himself as he carried a pail back to the furthest reaches of the place from the well.

            Then Pulgo was back, and with a good deal of pipe.  “Where’d you get that?” Sam asked him.

            “Nicked it off Cousin Belo’s wagon--he’ll not miss it, not now, at least.  I’ll put it back afore him goes back to Overhill again.  Been stayin’ with Cousin Ned Boffin, you see.  Makes it right close for me to get at his wagon and the extra pipe.”

            “But you’ll get into terrible trouble if’n you’re caught borrowin’ pipe as ain’t yours,” Sam pointed out.  “And your gaffer’s already angered at you, if’n I might say so as perhaps oughtn’t.”

            “Grandfa’s always upset about somethin’ or other,” Pulgo explained reasonably.  “He’ll get over it--him always does.  Can I try the pump in the well in the new cold room there in Bag End, do you think?  I got the pipe to use down the well, you see.”

            “Why not the well in the garden?”

            “Where the Gaffer might catch me?  You know as well as me if’n him catches me he’ll feel honor-bound to send me off home with a bug in my ear.  But he wouldn’t think of me usin’ the well in the new cold room.”

            Again it took a good deal of convincing, but once he’d made some changes to the pump at last Sam allowed him into the smial, escorting him to the new cold room.  It took a good deal of caution to slip the pump and pipe and the fittings through the kitchen, but at last Pulgo had what he needed all gathered there, and with Sam’s help had the well cover moved enough to slip the carefully fitted together pipe down it.  Once the pump was in place he got it spinning, and if it didn’t work like a wonder.  Sam was as thrilled as Pulgo was to find out how well it worked, actually.

            “I was thinkin’ the other day as how good it would be to have a pump of some kind there in the far end of the garden,” he commented.  “Wonder how we could get some pipe out there?”

            “That’d be a good test,” Pulgo agreed.  “But we’ll need more pipe, mebbe enough as Cousin Belo’d notice.”  He thought on it, but suddenly he became determined.  “Well, I’m goin’ t’try it.  We’ll try it tomorrow.  That’s when Cousins Bilbo and Frodo go marketin’, and the place’ll be empty.”

            But the Bagginses weren’t to be gone all day after all.  “You can’t go in there,” Sam told Pulgo and Sancho when they turned up just after elevenses carrying a good deal of pipe and a lantern with them.  “Mr. Griffo Boffin’ll be here this afternoon--sent a message early about it.”

            “Griffo?  Comin’ here?  What about?” Pulgo asked, frustrated.  “We gotta do this today, for Cousin Belo’s about done and will be leavin’ tomorrow early.  I gotta get all the pipe back on his wagon tonight!”

            “Well, how do you think as we could get pipe pushed through the ventilation shafts out into the orchard and Mr. Bilbo or Mr. Frodo not notice?” Sam asked.  “They’re both very observant.”

            “Them home now?” Pulgo asked.

            “No--not now.  Shouldn’t be home for an hour--just soon enough to be ready once as Mr. Griffo arrives.  They’ll be hurryin’ their marketing to get back in time.”

            “Can you offer t’help them fix luncheon so’s they won’t come in the cold room?” Pulgo asked.  “I know as you help some with cookin’ when they’re in a rush and all.”

            That was true.  “I suppose,” Sam said uncertainly.

            “Then we’ll get the pipe in the cold room now afore them come home, and figger out how to get it through the ventilation shaft,” Pulgo decided.  “Come on, Sancho, pick up that end again--we need to hurry.”

            By the time Cousins Bilbo and Frodo got back a good deal had been done.  Pulgo’s grandfather was off to Michel Delving on business, and their dad and mum were visiting in Bywater and shouldn’t be back until dark.  Pulgo was certainly old enough to keep an eye on his little brother for a day, and was a reasonable cook; his parents had no reason to worry about them.

            “Been talkin’ t’Mum and Dad,” Pulgo said to Sam as he shoved pipe out through the ventilation shaft, northeastward toward the entrance to Bag End’s orchard.  “I’m past old enough t’be prenticed, I am, and I want to be prenticed t’Cousin Belo.  Dad’s angered at Grandfa for bein’ so hard on Sancho and me, so him’s thinkin’ on it serious.  As for Mum--she’s all for it, too.  I mean, you’ve been prenticed t’your dad and all; why can’t I be prenticed, too?  I can’t wait to get out from under Grandfa’s thumb!”  He stopped to fit another section of pipe onto the piece he’d been threading through the shaft, then continued with his shoving.

            Sam made a noncommittal grunt, then said, “I’d best get out of here and check on whether old Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo are back yet.”

            “Good thinkin’,” Pulgo noted, pausing to add still another length.  “Best get on with you, then.”

            Sam got the kettle on and began gathering things for a light luncheon.  It wasn’t likely that on such a hot day either Baggins would be terribly hungry or want anything heavy.  By the time they arrived home he had the kitchen table set and most of the luncheon ready, sitting on the kitchen dresser with a light cloth over it to discourage flies, while a clutch of eggs was still boiling.

            “You’ve been preparing luncheon for us?” Mr. Bilbo observed, touched.  “How thoughtful, Sam.  Thank you!”

            “Here, Master,” Sam was saying to Frodo.  “Let me take them things as go in the cold room.  You’d best get changed--what is it as you’ve got on your shirt sleeve and waistcoat?  Tomatoes?  Get them changed and give ’em to me, and I’ll set them to soak afore I take them down to May to launder for you.”

            “I slipped on a spill at the market,” Frodo explained, examining the stain.  “Seems that Ted Sandyman was caught trying to slip away with a basket of tomatoes Farmer Cotton had beneath the table at his stall and got caught, dropping a few on the ground once Tom and Jolly got hold of him.  Nick seems to have lifted up one of the ones that were damaged and ground it into Ted’s face, and threw the rest down.  Then along I come, and if I didn’t step right on it and go sliding!”  He looked down at his right leg.  “I got it on my trousers, too, I fear.”  He suddenly paused as if listening.  “What’s that?” he asked. 

            Sam paused, too, realizing the sound Mr. Frodo had heard was from the cold room.  “I don’t know, Master,” he said.  “Maybe somethin’ from down the lane.  Mr. Belo’s supposed to be almost done with the new pipin’ as was being put into the miller’s place, or so I understand.”  The back door was open, and the conversations from down the hill were carrying remarkably well today.

            Frodo shook his head.  “It sounded closer than that.”

            “Never mind, Frodo,” Bilbo said.  “Just hurry down to your room and get changed--Griffo will be here before we know it at this rate.  And Sam, thank you for all your help here in the kitchen today.  It was so wonderful to find I don’t have to put together something when I need to be ready once Griffo gets here.”

            Sam grunted uncomfortably.  Once he was certain Mr. Frodo was on his way to change he slipped into the cold room to settle the eggs, cream, and butter.  “You’d best be quiet a time,” he hissed at Pulgo.  “They’re home, and Mr. Bilbo’s in the kitchen, and Mr. Frodo’s already heard you.  He’s off changin’ his clothes, so you’re safe for now.  But you never know with Mr. Frodo.”

            Pulgo and Sancho were both shivering with cold when Sam finally came back to tell them that all was now clear.  The pipes were properly situated within the well, and all appeared to be in place between the well head and the ventilation shaft.  “We’ll have to find a way to replace the screen for the shaft after,” Pulgo said as he went out.  “I suspect as it broke when I pushed the pipe against it.  Now, we’ll go out and attach the pump mechanism to the end of the pipes so we can try it out.  Once we’re ready to start pumping we’ll whap on the pipes to let you know, and you can tell us after if’n you saw anything that seemed to be workin’ wrong in here.”

            Wanting mostly only to get them out of Bag End without them being seen, Sam agreed, and hurried them out and through the kitchen into the garden.  Relieved, he closed the door after the two young Hobbits and leaned back against it, wiping his forehead.  Just then, however, he heard a knock at the door and then felt a push against his body.  He straightened rapidly, and turned, yanking the door open and expecting himself to be facing one of the two lads, but instead finding himself face to face with his father.  “Yes, Gaffer?” he asked nervously.

            “I was comin’ t’see as where you was at, son.”

            “I been helpin’ see to luncheon for Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo,” Sam explained.  “They was in the village doin’ the marketing, you know.”

            “Well, you’d best get yourself out here and finish the trimmin’ of the hedge by the back gate.  Looks awful, only a third a’ the way done as it is.”

            As the Gaffer went back out Sam sighed, “Sweet roses and asters--the hedge!  I’m lucky, I suppose, as he didn’t put me on bread and water for a week!”

            As quickly as he could he put the kitchen to rights, then hurried out to find where he’d set his clippers, and went to finish the back portion of the hedge, forgetting he was to watch to see what was happening in the cold room between the well head and the ventilation shaft.  Meanwhile, back at the entrance to the orchard Pulgo was attaching the pump wheel to the pipe he’d threaded out of the cold room and making a far better examination to see it fitted properly than he’d done between the well and the shaft.  Once all appeared to be in place and working he picked up a large stone and whacked the protruding pipe about three times, and then started turning the wheel.

 *******

            “Otho Sackville-Baggins, will you please hurry!  If you don’t, that Griffo will be there before we arrive, and the stars alone know what he will tell Bilbo.”

            “Probably just what he told us the other day,” Otho muttered as he checked to see his cuffs were straight and his studs properly fastened.

            “But he’s likely to exaggerate, and who knows where that might lead?  He doesn’t like our Lotho, after all.”

            In an even lower tone Otho muttered, “Seems no one likes our Lotho.  Wonder why that is?”

            Lobelia had managed to hear that.  “Because they are all jealous of him, of course, Otho.  After all he’s the brightest, most handsome young Hobbit his age.”

            “Except for Frodo Baggins, of course,” Lotho whispered to himself, and fortunately Lobelia didn’t appear to have heard that.  He had to admit that his son and heir had earned the reputation of being a thief, liar, and bully; and he could no longer deny, even to himself, that all of Hobbiton and Bywater and half of Overhill might just be right about Lotho.  But what to do about it now was the question.  Not that picking up an unwanted (and unwatched) item here and there bothered him overmuch--that was what had brought his attention to Lobelia Bracegirdle to begin with, after all.  Lobelia had come with her aunt to a tea at Cousin Iris’s home intended to announce the impending marriage of her cousin Ivy Groves to Fortumbald Boffin, and he’d gone in company with his mother Camellia.  Why his mother at that time in her life had demanded he go with her everywhere he didn’t know, but as she’d aged she seemed to grow increasingly dependent on his presence.

            There was a moment when he’d reached for his spoon in order to stir a lump of sugar into his tea, only to realize it had disappeared; a glance at the lass next to him showed she was hastily stowing it into her rather oversized reticule.  Now, this was a lass worth the watching, he decided, and he wondered if he were to set anything else--interesting--within reach whether she would repeat the action.  She did--she pocketed a fine linen handkerchief that had been embroidered by Primula Brandybuck in silk thread, a tin watch fob, and a stone figure of a turtle that had sat originally on the other side of him.   Otho had, over the course of his life, admired a good number of items that belonged to others; but as a Baggins he had never had the nerve to do anything about it other than to purchase the item that had caught his attention if he could persuade its owners to part with it.  To see someone who simply took what caught her eye was refreshing.                  There were some compensations--maybe Bilbo’s unexpected return from places unknown had foiled Longo’s attempt to get them moved into Bag End; but Lobelia had managed to convince a relative that the rightful heir to her smial had been behaving improperly with a certain young Hobbitess; by the time it became known that the one putting the dessert before the meal was quite a different Hobbit who lived in the Eastfarthing the relative’s will was rewritten in Lotho’s favor and had been executed, giving Lotho and Lobelia quite a comfortable hole near the Commons in Hobbiton and leaving the rightful heir having to beg room in his younger brother’s smial until he could afford to purchase or excavate one of his own.

            Within a year they’d been married, although it was perhaps fortuitous that their first child was born far too early to survive as that could have led to some nasty gossip; and apparently their marriage had been successful. There were days, however, like today when he wondered if his life might possibly have turned out--more pleasant--had he married someone like Primula Brandybuck.

            Now, however--now they were headed for Bag End (where they were definitely not wanted) to try to keep Bilbo (who was not inclined to believe them at the best of times) from believing whatever story Griffo Boffin was likely to tell him about what their Lotho and Ted Sandyman might have done in and around his orchard and fields (tales that were most likely all too true--not that he would even dream of admitting that to Bilbo).

            “Are you putting down roots or something, Lotho Sackville-Baggins?” Lobelia demanded, plainly at the end of her patience.

            “I am coming, my dear wife,” he answered, giving his comfortable chair a longing look--he’d rather be sitting there with a cup of porter by him, looking over the account books to see how much his various farms were bringing him than having to traipse up to Bag End and face Bilbo Baggins and Griffo Boffin, with young Frodo watching.

            No, he thought morosely to himself as he set his hat upon his head and closed the door after his wife and himself, it doesn’t appear this afternoon will be in the least way pleasant.

 *******

            “Pulgo!  Pulgo!  Where are you?”

            They’d not been turning the wheel very long before Pulgo and Sancho heard their mother calling.

            “Pumps and handles!” exclaimed Pulgo.  “They ought not to be home for hours yet!  What for’s Mum callin’ for me now?”  He paused in his labors, looking from the pump wheel to the place where the pipes emerged from the ventilation shaft, to the carved stone screen that lay in pieces at the bottom of the slope where it had fallen when the pipe had pushed it out of place, then to the wheel again, his little brother, then back toward where his mother’s voice was approaching up the lane.  Finally he said, “You stay here, see?  Stay here and turn the wheel and make the pump work, understand?  I’ll go an’ see what Mum wants.”

            Sancho nodded as Pulgo turned away.  “What’cha gonna tell her, Pulgo?”

            “Don’t know as yet.  Mebbe convince her as I’ve just been scrumpin’ in the orchard here.”

            “But the apples ain’t ripe!”

            “There’s still some cherries, right?”  So saying, Pulgo hurried to the cherry trees and grabbed a few of the fruits, then turned to the break in the hedge.  “Stay put and make sure as the pump works, hear?”  At Sancho’s nod he hurried off--and didn’t come back....

            Sancho smiled once his brother was gone.  He’d been wanting a go with the wheel, but so far Pulgo hadn’t allowed him even to touch it.  He loved wheels, Sancho Proudfoot did, and had thoughts to follow their dad into the carting business.  Let Pulgo play with holes in the ground and mud and pipes and handles and pumps and all--Sancho would get to spend his time traveling about the Shire in the warm sunshine, and would get to smell the fresh air and the scent of growing crops and good cooking smells emerging from the holes and houses he passed.  And wheels were important to carting, they were.  With that in mind he took the handle his brother had fastened to the rim of the wheel and began turning it.

            Oh, but it wasn’t easy, not like the smaller wheel from the garden wagon he’d played with in the workshed.  There was a rod on the back attached to a swivel that had to be forced up and down.  This was hard!

            But he’d show Pulgo he could do it.  It took determination, but he got the wheel turning, and once it was, it was fairly easy to keep it going.  Could he make it go faster?  Faster still?  He worked hard, and soon had it going pretty quickly.  Water was finally beginning to gush out of the spigot his brother had fashioned.  But the spokes weren’t blurring--he’d have to work harder if he wished them to blur....

 *******

            Griffo had already arrived by the time they made it to the green door of Bag End.  Drat it all!  She’d known they’d arrive too late!  But it appeared that Griffo wasn’t there to make a report on Lotho’s doings after all--he and Bilbo were discussing the sale of excess apples to the Green Dragon to be made into cider.

            This was most distressing--and boring.  Lobelia had no interest in business at all, after all.  Her father had been devoted to it, and her brother shook his head at her own disinterest, of course.  But Lobelia hated business, for it had always been used by her father as an excuse for whatever it was he’d failed to procure for her that she’d wanted.  “No, Lobelia, my love, you can’t have a new dress now--business is down, and I haven’t the money for it.  A new bracelet?  Whatever for?  Business is down, you see.  And why, when you have a drawer full of hair ribbons, do you feel you need more?  Business is down, don’t you understand?  We can’t afford them now!”  Not, she’d noticed, that he ever stinted himself.  The day after he’d denied her a new dress he’d come home with a new hat for himself; and when he’d insisted her mother didn’t need a new reticule he’d come home with two fine--and expensive--leather change purses for himself, one in green and one in a cheerful golden brown, to carry with different waistcoats.

            “If you have any of the winter kingsgolds,” Griffo was saying over his tea and seedcakes, “they make a marvelous cider.  I have twelve trees of them.  Those at the Dragon are begging for them.”

            “Most of our trees here are pippins, as you know, Griffo, but I do have an Elf’s silverapple tree in the far corner that has had a bumper crop this year.”

            “And the two Jonathan’s are both bearing well,” Frodo added.  “The Gaffer and I had to thin them a bit the other day, they were so covered with developing fruit.”

            She gave Otho a sour glance that he didn’t even notice, so intent was he on following the flow of business and varieties of apples.  As for Frodo and Bilbo, they were making a point of ignoring her anyway.  Businesshobbits! she thought with disgust.  Well, what she’d really like to be doing here, now that she’d found she wasn’t having to protect her Lotho’s reputation, was to have a good search around Bilbo’s rooms--and perhaps that Frodo’s as well.  He’d been wearing a fine golden cravat to a wedding in Overhill recently, and it would look so nice on her Lotho--and would undoubtedly be far better disposed were it to find itself in Lotho’s wardrobe.  Realizing none of the others were paying her the least attention, she got up as quietly as only a Hobbitess intent on leaving the room unnoticed could, and slipped down the passage toward the kitchen.

 *******

            Unfortunately, while shut in the cold room finishing up the connections between the pipes going vertically down the well and those going out almost horizontally out through the ventilation shaft, Pulgo hadn’t managed to make a good connection at one point.  The joint pieces he’d “borrowed” from Cousin Belo’s cart weren’t meant for this gauge pipe at all, and there were three of these he’d used.  The one closest to the well head he’d managed to jam together tightly enough it didn’t leak, and the same with the one coming directly off the pipe going out the ventilation shaft, which was at eye-height to him.  But the one where the low horizontal shaft from the well reached the one following the line of the stone-lined wall up to the hole--that one was rather loose, and although it held at first the vibration of the pump wheel turning was loosening it, and eventually some of the water leaked out at that point.  Once Sancho took over the turning of the wheel the fitting began to become looser, for Sancho was short enough he’d place more pressure on the handle when the it was turning toward it’s lowest position, which would put more pressure on the pipe as it went through the ventilation shaft, causing the vertical pipe to move more up and down, further loosening the lower joint.  And the faster Sancho turned the wheel, the looser the connection became, causing the water to flow more rapidly.

            A pool was forming on the slate floor of the room--a pool that was widening with each turn of that wheel Sancho Proudfoot was seeking to make go so quickly as to cause the spokes to blur.

 *******

            “I don’t know what I’m to do with you, Pulgo Proudfoot!” fumed the lad’s mother.  “You know as your grandfa don’t want you anywhere near Bag End, scrumpin’ or no.  And what for are you after Bag End’s cherries?  Ours ain’t good enough for ye?”

            “But, Mum,” he protested.  “It’s not like that at all!”

            “You tryin’ now to say as ye aren’t scrumpin’, child?  There, with those cherries in yer pocket?”

            “Mum--I was up speakin’ with Sam Gamgee....”

            “Sam Gamgee?  How is it as ye’re speakin’ with Sam when you come from the orchard while him’s trimmin’ the back hedge?  Got yerself some kind a’ speakin’ tube or somethin’ like?”

            Sam was trimming the hedge?  But, then, who was keeping an eye on things inside the cold room itself?  Pulgo couldn’t think what could go wrong, but was old--and experienced--enough to know that even when all caution was taken things still managed to break down or to have unexpected consequences.  His mother had dragged him back to their hole and was forcing him inside.  “Grandfa’s not here, is he?”

            “No, him’s not back--shouldn’t be back till tomorrow at the earliest.  But that’s neither here nor there, young Hobbit.  I won’t have yer scrumpin’, not when I work my fingers to the bone to see to it as plenty a’ good food is set on the table afore ye!  And as, since we live in yer grandfa’s hole, I have t’put up with all his rants and raves, I won’t be havin’ you go against his rules.  Sure as the Sun rises in the east, he’ll be a-blamin’ me fer not teachin’ you discipline.”

            The problem was, she was right, and he knew it.

 *******

            The small pool of water in the cold room was spreading, and was pushing on the wooden door frame.  At last a bit of grout, there at the bottom where the caulking had been finished rather hurriedly, gave way, and a thin trickle worked its way under the door into the kitchen.

 *******

            My, if the pause in Bilbo’s study hadn’t proved profitable!  Lobelia hadn’t dared touch his silver inkstand; but she’d found a fine steel pen with a gold nib closed away in a box in the second drawer; and a fine pipe of cherry wood, one beautifully carved and with a silver rim about the bowl, in the same drawer.  She suspected it was intended as a gift for Frodo for their shared birthday, as it had obviously never been used and certainly wasn’t of Hobbit manufacture.  This would be perfect to give to Otho for Yule--if she didn’t decide to give it to Lotho instead.  On second thought, it would probably be best to give it to Otho, for Otho rarely took her gifts to him out of their hole, suspecting that if they were recognized folks would begin lodging protests.

            Then she’d found seven gold and silver coins in a tray in the upper drawer.  She’d only taken two--if all seven were gone he’d be less likely to think he might have spent them all and forgotten about it.  No, mustn’t get too greedy!  And there was a broken watch chain she’d found.  That he’d likely have forgotten about already, and she was certain it was gold and of Dwarf workmanship.  That could bring her a pretty penny once she got it to Needlehole during their trip south to visit all their family holdings in the Southfarthing--Cousin Gunto never asked embarrassing questions.

            Now to get back to the bedrooms and see what she could take from there--and she was determined to get that fine gold-colored cravat for her lad!  She turned toward the kitchen--no, wait!  It might be worthwhile to pause in the dining room and check out the dresser there....

 *******

            Sancho was determined to get the wheel going so fast he could get the spokes to blur together.  If he tried just a little harder....

 *******

            A small pool was gathering within the kitchen, lying almost invisible on the top of the smooth tiles of the floor.  A bit later in the day, once the Sun was westerly enough to shine in through the window, there’d be an extra sparkle on its surface.  But for now it remained unseen, unnoticed as Lobelia, her pockets and umbrella both heavier from additional items removed from the dining room, finally entered the room, intent on the passageway beyond it that led to the bedrooms.  Unwittingly she stepped into the pool, and her feet went sliding on the slick tiles, and down she fell, landing on her left hip, hearing something break as she landed on the contents of that pocket.  Meanwhile her right foot struck the doorframe to the new cold room, loosening more of the caulking; and suddenly cold water gushed through the gap and soaked her skirts.  Lobelia gave a shocked cry of dismay, alerting the Hobbits in the front parlor.

            “What was that?” Griffo asked, alarmed when the thump and squawk were heard.

            Bilbo glanced swiftly around the room and noted immediately that Lobelia had absented herself.  “I let my vigilance down!” he muttered.  “Now what’s she taken?”

            Otho noted with surprise--and growing distress once he realized his older cousin’s suspicions--that his wife was missing, and recognized it must be she they’d heard from further back in the smial.  He hoped she’d not taken much as yet.  This was likely to prove a most uncomfortably embarrassing visit, he feared!

            As for Frodo, all that could be seen in his eyes was the concern he felt for someone who had apparently fallen or something.  The four of them rose and headed back through the smial toward the kitchen where they found Lobelia Sackville-Baggins sitting in a circle of soaked skirts on the glistening floor of the kitchen, her eyes alarmed and her sleeve wet where she’d fallen again trying to get up.

            Bilbo stopped at the sight of his discomfited distant cousin by marriage, taking in the sodden condition of her clothing and her growing embarrassment and fury, and began to laugh.  “And what have we here?” he finally asked.  The umbrella lay where it had slid a few feet from her, the blade of a carving knife protruding from it.  He circled about her carefully and bent down, picking up the umbrella by its point and shaking loose the fork as well, not to mention a pair of pickle tongs he’d had from his Tookish grandmother.  “It appears, Lobelia, that a number of things from my dining room dresser found your umbrella an irresistible place in which to hide.”

            “Aren’t you going to help me up?” she demanded.

            “Oh, but we will, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “although I do intend to search your pockets.  Although,” he added, looking at where the gold nib of the pen she’d taken protruded from her bodice, “I suppose I’d best send for Mistress Rumble to assist us.  That looks to be a rather unfortunate place to have hidden that, Cousin.”

            “And you did this on purpose!” she said accusingly as Griffo and Otho between them raised her to her feet.

            “What?  Leave a pool of water on the kitchen floor?  Not likely, and you know it!  Frodo, will you see if you can find if the kitchen pump is leaking?”

            Frodo also carefully skirted Lobelia, checking the floor and pulling open the door that allowed access to the pipes leading to the pump.  “No,” he reported, “there’s no water anywhere about on this side of the room, Uncle.  Nor do I see anything obviously wet or out of place that might have held that much water.”

            Griffo looked down.  “I say, Bilbo, the water’s getting deeper here, and it’s not from the drips from her skirts.  I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

            Frodo was back, his bright eyes examining the growing pool.  “The cold room,” he decided.  “It’s coming from the cold room.”  So saying, he opened the door and looked inside.  “What in the Shire...?” he began as he examined the floor, which was now awash.  “The whole room is full of water, and the water is rising.  What shall we do now?”

            “How is the cold room getting filled with water?” demanded Bilbo.  He nudged his younger cousin out of the way and looked in.  He saw the forgotten lamp that burned low on a shelf in the corner, glimmering on the surface of the water that covered the floor.  He spotted that the well cover was not seated properly, then saw the pipes rising out of it, then running to the far wall, toward the ventilation shaft.  “And what is this?” he asked himself.  He turned toward the back door out into the garden.  “Best send Sam to look around the entrance to the orchard--that’s where that shaft comes out if I remember correctly.  Well, my boy, you’d best be sharp and look into this for me!  Go with him.”

 *******

            Odo Proudfoot gave his unwanted visitor and kinsman a disgruntled look.  “And why should I listen to you about where to place the lad for prenticing?” he demanded.

            “Well, considering how much water had filled my cold room, I’d say Pulgo has a feel for the work, and Belo has need of a good apprentice, after all,” Bilbo assured him with equanimity.  “And I must say that he managed to help foil the loss of a good many items from Bag End, although it was really too bad about the pipe I’d planned to give Frodo for our birthday.  I’d say you have reason for recognizing your grandson’s abilities.”

            Olo was looking at Bilbo with some trepidation.  “And you mean it--you aren’t angry with the lads?”

            “Angry?  When I’d just found Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, pockets, umbrella, and bodice filled with items she was trying to filch, sitting in a pool of cold water?  Oh, I don’t think so, Olo.  And it was a masterful job he made of it; and all, I’m assured, intended to ease his mother’s elbow.  You have raised quite a thoughtful, resourceful lad, the lot of you.  I’m proud of him and hope the same is true of you!”

 *******

            A month later, as he headed out with a box filled with his possessions and clothing to begin his apprenticeship with Cousin Belo in Overhill, Pulgo Proudfoot smiled and waved at Bilbo and Frodo as they returned up the lane from a visit to the farm at Whitwell with Paladin Took and his family.  “Thank you!” he called.  “And thank Sam, too, for me!” he added, turning more as the wagon pulled past them.  “I’ll see you about Yule, I’m thinkin’!”

            Sam, looking down from beyond the hedge at Bag End, gave a deep sigh of relief to see the wagon disappear, then put thoughts of Pulgo out of his mind as he hurried to open the back gate so the two Bagginses wouldn’t have to hop over the low place in the back corner.  “There you are, Masters.  Come in, come in--I have the fires lit and a nice supper cookin’ for the two of you.”

For Dana on her birthday.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta.

Written for the August POV Challenge at LOTR-Community's LJ site.

The Departure Observed

            On the northern coasts of the Firth of Lhûn there was a small settlement and harbor built by some of the Northern Dúnedain.  Once it has been the chief port city of Arnor and later Arthedain, built within the sheltered waters of the great firth; but time had not been particularly kind to the descendants of Elendil’s followers.  Now the stone quays hosted a dozen small fishing boats and two craft sufficient for exploration or trading, and no more.  It did have a view of the Elven havens of Mithlond, and Círdan’s folk had always been helpful to the Men who lived there.  However, there was no great custom between the two peoples.

            The youth awoke from where he customarily slept in a nest of rope and fishing nets upon the deck of his father’s fishing craft that the two of them sailed together.  They’d come in yesterday with a full hold, and the unloading of the fish and crabs they’d caught had taken all of the afternoon.  Now his father had set off for Fornost with much of the catch on ice, and it would be his task to see the hold and deck cleaned of the last of the scales and offal, check for any rents in the nets, and make certain all on the boat was ready for their next sailing.  He rose and stretched, then found his way to the privy beyond the wharves to prepare himself for the day.

            His mother brought him a plate of breakfast, which he would take back to the boat with him once he’d given her his morning greeting and a kiss.  She swatted at his rump.  “It is obvious, Gilboron” she said, “it is again time to make you new clothing.  You seem intent on growing as tall as our beloved kinsman the King.”

            “Ah, Nana, you know I would be pleased to grow that tall,” he said.  “Give Glorilyn a kiss for me, and I hope to be home by late afternoon.”

            But by noon, although his own work was finished, his attention was fixed across the stretch of water that separated them from the Elven quays, for it was obvious that the ship recently finished was being readied for departure.  Some of the fish he and his father had brought back yesterday had been purchased by the Elves, and were now being carried to the galley.  The tall figure of the one appointed steward for this voyage was accepting piles of linens from an elleth who now turned back to the cart filled with such things to bring even more; in moments she had disappeared after him down to the cabins.

            The fine lines of hithlain were being inspected and then carefully coiled; the fishing net they’d use once they were underway was being refolded and stowed into the box prepared for it.  Barrels of oil were being carried to the hold, as well as barrels of flour and grain for morning porridge.  Casks of fresh water were also being carried aboard and settled.

            A slender ellon had slipped aloft to inspect the furled sails and their lines one last time; from here he appeared no older than the Gilboron himself, although the Mannish youth knew he was likely to be at least five centuries old or more.  Gilboron could hear his clear call to those below that all was well and ready for departure.

            The young Man felt a twisting within him.  As he’d grown he’d seen three grey ships built in the shipyards there--the keels laid, the straiths raised, the ships built slowly but steadily.  He’d watched as decks were laid, masts raised, the ships rigged.  Of those three ships, this was the largest he’d seen built.  The War was finished, the great Enemy vanquished and his strength destroyed forever.  Now the Eldar were departing, and probably most of the greatest who yet lingered in the hither lands would go upon this ship.  So much of the Light Gilboron had known during his life was going out of the Mortal Lands, and he felt himself grieving already, seeing how the great spars and fine lines raised a great triangle against the mottled blue of the autumn sky.  A breeze was rising, blowing strands of hair across the youth’s forehead, and he hastily brushed them away, for to the east, beyond the Elven city, the sky was growing brighter.

            “Mithrandir!” he breathed as he saw the Wizard ride his sea-silver horse through the arched entrance into the harbor proper.  “Mithrandir comes to see those who depart go!”  The tall, white-clad figure alit from his steed, turning automatically to greet what was plainly Círdan the Shipwright himself.  Two Elves were coming forward with buckets of water and grain for the great horse.  Others came to listen to the news from the Wizard, there was a brief discussion, and soon most were going off to see all readied.

            “Gilboron?” called a sweet voice, and he turned to see his younger sister with a luncheon for him.  “You didn’t come home for the noon meal.”

            “I was watching, Glorilyn,” he said in explanation, nodding toward the Elven harbor across from them. 

            She came aboard to where he was standing at the starboard rail and handed him the basket containing the food prepared for him, and peered herself across at the grey ship.  “They are ready to sail,” she said softly, her voice with the same ache to it Gilboron felt in his own heart.

            He nodded solemnly.  “Yes, and appear ready to sail on the evening tide.”

            Together they watched.  At midafternoon they were joined by their mother.

            “And what keeps the two of you aboard the boat this day?” she asked.

            “The Elven ship--it prepares to sail,” Gilboron told her.

            “Look, Nana--they are taking flowers aboard.”

            Their mother nodded, her face saddened.  “More of the Eldar leave us,” she murmured.  “I wonder who it is that sails this time?”

            The answer to that came soon enough.  Even Elven steeds can be heard approaching when they travel a metaled road, and now about a dozen horses came through the archway with about three times that number of folk walking about them.  And amongst the riders could be seen three ponies.

            “There are elflings amongst them?” Gilboron’s sister asked.

            But their mother was shaking her head.  “No, beloved, those are no Elves, and are not children, either.”

            Gilboron suddenly knew, recognizing what they must be from the stories they’d been told of life in Bree by their Lord Chieftain during his last visit to their settlement a few years earlier.  “Periannath!” he exclaimed.  “They are Hobbits!”

            “Yes, but why would the Halflings seek to come here?” his mother responded.

            The youth shook his head.  “I do not know, Naneth.”

            It was his sister who realized what was happening, thinking on the more recent stories told amongst the northern Dúnedain.  “It is the Ringbearers,” she said, her voice filled with awe.  “The Cormacolindor have come.  But why?”

            “I think you have the right of it, Glorilyn,” their mother said.  “Yes, the Ringbearers have come.”  One of them had dismounted swiftly, then hurried to come to the side of the tallest of the three, assisting him to alight and making certain he was properly balanced.  But the taller one was already turning toward the third Hobbit, and now between them they assisted that one off of his pony.  One of the Elves led away the grey pony this Hobbit had ridden, and another took the other two, one of which, a bay, looked more like a small horse than a true pony, leading them back toward the entrance to the wharves and looping their reins about the bole of a sapling before removing the saddlebags from one.

            Círdan and Mithrandir were approaching the newcomers, the Shipwright bowing low to those who were even now removing saddlebags and such from their mounts.  Some of the gathered Elves were helping to remove the little tack used by the newcomers, were offering the horses water and food, then leading them to the plank to take them aboard.

            Suddenly the woman gasped, “But that is Lord Elrond there, the tall one with the especially dark hair and the woven circlet!  He is one of those leaving Middle Earth?  Do his sons go with him?  Nay--I see them not.” 

            Glorilyn peered up into her mother’s face.  “Do you think he goes because his daughter married our Lord Aragorn?” she asked.

            Her mother shook her head, then sighed.  “I must assume so.  How he must grieve, for she cannot come to where he goes--not now.”

            The afternoon seemed to be passing quickly, and already the Sun was dropping toward the horizon.  The tallest, dark-haired Perian stood with one arm about the shortest one, while the other stood half a step away, and even from the distance they could tell this one was weeping.  Although the day was growing steadily darker, there on the quays of Mithlond the Light yet lingered, particularly as an especially tall elleth with hair that seemed spun of sun- and moonlight stepped out from the company of golden-haired Elves that accompanied her, coming forward to kneel before the Hobbit who stood apart, tipping his head up to look into his face, apparently speaking quietly with him.  As the day grew darker, the Light about the company seemed to grow brighter as more Elves joined the company from their lodgings in the Elven town. 

            “The Elven Light,” breathed the mother.  “Now and then it can be seen.  She must be one of the great ones of their people.”

            “The Lady Galadriel?” suggested Gilboron.

            “Yes, that is possible--perhaps likely.”

            At that moment a noise could be heard, and even across the water they could hear a high, clear voice calling out, “Wait!  Gandalf, wait!” to which the whole company upon the stone quays turned.

            “The tall Perian--he’s glowing, too,” whispered Glorilyn.  “And so is the other one--but it’s not quite like the Elves do.”

            Peering closer, her brother and mother had to agree she was correct.  Two more ponies came through the archway, and two more Periain were already dropping from their saddles.  These, like the bay, were finely blooded animals, again more reminiscent of true horses.  An Elf was catching the dropped reins, leading the ponies to the same sapling and tethering them loosely to it.  The others, however, were hurrying forward toward the other three, calling out to them.  The only words they could catch now were Frodo and Gandalf, and the tall one was pulling free of the smallest one, who appeared to be quite old, to face them.  Gilboron’s eyes were drawn to the other Hobbit, the one alone, and saw his posture soften, as if with relief.

            “These two are much taller,” Glorilyn noted.  “I wonder why they didn’t come with the others?”

            One was reaching to embrace the tall one, embracing him and holding him tightly.  Gilboron said, “That one, the one with dark hair, he’s been hurt--hurt terribly.  The others are worried for him.”

            His mother nodded, her face filled with compassion.  “He must be Frodo Baggins, then.  And the other--that must be Lord Samwise.”

            Glorilyn gave her own nod.  “Then the old one--he must be Bilbo Baggins, the Dwarves’ burglar.  But they can’t go with the Elves, can they?”

            The five Hobbits were now gathered together, and the watchers realized most of the Elves in the company had already gone aboard the ship.  The tall form of Lord Elrond came forward to speak to the Hobbits, then turned to approach the plank.  There the Peredhel lord stopped, turned, and held out his hand, and the old Hobbit spoke briefly to the others, then turned to approach the plank himself, taking Elrond’s hand as they went aboard the ship together.

            The Lady Galadriel leaned over the four Hobbits remaining, apparently speaking to them.  She then turned and went to the plank, pausing once more to look at the Hobbits, then smiling brilliantly before boarding the ship herself.  The two newcomers were standing one on each side of the dark-haired Perian, as if to protect him, and the other one, the one whose hair appeared to be dark gold from this distance and about whom a pale golden Light was gathered, stood slightly behind them, his hand on Frodo Baggins’s shoulder. 

            Now it was Gandalf who came to stand before them, leaning on his great staff, his attention fixed on the four Hobbits before him.  “They are all three crying,” Glorilyn murmured, “the two new ones and the one with the golden Light.” 

            “Yes,” agreed Gilboron.  “Gandalf must be going, too.”  Certainly the silver Light about him appeared to be growing stronger.  Distantly they could hear the singing of those Elves aboard the ship, singing a hymn to Lord Ulmo.  Gandalf was leaning over the four Periannath, touching the top of each curly head, and then he, too, walked to the plank.

            Now the dark-haired Hobbit turned to the others.  They could not tell that he said anything, merely that he shared an embrace with each in turn, kissing the two tall ones on the tops of their bent heads before turning to the broader one, the one with the dark gold hair and about whom the golden Light gathered.  They searched one another’s eyes, and then the dark one pulled his friend into his embrace, holding him tightly for some time, then once more facing him, drew his head down to gently kiss his forehead.  The softly pulsing golden Light flared briefly, as did the silver Light of Frodo Baggins.  At last the dark-haired Hobbit stepped back, looked at the other three as if impressing their image on his heart, and at last turned toward the ship.

            The two newcomers were standing side by side, the arm of one about the shoulders of the other.  The one with the golden Light stood now alone again, now a half step ahead of the others, watching after the dark-haired Hobbit with grief and longing evident in his very stance.  For a second Frodo Baggins slowed, almost uncertainly, then forced himself to step forward, his head lifted.  Gandalf stood waiting for him, although he didn’t reach for the Ringbearer’s hand, not, Gilboron thought, that the Hobbit was likely to offer it.  Instead he set his hand on the Hobbit’s shoulder briefly, and followed him to the plank, where he let his hand fall and paused to allow the Perian to go ahead of him.  Only after the Ringbearer had taken two steps onto the plank did the Wizard take a long step to join him, again with a comforting, supportive hand on the smaller one’s shoulder, and pulling away to the right once they were both aboard, again allowing the Hobbit his autonomy for the moment.

            There the Hobbit paused, taking a visible breath and looking up, then to each side.  At last he turned and looked back at his friends, all of whom were standing very straight and proudly, gave the smallest of nods, then at last looked up rather uncertainly at the Wizard.

            Together the two of them moved to the stern rail with the Lady beside them, and already those who worked upon the quays were casting off lines while those aboard were drawing them in and coiling them, and passing the end of the plank to those ashore, who were drawing it back.  The current of the tide was tugging impatiently at the ship and drawing it inexorably away from the quay; it turned, showing its broad stern to those who watched after it, and there stood the small yet proud figure of Frodo Baggins, his pulsing silver Light a marked contrast to the steadier Lights of the Elves and Wizard.  The three watching from the deck of the fishing boat could see him fairly clearly now.  The orange ball of the Sun was sinking rapidly now beyond the distant gates to the firth, yet those aboard the ship were caught in the warm glow of the sunset as the clouds overhead turned a remarkable red.  Gilboron could see the Ringbearer reach within his garments and bring out something, something that shone in his hand.  For a brief moment he looked at it, and by its illumination for the first time the young Man could see his face clearly, the fair skin, the determined cleft of the chin, the wide forehead, the straight nose and clear blue eyes before he turned to look again at those he was leaving behind.  Then he raised his hand, and a brilliant light shone forth from it, as if he had managed to capture Eärendil’s light and held it up to reassure those who watched after that he was indeed there.

            “What is it he’s holding?” he heard Glorilyn ask.

            “I know not, beloved.”

            The wind was picking up, and had turned, blowing now from the east as if to deliberately speed the grey ship upon its way as the sheets of the sails were shaken into place and the booms turned to best capture it.  The steersman stood tall at the tiller controls, and even from where they stood they could hear the wind singing in the ship’s rigging, saw the Hobbit look up at the sound of it, an expression of wonder on his face; then he smiled more fully as he turned back to look again at his friends, and the light flared more brightly in his grasp as he lifted it yet higher.  The Sun was almost below the horizon, then was gone completely, but as the ship drew further from them the light still blazed from Frodo Baggins’s hand, as bright as any star; and it was soon matched by that of Eärendil blazing overhead.  A faint backlight outlined the triangular sails of the Elven ship glimmering as it sped on the wings of the wind westward toward the gates to the firth; for a time they could see the distant glimmer of it, ever bearing the brilliance of whatever light it was that was held aloft now by the Ringbearer that echoed the similar brilliance of the Star of Hope.

            Then at last, in the depths of the darkness the very horizon finally hid the light they’d strained their eyes after for so long, and they found themselves turning toward the Elven haven, and now, now almost across from them, they saw the soft golden glimmer they recognized as that associated with the one they believed to be Lord Samwise, the Ringbearer’s companion.

            Gilboron and Glorilyn were being embraced by their mother, and their arms were about her.  They’d barely moved for hours, and none of them had eaten since Glorilyn had brought the noon meal to her brother sometime after midday.  But they would bear the memory of the day they’d watched the Ringbearer leave Middle Earth to the end of their lives, and Gilboron would, whenever he saw Eärendil in the sky, remember clear blue eyes looking back toward his friends as Frodo Baggins held aloft his sparkling treasure for them to see.

For Bodkin for her birthday (sorry it's a bit late).  With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

“But if you take it freely, I will say to you that your choice is right; and though all the mighty elf-friends of old, Hador and Húrin, and Túrin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them.”

Elrond to Frodo, FotR, The Council of Elrond

In the Company of Heroes

            He was seated at the Feast that was seen as the proper place of Reunion amongst the Hobbits of the Shire when Olórin entered the grove and sat by his side.  “Frodo, will you come with me?  There are some who would speak with you, if you will come to them.”

            Reluctantly the Hobbit rose, and then realized that Aragorn had risen also, as had Sam and Bilbo.  “Yes, they come with us,” the Maia advised him.  “The summons is as much for their sake as it is for yours.”

            Intrigued, Frodo started away, then turned to see himself still seated at the table amidst all he’d loved in his younger life, before the Ring and the Sea had torn them asunder.  The Ring had been a destructive influence, while the Sea had been closer attuned, he thought, to surgery, cutting away that which had become damaged and dying flesh that the whole body and its inhabiting spirit should not die betimes with it.  Then, washed clean, the wound had at last healed and the fëa had finally begun to recover its brightness.  He’d not wished to allow any of his spirit to linger on this side of the Silver Bridge; but it appeared that his own nature had insisted he join the Feast with the rest of his kind.

            “Do not be surprised,” Aragorn advised him.  “For we who are allowed death as a gift are accepted here as a courtesy that our memories may remain ever within Arda.  But even now you and I dwell more fully there, the other side of the River, well across the Bridge.  And where you did not enter in yourself, others may yet bring you to halls where your memory will linger in blessedness.”

            They were brought to a great court where sat many great seats of honor.  There was a different feel about himself, and looking down, Frodo realized he was clad no longer in Hobbit garb, but in garments of softest white, white trousers that brushed against his skin, a white tunic beaded with silver and soft blue crystals over a long-sleeved shirt of white lawn embroidered with sea waves and a great star down the arms, with a red sash shot with mithril threads bound about his waist and red beads about the cuffs and collar.

            Aragorn’s garb had changed from black breeches and soft red shirt to a black robe embroidered with White Tree and seven stars, the uppermost made of a great, sparkling crystal.

            “Not especially practical,” Sam sighed, looking down at the garb in gold and green he wore, embroidered with the image of Laurelin, with the Sun in glory on each sleeve.

            “You are not expected to do particularly practical things here,” said a woman of great beauty who came forward with a mithril circlet in her hands as she approached them. 

            All looked at her with fascination, and Aragorn suddenly was bowing.  “My Lady Melian?” he asked.  “I see how it was that Lord Elu was enchanted by you from his first sight of you!”

            She laughed with delight.  “Ay, but it would be you that would recognize me, Dúnadan,” she said, looking at him with approval.  “Descendant of my daughter, and husband to my thrice-great granddaughter!  Welcome!  Come and join the company, for we would honor you as you deserve!”

            And there, amongst that company joined there they saw many of renown, including Elu Thingol, Beleg Cuthalion, Celebrimbor, and----

            “Oh, my Arwen!” Aragorn whispered, moving forward to take his wife once more into his arms.

            “Although I embraced mortality for your sake, meleth nín, a part of my awareness will be here ever,” she explained as she returned his embrace.  “I cannot totally leave behind the Elven heritage I have borne all my life, and I, too, must honor those who have ever been greatest amongst Elf-friends.  Come now, and meet those whose company you shall ever know!”

            She, too, bore a mithril circlet, and now settled it about his brow, even as the Lady Melian was doing for Frodo Baggins, and as another dark-haired individual who resembled both the Maia and Arwen was doing for Bilbo, giving each a kiss of welcome.

            “Our Lady Lúthien!”  Bilbo appeared greatly gratified at the kiss bestowed upon him.  She, too, laughed, reaching out to take him by the hand.  A golden-haired elleth was pressing a circlet upon Sam, who was submitting only because he could think of no graceful way to deny such a lady.  Bilbo examined her momentarily, and hazarded, “And you are the Lady Nimrodel?”

            “Ah--they told me you were a scholar,” she replied, having seen the circlet settled on Sam’s dark golden curls.  “Indeed!”  She gave Sam a kiss of greeting.  “You are well come indeed, beloved Lord Samwise,” she told him.  “And so it is with all of you.  But, come!  The company awaits you!”  And all were led to empty seats.

            A woman dressed in a feathered cape came before them, leading a blushing Gimli by the hand.  “We rejoice to welcome you here, to the company of the greatest elvelloniath in the history of Arda and Ëa.  Come, join and meet them--Hador, Húrin, Túrin Turambur, Barahir, Beren, Elros Tar-Minyatur, Inziladûn Tar-Palantir, Tuor, Amandil the Faithful, Elendil the Tall, Gerontius Took, Isildur Elendilion....”

            Most were Men, but there were a variety of Hobbits, including Bucca of the Marish and a few of those who’d crossed over the mountains from the valley of the Anduin into Eriador, and even a few Dwarves.  Frodo straightened to his full height as he stood before the seat prepared for him, then turned to look up at the Maia.  “What Lord Elrond said, there at the Council----”

            She looked down at him with love and honor in her eyes.  “Indeed so, small lord, you indeed will be ever numbered among the greatest of Elf-friends.  Rejoice, as we rejoice to greet and honor you.  Now come, and take your seat.”

            And so each took his seat, Sam flushing still, Frodo’s face pale save for the bright color of his cheeks, Aragorn with that mixture of competency, pride and humility that was ever his, Bilbo merely delighted and beaming, Gimli somewhat out of his depth with a dazed smile behind his beard. 

            Hail ever, Elf-friends! they heard spoken deep in their hearts, and as much from their mortal companions as from the immortals who surrounded them.

For Queen Galadriel for her birthday.  With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Meditations while Watching Fish

            Elrond found the Ringbearer in a secluded portion of the far gardens, seated on a stone in the midst of other stones, staring down into the rushing stream of the Bruinen.  If he hadn’t been sensing the Hobbit’s fëa he doubted he would have seen him at all, as still as he was, and wrapped in the cloak given him by Galadriel.  Plus, he realized that Frodo Baggins hadn’t wished to be found.

            The peredhel approached quietly, and seated himself on a nearby stone, politely following Frodo’s own lead and looking down into the water, watching as a trout suddenly propelled itself from between two of the boulders that lay within the stream.  Perhaps if he remained quiet for a time the Hobbit would share his concerns.

            They’d sat so for quite some time before Frodo spoke, not looking up.  “Now that the Ring is gone, Bilbo is aging rapidly.”

            There was no need to reply to that--it was merely a statement of observed fact.

            After a time of contemplation, Frodo continued, “I looked into the mirror, there in the room you gave me.  The last time I looked into it I thought I appeared perhaps twenty-seven or so again.  This time----”  He sighed.  “I have silver on my temples, and etched lines.  And I am so desperately thin.”

            Elrond turned to examine the Perian.  “You no longer have the weight you bore before you left your own place, or so consideration of your clothing on your first arrival told me.”

            The Hobbit gave a mirthless bark of a laugh.  “I no longer have the weight I bore before I left here the last time, my Lord Elrond.  My own folk will again believe I am sickly.”

            The Master of Rivendell forbore from observing that his companion no longer knew the robust health of his kind he’d enjoyed before being stabbed by a Morgul blade and making his desperate journey through Mordor carrying the Ring.  He again surveyed Frodo from his hair-covered feet to the crown of his head.  There were strands of silver hairs throughout his dark curls, although they were most noticeable at the temples.  He was surprised to realize just how much Frodo, in his way, resembled Aragorn, for Estel’s hair had begun greying in the same way in the last few years.  Certainly the expression in Frodo’s eyes was much the same as that of the son of his heart in such a thoughtful mood.  As for the set of his mouth--it was rather like looking at a younger Aragorn in his early manhood, before his beard finally began to grow in.  Robbed of his innocence by his experiences of the last year, Frodo Baggins had become solemn, withdrawn, wary, and introspective, much as Estel had become once he began taking on the responsibilities thrust upon the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain and the Heir of Isildur.  There might still be laughter within Frodo Baggins, but it was difficult for it to escape from the depths of a scarred spirit, a spirit walled about with pain and evil memories, many of which were themselves still suppressed.

            At last the Elf responded, “Perhaps they might, my friend.  But I deem you shall ever manage what responsibilities you might accept upon yourself.  You are, after all, a most stubborn Baggins, as Bilbo has ever assured me to be true.”

            Frodo softened somewhat, smiling slightly.  The sadness and acceptance came back, however, as he returned his attention to the water.  “Dear Bilbo,” he murmured.  “I suspect he has greater faith in me than I have in myself at the moment.”

            He returned his attention to Elrond after a time.  “I shall have to let him go, and probably all too soon,” he said.  “How could you do that with your daughter?”

            The peredhel felt the pain of that separation twist once more in his heart, although he did his best not to allow it to be mirrored in his expression.  “I am not--unpracticed in letting go, small master.  I have had to do so all of my long life.”

            Frodo became paler, save for the center of his cheeks, which became pink with embarrassment.  He looked uncomfortably away again.  “I’m sorry--that was a thoughtless question to ask of you--your parents--your brother....”

            “My foster father, his brother I thought of always as my uncle, my Lord Gil-galad, who was as another father to me.  I was by him as his fëa fled his body, you see.  Elendil--even Isildur and so many, many others of my brother’s descendants.  Amroth--Nimrodel--those who accompanied my wife back from her parents’ land.”

            The Hobbit gave a slight nod.  “And I’ve not truly lost so many, I suppose.  My parents, of course.  Uncle Rory and Aunt Gilda, my Brandybuck grandparents, most of my mum’s sisters and brothers.  I don’t quite count Uncle Dudo, for he had little enough to do with either Bilbo or me after his wife died.  I do count Aunt Dora, though.”  Again a slight smile as the embarrassment slowly slipped away.  “Dear Aunt Dora and her decorum and her letters and letters of advice, and her washing and ironing and mending....”  He straightened, his eyes on the water but his thoughts many leagues away.  His hand lifted to his chest, and for an instant there was a glimpse to be seen of the anxiety he still seemed to feel at not finding there the Ring, although it was immediately replaced by an expression of relief as his fingers closed about the gem Arwen had given him.  Had he learned yet how to fully call upon the gem’s healing properties? wondered Elrond Halfelven.

            “I suppose,” Frodo sighed at last, “when the time comes to let Bilbo go I will do so well enough, for after all what other choice would be given me?”

            “True.”

            “If only he could go with you when you leave Middle Earth,” Frodo said, turning to face his companion again.  “He would so love to see Elvenhome.”

            “And you?  I know that when my daughter gave you that, she told you she was ceding her own place on the ship now being built to you.”

            The Ringbearer was shaking his head.  “But does she have the authority, Lord Elrond?  Don’t the Powers and the great Elves already there have to agree first?”  He looked away again.  “And I am not an Elf, after all, but a mortal--very much a mortal.”  There was a note of finality in his voice.  “The Undying Lands were not intended for such as I am.  And does it not say in the lore that Ar-Pharazôn was warned that should he set foot on Aman it was likely he should die the quicker, as a mortal unable to bear the purity and Light of the air there?”

            Elrond laid his long fingers on the Hobbit’s shoulder, and Frodo looked again up into his eyes.  “You would undoubtedly never be allowed to cross to Aman proper, but could perhaps find your place on Tol Eressëa rather.  It was, after all, originally a part of Middle Earth.  But you have been much changed by what you have endured.  I suspect that in the end you would find more comfort there than even amongst your own people.  After all, you have admitted to me that it will not be the same, returning to the Shire, for you are not the same.”

            Frodo nodded, looking away again.  He returned to his watching of the water, where a second trout held its place against the current alongside the first, both with a level of defiance facing the water that would sweep them away if it was allowed.

            Elrond saw the same defiance in the small figure there beside him.  He was glad he’d given the Ringbearer some thoughts to consider.  Time should not take this one away before he found his healing.

Written for JunoMagic's "Alphabet Challenge"

Rebellion

            “Books?  You wish me to copy more books?  But, Bilbo, it’s beautiful and the sun is shining, the sky is fair, the weather balmy!  I’ve copied six books in the past year, and all I wish to do for the next few weeks is to walk by the Water and perhaps swim a bit, and soak up the sunshine!”

            Frodo rolled up his sleeves to show his arms.  “Look at this: absolutely pale white.  I need some sunshine!  I need some fresh air!  I need to lie atop the Hill and watch clouds.”  So saying, he threw down his nib.

With many thanks to RiverOtter for the beta!

The Gaffer’s Farewell

             “Elanorellë,” Rosie said, turning from where she was flattening dough that would soon be transformed into scones, “will you please run down to the Row to Number 3 and ask your Gaffer if he’d like to join us this afternoon for tea?  Tell him as I’m fixin’ brambleberry tarts as well as scones with sultanas baked in.”

            “Yes, Mummy,” the little lass said.  “Shall I stay ’n’ come up with him when he’s ready?”

            “Yes, do that, child.”

            The lass was out the door and tripping down the steps to the lane in a heartbeat, and Rosie smiled as she heard the back gate close behind her daughter.  Ellë was as good a lass as had ever been born within the Shire, she thought, and she was so pleased as this beautiful child had been give to her and her Sam.  And if her two gaffers didn’t both dote on her, much as her Uncle Frodo had!  She hoped that the child appreciated just how deeply she was loved, as well as the quality of them as loved her.  Couldn’t be many who was as well and thoroughly adored as her scrap of a lass, after all.  She’d even managed to hold a good portion of the King’s own heart in her keeping, too, Rosie believed.

            As for the Gaffer--well, he wasn’t doing too badly, but he wasn’t doing particularly well, either.  Sam had been watching him for some weeks, and was down to Bagshot Row two-three times a day, keeping a close eye on his aging father.  He’d been down this morning and had a good breakfast cooked before old Hamfast had managed to quit his bed.  His last words to the Gaffer was that he’d be back this evening to help with the planting of the taters and parsnips and onions the old Hobbit wished to do that day.  But Sam had needed to ride to Overhill to check out some bedding plants at the nursery there, and would have to see some of them planted immediately on his return, which meant he’d not be able to help his old dad until this evening at the earliest.

            Rosie could walk down just before tea and walk back with her father-in-love and Elanor, her arm about him to lend him balance as they made their way up the Lane to the steps; and Sam had built railings alongside the rear steps to help his father in his infrequent visits to Bag End.  “Wish as he’d choose to live here with us, old as he is,” she murmured to herself as she turned her attention back to the scones and saw them properly layered and then deftly cut into triangles.

            Once the scones were in the oven, she peeked into the nursery, the room immediately opposite the master bedroom she’d shared with her beloved Sam since they’d been married by Master Frodo as deputy Mayor.  At the moment the room was shared by Frodo-lad and Rosie-lass, although she thought that fairly soon Frodo would be ready for his own room.  Both were still asleep in their cots, Frodo-lad with his Uncle Frodo’s blanket over him, the one embroidered with a great dragonfly, Rosie snuggled under a pink blanket knitted for her by Mistress Eglantine from the Great Smial.  Soon enough, she knew, her son would be resenting naps, and the cradle in the corner would hold the child she bore now.  She smiled, certain that Master Frodo would be very happy to see Bag End filled with the large, loving family he’d always wished for.

            She was headed for the privy when she heard the back door open.  “Mummy?” Elanor called, with a tone to her voice Rosie had never heard before.  “Mummy?  Where are you?”

            Rosie turned back toward the kitchen.  “What is it, our Ellë?” she asked.

            “It’s the Gaffer, Mummy--he’s lying on the ground and can’t get up!”

            The Hobbitess went still.  He was rather aged, after all.  In as calm a voice as she could manage she asked, “Is your Sam-dad home yet, sweetling?”

            “Yes--he’s in the glasshouse as he built near the workshed.”

            “Go and call him.  Tell him as the gaffer’s not well.  Understand, lass?”

            “Yes, Mummy.”  The child disappeared back out into the garden, headed for her father’s workshed.  Her mother watched after, a coldness in her chest she’d not felt since she saw Sam’s grief-stricken face on the night he’d returned from the Grey Havens.  There would soon be another piece torn out of his overlarge heart, she knew.

 *******

            By nightfall the Gaffer was tucked up in one of the extra bedrooms at Bag End, and Sam and Drolan Chubbs, the healer who’d served most of the folks who lived in the vicinity of the Hill, were with him.  The Gaffer had appeared to waken, but had not seemed to know those around him.  In the kitchen Rosie sat in the rocking chair Frodo Baggins had given her for his birthday after she’d married Sam, Rosie-lass in her lap and Frodo-lad squeezed in alongside her, Elanor sitting on the corner settle with her cloth doll she’d named Evenstar.  Elanor was singing as she sat her doll on her lap, carefully smoothing the long, silky threads that served as the doll’s dark hair.  Rosie realized that Elanor was singing a song that Master Frodo used to sing to her, an Elvish song that managed to sound both sad and hopeful at the same time.  As Rosie remembered it, Master Frodo sang that mostly in the last month before he left them.

            Sancho Proudfoot had driven to the other side of Bywater to advise the Cottons and especially Marigold that the Gaffer had taken a bad turn, while one of the Chubbs lads had gone into Hobbiton to fetch Daisy and May.  Rose had written notes to send to the Northfarthing to advise Sam’s brothers, as well as notes to the Great Smial to summon Master Peregrin and Master Meriadoc, who was visiting in Tuckborough with his younger cousin and his wife.  She knew that her Samwise would want those two by him at this time, the three of them sharing so much, having gone together on the quest and all missing Master Frodo as they did.  The Chubbs lad was to have left the letters with the Quick Post once he’d called on Daisy and May.  She only hoped they would arrive in time.

            She looked up as Drolan Chubbs came down the passageway from the bedrooms.  “He’s as well as he can be,” he said without preamble as he entered the kitchen to find the mistress of Bag End seated with her children for comfort.  “It appears to have been a brainstorm, and a bad one at that.  I can’t say as how long he might have.”

            Rosie nodded.  “I see,” she said quietly.  She lifted Rosie-lass higher and pushed herself out of the chair.  “I’ve sent for the others as I could.”  At his nod she continued.  “My poor Sam.”

            Again he nodded.  “Yes--he’s been through it, what with losing his Master as he did and all he appears to have done before that.  I’ll be back in the morning.”

            She saw him to the door, Frodo-lad following behind her and watching after the healer from behind his mother’s skirts.  Then she went back into the kitchen to find Elanor still singing her song, her doll now held to her cheek for comfort, her eyes blurred with tears.  For a moment Rosie looked down on her firstborn, then smiled her own, watery smile.  “Come, lass,” she said gently.  “We’ll need t’be gettin’ some rooms ready for company.  Will you come and help?”

            After a moment Elanor gave a small nod, and stood slowly and thoughtfully, laying Evenstar gently on the settle before coming to take her mother’s outstretched hand.

 *******

            They’d settled Hamfast Gamgee in the bedroom nearest the kitchen, privy, and bathing room, where the old Hobbit would be warmest and they’d have easy access for fresh water as needed and to make it easier to empty the chamberpot as necessary.

            Once they had the Gaffer undressed and Sam had clothed him in one of Mr. Frodo’s softest and warmest nightshirts, Drolan Chubbs arrived to join Sam in evaluating his condition.  At last the healer had drawn Sam out of the room where their voices wouldn’t carry.

            “Brainstorm, Sam.  And it looks a bad one at that.”

            “But might he recover, Mr. Drolan?”

            The healer shrugged.  “Might be--anything’s possible, as I think you know better than I; but there’s no reaction to anything on his right side, and that’s not particularly a good sign.”

            Sam nodded.

            Together they went back into the room, and quietly the healer explained how the old Hobbit’s body would need to be moved at least once an hour, and how the arms and legs needed to be worked so that should any ability be restored on that right side his limbs would be best able to respond to the Gaffer’s will. 

            After the healer left, Sam stayed for a few minutes by his father’s bed, then went to the kitchen to again begin brewing the tea he used to make for his Master, those last two years of Frodo Baggins’s life within the Shire.  Athelas, chamomile, willowbark....  Drolan had said it wouldn’t hurt, and might possibly help.  He could hear Rosie talking to Frodo-lad and Elanor as they prepared the next room for Marigold and young Tom; the messages shouldn’t reach the others for a day or two, he knew.  Whether May and Daisy might choose to stay there at Bag End no one knew as yet.  Ah, there was the bell!

*******

            “Marigold, May ’n’ me’ll take it in turns to watch with him,” Daisy explained to Sam.

            “And I’m not good enough to sit with him?  Why not?” asked Sam rather coldly.

            Daisy seemed startled.  “I thought as you’re Master of Bag End now as you’d be too busy is all.  And there’s so much that’ll need to be done to keep him clean, you understand.”

            Sam was plainly affronted.  “I’ll remind you as I’ve already been a dad three times and have the fourth on the way.”

            “It’s not quite the same, cleanin’ a bairn and cleanin’ a grown Hobbit, Sam,” Daisy said rather delicately.  “I mean, you’ve not had to do this, while Moro ’n’ I’ve done it afore when it was his mum as needed tendin’.”

            Sam’ expression was still rather stony, and quite as stubborn as Master Frodo’s had ever been.  “You think as I’ve not had to help do this?  I was by them when it was my Master as needed tendin’ as if he was a very bairn, I’ll have you know.  Him was asleep for days that first time, and I wasn’t leavin’ it all to the Elvish healers.  And I know as how important it is to keep his skin cleaned and him turned, and to work his arms and legs so’s he’ll be able to move should he wake up proper.

            “After all,” he added, “the Gaffer’s my dad, too.”

            Daisy had to concede defeat.  “All right,” she said.  “We’ll take it in turns.”

            He nodded, then said, “And I’ll take three hours of the night watch.  Got used to it while we was travelin’.”

            She nodded, and so it was settled.

            But that night when he came in to take his turn, she stayed by him for a time.  “You said as you needed to do this for Mr. Frodo?” she asked quietly.

            For a time he stayed silent, but at last he gave a slight nod, then said softly, “He was stabbed with a Morgul blade.  That’s a kind of knife--got a brittle blade to it, it does, made to break off deliberate in the wound.  It’d been majicked--there was a spell on it, a wicked spell, meant to turn him into a wraith.  Oh, he fought it, but it took all his mind fixed on it to do the fightin’ proper.”

            He turned to look up at her, and she could see the pain in his eyes.  “Member when you and Moro was fittin’ him with shirts and you was upset as he was so thin?”  At her nod, he continued, “And did you touch his left arm?”

            She thought, then admitted, “It was terrible cold, it was.”

            “Yes, terrible cold.  That it was.”  He turned to look down at the Gaffer, and picked up his right hand and began to chafe it and work at it.  “That was from the wound--the wound from the Morgul knife.  Took us two weeks to reach Rivendell and a few more days to get that shard out of there.  It almost took him then.  After that, whenever he wasn’t feelin’ well his shoulder would ache, and when he was worst his left hand would go cold, and his whole arm.  Sometimes he could barely move it.  But most of the time you couldn’t really tell as he’d been hurt bad, though--he’d hide it well.”

            “Ceptin’ when he’d rub at his shoulder,” she commented.

            “Yes, that.  He would be rubbin’ at it from time to time, and a good deal there at the end.”

            “Did he die, Sam?  I mean, that’s what some say, as he didn’t want to die here, here in the Shire where so many didn’t pay him no mind, so that’s why he went away.”

            He turned his head away slightly.  “I’ve heard that, too; but, no, he’s not dead--not so far as we can tell.  Certainly he was lively enough when he went aboard the grey ship with Gandalf and Elrond and the Lady and all.  Stood at the rail at the back and held up his starglass for us to see as long as we could.  We stood there all night, there on the shores of Mithlond, and watched after till we couldn’t see it no more.”

            He sighed as he began to bend and straighten the Gaffer’s elbow and wrist.  “Oh, we watched.  Learned as the King come north, too, hopin’ to say goodbye, but he didn’t make it in time.  He said as he sat his horse on one of the hills as looks down on the Havens and looked out to Sea--saw a flash he’s certain as was the ship findin’ the Straight Path, leavin’ Middle Earth altogether.”

            He went silent, and finally switched to rolling the shoulder before continuing.  “We can feel him, sometimes, when we’re near the Elven trees.  I’ll go down to the mallorn and feel him, sittin’ ’neath the White Tree on Tol Eressëa, and Strider says the same when he visits the White Tree of Gondor.  It’s not all the time, but we feel him there enough to be certain as he’s much better.  Usually it’s just a feelin’ as we’re not alone, and someone calm is there aside us.  Often he’s singin’, or so it seems.  Sometimes he’s not alone--got some Elflings aside him or somethin’, I’d guess, tellin’ them stories.”

            She smiled across at him, remembering the many stories Frodo Baggins had told them over the years since he came to Bag End.

            “He was a good Master to you, Sam Gamgee,” she said softly.

            “The best,” he agreed.  “But more than that, he was my brother of the heart.  Never seemed as he was that much older’n me, not like Ham and Hal, you know.  It was like I grew into bein’ ’bout as old as him.  We never knew that was ’cause of the Ring.  I just thought it was due to him bein’ special--only just how special he was I didn’t learn till we was well on our way.”

            He switched back to the hand, covering up the shoulder and most of the arm.  Gently he opened and shut the fingers.  “He loved the Gaffer, Mr. Frodo did.  Worried about him, and how he might be doin’ with us gone.  When he heard what I’d seen in the Lady’s Mirror he was right worried, not what any of us could do anything about it to stop whatever it was as might send him off, away from Number 3 with what he could carry away in his bit of a barrow.  First thing as we got back and found out as what had happened here in Hobbiton and about the Hill, him was demandin’ as we make certain as the Gaffer and Marigold was both safe.”

            She nodded softly.  “Mr. Frodo was always a carin’ soul.”

            He gave her a sideways glance, and a half smile softened the concern of his expression somewhat.  “’Ceptin’ when he wasn’t noticin’ just how you and May thought as him was the most fascinatin’ creature as ever was in the shape of a Hobbit?” he asked slyly, his attention again apparently fixed on his father’s hand.

            She flushed.  “Oh, go on with you, Samwise Gamgee!” she said, swatting at his upper arm. 

            He gave a soft laugh.  “Nah, it’s fer you to get to bed now.  I’ll watch him the next few hours.  Go on--the Gaffer’ll be fine with me--and if’n aught happens I’ll call you--never fear.”

 *******

            It was near dawn when Hamfast Gamgee opened his eyes and looked about the room curiously, his attention finally coming to rest on the patient face of his son.  “Hal?” he managed, his voice rather slurred.

            Sam straightened.  “No, Dad--it’s me, your Sam.  You know your Sam?”

            The old Hobbit’s brow furrowed on the left side.  “Sam?” he said.  “You, Sam--where’s--where’s yer Masser?”

            Marigold was coming in to spell her brother at the moment, and heard the question, seeing the wave of pain swiftly cross Sam’s face and quickly be schooled away.

            “He’s gone, Dad,” Sam said softly.  “Went west--years agone.”

            “Go--yer Masser.  Tank-- ’im.”

            Sam was confused.  “What?” he asked.

            “Go--tank--Masser.”

            Marigold could see the confusion grow, and noted the younger gardener also looked somehow horrified.  “I can’t go now--not with Rosie and the children, Gaffer!”

            The old Hobbit was shaking his head as best he could.  “No,” he said, “no go.  Go--Masser---thank him.”  He swallowed thickly, apparently surprised to note how difficult this simple act had become.

            Marigold came to her brother’s side and helped him sit their father more upright, and watched as Sam expertly offered the invalid’s cup.  The Gaffer managed three swallows before he began to choke on what he’d taken, and Sam had to lift him up over his shoulder and pat his back to rid the lungs of the tea he’d accidentally inhaled.

            Once they had their dad settled once more and he’d been able to properly swallow a bit more of the tea Sam had prepared before indicating he’d had all he could accept at the moment, Sam explained, “I’ve been by you some time, Dad.  Marigold’ll be by you now for a time.  You rest and get stronger, hear?”

            Hamfast flicked his eyes at his son; but there was now some confusion to be seen there before he closed them.  In minutes his troubled breathing filled the room as he slipped back into a disturbed doze.

 *******

            Sam slept perhaps three hours before he woke once more, rose, dressed, and after seeing to his own needs came to the Gaffer’s room to see how things were progressing.  May was carrying out the chamberpot while Daisy was smoothing fresh sheets over the figure in the bed.  “Goldi’s taken the other sheets out to the laundry kettle,” she advised him.  “Good thing as you had the oilcloth on the bed, it is.”

            He nodded.  He suspected there was going to be a good deal of laundry in the next few weeks--if the Gaffer lived that long, of course.

 *******

            A routine set in.  Every day the Widow Rumble came up and spelled them all for a few hours.  Rosie did most of the cooking, although the Chubbses and the Proudfoots sent up tureens of soups and stews, and the Twofoots kept them well supplied with bread.  Merry, Pippin, and their wives arrived, and each took over a three-hour stint with the Gaffer as well as assisting Rosie as much as she’d allow.

            Tom and Sam saw to the planting the Gaffer had wanted done, while Merry and Marigold saw to much of the upkeep of the Bag End garden.  On the third day after their arrival Diamond and Estella tackled Frodo’s old room, seeing much of what was there packed away for Frodo-lad for when he was older, sorting out Frodo’s clothing under Sam’s supervision and thinking where much of it could go.

            “There’s not many who could wear much of what he had, there before he left us,” Estella said as she held up one of the jackets Frodo had barely worn.  “He’d become so thin.”

            “Not that Frodo-lad is particularly plump,” Diamond said, looking at the child where he stood in the doorway watching their activities with interest.

            Estella examined the small lad for a moment.  “Not yet; but there’s a sturdy quality to him Frodo never showed until he was an adult.  I have a feeling he will end up broader in the chest than Frodo ever was.”

            Sam turned to consider his son, contrasting him with what he remembered of the child’s name-father, there the first time he’d seen Frodo Baggins in the gardens of Bag End.  Frodo had not been a child then, but a tween, and a particularly tall and slender tween at that.  Having never seen any Big Folk against whom to compare this stranger, Sam had mistaken him for an Elf, as fair and pale and otherworldly as he’d appeared to the gardener’s young lad at the time.  That Elves would prove just under twice Frodo’s height was not something that Sam had been prepared to appreciate.  Frodo-lad’s hair was paler than was Sam’s own, but not the gold of his sister’s; he was perhaps a bit tall for his age, but not unusually so, or so his father judged.  But there was a native wisdom there in the child’s eyes that told Sam that he and Rosie had managed to properly name their first son after all.  If Frodo Baggins were to see Frodo Gamgee, the gardener thought, he would know him right away without needing any other introduction.

            But there was also a look of the child’s grandfather to him at the moment, particularly there about the eyes as Frodo-lad watched the two Hobbit ladies going through the things the child had previously never seen touched.  You’re as much the Gaffer’s own grandchild as you are our son, he thought.  Someone to remind us of more than just my closer-than-brother.  He smiled slightly in spite of himself.

*******

            That evening Hamfast Gamgee seemed more aware than he’d been since that first morning.  There was no question now of him lingering longer, they all knew.  Ham and Hal and their families had arrived, and were to stay at Number 3 that they not overburden Bag End.  Their father responded to them as they came into the room where he lay, smiling in obvious recognition, although he’d not spoken since the first morning after he’d become bedridden.  Daisy was sitting at the head of the bed, their father’s head pillowed in her lap, as the others filed into the room.

            “Well,” Hamson said softly, kneeling so his face was even with his father’s.  “I understand as you’ve been a-hangin’ on here, a-waitin’ fer us to come so’s you could see us all once more afore ye go.  I suspect as Mum’s full anxious t’have ye by her once more.  Give her our love, hear, Dad?”

            The old Hobbit’s smile became a bit fuller.

            “Love yer, Dad,” Ham said as he rose, laying a hand on his father’s shoulder before giving place to Halfred.

            “You tell her--tell her as we’ve took care of you as much as you’ve allowed,” Hal said, his voice thick with the tears he was trying to control.  “Tell her as even in the bad times yer wasn’t alone--and thanks to the Cottons for that.”  He smiled across the bed at where young Tom represented his own family, who’d come earlier in the day to see the old Hobbit.

            Hamfast stared deeply into Hal’s face, almost as if he were memorizing it.

            Daisy touched the side of her dad’s face, and he looked up into her kindly eyes.  “You done well by us and everyone you’ve been by, Daddy,” she said.  “We love you so much, you know.”

            There was the smallest of moves of the head as if he were trying to nod.

            May was kneeling down by her father now, and he turned his eyes to meet hers.  She was openly crying.  “We love you so, Dad,” she said.  “We’ll miss you, but you taught us well--we’re here for one another.  We’ll get by.  We’ll miss you somethin’ awful, but we’ll get by.”  She ran her hand down his temple, then leaned over and gave him a hug, almost unwilling at the end to let him go.

            Then it was Sam, with Rosie-lass in his arms.  “Us and the children--we’ll do you proud as we’ve ever done, Gaffer,” he said.  “Know that, Dad.  We’ll always do you proud.”

            For the first time the dying Hobbit tried to speak.  At last he croaked, “Know--know you will.  Tell Mas’ Frodo--tanks--you go--him.”

            Again Sam’s expression clouded, but aloud he said only, “If’n I ever see him again, I will, Dad.”

            Again old Hamfast smiled--as well as he could, of course, with but half a face adhering to his will.

            “Gaffer?” said Rosie-lass inquiringly.

            The Gaffer’s smile softened.  “Swee’ lass,” he whispered.  His eyes closed a bit as if in pain.

            Sam hastily gave place to Marigold.  When their dad opened his eyes again he looked a bit confused, as if he still expected to see the child there, but then he smiled again as Goldi reached out to take his hand, too overwhelmed to speak, reaching out and stroking his hair. 

            “Swee’ lass,” he said again as he’d said to the bairn.  “M’ swee’ li’l lass.”

            She laid her face in the hollow of his neck and held him almost desperately, whispering, “Love you!  Love you!  Love you!” over and over.

            At last he looked up and caught Rosie’s eyes, standing in the doorway, and gave her a soft, lopsided smile, and she couldn’t help but smile back in the end.

            From the hallway all could hear Diamond Took saying softly, “Mistress Rose--Missus Begonia Rumble is here, and she wishes to see Master Hamfast if allowed.”

            With looks at one another, the others gave way, and at a touch of her shoulder by her husband Marigold finally sat up, wiped her tears away, and tried to smile.  “Love you, Daddy,” she repeated one last time as she stood up and gave way to the Widow Rumble.

            “Now, what is this I hear, Hamfast Gamgee,” the now elderly Hobbitess said as she accepted the chair Hamson set for her.  “You’ve decided to go out with some ceremony, have you?  And didn’t give thought to me at all, all I’ve done for you these past years?”

            But he was seeing past her pretense at being offended, and smiling up at her with an expression of indulgence.  Begonia Rumble was now dashing at her own tears.  “Well,” she said, her voice softening, “you were always a one for doing things your own way, weren’t you?”

            There was a rumble in Hamfast’s chest, and they realized he was laughing.

            No one could help but smile at that.

            He was smiling on the half his face that responded to his will, and closed his eyes.

            “I’m glad as ye’ve come up the Hill t’night,” Hamson said softly to the Widow.

            “Couldn’t let him go, not without wishin’ him a fare-thee-well,” Missus Rumble said softly.

            Sam, however, had been watching their father’s countenance, and his face had gone all solemn before unashamed tears began gathering in his eyes.  “He was glad for it--but he’s gone now.”

            All turned to look at the still body upon the bed, now gone more so as his spirit quietly stole away, pausing briefly to look down on all remaining in the room, then turning decidedly toward where another waited.  Hamfast?  Are you coming or not?  We’ll need your taters for the Feast, you know!

            Laughing within himself, lean and wiry and tireless once more for the first time in decades, Hamfast Gamgee hurried to take his beloved Bell in his arms.

 *******

            Begonia Rumble and Lily Cotton took over the task of preparing the body while the rest went out to the parlor to compose themselves.  After a time, on the pretext of going to the bathing room to wash his face, Sam went to his room, fetched his Elven cloak, then crept soundlessly out the back door, went down the back path to the low place in the hedge that once had been jumped by Bilbo Baggins as he set out to leave the Shire after his eleventy-first birthday and later by Frodo, Pippin, and Sam as they made at last to follow him.  He wandered the darkened lanes for a time, but fetched up, somehow, beneath the mallorn tree in the Party Field.  He curled up there with his father’s old gardening hat pressed against his chest.  “Oh, Frodo,” he whispered as he cried himself out at last.  “How it hurts, how it hurts to have to say goodbye to the stubborn old Hobbit!”

            He felt long, slender fingers combing through his curls, much as they’d done when it had been his mum he’d been mourning.  Oh, I do know.  To find you’re orphaned....

            “He wanted me to come to you--thank you.”

            Thank me?  And for what?

            “Dunno, Frodo.  I don’t know at all.”

            I don’t wish you to leave Rosie and the children--you know that.  He knows that, I’m certain!

            “I know.  And I won’t!”

            Good!  You stay by them and see them raised well!  And I’ll be having words with him when it’s our turn to see him--see if I don’t!  Come to me to thank me indeed!

            As he drifted into a sleep he felt Frodo’s arms hold him, felt him breathing into his ear as he softly sang the Elven song Elanor had been singing to her doll in the kitchen. 

            And so Merry and Pippin found him, and Pippin curled up beside him, sliding his arm beneath the Mayor’s head to pillow it.

            “It will put your arm to sleep,” Merry pointed out as he pulled out his pipe and filled it with some Goolden Lynch pipeweed he’d found in a sealed jar in Frodo’s room.

            “It’s worth it, if it gives him comfort,” Pippin murmured as one of the small store of matches Merry had found in the same place flared and said pipe was lit.  “Why else do you think that Frodo allowed us to sleep on his arm that way all the years of our childhood, save to let us know just how much he loved us?”

            Merry couldn’t dispute such logic, and merely smiled down at the two of them as he kept watch while Sam slept out his grief.

 ******* 

            All was gay about the table as those who’d been Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee came to join the Feast at last.  Many looked up, and Frodo’s parents and those who would have been his brothers and sister came to claim him, drawing him to his place.  But as he passed Hamfast Gamgee he paused.

            “Why in Middle Earth did you want Sam to leave and find me?” he demanded of the former gardener for Bag End in the Shire.

            “Leave ’n’ find you?  Don’t be daft, Master Frodo!” the Gaffer said.  “I only wished as when he come at last to you agin he thank you proper fer all as you give him, as he was taught.”

            Sam flushed as the brother of his heart began to laugh at the long misunderstanding as it was finally made right.

For PearlTook's birthday, as well as that of Frodo and Bilbo.

Promises Made

            Pippin stopped short just inside Bag End, his mouth open in dismay, his gaze fixed on Bilbo Baggins as he came from the back of the smial with his filled pack in his arms, barely keeping his grasp on his favorite walking stick.  Bilbo looked up at the loudly indrawn breath the young Took gave, his expression at once guilty and menacing.

            “What are you doing here now, Peregrin Took,” the Baggins demanded.

            “I came to refill the pitcher with water,” the child explained defensively.  “It’s not like I’m spying on you or anything like that!”  He looked at the pack.  “You’re going to go now--before the party starts, I mean?”

            “What do you need with water?” Bilbo asked, ignoring the question as he came to set the pack in the corner by the door, then dropping the walking stick into a prominent position in the umbrella stand.  “There are at least twenty-five kegs of ale and beer down there, and the Ivy Bush is to send up five more this afternoon--plus old Rory and Sara have promised to bring a couple of casks of brandy with them from Buckland.”

            “Frodo won’t allow us to open the ale as yet--not that he’ll let me have any,” Pippin said, pouting slightly and turning to keep his attention on his elderly cousin.  “Why do you have your pack?”

            Bilbo gave him a sharp glance, then deflated slightly, answering in a softer tone.  “Merely getting ready, my lad.  There’s no sense to waiting until the last moment, you know.  If I waited till tonight to pack Lobelia would find me before I could get away, most likely.”

            “But I don’t want you to go!” Pippin said after a moment, his lip quivering slightly, although he was making a brave effort to keep the tears gathering behind his eyes from falling.  “What will Frodo do without you here to take care of him?”

            Bilbo waved his hand, shrugging one shoulder.  “Pippin, Frodo is now fully of age, and can definitely take care of himself.  I’ve seen him take on Lotho Sackville-Baggins and other bullies from Brandy Hall, as well as managing to put even Lalia in her place with a few sharp words.  I’ve done the best I can to make certain he’s fully prepared for anything life might throw at him, have seen to it his intelligence and curiosity are honed and ready, have taught him all I know of both the Shire and the outer world--it’s now up to him to make the best of them.” 

            He stepped toward the child and put his hand on Pippin’s shoulder.  “I’m old, Peregrin,” he said gently, stooping slightly to look the lad in the eye.  “It’s my eleventy-first birthday, and I am old.  How I’ve managed this long, considering many of the absurd and sometimes dangerous things I’ve done in my life, I couldn’t begin to say.  I most likely won’t remain in this world much longer--that’s just the way of the world, as Eru designed Hobbits.  I refuse to become a burden on the one Hobbit I love more than all others, the one who has stood as a son to me, the one whose father was as my own younger brother.  He should shine before the Shire and the world, not have to hurry home each night to give a bed bath to a decrepit old thing as I’ll likely be all too soon. a creature without the good sense to die a timely death.”

            He straightened and became solemn.  “I’m charging you, Pippin, to keep an eye on our Frodo for me, to make certain he doesn’t grow too solemn or stodgy--doesn’t become another boring, dull, predictable Baggins such as my father was.  Will you promise me that?”

            “You want me to take care of Frodo?”

            Bilbo gave a short laugh.  “No, you won’t have to take care of him--from what I’ve seen of Sam, he’ll see to it Frodo’s clothes are clean and that he doesn’t allow all his meals to burn or go cold when he’s distracted with a book or translation or work, and that he gets proper exercise and all.  No, not that.  But what you can do for him will be to see to it he never forgets how to laugh and enjoy life.  Can you do that, as my special, secret birthday present to him?”

            This idea was so novel Pippin forgot his dismay.  “You want me to be your birthday present to him?”

            “Oh, yes!  Who better than a Took to keep the Tookishness in him alive and vital, Pippin?  We must not allow the Baggins part to become too predictable, or he’ll cease to be our Frodo!  Do you understand?”

            Pippin nodded.  Then he gave one more look at the battered old pack that leaned against the corner.  “But you’re not going now, right this moment?”

            “I swear, Peregrin Took, on my honor as a Baggins and a Took.”

            Relieved, Pippin nodded.  “All right, as long as you don’t break that promise.  You won’t hurt Frodo any sooner than you must.”

            “I promise.”

            Apparently finally satisfied Bilbo meant what he said, Pippin at last headed down the passage toward the kitchen to refill the water pitcher.  Bilbo looked after him thoughtfully.  It appeared that he was leaving his beloved heir in the best of hands.  Then he turned decidedly away to straighten the walking stick somewhat.  Yes, he was ready for his holiday.

            Unseen, Gandalf stood just inside the parlor, a look of sad pride on his bearded face.  He watched as Pippin came from the kitchen, carefully carrying his filled pitcher, and as Bilbo opened the door for him and accompanied him out.

            “Wonderful, amazing creatures, Hobbits,” he murmured to himself as the door closed behind the two, old and young.

Written to celebrate the first anniversary of the LOTR Community discussion group, and dedicated to Soledad on her birthday.  So many thanks to RiverOtter for the beta!

A Day to Celebrate

            In Gondor there was rejoicing on the twenty-fifth of the third month, now officially the start of the new year.  Their Lord and Lady were not within the White City, having gone to the wasted lands where the last battle of the War of the Ring had been fought, gone there shining with their shared love and the power it granted them, gone to offer their blessings toward the renewal of the long-cursed earth and the horrors of the Dead Marshes that had been so long marred by the Enemy’s will toward evil.

            But gone from Middle Earth now was the one who had sought to twist the elements themselves from the Creator’s intent, seeking to take his mentor’s place when it was proved that he indeed could not of his own power call Morgoth out of the Void.  And so, in spite of the absence of King and Queen the people of Minas Tirith made merry--those who’d not followed the royal train on its pilgrimage.

            The White Tree now bloomed before the Citadel.  The beloved younger son of Denethor might not be the Ruling Steward, yet was of higher rank in his way even than had been his father.  And now the arrival of the Steward of Gondor at a function was considered a blessing rather than an added reason for concern.  Rohan and Gondor were now further bonded through the marriage of Prince Faramir to the sister of Éomer King, and the threat of the rogue Wizard beyond the northwestern borders had been ended.  They had seen with their own eyes that there yet lingered the long-lost races of Elves, Dwarves, and other peoples in the far north, and now such had begun to come openly into Gondor and through the seven Circles of the city, adding their own blessings to this beginning to the new age.

            And there was the memory of the stay within their city of the four Pheriannath who’d managed to save so many and bring down the Nameless One himself as well as his greatest servant.  The wonder of it still filled their hearts!

 *

            In the far north, however, the one they praised more greatly this day even than their new King did not hear the echoes of the songs sung in his honor in Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, from the seaports on the western shores of Langstrand to the new settlements already being founded ’neath the shadows of the Ephel Dúath.  His health did not reflect the wishes offered for it by Rangers from beyond Deadman’s Dike to those who kept their watch in the guarded lands north of the River Poros.  No scent of blooms from White Trees or mellyrn lifted his heart--this day he seemed not even to scent the early daffodils and hyacinths blooming in bright blankets all about the farmhouse where he sat, rubbing at the deep ache in his shoulder.  The goblet of wine brought to him by his friend’s beloved tasted as sour as vinegar upon his tongue.  He knew no vision of the brightness gathered about the Man he loved as a brother and that one’s star-blessed wife that day.  He felt no warmth about him, even though his hostess offered the softest, warmest shawl from her blanket chest to him to wrap about his shoulders.

            Nay, the day for him was empty, and grey as spent ash, as fair as all others might find it, even those of his own folk who knew not what had happened in fire-cursed caverns in now-fallen mountains that had at last dispelled the brown skies of a year past.  His very heart had been scoured out by what he had taken upon himself and that had lain over it for so very long.  Hollow and empty he felt.  He only rejoiced that Pippin and Merry and Sam were not there this day to see him, to realize how deeply the scars ran.

            Of its own volition his hand lifted to clutch through his shirt at what no longer hung from a chain about his neck--nay, a different chain hung there now, lighter but undoubtedly as strong.  His questing fingers were at first disappointed, then relieved to find instead the white gem given him by the Queen.  He held it almost desperately, and felt at least a slight lightening of the grief.  It was not much, but any measure of illumination to make it past the darkened windows of his soul was welcome. 

            He took his first deep breath of the day.  Nay, he would not allow that emptiness to be perceived by the Cottons or any other who might visit them ere the morrow.  With an effort he rose, forced a smile, pretended to pay attention to what young Jolly was saying.  He would not darken their day if he could help it.

In honor of All Saints.  Beta by RiverOtter. 

Echoes

            There are echoes of old conversations to be heard in the rooms and passageways of Bag End, if one listens closely enough.  Frodo Gardner hears them from time to time--has been hearing them all his life.

            “I brought you your tea, Master.  Where shall I put the tray?”

            “How about here?  No, wait--I’ll move these books.”

            “Shall I open the window for you, Mr. Frodo?”

            “Now, tell me the story of this picture you’ve done.”

            “It’s to illustrate the story of the lost toys that you were telling to Merry and Pippin last time they were here.  See?  I have carefully worked the missing toys into the picture of the lad searching for them.  Do you see the two wooden sheep?  And the spinning top?  Oh, good, Bilbo--you found the ball!”

            “You left Pippin in Gandalf’s care?”

            “Oh, but Bilbo--he had about worn us out!  Merry was almost ready to strangle him by the time we got him untangled from the brambleberry vines--and if we didn’t all get nettle stung!”

            “You’d best believe it, Mr. Bilbo, sir--we used a fair amount of comfrey and aloe, we did, what with nettle stings and scratches and all!  The lad didn’t like feelin’ left out, that was plain enough.”

            “But how in Middle Earth do you expect a Wizard will entertain a Hobbit child?  I know you two find his tales interesting, but--stars!  Gandalf!  What are you and the faunt doing with my butter dish and cutlery?”

            “Mummy, when will I have a little brother or sister of my own?”

            “I don’t know, Bilbo dearling.  These things aren’t as easily planned as I’d once thought.”

            “There, Belladonna my love--welcome to our new home!  And you are the sole mistress here!”

            “I wish to see that will!”

            “Spoons?  He left us spoons?  That for his spoons!”

            Voices singing, “Hey, ho, to the bottle I go

            to heal my heart and drown my woe.

            Springs may come and springs may go,

            but I still have many miles to go!”

            Some days Frodo hears glasses clinking in the empty dining room, or seems to see a group of lads leaning over something lying on the windowsill there while the tallest, who has quite dark hair, murmurs, “Watch now--it’s about to break out!”

            He hears contented humming in the bathing room, soft lullabies in the nursery, and cheerful singing in the kitchen.  Sometimes he and his family will return from the Free Fair in Michel Delving to smell seedcakes baking in the kitchen and pipe smoke in the parlor, although it will be plain nobody--or no bodies--have been in the smial.

            He notices spirited debates at the kitchen table, calm murmurs in the parlor that are always accompanied by the scent of tea or wine, barks of commands in the gardens as well as lads’ laughter, and excited questions in the hallway.

            And there in the study, where the past three Masters of Bag End and the Hill spent so much of their time writing, there is almost always the sound of the scratching of quills on paper or vellum.

            And Frodo Gardner doesn’t mind--not at all.  They are peaceful ghosts, for the most part, ghosts that tie him to the memory of his father and his father’s dearest friends.  Indeed, it is a blessing that he is surrounded by them!

            And when he sits on the bench outside the door, he often feels his now-absent father join him, always smelling of good loam and Longbottom leaf, or old Mr. Bilbo, who favored Old Toby, or on occasion, Uncle Frodo, who had a secret passion for Goolden Lynch smoked while he sipped from the dwindling store of Old Winyards.

            It is difficult for him to say which delights him most.

For AnnMarwalk's birthday, with thanks for the way she welcomed me to the company of fanfiction writers; and for all veterans everywhere, including my father, my stepfather, my brothers, my sister-in-law, and my beloved husband.  Beta by RiverOtter.

To Honor the Princes

            As they came to the small island on the Isen where the mound had been raised over the body of Théodred Théodenson and his Riders, all stopped, and Frodo looked down upon it with pity.  “Boromir told me,” he said softly to those who rode next to his pony, “how it was the son of Théoden King himself who chose the horse for him he rode northward on.  He would have grieved so, knowing that one fell here.  He appears to have cared deeply for him as a friend and brother at arms.”

            Those of the King’s Guard who had ridden with their Captain-General and High Warden of the Tower indicated their agreement.  As they rode by, they saluted the mound solemnly, in memory of the princes of both houses of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

Written for the WeeHobbits "Book Title Challenge."  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Shire’s Soul

            “What’s this?” Merry asked.

            “It’s a drum,” Frodo answered.  “The Dwarves left it for Bilbo when they visited him a few years ago.  I found it in the back storeroom.  Isn’t it wonderful?”

            And indeed it was wonderful, painted in greens and oranges, the wood of its sides marvelously carved, the skin of its head a lovely cream color, the cords holding the skin in place a brilliant scarlet, held together with brass bands.  It stood a good two feet high, and Merry standing could just see over its top.

            Sam Gamgee and Frodo’s cousins, Fredegar Bolger and Folco Boffin, came from the back garden, each carrying a large, full basket.  “Here’s them gourds and squashes what the lasses wanted to put on the tables,” Sam said as he looked about them.  “Now, where’s the lasses?”

            “Gone into the house with the faunt to change him,” Frodo said.  “Pippin was very wet.”

            “Really,” Folco noted, “he has to be about the wettest child I’ve ever seen.  It seems he has to be changed every half an hour or so!”  Folco, who was four years older than Freddy and Sam, considered himself Frodo’s equal in spite of still being six years younger.  He moved to the drum and ran his hands over it, beating a quick, very loud tattoo.  “I wish I had one of these,” he noted.

            “Aunt Wisteria wouldn’t like it,” Frodo said, smiling indulgently.  “She’s not too happy with loud noises, I’ve noted.”

            “True,” Folco lamented.  “But at least you don’t have to have lessons to do the drum, not like the viol or a flute.” 

            The others laughed, for Folco had been taking viol lessons for the past year and hadn’t as yet appeared to get any better no matter how much he practiced.  He preferred the flute and even showed some talent at it, according to Uncle Odovacar, who’d given one to him; but Aunt Wisteria had felt that the viol was a much more genteel instrument and preferred that he learn that.  As a result, during her son’s practice time all the village of Overhill had taken to closing their windows on even the hottest of days so as to escape the caterwauling.  Even Wisteria, who imagined her son to be a musical prodigy and insisted he do his practice, would flee to the Maiden and Unicorn, the tea shop in the village, as soon as she told him to practice and turned over the hourglass so he could tell how much longer he must work at it.

            “Did you bring your flute?” Merry asked.

            “No.  Mum wanted me to bring the viol, but then realized that if I played it for everyone else she would have to listen, too, so thought better of it.”

            The back door to Bag End opened, and out came Pippin’s sisters with Freddy’s sister Estella and Folco’s cousin Narcissa, more of the guests for Frodo and Bilbo’s birthday party on the morrow, when Frodo would be twenty-four.  Pearl was carrying little Pippin, who was gnawing on the rattle that Frodo had chosen for him as a birthday present and that he’d given the faunt rather early so as to keep his busy little hands out of the pile of presents that he’d been amassing in the corner of his bedroom.  Pimpernel was carrying her dulcimer, a gift from her gaffer on his last birthday, and was plucking notes with her thumb as she walked. 

            “I don’t know what I’ll do when the dancing begins,” Freddy Bolger lamented.  “No one ever wishes to dance with me, it seems.”

            Merry looked at his older cousin critically.  “Maybe if you weren’t so fat they would.  It must be hard trying to dance with someone with so much stomach!”  He’d always believed that Fatty took a Hobbit’s common preoccupation with eating more than a bit too far.

            Estella sniffed, “Merry, that’s not polite!  Fatty can’t help being a proper Hobbit, after all!”

            “He’s two proper Hobbits’ worth, if you ask me,” Merry muttered, and Frodo gave him a severe look.

            Berilac Brandybuck, who’d come with his Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda and cousin Merry, came down the garden path.  “Look what I bought at the market!” he proclaimed.  “There were some Dwarves there, and they had some wonderful things!”  He displayed a mouth harp and an ocarina as well as a penny whistle.  “I got them all for ten farthings!”  He let Narcissa examine the penny whistle while Pervinca took the ocarina.  He looked at Frodo’s drum and his eyes lit up.  “Oh! Where is that from?”  He gave the mouth harp to Sam to hold and came forward to tap the drum.

            “Uncle Bilbo’s friend Balin gave it to him the last time he visited,” Frodo explained.  “He said he’d have a new one made when he’s managed to open up one of their old homes, so he wanted someone who loved it to have this one.”

            “Why did you bring it out of the storeroom?” asked Pimpernel.

            “I thought perhaps I might play it part of the time tomorrow for the dancing.”  Frodo came behind it and began to play on it, catching a beat and tapping it out.  After a few measures he began to sway as he played, his feet tapping and his hips beginning to move in time to the drumming.  He began to sing one of the songs commonly sung for midsummer, one of those whose words appeared almost to be nonsense words, perhaps from the ancient language Hobbits used to use before they came to settle the Shire.  Merry and Estella joined him in the song, as did Pimpernel, who’d begun playing on her dulcimer.  Narcissa  lifted the penny whistle and began to blow into it, but after a moment Folco took it from her and began playing it himself, and far better than she did.

            Frodo was singing and swaying more strongly as they played the ancient song, and at last could not contain himself further, breaking from the drum and moving out into the center of the group, and the other children moved aside to give him more room.  Beri moved behind the drum and took over the playing, beating it more insistently than Frodo had done.  Narcissa now moved into the center, dancing opposite Frodo, whose eyes were shining with the joy of the beat and the movement.

            Pearl appeared angry, and suddenly dropped Pippin to the ground by Merry.  “Watch him!” she demanded.  Then she turned to Freddy and pulled on his hand.  “Come on!” she said imperiously, and together they moved also out into the center of the group.  Sam’s eyes lit as he lifted the mouth harp and began to strum it in a counter-beat to that of the drum, and Pervinca began humming into the ocarina.  Pearl tapped her feet in time to the beat and lifted her arms, then joined the dance, followed almost immediately by Fredegar, who managed to dance with remarkable grace in spite of his girth.  Pippin watched, his eyes wide, shaking his rattle in time to the beat, sitting back against Sam’s basket.  Frodo threw back his head and shimmied in time to the music.  Forget formal steps--this music called to a far deeper, older part of his heart, and he gave himself over to the dancing; and as he led the way the other three followed, each now one with the beat, their eyes shining, their faces glowing as the music took them.

 *******

            “As for Dinodas----” Saradoc was saying, then stopped, lowering his pipe and listening.  “What is that?”

            “I don’t know,” Paladin answered him.

            Bilbo was listening closely.  “Music!” he said.

            Wisteria was also listening.  “But who is playing?”  She rose and headed for the door, followed by Eglantine and Esmeralda.  “It sounds marvelous!” she threw over her shoulder as she led the way out.

            The group of adult Hobbits turned right and followed the garden path until they stopped, watching the circle of youngsters with surprise.  “It’s the children,” Eglantine said in soft tones.

            “It’s beautiful!” Esmeralda said.  “Oh, look at them dancing!

            Wisteria was watching her son playing on the penny whistle.  “Oh, but he’s so good!  So why can’t he play the viol as well?”

            Eglantine was watching her daughter with dismay.  “Oh, Pal--watch her--our Pearl!  Oh, but she’s too young!”

            Paladin also had his attention fixed on his daughter,  “Oh, I know--but she’s growing up, Lanti.  She’s growing up, and I’d say she’s fully aware of that fact!”

            Bilbo nodded.  “She’s definitely--sensuous is the best word I can think of at the moment.  But look at Fredegar--who would have dreamed such an immense lad could move so beautifully?”

            There was no question that young Fatty could dance--and dance well!  Pal shook his head.  “It’s too bad Odovacar and Rosamunda aren’t coming until tomorrow.  Odova’s been worried sick about his son’s weight.  If he saw Freddy now, I think much of his concern would be much relieved.”

            As for Narcissa and Frodo--Frodo was almost incandescent, and Narcissa was much the same.  Frodo twirled in place, stopping exactly facing her and taking her hand, allowing her to twirl first into his embrace and dip over his arm, and then twirl out of it again.

            Merry’s voice rose in the ancient, now-unknown words, and Wisteria closed her eyes in pleasure.  “It’s as if the music were the soul of the Shire itself--singing!”

            “Oh, I agree,” Bilbo said, his eyes shining as he watched his lad again raise his hands to the sky as he turned about, his joy there for all to see.  “Yes, it is soul music the children are raising!”

            Pippin shook his rattle, laughing in delight while Beri beat upon the drum, Sam played his mouth harp, Folco played the ancient tune upon his flute, and Pimpernel on her dulcimer.  Little Merry and Estella continued the old song, and before them all the children of the Shire danced.

For TreeFriend and Baranduin for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Loss of the Light

            Maglor stood upon the hillside looking down on the distant quays of Mithlond, watching the swanship fill.  Most of those who went aboard were Elves he did not know, tall and fair as morning; but two of the figures he saw were quite small.  Halflings--Periain--Hobbits, they called themselves.  He watched them with wonder, that two mortals might be allowed to enter the bliss of the Undying Lands.

            It had been Elrond, lapped about by the blue glow of the ring he wore, washed clean by the elements of Ulmo, who’d stood by the first, smaller figure as the small creature had crossed the gangplank.  Elrond--who had been one of the sons of his heart!  Elrond, whose knees he had bandaged when he’d fallen and skinned them.  Whose fingers he’d guided as he’d learned to play the harp.  Whose hands he’d instructed as he learned to wield a sword.  Whose heart he had broken when he and Maedhros returned the two sons of Eärendil and Elwing to the keeping of Ereinion Gil-galad.  The reports of whose wisdom and courage and humility and skill he’d prided himself upon for more than two ages of the Sun!

            And Elrond had taken one of these remarkable ones into his own home--had succored and nurtured him, accepted this one’s poetry and wisdom and humor with delight, or so word had it.  Maglor smiled sadly.

            He should have been there to see the joy of the day Elrond took his bride, and on the days he saw his children born into this world.  He should have stood by his fosterling’s side when he bade his brother farewell beyond the boundaries of Arda, or when he brought his beloved aboard the grey ship that bore her, it was to be hoped, to healing in Aman.  He should have been by him when he fostered others as he himself had been fostered.  He should have heard the child Arwen’s first song and seen her first begin to dance.  He should have seen the twins learn to use bow and sword and knife; he should have taught them their first songs; he should have ridden at their shoulders to seek vengeance on those creatures who’d taken and so wounded their mother!

            And here he was, today, standing upon a hillside, without the courage to stand as did those three small ones upon the wharf, weeping without shame as they watched two they loved part from them forever!

            It was the Istar who led the other Hobbit aboard, white robes glowing golden red in the sunset, the sunset refracted through the great gem of the Ring he now wore openly upon his hand, as if a great red flame shone about him not in destruction and consumption but in warmth and guarding, inspiring the faltering heart of his wounded companion to keep beating.  A very few times Maglor had encountered the Grey Pilgrim, and ever he’d felt wary, recognizing Olórin in the old Man’s seeming and fearful of further threat of punishment from the Powers to be uttered against him.  But instead Olórin had been gentle, compassionate in his speech and actions, throwing the Elf out of his reckoning.

            Now the Ringbearer approached the great white figure of Artanis as she stood upon the deck of the ship, and she took his hand to lead him to the aft rail.  Artanis--his cousin, clad as ever in white, pure and shining as the light of the Ring upon her hand, ilmun almost dripping from her as it had so long ago, in the time of his youth, from the boughs of Telperion.  She’d never trusted his father and had been cautious in her dealings with the sons of Fëanor and Nerdanel.  But she’d listened as enraptured as any other when Macalaurë had sung before the hosts of Aman and the faces of the Valar, and had smiled on him in pride when he’d taken the laurels, he yet little more than a child!

            And then there was the Ringbearer himself.  He wore no ring now, for that he’d borne had been taken from him by violence.  No realm had he carved from the lands of Middle Earth, although none would stand now if it had not been for him.  The golden Ring he’d carried had left Its mark upon him; the dark fires that had directed Its forging had locked his fëa within a sphere of ice, left white scars of Its burning upon his breast, encircling his heart.  Even now those dark flames still almost froze him.

            Both fire and ice can burn one, he thought, looking down at the small figure standing so straight and tall, surrounded by so many who rose above him, yet so very alone and seeming to tower over all the rest.

            “To bear a Ring of Power is to be alone,” he heard in his heart, and knew with a thrill of shock that Galadriel Artanis was aware he watched, and even now wished good things for him.

            Good things?  And what good things could come to him?  He was accursed, still bound to Ennor by a vow he could not fulfill, a vow he ought never to have joined in to begin with, a vow that had led him to betray too many of his own people to their deaths and Námo’s halls, a vow that had cost him wife and child and home and eventually his parents and brothers as well, a vow that had set him apart even as Aulendil’s artifice had done the same by the small one who stood by his cousin.

            He drew out his harp without even realizing it, swiftly tuned it.  A soft east wind played about the stays of the ship and the Ringbearer was looking up as if in recognition to listen.  The ropes were being cast off, and the ship was being drawn away by the tide.

            Maglor began to play, a few notes, and then more.  He had not the facility he’d known before his hand was burned by the Silmaril he’d given to the Sea, but still there was power there, there in his song.  His music strengthened as he wove air into the tune, and the wind blew the stronger about the lines and the sheets even now being shaken out.  He added into his song the rhythms of the sea, and the waves slapped against the ship’s bow, a song of peace and promise.  The Ringbearer for a moment closed his eyes and briefly a smile touched his lips, and Maglor realized he heard it!  That small one heard his song, and was gladdened by it!  He played more strongly, hoping to give that one strength to bear the separation from those who stood upon the quay, weeping that he must go from them.  And for a moment the blue flame that encircled his beloved Elrond flared, and he paused in the act of going below decks as he, too, turned to listen to this last farewell to Middle Earth, and Maglor rejoiced that his fosterling heard this last lullaby from the one who’d loved him as a small child.

            The Ringbearer thrust his hand within his garments, and he brought out something, kissed it gently, blessing it, then held it up, a reassurance to his friends, a benediction upon the one who played his harp upon the hillside.

            Maglor did not falter in his playing, but now he wept as he played, for this one carried away with him the Light of the Silmarils, back to Aman.

            How now could he ever fulfill that foul oath?

Written for Golden for the LOTR-Community-GFic Yule Exchange.  Beta as always by RiverOtter.

Failure of Duty

            “Master Pherian--come join us!” demanded one of the Guardsman from the Second Company.  “Our Bertesion here--he has been chosen to join Lord--Prince Faramir’s White Company, and we are celebrating!”

            Peregrin Took paused as he passed through the barracks building from the privy.  He was to have afternoon duty today, and so had come to the barracks practice area for the Guards of the Citadel for weapons practice this morning.  It was still an hour before noon, and he was to take up his duty at the first hour after the noon bell.  “I’m not certain that I have time,” Pippin said slowly, lifting his hands as if to demonstrate his inability to share in the celebration at the moment.  “I do thank you for the invitation, though.”

            “Nonsense--you plan on having a cup of ale with your noon meal, do you not?”

            “Well, yes----”

            “Then you are only having it perhaps a little sooner.  Come--it would please Bertesion, you must realize.  Wouldn’t it please you, Bertesion?” he asked, turning to the guest of honor.

            “Oh, but of course!” replied Bertesion with a winning smile at the Hobbit.  “It would be such an honor to share a toast with you, Guardsman Peregrin.  Please to join us!”

            “But they will be waiting luncheon for me back in the guesthouse....”

            The first Guardsman resumed the task of coaxing Pippin.  “But we have food here now, and the cooks are soon to send some fowl for us to share--and besides, they won’t have the meal ready yet, will they?  Not for an hour or better, is it not true?  Please join us!”  He reached out to grasp the Hobbit’s wrist and draw him toward their table, and another was already filling a cup and pressing it into his hand.  “A cup or two of ale will do no harm, surely?  And if you would consent to sing for us, I am certain that will make the celebration complete!  I doubt Bertesion has heard you sing, have you, my friend?  See--he would love to hear you sing!”

            Somehow they were pulling Pippin to an emptied place on the bench about their long table and helping him to sit upon it.  A plate of cheese and thin rounds of toasted bread was set before him, and someone was spooning strawberries onto it.

            “A toast--a toast to Bertesion!” called one of the others.  Pippin lifted up his pewter cup and drank deeply from it, draining a good half of what he’d been given. 

            The first Guardsman looked down into the cup and appeared impressed.  “Here is one who appreciates a good draught of ale!” he exclaimed admiringly.  He signaled one of the others, who lifted one of the pitchers that sat upon the table and refilled Pippin’s cup while the others also looked to refill their own vessels.

            Then another was raising his own ale.  “To Prince Faramir--the best of Stewards and now Prince of Ithilien!  May he rule it with all the honor he’s ever shown us!”

            There was no way in which Pippin could refuse to drink to such a toast.  The one who’d pressed him so was now standing and taking one of the pitchers to refill it from the barrel of ale that sat nearby, and brought it back to settle rather heavily on the table before Pippin, some of it sloshing over the Hobbit’s hand.  Another was already proposing the next toast--to the Lady Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan who would soon be the Princess of Ithilien!  Again Pippin was raising his glass with the rest, and almost immediately another was refilling it....

            When the bell for the noon meal rang Pippin began to stand to take his leave, but there were more hands on his shoulders, holding him there in his place, begging him not to go yet.  Would he not sing that song he’d sung down at the Dimmed Star the other night, the one about roads going on and on, wasn’t that how it went?  Flattered that they enjoyed his singing he stood upon the bench and sang it, then another song he’d not sung in years, one that was popular in Buckland about the Mistress’s knickers, one that never failed to get a laugh in Brandy Hall--as long as Aunt Esmeralda wasn’t present, at least; and they were rewarding him with another refilled cup.

            “A sad song now, Master!” begged Bertesion, and Pippin complied, singing the Lay of Nimrodel as he’d heard it sung between the eastern gate of Moria and the borders of Lórien.  All were quiet when he was done, filled with the added solemnity that perhaps too much ale can give those at such celebrations, and this time the hands that had been busy filling pitchers and cups with ale were now wiping away tears.  “That was beautiful,” Bertesion breathed softly.  “Thank you so, sir.”

            Pippin smiled, pleased his voice had managed to move so many.  “It is my honor, sir,” he said. 

            He was beginning to reach for his cup again when he heard a new voice from the door.   “Master Peregrin, have you forgotten you must be on duty in perhaps less than half a mark?  Master Frodo sent me to seek you out when you did not come home for the noon meal.”

            It was Captain Beregond’s son Bergil.

            Bertesion’s expression was alarmed.  “You have duty today?” he asked.  “But I did not know, or I would never have begged you to stay!”

            Several of the others looked equally uncomfortable.  “You should have said,” admonished the one who’d coaxed him so.  “It would never do to begin your duty when you’ve been drinking.”

            Pippin was stung.  “You never gave me the chance to explain!” he protested, “and you were all insisting I stay!”

            All exchanged looks as Pippin tried to jump lightly off the bench, only to land in such a way he twisted his right ankle.  It wasn’t a particularly bad wrench, and he could walk on it even if it did pain him some; so he started away, then turned to bow to the company.  “Thank you,” he said rather carefully, “for inviting me to your party.”  He almost fell as he completed his bow, and came erect with a lurch.  He’d done similarly after so many parties--it wasn’t as if it were unfamiliar, leaving feeling more than a bit light-headed.

            Bergil put himself under Pippin’s right arm once they were free of the building.  The boy hurried him home and came in with him, helping him change into his uniform, and finally taking the Hobbit’s sword from him and hanging it from his belt when he couldn’t manage to fix its hangers.  “I don’t know what you were doing, Pippin,” he muttered as he straightened the Hobbit’s black cloak, “drinking so much this early in the day--and when you have duty!”

            Pippin was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for his stomach was roiling, obviously agreeing that it was far too early in the day--and with too little food--to have been doing such drinking.  However, he protested, “I can handle it, Bergil.  It’s not as if I’ve not done this before!”

            The boy looked up into his eyes, startled.  “What--going on duty with a bellyful?  My father----”

            “I’m afraid I have no time to hear what your father thinks,” Pippin said more harshly than he’d intended.  “I will be late if--if I don’t go now.”  So saying he turned out of the room toward the door to the guesthouse and set off in what he hoped was a dignified hurry for the Citadel, favoring his right foot as he walked.

 *******

            I shouldn’t go, Pippin thought to himself as he walked toward the doors to the Citadel.  I should go back and send Bergil up to say I’ve taken ill or something.

            But, he countered himself, it’s not as if I really have to do anything--just stand at the foot of the throne with my sword drawn, or outside his door.  There’s nothing I really have to do--do or be responsible for.  And it wouldn’t be fair to whoever would have to take my duty.  I can stand it for a few hours.

            He swallowed and paused for a moment until his protesting stomach settled and the throbbing in his ankle eased, then went on, disturbed when he stumbled slightly.  He could feel sweat break out on his forehead.  I can’t back out now, he insisted to himself as he paused again to ease the strain on his ankle.  Strider is depending on me!  He lifted his head up higher and swallowed again, and forced himself to go on.

            As he approached the doorway the Guardsmen nodded and opened the door for him.  “You’re late,” whispered the one on the left door.  “The King sent out a page to see if you’d come.  It appears that there’s to be a special meeting of the Council and he wishes you to be there to stand behind his chair that you might both serve and observe.”

            Pippin felt alarmed.  “Stand behind his chair?”

            “So you are handy to pass documents and fetch items.  We all have done this for Lord Denethor from time to time, I’ve found, when his personal esquire has been indisposed or he was between esquires.”

            This could be bad, he thought.  “I see.  I am sorry to have been delayed.”

            “You had best hurry to the Council Chamber, then.”

            At least it was not far to the Council Chamber, for one passed its doors before reaching the Hall of Kings.  Two Men, one of them the Captain of the Guard, stood on watch here, and now the Captain glared down at him.  “Where have you been, Guardsman?” he whispered sternly.  “You know that we ask that those taking their duty arrive a quarter mark before their time that any last-minute changes might be told them before they must take their assigned positions.  The King would have preferred to have you by his side as he entered the Council Chamber, and Gilorion waits inside for you to relieve him.”  He didn’t bother returning Pippin’s hasty salute, merely signed for the Guardsman to open the doors.  The two pages who waited outside the room in case their services were required gave him sympathetic glances as he stumbled in.

            When the doors opened the voice of whoever it was who was speaking stopped, and Pippin found himself the subject of scrutiny of almost all who were within.  There sat Aragorn--the King!--at one end of the room with the stern face of Denethor staring over his shoulder from the portrait on the wall; opposite stood Prince Faramir, who was apparently expecting to answer the question of the lord who stood about a third of the way along the opposite side of the table from the King.  To the right of the King sat the party from Dale who’d arrived in the aftermath of the coronation; to the left sat the envoys from the Lonely Mountain; beyond the Dalesmen were those from Legolas’s kindred in Mirkwood; and on this side of the Dwarves sat Frodo and Sam, the latter flushing markedly to find himself amongst such fine folk as if he were important.  Down on one side of Faramir was his uncle with one son seated by his side and another behind him, and on the other the envoy from Rohan with Merry standing behind him.  Between sat a number of lords of the realm, and the one whose question Pippin’s arrival had interrupted appeared to be Lord Angborn of the Vale of Morthond.  The Man’s eyes followed Pippin as he limped over to take his place behind Aragorn’s chair.  Gilorion nodded with obvious relief, and relinquished his position gladly to the Hobbit, swiftly slipping out of the room with far less note than Pippin had known entering it.

            Sam was peering at Pippin with curiosity, while Frodo gave him a brief glance and a shake of the head and returned his attention rather pointedly toward Lord Angborn.  Aragorn gave Pippin only a sharp glance before following suit.  “As you were saying, my Lord?” he asked politely.

            “I was asking if the timber of Ithilien might be made available for the building of wagons, for we will have much needs for such things if we are to increase the output of our granite quarries and iron mines along the valley of the Morthond.  Although I doubt our steel is as well smelted as that produced by the Dwarves....”

            It grew increasingly difficult to concentrate on the discussion as Pippin’s discomfort grew.  With little movement of the air within the room he found himself sweating, while his stomach complained, his ankle ached, and as time passed he found himself entertaining a second throbbing in his head.  Oh, if only my stomach were less full, he thought.  He felt the belch building and did his best to contain it, until at last it forced its way from him. 

            “Garumph!”

            He felt his face go a bright crimson, then was further embarrassed as the first belch was followed by a second. 

            “Urk!”

            His stomach rumbled seriously, and all faces were turned toward him, startled to hear so loud a sound from one so small.  Then he felt pressure from two sources at the same time.  He knew his face must be pasty as Aragorn turned to face him, his expression shocked.  “I’m sorry, my Lord King,” he managed to gasp out.  “I find----”

            But he had to stifle the request as he realized that if he said another word he’d likely vomit on Aragorn himself.  He saw his King’s face grow as stern as that of the portrait that looked down on both of them.  “Go--before you further embarrass yourself,” Aragorn said in such soft tones Pippin didn’t believe anyone else could hear him.

            The Hobbit gave a rigid nod and turned toward the door, limping as quickly as he could with the small steps he felt were all he could manage considering the pressure he felt continuing to build within him.  He almost made it out the door, which someone whose identity he could not make out in his misery was opening for him, when at last his right ankle gave way, and he went sprawling indecorously, head and torso out in the hall, hips and legs sprawled awkwardly within the Council Chamber, and although he was able to still hold the contents of his bladder, that of his stomach was let loose all over the boots of the Captain of the Guard.

            “Mugs and ale!” he heard Sam exclaiming as the retching ceased momentarily.  The gardener had left his place at the table to come to Pippin’s aid.  “So this was why you didn’t come back for nuncheon with us, then?”

            It was too much, and he felt an unwelcome warmth spreading about him on the floor.

            “Nooooo!” he gasped before the retching resumed....

            *******

            Pippin sat on the rough footstool provided for him in rank misery.  He was in a stark room in the prison behind the Citadel--not quite a cell, but certainly not a room employed for the use in entertaining visiting notables.

            Bergil, who’d come up to the Citadel to make certain all was well with his Hobbit friend, had been sent off to the guesthouse to fetch clean clothes, and with the help of the housekeeper assigned to serve those who dwelt there he’d found the plainest garb available and brought it for Pippin to change into.

            A large basin of water had been brought and set on the floor for him, as well as a chamberpot--and then the warden, with a wry shake of his head, had ordered a second basin and chamberpot fetched as well as a couple of pitchers of water and some rough towels; and left the small, errant Guardsman to it.

            “Now, that was quite the exhibition,” Merry said.  Pippin looked up with shock, for he’d not heard the door open or his cousin enter.  “What in Middle Earth were you doing, drinking in the middle of the day like that?”  He looked with pointed fascination at the second basin, in which was soaking Pippin’s uniform.  “Did they take your sword?” he asked with a quick glance at Pippin’s face.

            “Yes, and my belt-knife as well.”

            “At least your stomach is empty now.”

            Pippin gave a small, hopeless shrug of his shoulder.  At last he asked, “Is Frodo angry?”

            “Hard to say.  Sam got him out of there to the lesser audience chamber or something.  Said his own stomach was bothering him, what with the smell....”

            That was enough to set Pippin’s stomach rebelling again, although he had nothing left within it to lose.  He fell to his knees over the chamber pot, heaving painfully but producing little more than a string of bile.  Merry knelt by him, his hand on his shoulder.

            “Well, you are having a time of it, aren’t you, little cousin?” Merry crooned much as he’d done the first time Pippin had been drunk.  “Come on, now.  Sit on the stool again and I’ll wipe your face for you.  And I’ll wager you want a bit of a drink--your mouth is dry as wads of paper, isn’t it?”

            “If I swallow anything....”

            “Don’t worry, Pip.  I’ll stay by you, even if you do start to spew again.”  Merry saw a metal cup standing on a shelf mounted to the wall, and was able with some difficulty to reach it down and bring it over, filling it from one of the pitchers.  He had his cousin first rinse his mouth out and spit into the chamberpot, and then made him take a few sips.  “Here--let it sit now while you work on calming yourself so you can keep it down,” he suggested.

            Once he had Pippin sitting again, Merry began finger-combing his cousin’s hair.  “We want you looking halfway decent when Strider gets here,” he commented.

            “Not that he’ll want to ever see me again after my performance today,” Pippin said, his arms folded across his knees and his face hidden.  “How could I have ever dreamed I might manage to hide the fact I was as drunk as any Oatbarrow?  Da would have clouted me alongside the head had I come into his office drunk during a meeting like that!”

            Merry smiled.  “True.  Nor would my father have treated you any better--would have had you dunked into the Brandywine for certain to sober you up, he would.”

            A slight nod of the head indicated Pippin agreed with the accuracy of that prediction.

            “Here--you’ve held that down--now try a bit more water.”

            Pippin dutifully lifted his head and accepted a few more sips before pulling back and dropping his face again toward his knees.  After a few moments he murmured, “I almost wish I could just wake up in my own bed in the Great Smials and pretend this never happened!  Except I know when I get home my parents are going to probably disown me forever anyway.”

            There was a sound of footsteps outside the door, and Merry stepped away, listening.  Pippin raised his head warily, and gave a sigh as he rose to his feet and drew himself to attention.  The door opened, and several people came in, led by Strider.  He looked down on his smallest Guardsman, shaking his head, then looked up at the young Man who served now as his personal aide.  “If you will find a low chair for me so that I can be on much of a level with Guardsman Peregrin, please,” he directed, and with a bow the aide withdrew, returning with a chair provided by the warden.  Aragorn sat, his face still impassive.  Pippin continued to stand at attention, his expression miserable but determined.

            “So, do you wish to explain how it is that the son of the Thain to the Shire appeared for duty as my personal guard drunk?” asked the King at last.

            Pippin looked briefly into his face then dropped his gaze.  “I apologize, my Lord King,” he said.  “I was at fault.  It should not have happened.”

            “That goes without saying, Peregrin Took.”  At the coolness in Aragorn’s voice Pippin flinched visibly.  “I asked how it was you came to be in that state.”

            “I have no excuse, sir.”

            “You knew that you were to have duty this day, did you not?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And you know that appearing for duty while drunk is reason enough to earn a flogging?”

            Pippin shuddered, but his voice was steady, if a bit tight.  “Yes, my Lord King.  I apologize, sir.”

            The Captain of the Guard, who stood to the King’s left, commented, “It is his first infraction, my liege.”

            Aragorn’s gaze continued to be steady on the Hobbit.  “I am aware of this.  However, I am much disappointed to see that today I could not count on him.”  He addressed Pippin.  “Why were you late?”

            “I was not paying attention to the time, my lord, not once....”  But he did not finish.

            “Not once what?”

            “I am sorry, my lord.  I was almost ready to offer an excuse, sir.”

            “And you are not allowed to make excuses?”  Aragorn’s tone indicated he was truly curious about this.

            “I was told by my captain when I took my vows before my Lord Steward Denethor that I must not make any excuses, sir, as there is no excuse for failing my duty, my lord.”  His face was taut with misery.

            Aragorn looked up to meet the captain’s gaze.  The Man nodded.  “That was indeed our Lord Denethor’s policy,” he affirmed.  “Excuses were not accepted for failure to meet one’s duties.”

            “I see.”  The King looked back to his smallest Guardsman.  “Were you on time to your weapons practice this morning?” he asked.

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “How went your practice session?”

            “Well enough, I suppose.  I was able to hit two in the gold in archery and four of five on the mark with the thrown knife.  I was able to hold my own against the one I was matched with in swords, and scored three touches on my opponent.”  His chin was raised, but Aragorn could not detect the Hobbit’s usual pride in his swordsmanship.

            “How many touches did he score on you?”

            “Two, my Lord King.”

            The Man considered.  “So, you were not drunk at that point, then.”

            Reluctantly the Hobbit nodded, still not meeting his lord’s eyes.  “No, sir, I was not--not at that time.”

            “Then how was it that you began to drink in the middle of the day?”

            “I am sorry, my Lord King--it was my own fault.”

            Frustrated, Aragorn tried again.  “Why did you not go back to the guesthouse for your luncheon?  I am told that Sam had made a dish you particularly asked for.”

            Pippin’s shoulders fell.  “Then he made the cottage pie after all?”  He looked almost as if he were ready to weep.

            “Yes, I am told he did, and that he was most disappointed that you were not there to partake of it, particularly as you were the one who requested it.”

            The Hobbit Guardsman wiped his face with the back of his hand.  “I always said Sam makes the best cottage pie in the entire Shire,” he murmured softly.

            “So why did you not return for luncheon?”

            “I was asked to....”  But then once again his expression went stony.  “I must not make excuses.  It wasn’t their fault!”

            Aragorn traded glances with the Captain of the Guard of the Citadel.  It appeared that Peregrin Took was not going to explain how it was he’d come into such appalling a condition.  Merry mutely stood by, his face filled with the concern he felt.

 *******

            Bertesion was sitting on his cot, polishing his sword belt, when Gilorion came into the barracks.  The new member of the White Company glanced up with a smile.  He and Gilorion had joined the Guards of the Citadel at the same time, although while Gilorion had been promoted to Lord Denethor’s personal Guard Bertesion had remained on door-ward duty most of the time.  Bertesion had at times served as personal Guard to Lord Faramir when he was in residence within the City, which was a good part of the reason he’d been chosen for the White Company.  But he’d been glad to avoid having to serve personally on Lord Denethor, for he’d felt unable to find much fellow-feeling with the last of the Ruling Stewards.  Gilorion hadn’t been serving upon Denethor himself that last night, having been sent down to the great Gates to keep watch there with orders to report to the Steward himself should it appear that they might be breached.  He’d just begun preparing to return up through the city when the small Pherian had appeared, crying out to Mithrandir that the Steward had apparently gone mad.  By the time Gilorion had arrived at the gates to the Rath Dínen the dome to the House of the Stewards had already fallen and the flames could be seen by all within sight of the necropolis.

            Bertesion smiled up at his fellow.  “You are finally free of your duty, are you?  You are too late for our celebration, I fear.”

            “At last,” Gilorion admitted.  “I should have been free some time ago, but Peregrin Took was unforgivably late in relieving me.”

            Bertesion felt alarmed--alarmed and guilty.  “He was?  Was he properly garbed?”

            “Yes, he was.  But I will swear that I could smell ale on him as he took my place behind the King for the Council meeting.”

            “There was a meeting of the Council today?”  Bertesion’s heart fell further.

            “Yes--called only this morning, and involving only those members who could be gathered in haste.  It appears that those from Dale and the Dwarves’ mountain wish some special trade agreement reached, and those from the Elven kingdom have also expressed interest.  There is wood and granite of a quality in Morthond they wish to trade for, apparently; and as Lord Angborn looks ready to return to his own place within a few days they wished to begin negotiating ere he leaves.  Also, it appears that our Lord King has taken thought of having some of the iron ore from that region sent to the Dwarves to have a higher quality steel produced than is typical of that smelted here within Gondor itself.”

            “And Guardsman Peregrin was late?”

            “Yes, and the first time that I am aware of him being so.  It is too bad that this should happen.  And if he had been drinking--well, I suspect that our captain shall have no choice but to have him flogged, even if he is a personal friend to the King himself.”

            Bertesion’s heart fell further.  “Stay, my friend--but a moment stay!  I fear that brave heart will seek to take upon himself fault that is by rights my own.”  So saying, he dropped his swordbelt upon the bed and went to seek out some of those others who’d taken part in the noontime celebration.

 *******

            Frodo toyed with the fruit on the plate brought to him.  He was grateful to Aragorn and the kitchen staff that neither he nor Sam appeared to need to ask for anything, for trays of food and drink were ever present at their sides from the moment they entered the Citadel until the time they left it again.  However, he found he missed the excuse to go out into the orchard at Bag End and pluck his own cherries and plums.  For all that these served here in Minas Tirith were greeted with great enthusiasm by the others, he often found they seemed tasteless after the first couple of bites, and wondered if perhaps it was because they did not come fresh off the tree.

            Sam, however, was smiling with appreciation as he swallowed the early cherries served them.  “Oh, but Mr. Frodo--we’re going to need to get cuttings from the cherry trees here to take home with us.  I’d see about grafting them onto the cherry trees in the garden, I would.”

            Frodo looked at his friend with a half smile on his face.  “If it is your wish, Sam, I’ll speak with Aragorn about that this evening.”  He gave the cherry in his fingers a thoughtful look.

            Sam, however, had caught the expression in his master’s eye.  “Still taste as if you had a bad cold or something like, Mr. Frodo, sir?” he asked.

            Grateful the gardener appeared to understand, Frodo nodded as he placed it back on the plate again, reaching for the slice of the orange fruit served him instead.  These new fruits were tart and unusual enough that he could at least find some pleasure in eating them--so far, at least.  “Much seems tasteless now,” he sighed.

            Sam nodded.  Then, seeking to distract the older Hobbit he asked, “Why do you think as Mr. Pippin come in drunk to serve on Lord Strider?  I’d of never thought as he’d do such a thing.”

            Frodo straightened, glad of the change in subject.  “Nor would I think he’d so disappoint Aragorn.  I don’t think I’ve seen the Man so stern and silent since Pippin chose his blanket roll to wrap himself in after we left the Midgewater Marshes.”

            Sam’s lip twitched.  “That were rather funny, membering it, like.”

            Frodo gave a small smile at the memory.  “Poor Strider--to find his blanket roll smelled like that mire.”  He pulled the slice of orange into its segments and ate one, still smiling. 

            It was then that there was a knock at the door, and a page peered into the room.  “My lords--there are some here who would speak with you.”

            The two Hobbits exchanged looks.  Sam shrugged and Frodo turned back to the page.  “Let them enter, then,” Frodo said, dropping the rest of his fruit back on its tray and rising to his feet.

            The page nodded.  “They will see you, sirs,” he could be heard saying as he pulled back out of the room.

            A moment later four Guardsmen came in, giving Frodo and Sam deep bows.  Frodo recognized Gilorion, who had become one of the guards who served on Aragorn himself.  “Gentlemen?  How can we help you?” he asked, curious as to the reason why members of the Guards of the Citadel were seeking him and Sam out.

            Two of the Men exchanged looks, and one sighed, returning his attention to the Ringbearer.  “We had hoped to speak to the King, but learned he has already gone to the prison----” he began.

            Frodo straightened, obviously alarmed.  “The prison?  They took my cousin to the prison?”

            “Well, yes--to the guardroom for those who are to be disciplined.  Oh, you need to understand--it’s not as if he were to be placed in a cell.  Guardsman Peregrin will be questioned there, and between the Stew--the King and the Captain they will determine his level of guilt and his proper punishment.”

            “And will they set him to cleaning the parade ground with a small brush or something similar afterwards?”

            The idea of such a punishment was obviously a novel one for the four Guardsmen, considering their looks of bemusement.  The one who’d been their spokesman shook his head.  “Of course, the King might well institute such punishments in the future, but ordinarily punishment for appearing for duty while drunk involves flogging.”

            Frodo’s face went pale at the thought.  “Flogging?  Aragorn would consider flogging a child such as Pippin?  But he’s neither Pippin’s parent nor his family head!  He hasn’t the authority to do such a thing without the agreement of the lad’s family head!”

            Sam Gamgee was growing alarmed.  “Now, calm down there, Mr. Frodo.  Pippin might not be of age yet, but he’s been doing an adult’s work since he come here, same as me since I took over from me dad there when I was still in my tweens.  I’m certain as he knows the proper punishment due for what he did, and I doubt as he’d take too kindly to you interfering in what he expects to happen as a Guard of the Citadel.  And to expect him to be given special treatment for not being of age isn’t exactly fair.  I mean, sir, that he’s over twenty-five and all.  He’s old enough to marry, if’n his folks would agree to it.”

            Frodo’s face was still largely pale, although his cheeks were growing rather pink.  “Still, he’s a Hobbit, not a Man.  I should be there to stand in for his family head.  Uncle Paladin isn’t able to be there, after all.”

            Sam nodded.  “That’s reasonable enough.  But I suspect as there’s more as these folks wish to tell us, sir.  After all, they came to talk to us since Lord Strider’s already gone to the prison.”  He turned to the Men.  “And what is it as you’d wanted to talk to the King about, then?”

            The one who’d served as spokesman appeared uncomfortable.  “I wanted to speak up on his behalf, is all.  I mean, it was mostly due to me that Guardsman Peregrin was drinking today, you see.  We did rather insist he join us.”

            One of the others continued, “You see, Bertesion here has been chosen to join the White Company that’s being formed to serve as Prince Faramir’s own guard, and we were--we were celebrating today.  None of us had any duty this day, so it was a good time for it.  And when Guardsman Peregrin came through the barracks after weapons practice today, we--I insisted he join the party, and I would keep refilling his cup!”

            The third Guardsman explained, “None of us realized he had duty after the noon meal.  Usually he serves in the morning, so we assumed that today he had no duty, having come to the morning rather than the afternoon weapons practice.  And I was filling his cup as often as you,” he added to the second Man.  He turned his attention back to the Ringbearer.  “I was in the company that went to the Black Gate, and I had the chance to speak with Guardsman Peregrin during the march.  I doubt he would think to explain that he tried to beg off, but we wouldn’t listen.”

            “He did try to beg off?” Sam asked.

            “Oh, yes--he told us there was not enough time, but we insisted.”  He looked ashamed.

            “We were pulling at his hands,” the second Guardsman admitted, “and would not allow him to go.  We dragged him to the table--gave him a filled cup--made a toast to Prince Faramir!”

            Sam and Frodo traded looks.  “There it is, Master,” Sam said.  “That he’d not be able to resist.  He likes and honors the Prince Captain that much, he does.”

            Frodo nodded slowly, sighing.  “True, and once he’d begun he would not be able to break away, and at last would not wish to do so.”

            Sam looked toward the doorway.  “That he’d not, and that’s a fact.  And he wouldn’t wish to let Lord Strider know as he couldn’t break away.  See it as tale bearing, he would; and if there’s one thing as Mr. Pippin’s never wanted to be it’s a tale bearer.”

            Frodo nodded again, straightening and turning toward the doorway.  “So it is up to us to let him know, for we know Pippin won’t say.”

            So saying, he started toward the door.  Bertesion watched after him surprised, then looked toward Sam.  “That is it?” he asked.  “He will go to intercede for Guardsman Peregrin?”

            “That’s his way,” Sam answered softly.  “Once he sees as there’s a need, he’ll just see to it as he can.”  Giving the Guardsman a nod, he turned to follow Frodo Baggins as he had most of his life.  “Wait, Mr. Frodo--I’ll not be left behind!”

            The four Guardsmen again exchanged glances, and with a nod from Gilorion the four of them trailed after the two Hobbits.

            As they walked toward the back doors to the Citadel, they met the Prince Steward Faramir.  “Master Frodo--and where do you go?”

            The Hobbit appeared relieved.  “Ah, my Lord Faramir.  I may have need for you.  Will you please take me to the prison?”

            The Man appeared startled.  “The prison?  And why would you wish to go there?”

            “I am told that my kinsman was taken there once it was found he was indeed drunk when he came to take his duty this afternoon.  These,” he explained, indicating the four Guardsmen who followed him, “came to tell us how it happened Pippin came to be in his cups so early in the day.”

            The Steward swiftly examined the faces of the six before him.  “You would stand by Guardsman Peregrin, then?”

            “I do not believe he would speak out as to how we importuned him, Lord Faramir,” the third Guardsman said.  “We forced him to stay by us, and to join in our celebration that Bertesion here joins your White Company.  We begged him to sing for us, also, when he would have gone from us after the first hour....”

            Faramir looked from their faces to Frodo’s in question, and seeing the same concern there he saw in those of the Men he gave a nod of decision.  “I see.  And I must suppose all with you were busy drinking toasts to me and mine, down to the caged birds and the Citadel cats.  Am I correct, gentlemen?”

            Bertesion flushed, but still managed to appear relieved that the Steward understood how such parties went.  “And to your proposed lady as well, sir, and the horses we must believe she will bring into your marriage.”

            For a moment the new Prince of Ithilien looked at him with some surprise, then laughed aloud with delight.  “And how could such a one as Peregrin Took fail to drink to such toasts as these?” he asked, his face alight with amusement.  “Ah, me--but come.  We would indeed see proper justice rendered, should we not?”

            “There is one thing more,” Frodo added.  “As Pippin is not yet of age for all he serves a full adult’s duty, it behooves me as the Baggins to be there for his judgment in the stead of the Thain and the Took, who happens in his case to be his father.  Uncle Paladin shall not be pleased if he hears I did not do my best to be certain he does indeed well deserve any flogging he might have earned.”

            Faramir’s face softened with respect.  “Indeed, and so shall it be, then, Master Frodo.  Come, and let us go to join the King.”  He gave a brief inclination of his head to Frodo, turned, and led the way to the doors, then took the winding way to the prison yard.

 *******

            The King Returned was growing increasingly frustrated.  In the case of most Men it appeared to take little more than a stern look and a particular tone of command to his voice and they would begin to speak openly.  With Peregrin Took this was not working, and the more Aragorn pressed for details the more the young Hobbit insisted all was his own fault.  Whatever the reason was he’d found himself drinking heavily in the middle of the day, it appeared that Pippin was intent on not revealing it as if it must be a shameful one.  Nor did it appear that Merry had any idea as to what had happened, either.

            He’d decided to make on last attempt to discern the true reason when there was a knock at the guardroom door, and the warden of the prison looked in.  “My Lord King,” he said with deference, “the Ringbearer has come and begs leave to join you.  He said something about the laws governing his people, and brings with him others who would bear witness.  And our Lord Faramir is with him.”

            Aragorn straightened, suddenly realizing that he indeed ought to have thought of Shire customs when dealing with his Hobbit Guardsman.  “I see,” he commented.  “Allow them to enter, then.”

            Faramir led the others through the door, Frodo fast on his heels, followed closely by Sam and the four Guards of the Citadel.  All bowed deeply toward their King, and the four Men also saluted their captain.  Frodo, however, was already stepping forward in his agitation.  “Aragorn, I had no idea that such situations as these earned such swift judgment here in Gondor.  I’d thought merely that Pippin would be sent home in disgrace for the night and appear before you again in the morning, at which time I intended to accompany him, to stand by him for his father’s sake.  I’m the one of highest authority among us Hobbits, after all.”

            The Man indicated he understood.  “I should perhaps have advised you how it is done here, I suppose.  If you can forgive me, Frodo.”

            “Thank you.  I was not aware until these came to speak with Sam and me.  It appears they were present when Pippin began drinking, and feel responsible for his state.”

            Aragorn looked with some surprise at Gilorion, who flushed but explained, “No, my Lord King, I was not there, but came with these who were.”

            “It was my fault,” Bertesion began, only to be interrupted by the second Guardsman.

            “No, my lord, it was truly mine.  I was the first to see Guardsman Peregrin and press him to join us, you see.”

            Aragorn glanced briefly at Pippin’s face and saw that he, too, was somewhat flushed at the arrival of those with whom he’d been drinking.  Well, if Pippin would not speak up for his own sake, he would allow these to do so.  He raised a hand, and all went quiet.  He nodded to the second Guardsman and suggested, “Then let you tell me the tale, sir.  And I would advise you to be brief and not embroider upon the facts.”

            “Yes, my lord,” the Man said, and began to explain.

            At last, assured he had the full story, their King turned his attention back to Pippin, whose face was filled with discomfort but was fully set.  “And when I asked how it was you came to be drinking heavily in the middle of the day, why did you not tell me this?” he asked in exasperation.

            “It’s just that...” Pippin began, then his voice petered out and he was looking down at his hands, which were clasped together.

            Seeing this, Sam gave a sigh of his own frustration.  “It’s because he don’t want to be seen as bearing tales, Lord Strider,” he advised.  “He was told as bearing tales can be a shameful thing, back when he was but a little lad, you see, and he’s tried his best not to do so ever since.  And he don’t wish to be seen as not shouldering his own responsibility, not now as all are treating him as a full grownup.”

            “And is this the truth of it, Guardsman Peregrin?” Aragorn asked.

            Pippin gave a small nod.  “Yes, sir, Aragorn.”

            The Captain looked affronted at the casual address, but Aragorn gave a swift glance and shake of the head to indicate he allowed the remark before returning his attention to the errant Hobbit.  “Is there anything you wish to add, then?”

            Pippin raised his eyes to meet those of his friend and King.  His expression was surprisingly mature.  “I keep doing--foolish things.  I try to be as adult as possible, but then my Took nature takes over and I end up looking the--the fool of a Took Gandalf has kept calling me.”  He took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry, Aragorn.  I disgraced you in front of the Council, and that’s inexcusable.”

            “And what punishment would your father have given you?” the King asked him.

            Pippin straightened again to attention.  “He’d probably have given me a tongue lashing I’d not forget, and then set me to scrubbing the pavement out front of the Great Smials with a nail brush,” he said, his voice tight.

            Aragorn felt his lip twitch.  “I see,” he said, doing his best to keep the amusement out of his voice.

            He straightened and stretched his back.  “Now that we have the full tale, I think it best I speak with your kinsmen.  Frodo, Merry, come with me, please.”  He rose to his considerable height and led the two Hobbits and Faramir out the door as those who stayed within bowed after him.  He glanced in before the door closed after them in time to see Sam approaching Pippin and placing his hand on the younger Hobbit’s shoulder.  He smiled slightly, glad to see that the gardener was taking thought to his companion’s distress.  “Now, Merry, Frodo--what would you suggest as an appropriate punishment?”

            Frodo was looking up at him, his expression disturbed and yet showing some signs of hope.  “I understand that here the normal punishment for such an infraction includes a flogging?” he said.

            “Yes, it does.”

            “But you would amend that for Pippin?”

            “He is quite young, after all, and his captain has reminded me it is his first such error in judgment.”

            He saw Frodo’s shoulders relax.  Merry, however, was shaking his head.

            “You mustn’t treat him all that differently than any other Guard of the Citadel, Aragorn--he wouldn’t abide it.  He’s already aware that because he’s so small, some of the others think his acceptance into the Guard is merely a sign you are humoring his fancy to play at soldiering.  I’ve heard some of those who didn’t go to the Black Gate talk about it, and they don’t appear to believe that he killed a troll and almost died under it.”

            Both Men appeared surprised at this.  “And where is this said?” Faramir demanded.

            “At weapons practice,” Merry answered.

            The Men exchanged glances, Aragorn’s eyes widening in question and Faramir shrugging in response.  “I see,” the King sighed, then thought.  At last he asked, “What is the usual penalty, Faramir?”

            “Five lashes,” he was advised.

            “Five lashes,” he repeated.  “I can drop it to three and not be seen as too lax, can I not?”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “So be it.  Does this meet your approval, Frodo?”  At the Ringbearer’s reluctant nod, he sighed, straightened himself back into the King’s role, and signaled to the guard who stood outside the door to open it.  He led the others back into the room, not noting the change of expression in Frodo’s eyes as he followed, his face tightening with decision.

            The others bowed again as he entered, remaining so until he was seated.  Frodo, however, did not stop at his side, but advanced to stand on the other side of Pippin from where Sam now stood.  Aragorn felt surprise at this, and cast a questioning glance at Merry, noting that the Brandybuck’s attention was fixed on his cousin with some concern, a distinct furrow visible between his brows.  “And what do you think to do, Frodo Baggins?” he could hear Merry murmur to himself.

            There was no choice now but to let the scene play out as it would.  “Guardsman Peregrin son of Paladin, you stand before me having admitted you arrived to begin your duty deep under the influence of drink.”

            Pippin raised his chin.  “Yes, my Lord King.”

            “The usual punishment for such an infraction?” Aragorn asked the Captain.

            “A flogging of five lashes for a first offense,” the Captain answered.

            Pippin blanched, but other than taking a deep breath he stood stoically.  Aragorn felt himself admiring his young friend.

            “I have decided to drop this number to three lashes, seeing that you are not yet seen fully a man among your people, and advise you that such would be true for those who are not yet fully of the age of twenty among us who were yet admitted to the ranks of the Guards of the Citadel or the city.”

            He saw a brief relaxation of Pippin’s shoulders and then the slight nod of relief to know this would not be seen as demeaning the Hobbit before his fellows within the Guard.

            But now Frodo stepped forward, then dropped gracefully to his knees.  Aragorn was surprised, then distressed as he realized Frodo’s intentions.  “Please, my beloved Lord King,” Frodo began formally.  “If you will listen to the petition of one who loves both you and my young kinsman here.  I ask to be allowed to take Pippin’s punishment upon myself.  I ought to have sent Bergil earlier in search of him, perhaps, or the page you assigned to us.  As his--as his ranking kinsman....”

            But now Bertesion was stepping forward, obviously agitated.  “Oh, no, my Lord King Elessar!  You could not allow this!  It was for me that Guardsman Peregrin was importuned....”

            And now the other two who’d shared in Bertesion’s celebration were joining him. 

            Aragorn allowed them to talk over one another for a few moments longer, noting the surprise on the faces of both Pippin and Frodo, and the satisfaction to be seen on Sam’s face.  At last he rose, and the rest went quiet and straightened to attention.  He focused his gaze on Pippin.  “I see that no matter how some among the Guards of the Citadel might judge you as little better than an indulged child, still there are among your fellows those who respect you as one who has offered your own safety and life for others.”  He looked at Frodo.  “Rise, Frodo son of Drogo, kinsman of Bilbo,” he commanded.  “I have told you that you are not to bend your knee to me, although you will insist on doing so anyway.  I deny your petition.”

            “But, Aragorn----”

            “It is not  your place to stand in the stead of those who offend against the laws and customs of Gondor, not even those who are of your people.  And particularly when those who are truly his peers are willing to put themselves forward on Pippin’s behalf.  He has truly earned the respect of these, his fellows, and deserves to be treated as a Man in his position would.”

            Aragorn looked at the three Guardsmen who’d shared in the festivities when Pippin became drunk.  “You are willing to share in the punishment this one has earned?” he asked.

            Bertesion looked at him proudly.  “Indeed we are, Lord Elessar.  He almost died saving Captain Beregond and others, after all.  And he only stayed to honor me.”

            The other two indicated their agreement.

            Aragorn felt proud of them all.  “So be it, then.  Three lashes I promised him.  If you will each agree to accept one for him----”

            “I say, Aragorn--I mean,” Pippin interrupted himself, going alternately pale and flushed.  “That’s not fair, my Lord King!  I can’t allow others to bear my punishment!”

            “I did not say you would go without penalty you yourself must bear, Peregrin Took,” Aragorn said, the stern quality of his tone lightened by the smile to be discerned in his eyes.  “Tomorrow morning, at the first hour after the dawn, they will each accept one of the strokes intended for you, and you will receive one more on your own behalf.  After which you will be given a broom appropriate to your stature and you will be set to sweeping the entire Court of Gathering from the Court of the Tree and fountain to the farthest limits of the escarpment.  There is not to remain a single leaf, twig, or speck of dirt upon the marble by nightfall--do you understand?”

            “Yes, my Lord King.  It shall be as you command, Lord Elessar.”  Pippin stood now very straight and as tall as he could stretch himself.  Aragorn felt the prouder as he turned to the Captain of the Guards and to Faramir.

            “As the King has ruled, so it shall be,” the Steward of Gondor said solemnly, but in his eyes, too, could be seen pride.

 *******

            Those of the Guards of the Citadel who were not on duty formed ranks in the practice area behind the barracks to observe the punishment detail.  Aragorn came himself with Frodo and Sam at his side, Gandalf with his staff in hand following behind.  All watched in respectful silence as the charges against Pippin were read and he was asked if he agreed they were true and the punishment to be levied was fair.

            “I admit my fault, but cannot help but protest that others should be allowed to be punished for my own failure of duty,” Pippin said with all the dignity within him.

            “Nevertheless, the King himself has agreed to this, and so it shall be.  Bertesion, formerly of the Guard and now of the White Company, do you accept this full willing, of your own design?”

            “I do.”  So saying, the Guardsman slipped out of the unrelieved black shirt and tunic that was his due as one who’d officially left the service of the Citadel but had not yet taken on his new duties, handing them to the keeping of Captain Beregond who’d accompanied him.  He strode forward and took hold of the post to which targets for thrown knives were usually affixed.  He took a deep breath, and at last gave a nod.  The Guardsman whose duty it was to apply the lash did so, striking true and cleanly.  Bertesion flinched as the lash struck him, but did not cry out, and at last straightened and turned to the one who’d struck him and gave a salute.  One of the healers from the Houses was present, and now anointed his back with a salve and wound a bandage about it to protect it as the second Guardsman stepped forward to divest himself of his uniform tabard and shirt.

            At last it was Pippin’s turn, and he stepped forward accompanied by Merry, who looked far more concerned than his younger cousin as he helped Pippin remove his tabard and the shirt he wore under it, slipping the straps of the Hobbit’s braces to fall loose at his sides.  The rest of the Guards appeared surprised to see this addition to their smallest member’s uniform, but all went respectfully quiet as Peregrin son of Paladin approached the post as had the others, his back now bared to accept the lash due him.

            Merry turned to the one with the whip.  “He will not thank you if you do not strike him as hard as you did the others,” he advise him, although it was plain it pained the Hobbit to say such a thing.  He stepped aside, and Aragorn set his hand firmly on Frodo’s shoulder.

            The sound of the lash striking Pippin could be heard clearly by all, and there was no question of the executioner giving him a lighter stroke.  Pippin was visibly shuddering in its wake, but he straightened, turned to the Man, and saluted as the others had done.  “Thank you for doing your duty,” he said. 

            The executioner bowed in respect and returned the salute before turning to the captain and reporting, “Punishment has been administered as commanded, sir.”

            “So be it.  And I commend you and all those who stood before you today.  The matter is now to be considered closed.  Guardsman Peregrin son of Paladin, this broom fitting your stature has been found, and you will now go up to complete the rest of your punishment.  A meal will be brought to you at noon, for which you will be allowed a half hour break to allow for it and to relieve yourself.  Juice and cooled broth will be allowed you as you require it.  Understood?”

            “Yes, my lord,” Pippin answered with dignity, accepting the broom as the healer bent over his back.  “I will do my duty, sir.”

            Aragorn smiled as he and Gandalf drew Frodo away.  “There--it is over now.  And you must agree all of them acquitted themselves well,” he said quietly to his friend.

            “It ought not to have been done, though, Aragorn,” Frodo returned.

            “Perhaps not, but it proves to all that Pippin deserves to be treated with the respect his position grants him.  I doubt any within the Guard of the Citadel will question either Denethor’s decision to accept his service nor my confirmation of it after this.”

            Frodo smiled briefly up at him, then allowed himself to be led up to the Citadel.

            Shortly after noon, as Frodo, Faramir, Gandalf, and Aragorn relaxed together after examining one of the records of the realm Aragorn had decided needed to be reviewed that day, there was a tap at the door to the King’s study where they met.  Aragorn set aside his tankard of ale as he straightened in his seat.  “Enter!” he called.

            The Guard at the door was smiling as he ushered the Captain of the Guard inside.  “Captain Gilmaros, sir,” he said, perhaps unnecessarily.

            “Yes, Captain?” the King asked, having returned the Captain’s salute.

            “I thought you should come to see, my Lord King,” the Captain suggested.  “It is apparent that respect for Guardsman Peregrin is more widely spread than ever after his most dignified behavior this morning.”

            He led the way out and to the front doors of the Citadel, which were opened by more smiling Guardsmen.  He led them down the steps and beyond the bulk of the dead Tree, and there they stopped.  Aragorn looked, and smiled broadly as he encouraged Frodo to step forward to see the better.  “I do not believe any question Pippin’s place among the Guard of the Citadel now,” he said softly to the Ringbearer.  “Look!”

            Pippin could be seen, diligently wielding his broom, perhaps a quarter of the way between the tree and the end of the escarpment where the King had showed himself to the people of the City on the day of his coronation.  But he was not the only one--at least twenty other Guardsmen had joined him, each with his own broom.  And among the black tabards was one that was silver and white--Captain Beregond--and his son Bergil, apparently--were now sharing in the punishment detail assigned to Peregrin Took.

With many thanks to RiverOtter for the beta, and dedicated to her as well, as the idea was hers!

Born to the New Age

            Mr. Griffo Boffin of Hobbiton walked through the village feeling more than a little amazed and excited.  Two years previous to today the Shire had been in a shambles.  Griffo and his wife Daisy’s home had been all but gutted by Lotho Sackville-Baggins’s Gatherers and Sharers and his Big Men, who had also been transforming the once-glorious gardens of Bag End into a shanty-town of ramshackle sheds.  What they’d done to the interior of what had been one of the most luxurious smials in the entire Shire and beyond Griffo didn’t even wish to imagine.

            But that had changed when, beyond all expectations, the four Travelers had returned from the wild, rousing the Shire and ridding the land of Lotho’s ruffians and bully-boys almost overnight.  Suddenly things were overturned as stolen goods were found and restored, homes dug anew or rebuilt or made snugger, inns reopened, and hope returned.  And all watched after the shining forms of Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, most often referred to as the Captains (meaning nothing but good, of course), and the more prosaic figure of that gardener Samwise Gamgee with far more respect and even awe than had ever before been granted those who’d openly left the Shire.  As for Frodo Baggins--well, it seemed most folks didn’t see him much, save at the renewed Shire banquets.  Oh, he might be seen riding that lovely new pony of his between the Bywater-Hobbiton area and Michel Delving on the skirts of the White Downs; but he wasn’t seen to be “out there” the way the Captains and Mr. Gamgee were, putting things right.  There had been talk of voting Frodo as Mayor in his own right, as Will Whitfoot said he’d been doing a marvelous job as deputy Mayor; but last summer somehow that talk had fallen to naught, and Will was facing another seven years of officiating at official banquets and overseeing the Shiriffs and the restored Quick Post.  Although Griffo had the idea that Frodo had quietly done far more in the restoration of the Shire than most folks began to realize, really.  Not that your average Hobbit would appreciate that there was more to seeing the business of the Shire running smoothly than one could easily see....

            Today, standing where the Hobbiton Road skirted the shoulder of the Hill and looking down on the avenues of young trees that had been planted to replace those felled by Sharkey’s folks, smelling the wonderful green smell of a spring of special promise, listening to the comforting creak of the new wheel for the restored Mill and the swirl of the water through the traces, Griffo felt a special wonder.  How had it all come out so right?  And was it true?  And after his wife’s cousin Angelica losing the last one that way.

            His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of cheerful whistling as a solid-looking Hobbit appeared from the lane leading to the bridge that crossed the Water into Bywater.  Frodo had once commented to Griffo that his gardener was capable of whistling like a whole tree full of birds, and that was certainly true of him today from what Griffo could hear.  Samwise Gamgee might have been as solidly built a Hobbit as one could look to find, but at the moment he walked with a decided spring in his step, and his face was particularly shining with happiness and contentment as he turned toward the Lane up to Bag End.

            Without realizing what he was planning to do, Griffo hailed the gardener.  “I say--Mr. Gamgee!  Samwise Gamgee!”

            At the first call the Hobbit stopped, and at the second turned with surprise.  He was carrying a sizable bundle wrapped in brown paper and string, and from the twist of white cloth that could be seen protruding from his pocket Griffo would guess he’d stopped at the sweet-sellers to buy some of those mints she’d just started selling the other day.  Griffo hurried forward to join the gardener at the beginning of the Lane.  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Mr. Gamgee?” he asked.

            Sam looked at him in surprise, as rarely did a gentlehobbit speak to a working class Hobbit of his own sort so courteously, as if to an equal.  But he obviously agreed with Griffo’s observation as he replied, “That it is, Mr. Boffin, sir.  That it is!  A wonderful day it is!”

            “And I hear that congratulations are in order?  A daughter, isn’t it?”

            “Oh, yes, sir--the most beautifullest little lass as was ever born in the Shire, too, she is!”  The pride in his eyes was matched only by his obvious joy.  “Born just yesterday she was.”

            “And your wife--she’s doing well?”

            “Oh, and then some, sir.  Seems as it was a right easy birth, Mr. Boffin.  She’s already up and about--nothin' can keep my Rosie down, it seems.”

            “And Frodo--how is he taking things?”

            Sam’s smile was gentle.  “Oh, he’s that pleased, he is.  Holds her and sings to her, tells her how lovely she is, tells her how lucky she is to have us for her mum and dad.  Why, he must have counted all her fingers and toes fifty times at least, as if between one moment and the next one of them might just go missin', sir.”

            “Like his did?”

            That had just slipped out, somehow.  People knew that Frodo Baggins had managed to lose a finger while he was gone from the Shire, although no one seemed to know just how or why or under what circumstances; and none of the four of them would speak of it.  That closed look showed on Sam’s face.  His answer was, “As you say, Mr. Boffin, sir.”

            The ensuing silence became difficult to bear.  At last Sam suggested, “If you really want to know as how Mr. Frodo lost his finger, you’d probably best ask him, not what he’d perhaps answer it.  I’ll tell you this--he lost it fightin' a terrible battle.”

            “Then he knows how to use that sword he brought back with him?”

            “He wasn’t fightin' with any sword, sir--not then.  He was fightin' with his sheer will, and to tell the truth he was losin' the battle.  Only someone else attacked him, too, and without meanin' to save him managed to do just that.  There were three folks there at the time, and one more.  And the one more was winnin', until the third one took it all.

            “If he was to answer you, he’d could tell you any number of things as to what happened, and they’d all be true.  But what he’d probably tell you was just what happened, and it wouldn’t be the truth at all.”

            “And you know the truth of what happened?”

            “I was there.  Although I don’t know as anyone outside the Creator Hisself truly knows all as happened.  Although, if he could be coaxed to tell of it I suspect Gandalf could tell you a thing or two as approached the heart of it--Gandalf, or perhaps the King.”

            “He was there?”

            “No, but----”  For the first time Sam looked uncertain, then gave a faint, reminiscent smile.  “You meet the King, you’ll understand best, I suppose.  But if a single mortal anywhere can understand what happened there when Frodo fought the Enemy, I think as he does.”

            Hobbits tend to find such solemn, thoughtful discourse uncomfortable, and Griffo Boffin was no exception.  He shivered, and did his best to put all that had just been said--and not said--behind him.  “I see,” he said, not truly seeing at all.  He forced a more cheerful tone into his voice.  “And Frodo is happy about the birth, then?”

            “Of course, sir.  The perfect, besotted uncle he is.”  The gardener’s polite deference and pleasure were back, along with the indulgent smile at the thought of how much Frodo Baggins was enchanted by the birth of Sam Gamgee’s child.

            “And what did you name her?”

            “He named her--and just the right name for her he chose, too.  Elanor, sir.  He named her Elanor.  It’s the name of a beautiful, golden sunstar flower we saw on our journey, and it fits her so well, our little golden Elanor.  Delicate and true, the flower and the child.  I asked him, and he knew the perfect name.”

            He shifted the great bundle to a more comfortable position.  Griffo cleared his throat.  “I’m sorry, then, to be keeping you from your errand.”

            “No reason, sir.  Was just over to the farm--the Cotton’s farm that is.  Mum Lily--she had a great bundle of nappies gathered for us.  Tried to tell us as how many nappies as we’d need, and of course we thought it was only exaggeratin'.  But in just a day we’ve learned she was right.  Rather like old Mr. Bilbo and what he’d say about pocket handkerchiefs, don’t you know--you can’t never have too many nappies when you have a newborn.”

            His good humor was infectious, and Griffo smiled broadly in reply.  He found he rather liked this perhaps not-so-simple gardener rather more than he’d ever realized.  “I’ll keep that in mind, and let Daisy’s cousin Angelica know.  Angelica’s very excited.  She’s just learned that she’s apparently conceived, and after losing the first one the healers had warned her that she was unlikely to do so ever again.”

            “Angelica Baggins as was, sir?  Mr. Ponto’s daughter?  Oh, but I’ll tell my Master--he’ll be that glad, you know!”

            “Yes, do tell him.  Of course, as head of the Baggins family he ought to be told anyway.”

            “Yes, sir, Mr. Boffin--you’re right there.”

            “And one thing more, Mr. Gamgee....”

            “And what’s that, Mr. Boffin?”

            “I wanted to thank you is all.  I know you helped a lot of us get our holes and houses fixed up, and there are all the groves and avenues and orchards you saw planted in place of what that Sharkey and his folk cut down.  And you’re taking such good care of my wife’s cousin....”  His voice dwindled as he again grew uncertain as to what he could say further.

            Again Sam’s smile grew gentle and a bit sad.  “It’s my honor, Mr. Griffo, sir, to be doing anythin' for my Master.  He’s told me as I’m his brother now, after what we went through together; and Rosie’s the true mistress of Bag End, as he don’t plan to marry--not now.  He’s made Bag End our home as much as his, and won’t allow us to think of ourselves as if we was but servants.  And he won’t allow as he’s due anythin' special, no matter what he did to save us all.  I’d do anythin' for him, if it made things easier for him.”

            Griffo wasn’t certain quite how to think of this.  “Well,” he said carefully, “do carry him my respects, won’t you?  And again my congratulations on the birth of your daughter.”

            “That I will, Mr. Boffin, sir.  And thank you.  It’s a new age now, did you realize?  The greatest of evils as was lingerin' still in Middle-earth is now gone, the King’s returned and he’s a wonder, the White Tree grows now in the Courts of the King, the Shire’s well on its way to what it was when we left it, and now what children as are born to us will grow up free of a lot of the fear and danger as threatened when we was little ones.”

            Unconsciously, Griffo Boffin stood straighter, responding automatically to the confidence with which Sam made this recital.  “So it is, so it is,” he replied.  “Well, may your new daughter bring you and your wife a world of joy.”

            “She already’s done that, for us and for Mr. Frodo.  And give your missus my greetings, won’t you?”

            “Of course, my dear fellow!”  And with no thought of how odd it was to think of bearing the good wishes of a mere gardener might seem, Griffo Boffin hurried home to do exactly that.

 ******* 

            It was October sixth, and Griffo Boffin was heading from the privy behind the Green Dragon back to the outside door to the common room when he spotted Samwise Gamgee riding up to the doors to the stable on that piebald pony he boarded at the Green Dragon, leading that lovely gelding that was Frodo’s.  He felt relief wash over him.  He’d been looking forward to having a word or two with his wife’s cousin, and it looked as if he’d finally have his chance.

            “Mr. Gamgee!  You’ve returned!”

            The gardener, who was dropping from his mount, paused to look at him questioningly.  “What?” he asked, as if distracted.  Then he focused.  “Oh, Mr. Griffo--it’s you then, sir?”

            “Yes.  I’d planned to stop by Bag End this evening--let Frodo know.”

            “Let Mr. Frodo know?  Know what, sir?”

            “His cousin Angelica--she’s given birth while you two were gone from Hobbiton!  And--can you believe it?  She’s had twins!  A lad and a lass, and both with golden hair!  Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

            “There’s been a fair number of lads and lasses born with golden hair since we come back,” Sam said.  “But that’s nice, sir.  And twins did you say?”

            “Yes,” Griffo said, surprised by the lack of enthusiasm he saw in the other Hobbit.  Twins were not precisely a common event amongst Hobbits, after all.  “As family head....”

            “Oh, yes, Mr. Frodo would have needed to know, wouldn’t he?”

            Something in the way that was said gave the Boffin pause.  “Is there something wrong with Frodo?” he asked, not certain what the feeling of foreboding he was experiencing might mean.

            “Somethin' wrong with Mr. Frodo?  Oh, but I hope not, not now.”

            “Shall I stop by and tell him tonight, then?”

            “Stop by?  Oh, but he’s not there.”

            “Not there?  Not in Bag End?  Did he stay in Buckland, or wherever it was the two of you went?”

            Sam’s mouth worked some.  “Stay in Buckland?  Oh, but sir--we didn’t go to Buckland.  I’d thought as perhaps we might stop there a night as we went east to Bree, but it turned out as we didn’t go that way at all.”

            “Bree?  But why would you be going to Bree this time of year?  Or were you going to see some of those you met outside the Shire when you were gone before?”  That made sense--Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took had made it plain that they all had friends among the Men who lived Outside, after all, not that the Hobbits of the Shire were willing to allow any Men to cross its borders since the last of Lotho and that Sharkey’s ruffians were chased out of it, their tails between their legs.

            “See folk in Bree?  Oh, no--we weren’t plannin’ on that so much as----”  But Sam didn’t finish.

            After a moment Griffo commented, “You appear to be saying a good deal of ‘Oh, but’ tonight, Mr. Gamgee.”

            “Am I?  Yes, I suppose as I am.”  Sam looked quite surprised at this.  “Please, sir--I’d best get these two stabled.  My Rosie and little Elanor--they’re waiting for me, I think.  They said as they’d tell them.”

            “Oh--I do beg your pardon, Mr. Gamgee, sir.  Let me help you--to make amends, you understand.”  So saying, Griffo took the reins of Frodo’s pony and led the way inside.

            In minutes they had the two ponies unsaddled and the tack carefully settled where it belonged.  As they efficiently curried the two animals, Griffo was describing the birth of the twins.  “The children were born almost three weeks before their proper time, you must realize.  Angelica and her husband had come to visit with her parents, and we were there to have dinner with them when suddenly the birth pangs began.  I hurried off to fetch the midwife while Daisy and Angelica’s mother did their best to help get her calmed down and ready for the birthing.  Angelica’s father was quite worried, but her husband was nothing but a mass of nerves.  Finally the midwife begged Ponto and me to get him out of there.  ‘He’d worrit the wings off a fly!’ she told us.  ‘And don’t let him come back for at least three hours!’

            “So we brought him here.  By the time we got back it was almost all over--very short labor, I understand.  And they are so beautiful a pair, the two of them!  Angelica is most delighted, and her husband is right over the moon with pride!”

            “If he’s like I was, I understand,” Sam said.  “A lad and a lass, you said?”

            “Oh, my, yes!  And both with the most beautiful golden curls!  As you said, there’s been a fair number of fair-haired children born this past year or two!”

            Sam nodded, solemnly.  “Seems to be the way as the new age is startin'--that’s for certain,” he said.  “The Lady’s blessing, I suppose.”

            “What lady?”

            “The Lady Galadriel--it was her as give me a box of soil from her garden, and I used a grain for each tree as I planted, each garden as I helped start anew.  And the last of the soil I give to the winds at the Three Farthing Stone, once all else was done.  She was an Elf queen, she was, here in Middle-earth.  Don’t know exactly how it will be with her, once she’s there, though.”

            “There?  Where is there?”

            “Where she went--with Master Elrond from Rivendell and old Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo and Gandalf and all--in Elvenhome.”

            “What?”

            “She’s left Middle-earth, don’t you see?  Went on the Grey Ship--went to Elvenhome.  It’s the end of the Elves’ time, you must understand.  Those as are left in Middle Earth, they won’t stay much longer now.  Oh, maybe a hundred years or so; but few longer than that.  It was time for--for the Ringbearers to leave.”

            Griffo was surprised to see a tear roll slowly down the gardener’s face.  “You know Elves?” he asked.

            “Yes--we met them when we went out of the Shire, sir.  And we spent time both in Rivendell and Lórien.  But now Master Elrond and Lady Galadriel, they’ve gone, and the rest of the Elves as are still in Middle Earth, they’ll be gone soon enough.  It’s because it’s the new age--the Fourth Age now.”

            Griffo shook his head.  And then the other thing the gardener had said hit him.  “Wait!  You said that Frodo--he----”

            “Yes, Mr. Griffo--my Master’s gone, too, and old Mr. Bilbo with them.  The Ring is gone now, and so the Ringbearers, their time come to leave.”

            “But when will he return?”

            “You don’t understand, Mr. Boffin--those as go to Elvenhome, they can’t come back to the Mortal Lands again.  Once they get there, that’s where they’ll stay, what time’s left to them.”

            “But--but, who’s master of Bag End and the Hill now, then?”

            Sam took the brush Griffo held from him and very carefully set it in its place, and drew the Boffin out of the stall and closed the gate behind them.  “I am now, sir.  He made me his heir.”

            “Frodo--he made you----?”

            “Yes, sir.  My Master--he made me his heir.  And before he left, he give me the letter from the King sayin' as he confirms it.  I’m master of Bag End, now.”

            Sam stood in humble pride, and didn’t seem to notice the further tears that slipped down his cheeks.  He took his saddlebags and settled them over his shoulder.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me--my wife and my daughter--they’re up there, on the Hill, waiting for me.  And I rather think as I need to be by them, don’t you know.”  He gave a nod to his head, as one gentlehobbit to another, and turned away.  Just short of the door he stopped and turned back.  “When were the twins borned, sir?”

            “When?  Oh, a week ago, not long before midnight, I’d say.”

            “The twenty-ninth?”

            “Yes--the twenty-ninth.”

            “And what did they name them?”

            “Angelica named them Drogo and Primula, after Frodo’s parents.  She’d loved them so when she was small, you see.”

            A slow smile spread across Samwise Gamgee’s face.  “Thank you for tellin' me, Mr. Griffo, sir.  It would have made him so glad to know.  Well, a good evening to you, sir.”

            And with another nod, Sam left the stable to walk the last mile home, alone.

For Lily the Hobbit and Cairistiona for their birthdays.  Enjoy!  Beta by RiverOtter.

Vengeance is Reggie’s

            Reginard Took slipped into the hallway where the Thain kept the rooms for his family.  There it was, Lalia’s wheeled chair, sitting outside the Mistress’s door.  It wasn’t kept inside the apartment as she tried to pretend that she wasn’t as dependent on it as she had actually become.  It would be about an hour before Lalia the Fat was sufficiently done with her toilet to call for it so she could be wheeled to the dining room for second breakfast.  They’d arrive before the rest of those within the Great Smial who ate in the public dining room so Lalia could be shifted to her regular chair at table and the wheeled chair settled discretely in a small parlor nearby where it was pointedly ignored by the denizens of the place and wouldn’t be noted by the many guests.  In that hour this particular glue would be sufficiently set to be properly tacky, and hopefully would hold her for a more public transition than she wanted.

            Reginard was a young Hobbit with a mission, as well as a small pot of glue and a brush.  Making certain no one was likely to come upon him, he pried the lid off the pot and set to work, carefully painting the characters he’d learned the previous day.  He was reasonably certain Bilbo would be called to examine the results of the prank, and he hoped that once she sat Lalia wouldn’t squirm and make the letters illegible, for he wanted her to know what he’d written here.  And as he worked, he remembered his brief interview with his cousin Frodo Baggins the previous noon.

 *******

            “You’re certain you’re willing to do this?” Frodo asked Reginard.

            “Of course I am!” Reggie insisted.  “I mean, you’d do it if they weren’t watching you so closely, wouldn’t you?”

            “I’d do it anyway if no one else would,” Frodo agreed.  “But she’s not likely to believe I didn’t do it, considering my reputation and how angry I was yesterday, so they’ll be watching me closely--and possibly Bard as well, and thinking in their hearts that one of us two did it, and most likely me.  I doubt they’d ever consider that you did it.  Oh, perhaps Bilbo and Cousin Ferdinand might think so, or maybe even your dad; but the Thain and Lalia and all of them--they’ll all be convinced that most likely either Isumbard or I did it, and will all be trying to work out how we could have done so and not been seen.”

            “To have her stuck to her own chair--I know she doesn’t like being seen in it by most folks, but it’s not easy for her to walk too far at a time now.”  Reggie gave his cousin a decided look.  “But I’d like to write something with the glue, you know.”

            “Write something?”

            “Yes, like fat pig or something like that.  After all, she was calling poor Linden a skinny stick and saying she was far too quick for a maid and things like that, and had her crying last night!”

            Frodo’s expression grew grim.  “I know.”

            “Now, don’t go telling Linden, Frodo Baggins, but--well, you see, I like her--rather a lot.  She’s nice and sweet and a good brick and all, and...well, she’s pretty, too.  I hate to see her so upset.”

            His Baggins cousin gave a satisfied smile.  “So, you’ll do this to avenge her honor?”

            “Yes.”  There was steel in the young Took’s expression.

            “All right, but don’t go writing it out in common letters--they could tell by the writing perhaps who did it.”

            “Then how do I make certain no one knows it was me who wrote it?”

            Frodo was clearly thinking, and suddenly a sly grin could be seen.  “Well, if you were to write it in Tengwar letters, Bilbo could tell them what it says, and it will look more like I did it, as everyone knows I know some Elvish.  But if I show everyone this afternoon how to write fat and some other words in Tengwar it will make it harder for folks to say I had to have done it.”

            So that afternoon quite a number of teens and even some tweens were gathered in one of the parlors where such tended to meet, and all of them were learning how to write words in Tengwar lettering from Frodo Baggins.  Concerned as to what was up, Paladin Took wandered into the room with Bilbo Baggins at his elbow.

            Watching as Ferdibrand Took carefully copied out a translation of bloody bully on a sheet of foolscap from the example provided by Frodo, Bilbo shook his head.  “I have a feeling you shall be seeing such insults traded rather prominently for a time here between the younger Tooks,” he commented to his younger cousin.

            “That’s all we need,” Pal sighed, pulling out his pipe.

            Bilbo laughed.  “I remember when you had me teaching you some of Balin’s more objectionable phrases in Dwarvish,” he said, “so you could insult Sigismond’s son.”

            “That was different!”

            “Was it really?” Bilbo asked.

            Paladin packed his pipe and finally pulled out a silver matchcase his sister Jade had given him, and soon had it lit as he watched Isumbard’s sister Linden happily writing out a Tengwar translation of lumbering cow and her friend Acacia working on fat pig.  “I just hope none of this leads to trouble.”

            Reggie listened.  He’d already mastered fat pig during his previous private tutoring received from Frodo; now he was working on ham-handed tyrant.  He was rather glad he’d not been seen writing what he planned to actually write on Lalia’s chair.

 *******

            In moments it was done--the Tengwar rendition of fat pig was complete and he was away, slipping into one of the public parlors where the fire had already been lit to dispose of the brush, and then off to the carpenters’ storerooms to replace the pot of glue on a rack where six such pots already stood.  No way for anyone to say for certain who’d taken or used it.  In moments he was returning to his family’s quarters, and ostentatiously clattering in the tiny kitchen where earlier he’d begun preparing scones for a late first breakfast.  In moments his mother was with him, praising him for his thoughtfulness; and no one appeared to notice the scent of the glue on him as he set a cooking tray filled with finished scones on the counter where his mother split them and filled them with butter and raspberry jam.  No one was eating heavily, for they knew that second breakfast in the public dining room would be elaborate today, what with all the family and Took relations who were filling the Great Smial for the Took moot being held.  But all were praising Reginard for his scones, which they were consuming even as his mother was arranging her hair and his father was fixing the studs in his cuffs.

            Then they were off for the dining room, only to find the way blocked near the entrance.  They could hear a loud bumbling of questions and guesses at answers, while from within the dining room itself they could hear Lalia’s voice raised in shrieks.

            Then all went quiet, and Ferumbras’s voice could be heard declaring rather loudly, “Here’s the robe fetched for you.  Let’s put it about you, for we’ll have to cut away your skirt, Mother.”

            Excited, fascinated glances were exchanged by those out in the hallway.

            Lalia shrilled, “I won’t be seen without a skirt, Rumba!”

            All winced, for all knew how much Ferumbras had hated that childhood nickname.  And all could hear the frustration and barely-suppressed fury as he answered, “You won’t be seen without a skirt!  You’ll have a blanket over your lap and a bathrobe about you.  None would even know you were without a skirt if you’d only been somewhat quiet about things!”

            “And I won’t be seen in my bathrobe here in the dining room!”

            “Mother!”

            “I want to be taken back to my room!”

            “But you were insisting that no one was to see you in your chair....”

            “Then hide it!”

            “How do we manage to hide the fact you are in a wheeled chair when you must be in it until we get you back to your room?”

            Then they could hear Ferdinand explaining, “Everyone in the hallway is listening to all the two of you are saying!”

            Voices inside the dining room dropped, and in a few minutes Ferdinand came out and had the hallway cleared sufficiently to allow the chair, Lalia seated firmly in it and seething with indignation, pass through, back towards the Thain’s quarters while Tooks and their relatives peered after her from intersecting passages and the rooms to each side of the way.  All watched after her and the furious Ferumbras, who was pushing the chair, with fascination, and in the renewed buzz that rose once the two were gone were heard, again and again, “Somehow the Mistress is stuck in that great chair of hers!” 

 *******

            Oh, but it was a success!  As Frodo had predicted, all tended to believe he had been the author of the prank.  But no one could work out precisely how he’d managed to get from the rooms granted him and Bilbo on the far end of the Great Smials to the Thain’s quarters and then back to have half the youngsters who’d already eaten their fill with him in a parlor nearby the guest quarters, listening to stories while the older Tooks and their guests met for the obligatory second-breakfast convocation of the first day of the moot.  Bilbo insisted that except for the brief time Frodo had been gone to the nearby bathing room, where he’d been in the company of Paladin Took and several others whose testimony not even Ferumbras and Lalia could gainsay, he’d not been out of his older cousin’s presence.  “And as he went to the bathing room with Saradoc and Dinodas, I doubt he had a chance to do much in the period I did not see him,” the Baggins added.

            On inspecting the fabric left on the chair adhering to the glue he’d laughed as he translated the writing there.  “But you can’t say that Frodo wrote that just because it was written in Tengwar,” he noted.  “At least fifteen teens and tweens were practicing writing such phrases yesterday, after all.”

            “Actually, I counted nineteen,” Paladin added.

            At last the matter was dropped.  A new cushion was fabricated for the chair, and Lalia admitted that actually it added to her comfort for those times when she rode in it.  But she never gave over her suspicion that it had been Frodo Baggins who had left her stuck to her own chair and made her dependence on the thing such public knowledge.

            And each time he saw Lalia being wheeled by, Reginard Took had to suppress a pleased smirk.  Somehow after the chair was replaced he managed to get hold of the original seat, and kept it ever after in his private study, where a sight of it and the framed sheet on which he’d inscribed ham-handed tyrant in Tengwar script always managed to leave him with a feeling of satisfaction.

Written for the LOTR-Genfic Community Potpourri Challenge.  For Lindelea and Garnet Took for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Comfort Unexpected

            It began raining as Frodo rode past the second turn-off to Tuckborough and the Great Smial, the rain turning to sleet as he finally reached the turn-off to Bywater and Hobbiton.  He was feeling frozen as he reached the Green Dragon to return the pony he’d taken for the trip to Michel Delving, and he found himself wishing he were a pony himself and not having to walk that last mile to the Hill and Bag End on the west side of Hobbiton.  Had he been paying attention, he would have gotten his first clue as to what to expect there and then, for one of the open stalls held a familiar, placid brown mare that ought to have been at the Great Smial this time of year, one belonging to Paladin Took.  However, Frodo was more concerned about the need to make that last mile’s journey afoot through the increasingly bad weather, and barely registered Ginger’s presence.

            “Greyhame did well for you, Mr. Baggins?” asked old Rarko Oatbarrow, who’d served as stablehobbit for the inn for the past thirty-six years.

            “Well enough, although he does not appear to like the sleet.”

            Rarko laughed.  “Oh, he’s a comfort-lovin’ pony, he is.  Bet he was doin’ his best to keep his hoofs dry these last few miles, wasn’t he?”

            “Indeed,” Frodo sighed.  “Prancing and dancing, all the way from the Green Hills.  And this last bit from the Road--I wasn’t certain I’d keep my seat.”

            “Well, here you are, and safe and sound in spite of him.  Always said as you have a marvelous way with the ponies, sir.  You sure as you won’t purchase one for yourself, now as you’re the Master of Bag End?”

            “If I did, I assure you it would be far more intelligent than Greyhame.  And I’m certain that if Gandalf knew you’d named that pony after him he’d probably turn all your hot mash cold on you!”

            Again the old Hobbit laughed.  “Your uncle--he’d say the same.  But there’s no question as Greyhame’s the one pony we’ve got as knows the way to Michel Delving and back best.”

            Frodo doubted that this reflected well on the rest of the stock kept by the Green Dragon, but held his tongue.  He shook out his cloak as best he could, then stood by the crack in the rolling door to the stable and peered out with distaste at the sheets of ice that were being blown about by the wind.

            “There’s nothin’ for it, Mr. Baggins, sir--you’re goin’ to have to go out in it sometime.  Won’t let up all tonight, I’m willin’ to wager.  In fact, I’d say as it’ll be snow by morning.”

            “And it’s only the first week in November,” Frodo sighed, his heart plummeting at this news.  He didn’t doubt Rarko, for the old Hobbit’s lumbago was known to be very accurate in predicting the weather.  He looked at the cold-looking puddle that had been forming before the stable door.  “It’s one time I wish I had a pair of Buckland boots,” he commented.

            Rarko’s eyebrows rose.  “You wear them outlandish things?” he asked.

            “When I was on the flood watch along the Brandywine I did a few times,” Frodo admitted, watching the sleet continue to fall and the puddle continue to spread.  At last he raised his chin.  “Well, as you said, there’s nothing for it,” he said, shouldering his saddlebag and pulling the sodden hood of his cloak back over his dark curls.  With a despondent nod, he signaled Rarko that he was ready, and the old Hobbit rolled the door open. 

            “Watch your step, sir,” Rarko advised as Frodo finally stepped out into the storm.  “You don’t want to end up sittin’ in a puddle, now!”  That said, he rolled the door closed again after the gentlehobbit, and went back to his comfortable chair where he watched over his charges, and the whittling he indulged in throughout much of the winter.

            The bridge across the Water was almost as slick as the road leading to it, and more than once Frodo found himself clinging to the rail as his foot slid.  When he stepped off of it he took a deep breath of relief--just before he lost his footing and fell to his knees, his hands stinging as he kept himself from ending up face down in the mud.

            Sam Gamgee would have flushed royally had he heard his young Master’s exclamations of dismay.  Fastidiously, Frodo managed to regain his feet, reaching down to retrieve his bag and finding it slick with mud.  “Of all the...!”  He wiped at it futilely with his cloak, and finally gave up, throwing it over his shoulder again and squelching his way along the Hobbiton Road to the Lane up the Hill.

            The door was ajar, he realized as he finally made the security of his front stoop.  “Why isn’t the door closed?” he asked himself as he pushed it open.  The entranceway was cold as a result, and there was a muddy puddle just inside the door, on which he again slipped, stopping himself from falling only by grabbing hold of the bench under the coat pegs.  “What in the Shire!” he cried, thoroughly furious at this point as he reached down to lift his saddlebag from the tiles onto the bench.  “And since when has Sam Gamgee begun coming into Bag End through the front door?” he continued as he closed the door firmly and shot home the bolt.  The soaked state of his cloak made it difficult to undo it, and once he finally had it free he didn’t even bother to hang it up, as it would need a thorough cleaning before he could wear it again.  Instead he merely let it fall over the equally sodden bag.  “Where’s the mat that belongs here?” he asked as he peered about.  He finally found it, also soaking wet and bunched into the far corner of the hall.  Muttering a particularly potent curse in Khuzdûl that Balin had taught Bilbo, he stamped into the parlor, noting that the fire was blazing, one of the logs dangling dangerously over the edge of the hearth, dropping hot ashes down onto the hearth rug.

            “This isn’t Sam’s work,” he told himself as he found the poker behind the cushions on the sofa and put things right, his anger giving way to concern.  “But who?”  He placed the poker back in the stand where it belonged and looked about.  It was then he noted the damp cloak lying on his chair.  “Oh, sweet Valar!” he exploded.  “Pippin!”

            He found his young cousin in the kitchen, nursing a cup of cambric tea.  He saw that Pippin had found the honey pot, and that the wooden server was lying on the floor under the table, having left a drizzle of stickiness across the table, on the cushion of the bench, and in a small puddle on the floor.  At least he had used the milk rather than the cream this time--during his last proper visit he’d been told off for leaving no cream for anyone else.  But there was a wide circle of white drying on the surface of the table, and a plate filled with partially charred toast dripping with butter.  Sure enough, the butter tub lay there, filled with crumbs.  Pippin sat huddled over his cup, looking up at him through his still-damp auburn curls.  “Hello, Frodo,” he said.  “I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed your dressing gown without asking--my clothes were soaked!”

            Frodo closed his eyes, thinking of every means Bilbo had ever advised him could work to keep from yelling at his unexpected--and unwanted, truth be told--guest.  He pinched himself; he counted to ten and back again to one; he took deep breaths.  Pippin, meanwhile, was looking at him with that pathetic expression that he tended to give when he knew he’d earned the ire of his elders.

            Finally, having managed through prodigious effort to calm himself, he asked, “What are you doing here, Peregrin Took?”

            “I came to see you.”

            “You came to see me.”

            “Yes.”

            Frodo knew the young Hobbit realized he was in trouble, for rarely did he answer with a mere monosyllable.  “Why did you come to see me?  Why tonight?”

            “Lalia said I was a disgrace who didn’t deserve to stay in the Great Smial, so I decided to go where I was wanted.”

            “And why did you decide you should come here?”

            “Well, I wanted to go to see Merry, but when it began raining I realized I’d not make it in time, and I remembered I’d not brought any money to stay at the Floating Log anyway, so I came here instead.  I mean, it’s much closer to Hobbiton than to Buckland.”

            “And how did you come here?”

            “I rode Ginger, and left her at the Green Dragon,  So you’ll have to go down with me to pay so I can get her back again.”

            “I’ll have to pay?  And why do I have to pay?”

            “Someone will have to pay, for as I said I forgot to come away with any money.”

            The logic of children!

            Pippin had been riding since he was five, having been raised on the farm at Whitwell that his father managed.  He had been riding Ginger alongside his parents and older sisters for two years, and there was no question that the pony knew the way well to Hobbiton and Buckland.

            “Does your father know where you are?”

            “I suppose he can figure it out.”

            “Did you leave a note?”

            “Should I have left a note?”

            Realizing Pippin really wanted an answer to that one, Frodo said shortly, “Yes!”

            “Oh.”  The child shrank down further into himself.

            Frodo gave a deep sigh.  “Well, I’m not taking you home tonight, and there’s no way to send a message this late.  Although since you’ve used my dressing gown, I’m not certain what I’ll wrap myself in.”

            “You could use Bilbo’s dressing gown.”

            “He took it with him.”

            Pippin straightened with interest.  “He did?  Really for true?”

            “Yes, he did.”

            “You look muddy.”

            “I am.”

            “Did you fall?”

            “Yes, this side of the bridge over the Water--and almost a second time in the entrance.  You left the door open and there was a puddle on the tile.”

            “Oh.”  Then, after a moment, rather tentatively, “I’m sorry.”

            “I’m certain you are.”

            “I was wet and muddy, too.”  Pippin had straightened some.  “I fell down at the turn in the Lane.”

            “I see.  And why is your cloak on my chair?”

            “I had to put it somewhere.”

            “You could have hung it in the hallway.”

            “But I can’t reach the pegs!”

            “Well, I need to get dry.”  So saying, Frodo started toward the bathing room.  This door also was ajar, and all the lower candles had been lit, several of them beginning to gutter.  The Baggins looked down at the pile of muddied towels lying on the floor and felt another sigh breaking loose.  He looked over his shoulder.  “You used them all?”

            “I was awful wet.”  Pippin’s voice was small and uncertain.

            “And what am I supposed to use to get dry with?” Frodo demanded.

            “Well, I didn’t know you’d be all wet and muddy, too!”

            “When you realized I wasn’t home yet, and considering how much rain and sleet is out there, you should have been able to figure it out!”

            “I’m sorry!”

            He dug through the pile, looking for those that were least muddy, finally finding two that were at least somewhat dry and less soiled than the rest.  He found a face flannel or two, and returned to the kitchen to refill the kettle (which, of course, was empty!) at the pump and put it over the fire to heat up.

            Pippin was looking up at him from under his eyelashes.  “You have a big smudge of mud on your cheek,” he noted.

            “Considering how muddy I became when I fell, I’d be surprised not to have such a thing.”

            Neither said anything while they waited for the water to boil.  Once he heard the kettle begin to sing, Frodo quickly fetched it and the flannels and a bar of soap to his room, where he did the best he could to clean himself, finally pulling out one of the warm flannel nightshirts that Bilbo had left him and donning it,  He carefully brushed all the mud from his feet, then cleaned them thoroughly, even between the toes, using the nail brush liberally.

            Finally satisfied, he took the basin to the privy to empty it, and brought it to the kitchen to see all residual grit cleansed from it, finally refilling the ewer and putting both back in his room.  He fetched one of Bilbo’s favorite shawls and wrapped it about himself, and having seen the kettle refilled and swung over the fire again and the teapot readied, settled himself opposite his young cousin.

            “Your parents are going to be sick with worry.”

            Pippin shrugged.  At last he said, “I don’t like the Great Smial.  Lalia’s mean.”

            Frodo knew he ought to argue, but in this case he couldn’t.  “I know.  She used to get angry with me, too.”

            “Why?”

            “She thought I put glue on her chair.”

            Pippin straightened, surprised.  “Did you?”

            “Well, if I did, I certainly wouldn’t admit it to you.  But, actually, it wasn’t me.  I’m not certain who did it, really.”  He found himself actually smiling at the lad.  “I wasn’t the only one there she got angry with, you see.”

            “She didn’t get mad at you last winter when you and Bilbo came to the family meeting.”

            “I know, but by then she’d become maybe a bit wary of me.  I’ve learned how to give her as good as she gives me, you see.  But don’t you try--you’re but a young lad as yet, and you will only get your da in trouble with her and Ferumbras.  As I’m only related to the Tooks but am a Baggins, it doesn’t matter so much if she gets angry with me.  I mean, there’s not much she can do to me, after all, and especially since I am now the Baggins.”

            Pippin was plainly considering this information, and was slowly nodding.  “I still don’t like her,” he said, finally.

            Frodo smiled again, rather ruefully.  “You don’t have to like her, but you do need to be polite to her, or at least as polite as you can manage.  At least it’s only until February, and then you’ll be going back to Whitwell again.”

            “I wish we could live in Whitwell all the time.”

            “Well, if your da becomes the Thain you’ll need to live in the Great Smial all the time.”

            Pippin shuddered.  “I don’t want to,” he declared.

            “And I didn’t want to lose my parents, but there you are.”

            Again there was quiet for a time.  Then, “Frodo....”

            “What, Pip-squeak?”

            The child glared at him.  “I’m too big to call me that any more,” he said.  His expression became more thoughtful.  “Will Bilbo ever come back again, do you think?”

            Frodo looked away from his young cousin’s earnest gaze, and shook his head.  “No, I don’t think he will.”  He looked back.  “He left a will and everything, and named me the family head for the Bagginses and the Master of the Hill.  I don’t think he’d want to come back and be just----”  He swallowed.  “I don’t think he’d want to come back and be just an old Hobbit.  It’s not like him.”

            “Where will he live?”

            “I don’t know.  Maybe with the Dwarves in the Lonely Mountain--he’d be with his friends again.  Or perhaps with the Elves--he likes the Elves a good deal.  Or perhaps in Dale.  One time he spoke of going south to a country there, called Gondor, I believe.  His Uncle Isengar, who used to serve aboard a ship, visited there more than once, and told him and your grandfather about it.  He told me it sounded as if it were a marvelous place, and he might like to see it.  Uncle Isengar also told him about other lands--one called Harad where there are monkeys and oliphaunts.  That toy monkey I gave you when you were a faunt came from there.  Uncle Isengar brought it home with him, and gave it to Bilbo, and he gave it to me and then I gave it to you.”

            “There aren’t real oliphaunts--Da said so!”

            “But your father hasn’t been anywhere else but in the Shire and a time or two to Bree--how would he ever expect to see one?  Uncle Isengar assured Bilbo they were real.”

            “And you believe him?”

            “Why shouldn’t I?  They don’t live near here--they live far, far to the south where it’s hot all year long, he told Bilbo.”

            The question gave the lad pause.  Finally he said, with somewhat less certainty, “But it’s not like that, either.”

            “Again, not near here, but it is in places far, far to the south.”

            He could see the idea catching at young Peregrin’s imagination.  “What do they look like--oliphaunts, I mean?” he asked.

            “Like the riddle poem says.  Big as a house,

Grey as a mouse.

Nose like a snake,

I make the ground shake.

Spears in my mouth,

I walk in the south.”

            Pippin gave a shiver of excitement.  “I’d like to see one,” he said in a low voice, as if afraid others would hear and disapprove.

            Frodo leaned in close, and Pippin leaned over the table to listen as his cousin whispered, “So would Sam!”

            The child giggled.

            “And Bilbo told me he’d always wanted to see one, too, once he became Tookish enough to leave the Shire,” Frodo added, sitting back again.  “So, sometimes I try to imagine him on a ship somewhere, like Isengar, sailing far to the south in search of monkeys and oliphaunts.”

            “I wish he would, and then come back and tell us all about it!” Pippin said.

            Frodo smiled indulgently at him.  Then, as the kettle boiled he rose to scald the teapot and brew a fresh pot of tea and poured himself a mug full.

            After the two of them had finished their drinks and Pippin was done with his toast, Frodo had him help clean up some, then saw him to bed in the old nursery.  He then went back to the entrance passage to see the two cloaks properly hung to dry overnight, and after seeing the fire banked carried the saddlebag back to his room.

            He’d not been abed long before his door opened and Pippin peered in.  “Frodo!” he whispered.

            “Oh, all right,” Frodo sighed, inviting the lad into the bed, too.  If Merry had been at Bag End he knew that either Pippin would have ended up in Merry’s room, or both lads would have come here to crawl into bed with him.  “And you are not to lie on my arm, do you hear?”

            Pippin nodded his understanding, although he looked disappointed.  Frodo didn’t expect for a moment that the moment he was asleep Pippin would refrain from immediately doing what he’d just been forbidden, but felt it was worth the attempt to save his arm from falling asleep again.  He pulled the extra pillow over and tucked it under the lad’s head where he snuggled close to the adult Hobbit’s chest.

            “Now, Peregrin, why couldn’t you stay in your own bed tonight?”

            “I just hate the thought you have to be alone now.”

            “I’m hardly alone in the world, dearling.  Sam’s up about every day, either working in the gardens or seeing to what I hadn’t gotten to as yet about the house, or fussing at me to eat something or get proper rest.  He seems to think he must take my parents’ place at times.”

            “But nobody else is here most nights but you.”  The child’s gaze was most intent and earnest.  “I don’t like it that you must be alone, Cousin Frodo.”

            Frodo felt touched, and somehow, with a glancing thought about the contents of his waistcoat pocket, guilty as well.  He put his arm about the child.  “I don’t feel alone--nowhere as alone as I’d looked to be, Pippin.  And when I know you and the lasses and Merry and Freddy and Folco are here for me, too, not to mention how much Sam does to see to it I’m reminded there are other Hobbits about who care for me, how can I ever feel truly alone, no matter how far away Bilbo might be?  He made certain to stay until everyone--including me--realized I am a grownup now, and capable of doing whatever needs doing.  And he left me you--all of you, and the whole Shire besides, to care about and for, and to remind me ever that I’m never truly alone--not ever.”

            “Well, I don’t want you ever to feel alone, so if you’re ever scared, here in this big old hole, you send for me, hear, Frodo?”

            Frodo laughed, and the sleet storm outside the hole was forgotten in the warmth of this young Hobbit’s love and caring.

            He woke to the brilliance of the reflection of the grey light off of snow, and smiled.  He got up and dressed carefully and warmly, aware of the differences between this one and Merry.  The moment he stirred usually Merry would waken, too; but not Pippin.  The child slept in the same manner as he moved through the waking moments of his day, blithely concentrating all his attention on what he was doing.  Frodo went to the kitchen and found the fire still warm and the remains of the contents of the kettle still somewhat warm as well.  He filled it and set it to boil, and after grabbing an apple from the cold room went out to the garden where he indulged himself in his personal first snowfall rituals, then rolled his snowballs and waited.

            He didn’t have to wait long--Sam came up the steps to the back gate all unsuspecting, and was greeted with the first snowball of the season; and when at last Pippin came out into the garden demanding to know when Frodo intended to fix first breakfast for him, he got several more from both sides.

            And the three of them played in the snow joyfully for some time before Frodo drew the two younger ones into the kitchen and saw to the making of pancakes and scrambled eggs for them, before tending to the business of getting his young cousin back to the Tooklands.

Written for the There and Back Again Impersonal Love challenge.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Home of his Heart

            It is difficult, this letting go of what he loves.  Here in Bag End he has known the joy of family and the contentment of self-acceptance.  He came of age here, and had thought to remain here for the rest of his life--or at least until the desire to be with Bilbo again took him too strongly to withstand at last.

            He steels himself, for he knows that it must be done.  He looks up at his lawyer Brendi with what he hopes is an expression of quiet competence and sets himself to the task of signing the bill of sale.  As of midnight, there between his birthday of September twenty-second and the day following, Bag End will belong to Lotho Sackville-Baggins and his detestable mother.  How he can do this to the hole he’s loved so he doesn’t know; but he prays they will do well by the place.

            His hand is--almost--steady as he affixes his signature.

            Paladin Took, signing as one of the witnesses for Frodo, has a stern, disapproving expression as he affixes his signature to the document.  Well, at least it’s not the disbelieving stare he’d shown when Frodo had tried lamely to explain how he’d indeed come to the end of the fortune Bilbo had brought home from parts unknown along with tales of dragons and huge spiders and battles involving five armies.

            Odo Proudfoot pauses before signing, giving Frodo one of his best “you are only doing this to prove you’re as cracked as he was” stares.

            Griffo Boffin glances briefly at him both before and after adding his own signature, and unconsciously tries to wipe away the stain of having signed his name to such an abomination on the legs of his trousers.

            Merry Brandybuck signs next, his expression unreadable.  He scrawls his signature as swiftly as possible, as if hurrying to complete such a disagreeable task.  Setting down the pen, he steps back as if trying to distance himself from the act he’s just witnessed.

            Lotho’s smile twists one side of his face.  Triumph at last for him and his family, if belatedly for Otho, gone these many years!  Bartolo Bracegirdle, Lobelia’s lawyer, signs as one of his witnesses, and somehow appears no happier to be signing this bill of sale than are any of those signing for Frodo Baggins.  Rico Clayhanger signs also as a witness, but due to his friendship for Bartolo and his relationship by marriage to Frodo Baggins, not truly for Lotho’s sake.  Not even Benlo Bracegirdle, as Lobelia’s family head, appears particularly happy to be signing the document.

            Finally the bill of sale is presented to Lobelia, whose face alone shows true satisfaction as she prepares to sign her own name on the indicated line.  As she finishes her final curlicue, as spidery in its own way as ever Bilbo’s had ever been, she finally lifts her eyes to meet those of Frodo.

            Somehow, in spite of the satisfaction he sees there, he feels relieved, for he knows that, in her special way, Lobelia loves this smial as much as he does--has loved the idea of owning it for far longer than he’s been alive.

            May she do well by it, he thinks again as he nods to Brendi to present the document to Lotho’s lawyer Timono.  But his heart still breaks.

            What else of all I love will I be asked to sacrifice ere this is done? he wonders.

Written for the There and Back Again "Four Loves" challenge:  #3--Love of Family.

Full Circle

            Bilbo looks into the room next to his own to see the lad lying there, deeply asleep.  Frodo lies on his right side, his right arm outstretched, his left arm folded over his chest.  His brow is lightly furrowed, as if he is thinking deeply on some question as he dreams.  His hair is briefly ruffled by a breeze that has slipped in through the open window, bearing with it the odor of the pinks and lilacs blooming in the garden.

            A book lies open on the bed by him--the book of insects sent Frodo by way of Rivendell from another Elven land said to lie east of the Misty Mountains and far to the south.  Bilbo isn’t certain precisely why the folk of a land he’d never visited had felt moved to answer his request to Master Elrond for such a book,  but he has been grateful to them many times for it since the day he first found it in the parcel delivered to him by Gandalf.

            He looks forward to the day when he might see Gandalf once again and proudly show off his dear boy, this son of his heart.  He is sorry Drogo and Primula are not here to see how wonderful a Hobbit their son is growing into, but again vows in the depths of his heart to do well by him, particularly as Frodo has come full circle again back to Hobbiton and the Hill.  He was born here, down on the Row; now he’s returned to stay, Bilbo hopes for the rest of what should be a blessedly long, delightful life.

            “I never married,” he whispers, “so never thought to have a lad of my own.  But you, our star-kissed child--from the first time I saw you, lying in your father’s arms I’ve loved you as if you were my own.  And now you are.  For your father’s sake and your mother’s sake I would have loved you.  For Esme and Sara’s sake I would have loved you.  For your grandparents’ sakes I would have loved you!  But now it is for your own blessed sake that I love you, that I rejoice to call you my dear boy!”

            Another whisper of air rejoices to bring the fresh, spicy scent of pinks into the room and brush Frodo’s cheek, and the lad stirs--just a little, enough to appreciate the scents of the garden.  The lines smooth away, and he smiles.  About him the starlight falls, and a delightful pain tugs at the older Hobbit’s heart.

            “Welcome home, my dear Frodo-lad,” Bilbo murmurs as he bends to gently kiss the dark curls.

Written for the last of the There and Back Again community's Four Loves Challenge:  Romantic/Erotic Love.  For Iorhael's birthday.

Love’s First Kiss

            It took some doing for Frodo and Pearl to slip free of the prying eyes of friends and relatives, of which both had far too many, Frodo thought at times.  They were hiding behind a booth where were sold apple tarts, Frodo peering around one edge to watch an anxious young Pippin go by in search of them.  “When I think,” he whispered to Pearl, “how many times I helped your aunt and Uncle Saradoc find some privacy to talk together and maybe snatch a kiss or two--to see Pippin doing all he can to make certain we aren’t alone together--it’s too bad, really!”

            She glared after her little brother’s retreating form.  “He’s an interfering little busybody!” she agreed.

            Once the young Took had disappeared down toward the ring where the ponies were shown, the Baggins lad and Took lass took off at a run toward the Grove, a stand of trees along one side of the grounds for the Michel Delving Free Fair long used by the tweens of the Shire as a place where they might kiss and cuddle some, although there was an unspoken edict that clothing remained--mostly--in place, and hands stayed outside that clothing.  Once safely screened by the trees they sought out a place where they might speak--or not--privately, finding that most of the more sheltered places had already been claimed by other young couples.  Both blushing slightly, they averted their attention from the others, finally spotting the perfect place in a small bay bounded by currant bushes.  “There!” Pearl breathed, and with stifled giggles the two slid into the brushy hollow.

            He looked down into her eyes, noting the mixture of relief and uncertainty she showed, and felt touched.  “I think that we are alone now,” he murmured.  He reached out to twist a lock of her hair about one of his fingers, reveling at the warmth and softness, breathing in the sweet scent of the soap she’d used last.  She reached up to trail one of her slender index fingers along the line of his jaw, and he felt his mouth open in delight.  Tentatively he leaned down to kiss her, something he’d so wished to do for some time.  She appeared first surprised and then delighted.  It was a bit awkward for a second as they found they had to turn their faces slightly in order to kiss, but suddenly they found the proper angle, and made that first contact of lip to lip....

            “Oh!” she said as they parted to breathe, looking up into his eyes, her own wider, the pupils darker.

            He felt himself warming to her presence the more.  “Oh, yes!” he responded, and leaned down to kiss her yet again.  “Oh, yes!” he repeated, his mouth to hers, before resuming that so delightful a pastime.  “My heavens, yes!” he exulted some time later when, both of them far more experienced in the art of kissing, they again came back to themselves.  He held her to him, feeling her heart beating against his midriff, her breathing against his chest, the warmth of her body pressed to his.

            And there was more to love than this--this warmth and comfort?  If mere kissing could do this to both of them, what would the rest of lovemaking be like?  As he thought on some of the dreams he’d had in the past few years and felt the softness of her breasts against her bodice and felt himself responding in kind, he found his smile broadening as he stroked her upper back tenderly.  He was thirty-one now, and she’d be twenty-five in a couple of weeks.  Could he bear to wait a full two years more to claim her as his bride?  And there would be Paladin and Eglantine to convince to let her go early--he doubted Bilbo would object.

            She was as eager as he was to kiss again, he found to his further delight.  Oh, but he’d never dreamed love could be this--enjoyable!  As for kissing Pearl Took....  Well, he reckoned (while he could still think enough to reckon anything), there were few things he’d ever done he’d liked even half so well!  But then even that thought fled as the kiss deepened....

Written for the LOTR-Community Light and Shadow Challenge, a gapfiller after the Breaking of the Fellowship.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Particularly for Dreamflower.

Journey Divided

            Sam rose from laying his final branch over the silver Elven boat, wiping his hands on his trousers.  His Master was just dragging a large bough alongside the boat on the side looking toward the water.  Once he had it placed to his satisfaction he also stood up, breathing heavily as he sought out Sam’s gaze.  “Good enough, do you think?” he asked quietly.

            “Nothin’ will ever be quite enough, I suspect, not with the way as the Enemy’s folks seem able to find what they’re lookin’ for.  But I fear as it’ll have to do.  We don’t have time to do things right, I’m thinkin’.”

            Frodo nodded.  “It’s time to go on,” he sighed.  “We cannot stay here--if any come to the river’s bank on either side we would be seen.”  With a gesture of his head he led the way southeastward around the base of the hill that rose here, giving a swift, almost regretful glance upwards toward its top before turning his gaze decidedly along their path.

            Sam took a last glance westward, although from here he could not see the lawn at the base of Amon Hen from which they’d set out about an hour past.  Frodo Baggins, he noted, had refused to look back at all, his posture stiff with purpose.

            As they skirted the southern margins of the hill, the gardener asked, “I suppose as this hill’s got a name, too, same as the other one?”

            Frodo nodded absently, murmuring, “Amon Lhaw.  The Hill of Hearing.”

            “And the other’s called the Hill of Seeing?” Sam asked.

            “Yes.”

            Something in the terse manner in which that was said caught Sam’s attention.  Somethin’ happened up there on the hill, then, he thought, noting the way his Master’s jaw was now clenched.  “Why do they call them such names?” he asked.

            Frodo shrugged.

            After a moment Sam tried again.  “Who named them?”

            At first Frodo didn’t answer.  Only when the gardener came abreast of his Master as they passed around the trunk of a great tree, Frodo finally answered, “The old Kings of Gondor named them that, Isildur and Anárion, Aragorn’s ancestors.  Since we came through the Argonath, past the two great statues of the first Kings, so much of what I learned of the old tales from Bilbo and there in Rivendell has come back to me, and is falling into place.

            “On the west side of the river they named the hill Amon Hen, the Hill of Seeing, and on the top of it is a great platform, and on it a high seat.  The King could come there and sit upon the high seat, and in looking out from it could see what went on throughout the realm.  If he looked south and west he could see all that went on in Gondor; directly west he could look into the lands of Anórien and Calenardhon, which is now called--Rohan, I believe.  Directly south he looked into a forested land--I do not remember its name.  Through it runs the great South Road that leads to Umbar and Harad.  North he could look toward a land called Rhovanion, where lie the Lonely Mountain, the Long Lake with Laketown, Dale, Mirkwood and the lands of the Eotheod and the Beornings, and, of course, Lo--the hidden lands of the Elves.  And to the east, Rhûn, and southeast to--Mordor.  The Black Gate is the entrance to that land, and lies at the northwest corner.”

            He paused, looking back along the way they’d come for the first time, then up at the hill about which they walked.  “I understand there’s a similar platform or pavement and high seat on top of this hill as well; and here the King would come to listen to the world about him.”

            “Strider said as he thought you went up the hill over there,” Sam commented.

            Frodo turned his attention to him, surprised.  “Did he?  You were with him?”

            “Well, when Mr. Boromir come back and said as he’d seen you on the side of the hill, we all went off lookin’ for you, you see.  Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin--they went runnin’ off together, and Strider sent Boromir after them to see to it as they didn’t run into trouble.  Was rather suspicious when Boromir said as you’d apparently put on the Ring and disappeared.”

            Frodo paled, although his cheeks flushed the more.  Sam noted that, and suddenly understood.

            “He tried to take the Ring, didn’t he?” Sam hazarded.

            His Master sighed and leaned his weight against the trunk of the tree beside which he’d paused, closing his eyes; and Sam realized just how much the events of the day so far had drained the older Hobbit.  He knew his guess was right, but that Frodo Baggins would not wish to admit this.  “He’s thought of it as a weapon he could use from the moment as he laid eyes on it in Rivendell,” Sam said.

            “It’s no weapon--It’s a curse!” Frodo answered shortly, lifting his water bottle and removing its cork so as to take a drink.

            “And that’s what got you screwed up to leave finally,” Sam mused.  “He was lookin’ mighty shamed when him come back to us.”

            Frodo merely looked at him over his water bottle as he swallowed.  At last he dropped both eyes and bottle, almost savagely replacing the seal.

            “I was lookin’ for you on the side of the hill, goin’ up the old path and steps,” Sam went on, “when Strider passed me.  Told me to follow him, but I couldn’t keep up as he went to the top.  That’s when I thought of what you’d do, and come back down again.  When I saw that boat lookin’ empty but headin’ across the lake--I knew as I was right.”

            “I was going to go alone,” Frodo said.

            “I know.  But you’ll need me--I know it.  No one should do this alone.”

            “I couldn’t take the rest with me--and especially not Aragorn.  They need him--I know it.”

            “And who’s the ones what need him?” Sam asked.  “The others?”

            Frodo searched his gaze before answering, “He’s meant to be king, Sam.  Boromir’s right--they need him in Gondor.  He is needed in the fight.  I can’t take him to----”  He paused and swallowed.  “They need him there--alive.”

            “And you’re afraid as the others wouldn’t survive in Mordor?” Sam suggested.

            “I don’t want to lead anyone else to death.”  Frodo’s eyes were steady.

            Sam decided to follow his Master’s example and pulled out his own water bottle, saying as he uncorked it, “There’s no certainty as any of us’d die, Mr. Frodo, sir.”  Frodo was quiet as he drank, and he turned his eyes away moodily to look up the hill.

            “Well,” Sam asked as he recorked his bottle, “you think as you should go up this hill, too, like you did over there?  Listen to what the winds might tell you?”

            Frodo shuddered.  “No!” he said in whispered vehemence.  “His Eye almost saw me up on Amon Hen!  I certainly saw--what he’s doing!  There are orcs and armies everywhere, gathering in all directions.  They are marching to war as we speak!”

            He leaned forward intently.  “I saw what he intends, and some sight of his land.  It is terrible, Sam!  I cannot say how it is that we will enter Mordor, much less how we can hope to cross its wastes to the Mountain, although we must at least try.  I do not wish to hear him also, not more than I have already.”  His hand was splayed over the place where the Ring lay under his shirt.  “I already hear too much of his will--I do not need more.  There can be too much knowing, I find.”

            For the moment the intense fear Frodo felt was all too easily discerned by his gardener, and Sam felt himself quailing before it.  If Mr. Frodo felt this way, what hope was there?

            But then his own courage surged forward, and he knew it must do for both of them during those times when his Master’s own hope was beaten back.  “Well, if’n you think as you’d learn naught as might help, then maybe you’re right as we should just keep goin’ around the hill instead.  But I’m thinkin’ as you’ll need to rest soon enough.  When we come t’some stream or somethin’ like, we’d best look for a place in what cover as we can find.  From what Gimli said of the hills o’ rock ahead, we’ll not find much of comfort there.”

            Frodo gave another glance upward, then turned his gaze purposefully ahead.  “You are probably right, but I wish to go on now.  I do not wish Aragorn or Legolas to find us, should they be following us.”  So saying, he straightened and pushed himself away from the tree, and Sam followed him.

            As Sam again came even with the taller Hobbit he said, “One thing, with but the two of us--we can hide better in the shadows than all eight.”

            Frodo nodded, but said nothing as he found a way through the underbrush, continuing south and east.  But Sam had seen the one tear that rolled down his Master’s cheek, and knew that Frodo felt grief at having left the others behind.

            Near sunset they found such a place as Sam had hoped for.  It lay just below the top of a gorge, shielded from view by low, scratchy bushes and a twisted, dying tree.  A slender stream of water stayed a moment in a shallow stone pool before plunging over the side down into the larger stream that fed into the Falls of Rauros.  Sam made certain Frodo ate a full wafer of lembas and was wrapped in both blankets before he filled the water bottles and set himself on guard.

            Sam looked uncertainly at the way ahead, leading as it did over stark ridges of stone.  “Looks right inhospitable,” he murmured to himself.  “Don’t see as how we’re to get through all that.  But we’ll do our best, we will.  There’s nothin’ for it but to try.”

            He pulled his Elven cloak more tightly about him.

            He’d thought Frodo long asleep when he heard whispered into the dark, “Pippin, Merry, Aragorn--I hope you understand.  I want you safe, there in the sunlight; not heading to darkness with me!”

            Sam shook his head.  What safety was there in these wild lands, really?

 *******

            Gollum had paddled his log into a sunless hollow between two great rocks lying off the foot of the great hill that formed the steep-sided island of Tol Brandir that split the great waterfall.  Perhaps no Man had set foot on the Lonely Island, but Gollum was not a Man and had not been strictly mortal for a very long time.  Once the Yellow Face went down he intended to climb the nearly sheer rocks.  There were lots of birds that nested on the island--lots of crunchable birds and their eggses.  He would eat tonight.  And then, through the shadows, he would follow the Baggins that carried the Precious.  He did not understand this Baggins--a different one from the thief who’d stolen his Precious so long ago.  But he had the Precious--he could feel It pulling at him, calling to him.

            Oh, but he would follow the Baggins.  He would get his Precious back, he would.  But first he must eat!

My first reaction to the "Love of Family Prompt" for the There and Back Again community Four Loves prompts.  For PearlTook particularly.  Beta by RiverOtter, with many thanks for her thought-provoking questions!

The Transition

            Carrying a great hamper of food, Hamfast Gamgee followed Mr. Bilbo Baggins out of Bag End to the pony cart that Bilbo had engaged from the stable at the Green Dragon.  “And where d’you wish me to set this, Mr. Bilbo, sir?” he asked.

            “There in the tilt, just behind the driver’s seat, please, Hamfast.  I’ll see to securing it as soon as I get my traveling trunk stowed.”

            As he carefully lifted the hamper over the sideboards of the cart’s bed, the gardener examined the rig critically.  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, speakin’ as one as p’rhaps oughtn’t, but wouldn’t ye be better off with a smaller trap?  Seems a bit much, as little as ye’re takin’ with ye.”

            “Oh, but I doubt there will be much room left over during the return trip.  After all, Frodo’s not a young child, you know.  He’s a tween now, with many interests and a good number of books and I hope a fair wardrobe to bring with him.”

            “Do he play roopie and such?  Do he have bats and all for the game?”

            “Not to my knowledge, not that Menegilda would countenance him playing such sports.  In fact I suspect she even frowns on him playing at golf.  No, she sees roopie as too rough and active, conkers as a waste of time and concentration, and golf as being a pointless way to spend an afternoon.”

            As the gardener agreed with that estimation of golf, he wisely kept his tongue still.  Now and then, he knew, his master did partake in a game of golf, after all.

            Once all was settled, Bilbo clambered up onto the bench and took up the reins.  Then he paused, fishing in his pocket.  “I’d all but forgotten--the keys!”  He looked over his shoulder, up the hill toward the green door of Bag End.  “Be a good chap, if you will, and lock up for me, won’t you please, Master Gamgee?  And keep the keys there at Number Three--I’ll come down and fetch them on my return.”

            “Will do, Mr. Bilbo, sir.  Glad t’be of help, I am.”

            “Thank you so.”  Bilbo took another look up over his shoulder at the gardens of Bag End and their brilliant color as he absently set a hand on the brake.  “Just think, Gaffer,” he went on thoughtfully, “when I come back I’ll actually have a family again!  It may feel odd, sharing the smial with someone permanently, but it will be so very worthwhile, having my dear boy here with me.”  He turned to smile brightly down into the gardener’s face.  “Believe it or not, there was a time when I was certain I would marry and raise that family my own parents had wanted to see fill the old hole.  I never did, but have always felt that Bag End deserves to shelter more than just one person.”

            “Just so long as it’s not them Sackville-Bagginses,” muttered Hamfast.

            “Even so!” Bilbo agreed, shuddering at the thought.

            “I just hope as the lad’s not too much for ye, Mr. Bilbo, sir.  I mean, ye’ve not had that much t’do with lads, ye know.”

            “Oh, I’m not that lacking in experience.  After all, your lads and lasses have always been welcome to visit with me all these years, as well as Daddy Twofoot’s young ones and many of my many younger cousins.  And I think you will find that young Frodo is quite a fine youngster in his own right.”

            “Not the way as ol’ Missus Lobelia’s a-tellin’ it,” the Gaffer grunted.

            Bilbo laughed.  “No, not as she tells it.  But then according to her I’m so cracked I can’t find my way out of the hole without a map in hand and two at my elbow to guide me.  Isn’t that true?”

            Hamfast smiled.  “Nay, yer right there, Master.  Well, best get on wit’ ye er ye’ll never arrive.  It’s the trip as is never started as takes the longest, ’tis said.”

            Again Bilbo laughed.  “And that’s true enough.  Well, keep an eye on things, and I should be back on the first of the month.  Frodo will return to Hobbiton on the first of May--a fine, proper day for it, don’t you think?”  And with that he released the brake and shook the reins, and the pony gave a shiver before setting one foot before another.

 *******

            As he drove across the bridge toward Bywater, Bilbo saw young Folco Boffin paused, resting a bushel basket on the bridge’s railing.  He pulled the pony to a reluctant halt, the pony not seeing the reason to stop so soon after getting started, and called to his young kinsman, “Oy--Folco!  And where are you off to?  Would you like a lift part of the way?”

            The lad turned gladly.  “You mean it, Uncle Bilbo?  I’m to take this basket of potatoes from the last of our winter store to the Chubbs a mile east along the Road.  I’ve carried it this far from the farm in Overhill, but it’s beginning to get terrible heavy, it is.”

            “Certainly I mean it!  And that’s quite the load for a lad your age, after all.  I mean, you’re barely fifteen, if I have the right of it.”

            “I’m just past sixteen, actually,” Folco sighed as he hefted the bushel into the tilt of the cart.  “And where are you off to?”

            “Buckland.”

            Folco paused in surprise and gave the cart another look.  “Then why didn’t you take but a trap?  You’ve not much with you this trip.”

            “Oh, but that will be different on the journey back, I’ll be bound.  Come and join me on the bench.”

            As Folco climbed up to sit beside Bilbo he said, “But this isn’t large enough to carry much in the way of furnishings if you’re helping someone remove back this-a-way.”

            “Oh, there won’t be all that much need for furniture and so on.  It will be mostly books and clothing and perhaps some oddments is all.”

            “Did you buy a number of things at an auction, then, last time you were in Buckland?”

            Bilbo gave a most satisfied smile.  “An auction?  Oh, no, not that this time.  No, I’m bringing Frodo to live with me.”

            Folco looked at him, surprised.  “Frodo?  Frodo who?  Oh, you mean Cousins  Drogo and Primula’s son?”

            “Indeed I do.”

            “But Uncle Odovacar says that Mistress Menegilda watches over him like he was somethin’ precious and would never think to let him go.”

            “Well, that’s changed.”  Bilbo’s expression grew sterner.  “It’s about time I stood my ground as the Baggins, don’t you think, and see to it that the lad gets a proper education?  For all his mother was a Brandybuck, young Frodo is definitely a Baggins with a Baggins’s love of privacy and peace and order.  None of which he gets in Brandy Hall, you understand.

            “As for Menegilda--well, let’s just allow it to be known that she’s realized she’s been wrong about the lad for some time, and is now ready to allow someone with the time and means to give him the personal attention he really needs to finish up his raising.  Do come around when you can--I think you will get along famously with him.  He saw you the day you were born, after all, and needs to get reacquainted with his family here in the region of the Hill.  Knows the Brandybucks and the Tooks well enough; but it’s here most of his family ties are concentrated.”  Certain that Folco was settled properly, he indicated to the pony it should resume its pulling.  It gave him a glance over its shoulder and then set off once more, not particularly happy to find itself pulling a heavier load now.

            “My mother will be saying that you’re too old to be raising a lad,” Folco said rather slyly.

            “And what’s to raise, really?  It’s not as if he were a small child, after all,” Bilbo pointed out.  “He’ll be twenty-two in September, and is already past the stage of raiding farms and glass houses.  And does this journey with a bushel of potatoes have anything to do with a raid on the Cotton’s smokehouse last week?”

            Folco flushed slightly, but laughed as he admitted, “I didn’t realize Old Tom was staking it out.  So Mother decided that perhaps a walk with a bushel of potatoes for a good four miles just might sort me out and remind me that as a farmer’s lad myself I have no reason to be scrumping at someone else’s place.”  He stretched as he added, “But we don’t have anywhere the hams the like of theirs, mind you.”  He pulled a dog-eared book out of his pocket and opened it.

            “And what book do you have there?” Bilbo asked with interest.

            “It’s a story about a widow’s son who found a dragon’s egg in a cavern, but doesn’t know what it is.  The egg’s just starting to hatch, as far as I’ve got.”

            “Ah--Celeborn and the Dragon, then?  A fine story as I recall it.  You must bring it by when you’re finished and I’ll see it copied.”

            “I can copy it for you, if you’d like.  Haven’t copied a book for some time.”

            “You’d do that for me?  What a thoughtful lad you continue to be!  I’ll send over some paper for you to copy it onto once I get back, and will bind it myself for Frodo.”

            “What’s he like?  Oh, I know what Lobelia says about him, but no one believes all that!”

            “Oh, a fine lad, my boy is.  A bit on the slender side--far more than his father was, of course.  That’s the Took in him, I suppose--not many amongst the true Tooks are as round as other Hobbit families.  But has the dark Brandybuck hair--very dark brown--quite striking, really.  And his mother’s beautiful blue eyes, with such lashes!  Looks very like his grandfather Fosco, actually, but even more remarkable.”  Bilbo smiled at the thought of his lad--he’d buy him a proper wardrobe, with good cloth and attractive embroidery to it.  No more plain Hall cloth for his lad!  No, Frodo would soon look a proper gentlehobbit, once Bilbo had him safe in Hobbiton and Bag End.  He’d seen some cloth at the tailor’s....

            “I mean, what does he like to do?”

            “Like to do?  Oh, he loves to read and write, and to swim and garden.  Used to spend hours helping his folks in the gardens there at Whitfurrows before they died.  He draws, and is interested in almost everything, or so I’ve found.  He’s learned some Sindarin and Quenya....”

            “He’s studying Elvish?  He’s learned it from you, then?”

            “Of course, although Lord Elrond has helped by sending texts about the subjects that interest him when I’ve asked.”

            Folco smiled up at him.  “I’ll look forward to coming to visit--if I can get Mother to agree, of course.”  He sighed.  “At least she’s realized Uncle Ferumbras is unlikely to do anything for me no matter what my Took connections, and she’s no longer treating your name as if it were a word equivalent with nastiness!”

            Bilbo laughed.  “So, there’s hope that Wisteria is coming round, is there?  Well and good!  No, Ferumbras doesn’t exactly favor me, does he?  For all his father shrugged his shoulders at my horrible lapse in judgment leading to my adventures, Lalia has convinced Ferumbras I’m hopelessly contaminated with eccentricity and thus to be avoided at all costs!”  He looked at the road and directed the pony to the left down a narrow lane that could cut a few minutes from their journey.  “Not that I give a fig for the good will of either the Thain nor his lump of a mother,” he said.  “Paladin may not believe I actually saw and did what I did during my travels, but at least he accepts me as a decent individual with merely perhaps too active an imagination.  And his lasses are delightful.  I don’t worry too much about my future relations with my Took connections, you know.  And Ferumbras and his mother had best not try to project their own prejudices against me on my lad!”

            Soon they reached the Chubbs house, where again the pony was pulled to a stop.  Folco lifted his bushel out of the bed of the wagon, accepted the handful of horehound drops Bilbo produced from a pocket in his coat, and set himself to complete his mission while Bilbo shook the pony’s reins and once again set off eastward toward Buckland.

*******

            “Come for the lad, have you?” asked the Bounder who encountered Bilbo as he turned off the Brandywine Bridge toward Brandy Hall.  He examined the wagon critically.  “Hope it’s big enough to carry all you’ll be taking home with the two of you!”

            Bilbo looked back at the tilt, his brow furrowing briefly before he turned back, shrugging, to answer, “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see.  And what we don’t take now we can always come back for, I suppose.  Although his room is already fully furnished, so there’s little need to be taking much of any size back with us.”

            “Do you have enough in the way of bookcases?  Frodo has a spate of books, it seems!”

            The older Hobbit laughed.  “You’re asking this of me--the one who gave most of those books to him?  Don’t worry, Cardoc.”

            And with a wave Bilbo went on, south toward the Hall and the beginning of his new life as Frodo’s guardian.

 *******

            Saradoc Brandybuck looked up from the report on rents collected he was reviewing as once again Esmeralda’s shadow darkened the text.  She’d been pacing for much of the past hour,

            He sighed and set the report on the table beside him and brought out his pipe and wallet of leaf.  “You are going to wear a groove in the floor, pacing like this,” he commented around the stem of his pipe as he filled it.

            “Where is he?” she demanded, turning toward him.  “You don’t suppose he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want to say so, and that he’s just decided to stay in Hobbiton and send a letter that won’t get here before tomorrow at the earliest....”  Her voice was filled with anxiety as well as a level of hopefulness that this might indeed prove true.

            He removed the pipe so he could laugh more freely.  “Esme--you have worked yourself into a state, haven’t you?  Bilbo Baggins--change his mind?  Not likely, and you know it!  First, the pride he has in the strength of his word would never allow him to back out now; and second, he would never disappoint Frodo that way.  And third--I just cannot imagine Bilbo having such second thoughts.  He’s loved Frodo so deeply all the lad’s life, and he is the Baggins family head as well as having loved Drogo so deeply, almost as if he’d been a younger brother.”

            “Then where is he?”

            Sara got the pipe lit and puffed on it a few times before answering, “Well, considering it’s not quite tea time I’d make the guess he’s probably somewhere between the Hall and the Brandywine Bridge.  He’ll be bringing a small cart....”

            “Why not a proper wagon?” she demanded.

            He shook his head as he replied, “And what do you think Frodo will want to take back with him?  Bag End is fully furnished as it is, you must remember.”

            “But what about the lad’s mother’s desk, or the wardrobe?  His father built those himself, you know!”

            Saradoc shook his head.  “No, he says he wishes to leave those here in his room.  Esme--he’s not going to stay away forever.  He intends to visit often--we and Merry, and even my mother mean too much to him to pretend he has no ties here.  He told me he wishes to keep his room as it is, as it is his room here.  He’s not planning to stop being from the Hall--he only wishes to be known as one who belongs to both Brandy Hall and Bag End.”  He set his hand on hers.  “He’ll still be our lad, but he’ll be Bilbo’s, too.”

            He could see the unshed tears in her eyes, and reached out to draw her to him, kissing the top of her head, careful not to burn her with his pipe.  “Oh, my heart, there’s no question we will miss him, but you are the one who convinced the rest of us that things cannot continue to go on as they have--that we’ve been stifling Frodo to the point he wasn’t feeling alive any more.”

            “I know,” she murmured into his chest.  “But now it’s come to it, the idea that he won’t be there in his room every night frightens me.  It feels as if a part of my heart is being cut right out of me.”

            Again he kissed the top of her head before asking, “Where is he, anyway?”

            He felt her shrug.  “He said he wanted to go out around the grounds one last time, and I suspect he’s out at the old mill.  Merry and Brendi went out after him about an hour ago.”

            Sara gave a fond shake of his head.  “He’s always loved the old mill,” he said as he released his wife and gazed down fondly into her face.

            “It is as if he were going about the place, saying farewell to each familiar spot,” she agreed, accepting the handkerchief he’d produced from his pocket and wiping her face.  She gave a guilty glance as his pipe.  “I am afraid it’s gone out,” she noted.

            “So, I’ll have to relight it?  Not so unusual, is it?”

            She gave a short laugh.  “No, I suppose not,” she admitted before turning her attention again out the windows.

 *******

            In the old mill, which hadn’t been used for many, many years, not since the course of the river changed and left it too far away from the water to turn the wheel, Frodo was indeed taking his leave of Buckland in his own way.  He was kneeling by the hollow in the stone of the ancient quern-way where the flour had gathered as the grain was ground, having placed there his hole-stone, a small stone circle carved from aventurine he’d once found along the banks of the river as the water receded from a flood.  It had been one of his favorite possessions, and one he’d always carried with him.  “Why are you putting your hole-stone there, Frodo?” asked Brendilac Brandybuck, who’d just entered with Merry in tow.

            Frodo turned at the unexpected question, his face pale but his cheeks rather pink in embarrassment at having been caught at his leave-taking by his cousins.  But he held his head high as he explained, “I feel as if it belongs here, Brendi.  It apparently belonged once to the Men who lived here in this part of the Shire, back when the folk of Cardolan dwelt here, or so Bilbo tells me.  They had a king and queen and princes and all, and farms and cities and villages of their own.  They built the walls and helped raise the standing stones and circles and buildings that remain as ruins throughout Buckland and the Shire.  Bilbo and Uncle Dinodas both say they built the original mill here.”

            Merry objected, “But you said that it’s your lucky piece!”

            Frodo shrugged as he wiped his hands on his trouser legs.  “I don’t need a lucky piece any more, for I’ve found my luck, getting to go with Bilbo.  I won’t need something to rub in my pocket any more to keep me from shouting out when I’m angry.  I could never have shouted at Aunt Menegilda, but Bilbo told me I might shout at him if I feel I need to, and he won’t punish me for it--that I’m old enough to speak almost as freely as any adult.  But he’s still my guardian and has final say, so once the shouting is over he still will do what is best, although he’s promised to take my desires under consideration, too.”

            “You’ve really, really wanted to shout at Grandmum?” Merry asked, obviously surprised at this as a novel idea.  “Did you ever want to shout out at Mum and Dad, too?”

            “Not very often,” Frodo admitted.  “I’ve wanted to shout more at Aunt Menegilda than at anyone else.”

            “But I’ve never heard you shout at about anyone!”

            “No, but I’ve written some things in my journal that weren’t very nice.  Oh, I have gotten angry, Merry mine.  I just don’t like to let others see, but inside I’ve felt quite ugly at times.”

            “It took a time to find you.”

            Frodo shrugged.  “I’ve been all over the Hall lands today.”

            “Uncle Dino said he’d seen you for a while by the river, but that then you headed this way, so we came after you.”

            “Yes, I went to look at the river one last time.”

            Brendi asked, “Are you glad to be leaving the river behind?”

            Frodo lifted his eyes to those of his friend.  “In part,” he admitted.  “For all I’ve liked swimming in it and it’s part of Buckland and all, still, it’s where my parents died, and I’ve never given over being suspicious of it.  Uncle Rory told me that you cannot blame the river for doing what it does, for it can’t help who falls into it and whether or not they can swim or get hurt.  He said the best we can do is to make certain we watch out for ourselves and those with us.  I’ve always done that, after all.”

            Brendi nodded.  “I’ll do my best to watch out for the younger ones for you, when I’m here in the Hall,” he assured Frodo.

            “Thank you.”  And Frodo gave that beautiful smile that had been so much a part of him but hadn’t been seen so often in the last few years.

            He then turned back toward the place where he’d set the stone.  “Let it lie there, a reminder that I was once part of Buckland and that still a part of my heart belongs here, will dwell here for the rest of my life.  Let it lie there until the time comes for me to leave altogether.”

            Merry and Brendi nodded their agreement, then followed him as he left the mill, seeing his shoulders straighten with determination as he quitted the building, and how he refused to look back again.

 *******

            They were approaching the front gardens of the Hall when they saw the cart coming down the road from the Bridge.  Frodo examined it hopefully before shouting out, “Bilbo!  He’s here!” and hurrying forward, only to stop short at the edge of the lawn as if there were an invisible wall there he would not pass as yet.

            From within the Hall, watching out the front windows of the sunny parlor where he and Esme had been waiting, Saradoc Brandybuck watched his cousin’s run and the stop with some wonder.  “He’s coming--Bilbo--Frodo’s just seen him,” he advised his wife, who’d been fussing with the arrangement of ornaments on a side table.

            She turned immediately from her preoccupation and hurried to his side, peering out.  “Frodo’s not running to meet him?”

            Sara felt a level of pride in his young kinsman.  “No, not yet.  Not until he’s certain all is right to do so.  He will feel he still belongs to the Hall until at last he gets into the cart with the old fellow, I’ll warrant.”

            Esmeralda nodded her acknowledgment of her husband’s perceptiveness.  “Oh, but I’m certain you’re right about that,” she sighed.  “Let’s go out.”

*******

            There wasn’t a great deal of fuss to loading the cart, for Frodo had carefully packed all he intended to take with him.  He’d not packed a great deal in the way of clothing, for such things did not preoccupy his interest all that much.  He did bring his father’s woodworking tools and a small loom that had been his mother’s, and a few ornaments that had been part of their family treasures, as well as the shadow pictures that had been done of Drogo and Primula Baggins.  He’d chosen to take with him most of those items that had been gifts from Bilbo--books and maps, steel pens, sketch books and stores of drawing paper and sticks, chalks and paints; his better clothing that mostly Bilbo had seen made for him; hats and scarves and mittens and gloves that had barely been worn as his Aunt Menegilda, far too careful of his health, had done her best to see to it he had little interaction with what she felt was inclement weather; his collections of eggshells and insects and stones in their carefully wrought cases; a box of letters and pictures from his childhood; the few carved animals crafted for him by his father that he’d chosen to keep for his own; some of his favorite Yule decorations; Drogo and Primula’s favorite tea set; his family’s spice chest; a dried nosegay of violets he refused to explain; a small flat chest with clothing his mother had made for him when he was a faunt; the woolwork dragonfly blanket she’d also made and embroidered for him when he was small; his mother’s diary; his father’s ledger book; those books left him by Cousin Tumnus, who’d been lessons master until his untimely death due to an evil growth on his face.

            “I’m leaving many of those books you said you have copies of at Bag End,” he explained to Bilbo.

            “Wise, my child.  Then you can read and refer to them during our visits here.”

            All could see the lad glowing at this praise of his wisdom.

            At the leaving feast, however, Frodo was plainly uncomfortable.  He spoke little, and appeared embarrassed and stiff when his various female Brandybuck relatives came to hug him.  Gomez came to offer him a fishing rod, while Gil presented him with a roopie bat and another cousin gave him a reed flute and a willow whistle.  Frodo thanked them as if he were uncertain what to say or how to say it.

            When Menegilda herself presented him with a beautifully crafted travel cloak, perhaps a bit large for him, he appeared to be at a total loss for words.  When she hugged him he hugged her back, but what he couldn’t seem to say he expressed with a look that seemed to contain everything except blame.

            As the end if the evening approached, however, he pulled Bilbo to the side.  “May we please leave early, before most can gather to see us off?” he implored the Baggins in low tones that nevertheless were caught by Saradoc.  “I couldn’t bear to go through this again in the morning!”

            “If you wish,” Bilbo said in soothing tones.  “As soon as first breakfast is over, if you desire.  Willow has assured me she will have the food hamper ready for us by then.”

            Reluctantly, as if he considered this perhaps rather too late, Frodo agreed .

            Once Saradoc led his own family away to their apartments to see young Merry to bed, however, he made a point of speaking with his young Baggins kinsman.  “Is it fair to those who love you here to slip away unremarked, Frodo?”

            Frodo’s mouth worked for a moment before he finally said, “But it--it can be so hard to take leave again and again, Uncle.  Please don’t press me.”

            Sara searched his young cousin’s face.  At last he hazarded, “Then you think a clean break would be easier?”

            He could see the relief in Frodo’s eyes at the understanding.

            When he came into Frodo’s room at dawn the next morning, Saradoc found Merry sitting disconsolately on the carefully made bed, a stuffed animal that had been Frodo’s clutched close to his chest, as Frodo saw his nightshirt and the dressing gown that had been a gift from Gomez’s mother carefully stowed in his new pack along with the boxes of personal jewelry belonging to his parents that Rory had brought in last night.  “You are almost ready?” he asked, his heart fluttering slightly at the impending parting.

            Frodo nodded wordlessly.

            “We’ll miss you terribly,” Sara confided.

            “I’ll be back--we’re to visit frequently,” Frodo answered, almost desperately, Sara thought.  It was the first sign he’d had that Frodo was also worried about the pain of separation from the family who’d loved and sheltered him for these long years since his parents’ deaths.

            “That you’d better see to,” the older cousin warned, then reached out to hug the lad.  “You’re growing to be a Hobbit one is proud to claim as a relative,” he whispered into Frodo’s ear.  “You just prove to those uppity folk in the Westfarthing that those from Buckland are quite as civilized as they are, hear?”

            Frodo gave a sob-like laugh, and pulled away to pick up the pack and carry it out to the entranceway before they went to breakfast, thankfully served in the private dining room for the Heir’s apartments.  There they were joined by Bilbo, who had some toys to present to Merry.  “The Dwarves made these, this stone fetchback and the little hunting horn and the miniature axe,” he explained.  “I hope you like them.  I’d meant to give them to you yesterday, but young Sam Gamgee had helped me pack, and if he didn’t pack them at the very bottom!”

            Sara suspected that these were truly intended to serve as a distraction for Frodo’s leaving, and that the unfortunate Sam was actually merely an excuse for saving them till now.  He appreciated the thought, although he saw Esme eyeing the little axe, as beautifully formed and decorated as it was, with dismay.  He hastily took up the axe as if to admire it.  “How wonderful!” he said.  “What a beautiful thing this is!  We shall hang it up over the fireplace where you can see it every day.”

            He noted Merry’s disappointment as he settled the axe on the mantel as well as Bilbo’s glint of amusement and Esme’s relief, and decided that if he could he’d find a way of paying the old Hobbit back somehow.

            Frodo ate little enough, mostly pushing what was on his plate about it with his fork and the pieces of toast he’d take from the platter in the center of the table.  The delay, Saradoc realized, was an exquisite form of torture for the lad.  He shared significant looks with Esmeralda, and at a nod from his wife he dabbed ostentatiously at his mouth with his napkin.  “I don’t think I can eat anything else now,” he commented.  “And I think that if these two are to reach the Floating Log in time to get good rooms they ought to get on their way sooner rather than later.”

            “No!” gasped Merry, but at a significant look from his father he left off his complaint.  The two of them had had a serious talk the preceding night, and Merry had promised to do his best not to make the leaving harder for his beloved Frodo.  Still, his lower lip trembled a bit as he pushed away from the table.  He, too, had eaten little this morning.

            Sara lifted his son from his place at the table and settled the lad on his hip.  “So,” he commented as Frodo, obviously anxious to be on the road, rose and pushed in his chair.  “We’ll probably not see you until the Free Fair, to give you a good chance to settle in.  But after this year we expect you and Bilbo to come visit us frequently--you understand that?”

            Frodo, unspeaking, was swallowing as he nodded his agreement.

            Bilbo’s face was filled with sympathy for all involved, and he turned to Sara, Merry, and Esme.  “We will do that, on our honor as Bagginses,” he assured them.  “You three do your best, and we’ll do ours--won’t we, lad?” he asked, turning back to Frodo again.

            Frodo was nodding, his face quite pale.

            “We will do so,” Sara assured him.  “But for now--well, I think it’s time for you two to get on the road.  Mac has promised to have your cart ready.”

            Frodo started to lift his plate and bowl as he usually did to return them to the kitchens, but Esme stayed him with a hand on his wrist.  “No, Frodo dear, you don’t have to do that today.  I hate to have you leave us, but it’s time.”

            She was able to keep her gaze steady and gentle, and Saradoc loved her the more for it.

            Frodo whispered, “Thank you, Aunt Esme,” before he turned away, reluctant to allow her to see the tears gathering as he furtively rubbed at his eyes with his fist.

            Esme placed her hand on one shoulder while Bilbo did the same on the other, and together they walked out to the entranceway.  There sat Frodo’s pack beside Bilbo’s, both on the bench under the line of pegs on which cloaks of visitors and those who were having to go in and out frequently were hanging.  There hung their traveling cloaks, Frodo’s the new one given him by Menegilda.

            Amaranth and Berilac, still in his nightshirt with his green dressing gown about him, stood waiting in the entranceway, as well as Menegilda and Old Rory.  “So, it’s time,” Gilda said gently.  “You’re ready to be off to a new life.  We’ll miss you terribly, you know, Frodo-lad.”

            His voice hoarse, Frodo managed, “Yes, I know.”

            “You are expected to be back for a visit as soon after your birthday as can be managed--you understand?”

            He straightened.  “Yes, I understand, Aunt Gilda,” he answered, his voice firmer.

            “The only excuse tolerated will be if you’re on your sickbed!”

            He actually managed a smile, then leaned forward and gave her an embrace.  “Love you,” he whispered loudly enough for Saradoc to hear.  Then he was silently embracing Rory, then Mantha and Beri, then turning to the door, which Dodinas was opening for them while Rory slipped Frodo’s cloak over his shoulders.  Frodo then reached down and swept up his pack and walked forward as steadily as he could.  As Sara followed his former ward out of the door, he saw Frodo pause, looking at the cart by which Merimac stood, holding the pony’s bridle.  As Sara came abreast of the younger Hobbit he saw that the tears were leaving his eyes, and now there was a barely suppressed excitement there, and a look of growing hope.  At last Frodo dragged his eyes from the cart, turning toward Sara, Merry, and Esme, who’d come up alongside her husband.  His mouth worked, but no words came out.  Silently he hugged Esme one last time, holding her almost desperately for a moment, then more gently before he leaned down to kiss her cheek--when had he grown so tall?

            Then he was hugging Sara, his eyes closed, before reaching to take Merry from his father’s arms.  “You will watch over the place for me, won’t you, Merry mine?” he whispered.

            Merry nodded.

            “Good.”  He walked to the cart, and after kissing the child handed Merry to Mac, carefully settling his pack in the tilt before climbing onto the bench.

            Bilbo took his leave from one and all, then hurried to toss his own pack rather negligently over the sideboards, scrambling to his place, taking up the reins and setting his hand on the brake.  The pony turned his gaze over his shoulder, eyeing the passengers and the load as Willow and her husband came out with the hamper of food, settling it under the bench, behind Bilbo’s legs.

            Willow looked up and placed her hand on Frodo’s foot.  “You will do well, there in Hobbiton,” she said.  “But we will miss ye here--know that, lad.”

            Frodo gave a wordless nod.

            “Well, be on with ye, then, the two of ye!” she said with a swat to Frodo’s calf.  “Ye’ve plenty there to last ye to the Floatin’ Log and beyond, I’m thinkin’.”

            “Thank you, Willow,” Bilbo said for the both of them.  He turned to look at those before the doors.  “Well, we’re off, then.  May all of you keep well!”

            Frodo gave them all a swift glance, then turned his gaze forward; and as they drove away he did not look back.

     *******

            Frodo had still not spoken by they time they reached the Brandywine Bridge, better than two hours later.  “Are you hungry, lad?” Bilbo asked after still another sideways look at his companion.

            “No, not very--not yet, at least,” Frodo murmured.

            “I couldn’t fail to notice that between your excitement and your grief you ate hardly anything this morning.”

            “I know.”

            As they came off the bridge onto the Road proper, Bilbo asked, “Would you like to stop at the Bridge Inn?”

            There was a slightly delayed shake to his head.  “No,” Frodo finally said.  “Let’s go a bit further before we do.  Otherwise....”

            When it was plain he’d not complete the sentence, Bilbo finished it for him.  “Otherwise it is too much like any other visit to Kingsbridge?”

            Frodo nodded wordlessly.

            “You never said goodbye,” Bilbo noted.

            Frodo merely nodded.

            After another silence the old Hobbit commented, “Your cousin Folco is now looking forward to your coming.  He’s not seen you save at a distance at the Free Fair since you were still a faunt and he was a babe in arms.”

            “Actually, he was at the Great Smials at the last Took Moot we attended,” Frodo noted.  “Although I don’t think I really spoke with him then,” he added a moment later.  “What is he like?”

            Bilbo laughed.  “He asked the same of you as I was leaving Hobbiton.  Quite a nice young chap, really.  Used to do a good deal of copying for me before his father died.  Wisteria, however, to curry favor with Ferumbras was discouraging him from visiting me.  She’s beginning to realize it’s pointless, though.  Is very close to young Fredegar Bolger, though, and his cousin Narcissa.  You remember Narcissa, don’t you?”

            “Yes--I see her usually when we go to Michel Delving for the Free Fair.”

            “Well, get out the food hamper from beneath me here, and find something that appears proper to second breakfast--you might not be hungry, but I am ravenous!  Now, Narcissa’s mother Ivy used to dote on you when you were small and living in Hobbiton....”

            Frodo didn’t appear to notice they’d already left Kingsbridge behind.  By the time they got to Whitfurrows he was teaching his uncle the new verse to “The Mistress’s Knickers” he’d composed.  They’d both sung it through twice when Bilbo turned the pony off the road into a clearing where obviously folk tended to pause during their journeys. 

            “You young scamp!  I certainly hope you don’t sing that around Menegilda!”  Bilbo laughed as he set the brake and Frodo hopped off the bench to help as he could.

            “She taught me a few verses I’d not heard before,” Frodo explained, and Bilbo felt his eyebrows rise.  “She says she hates it that since she became Mistress of the Hall no one will sing it around her any more, so I make a point of singing her any new verses I hear.  She rather liked that one, really.  And Aunt Esme is certain that when it’s her turn and she is the Mistress it will be much the same for her.”

            Bilbo began to laugh helplessly.  “You mean that we are all pointlessly trying to spare the feelings of the Mistress of the Hall?” he spluttered.

            Frodo smiled with satisfaction.  “Yes, and they think it’s both rather funny at the same time it’s rather silly, you know?”

            Bilbo showed Frodo how to unharness the pony, and had him lead it to the stream to drink while he got a fire going to make tea. Frodo was looking across the Road at the rather shabby smial there and its littered grounds, his brow rather furrowed as if searching his memory before his eyes cleared.  “The Broadloams!” he said, finally recognizing the place.  “Greencap Broadloam lived there!”

            “And still does,” Bilbo agreed.  “We will have to keep an eye on the wagon while we’re here if we’re to be certain some of your things don’t end up being scavenged.”  Then he eyed his ward curiously.  “Want to take a quick look at the hole where your family used to live?” he asked.

            Once they were done with their tea they returned their pony to its harness and drove down the lane that led past what had been the Baggins’s smial until the boating accident that cost Frodo his parents’ presence in his life.  There they paused, and Frodo looked over the place.  “It’s not home any more,” he murmured softly to Bilbo.  “It’s not the same--not at all.”

            Bilbo nodded his understanding.  The place reflected the tastes of its current inhabitants, and the little that remained of Primula and Drogo’s planting had so changed in ten years there was almost nothing for them to recognize.  Frodo shivered as he turned away.  “I think I just want to go on,” he said decidedly.

            “Then that we shall do, lad.”

            They did not stay at the Floating Log, although they paused there to eat supper.  They ended up camping out not far off the Road on the remains of an abandoned farm about five miles west of Frogmorton.  Frodo, who’d not had a great deal of chance to sleep out of doors since his parents’ deaths, lay awake long beside Bilbo, remembering all he’d ever learned about the stars and constellations when he was younger and learning what more his older kinsman would teach him.

            “And when the Hunter can be seen...” Bilbo was saying in a soft, soothing tone as Frodo’s eyes finally drifted closed on their own.  Hearing the lad’s deeper breathing he paused, and smiled as he realized that at last Frodo was asleep and resting.

            “You need some experience with the world and the Shire,” he murmured, looking sideways at his young cousin.  “Oh, that you do; and I’ll do my best to see to it that you get it.  I only hope it doesn’t become too painful for you.”

            He smiled and curled up against Frodo’s back, glad of the solid feel of the younger Hobbit’s body against his spine.  It was pleasant, he thought as he drifted off to sleep himself, not to be alone.

 *******

            Frodo was up already when Bilbo awoke shortly after dawn feeling a bit stiff as he turned in his blankets, already building up the fire and hanging the newly filled kettle from the tripod Bilbo had shown him how to construct the previous evening.  The lad was humming softly as he worked, his attention on his new duties.

            “Well, you sound quite happy this morning,” Bilbo noted as he sat up.

            The lad spared him a short glance.  “Of course!  And I found a nice stand of button mushrooms I intend to stir into our morning eggs, if you like.”

            “The ones off that direction?” Bilbo asked, indicating a shaded lawn to the west.

            Frodo eyed him with more interest.  “Then that’s why you chose to stop here, is it?” he asked.

            “Well, it’s part of the charm of the place, I suppose.  Add in that this is part of the property you inherited from your father, seeing that he had a half-interest in it at the time the Greenburrows died childless, and it makes it even more attractive as a camping spot.  I used to visit it for him and collect his share of the harvests once he’d moved to Whitfurrows during those years when he could not come so far west.  With Rory’s agreement I continued doing so after your parents’ deaths, until the Greenburrows died six years since.  I’ve not been able to find good tenants for the place, however, and thought perhaps you should like to see to that task once you arrive--it would help teach you how to make good decisions regarding tenancy and setting rents and all.”

            Frodo appeared surprised.  “I had no idea I’d inherited land from my parents.”

            “You still own the hole there is Whitfurrows, also, although the Chubbs family that lives there hopes to purchase it outright from you should you desire to sell it.  You will be twenty-five in just over three years--at that time you can make such decisions, you know, with the agreement of Rory and me as your guardians and family heads, of course.  And there’s a bit more you own elsewhere about the Shire, including a smallholding in Pincup--I do not suggest selling that to its tenant however, as Gordius simply would never keep it up if he weren’t answerable to another.”

            As Bilbo continued to list off properties that Frodo had inherited ownership of or interest in, the younger Hobbit’s eyes opened wider with surprise.  At last, as Bilbo had excused himself to visit the old wooden privy near the disused smial, he left his younger kinsman sitting thoughtfully on his heels by the fire.  When he returned Frodo looked up at him.  “Why has Uncle Rory never told me of these properties?” he asked.

            “He’s had no reason to.  He’s had your father’s bankers of discretion accept the rents and find suitable investments for them, and has had me visit them regularly on my own rambles about the Shire.  The time when he would have been required to discuss them with you and begin teaching you how to oversee them would be when you turn twenty-five, of course.  But it’s common that when young Hobbits try to assume oversight when they are still too young and lacking in discretion they tend to squander the rents and all too often mismanage the properties they’ve inherited.  However, from what I’ve seen of you, my dear boy, I doubt we should find such foolishness occurring.”

            Frodo’s cheeks grew decidedly pink at this praise.  “So, you intend to begin teaching me now?” he asked.

            “Indeed, lad.  Now, the kettle’s on the boil at the moment, so let’s see to some tea, shall we?  And then I’ll show you how to set up a cooking hearth over the coals.”

            Ah, but his lad learned quickly and well, he found.  It was such a joy, he realized, having someone he could teach such skills to.  There was so much he now had to look forward to, now he would no longer be alone in Bag End!

 *******

            They arrived at mid-morning while the folk of the Row were all inside their holes for elevenses.  They swiftly had the cart unloaded into the front garden, and together drove to Bywater to return the cart and pony.  Frodo was allowed to pay the fees, which appeared to delight him greatly; and there was no question that old Oatbarrow, who managed the stable for the Green Dragon, was charmed by the lad.

            Bell Gamgee was gathering in handkerchiefs spread over the front hedges to dry when they walked back along the Row, and produced the keys out of her apron pocket.  “Was suspectin’ as ye’d be back early,” she smiled.  “And this is your lad, is it?  Ah, but young Frodo--how indeed as you’ve grown since last I saw ye!  A fine lad you appear, young Master.  Our Sam--he’ll be right taken with you, or so I’d wager, if’n I was one to wager, of course.”

            “They’re not up in the garden?” Bilbo asked.

            “Nah--had t’run into the village t’fetch some onion sets.  Seems as the damp the winter past left those as Ham had set by for you mildewed, so he ordered some from Mr. Griffo, who just come t’say as they was ready.  They was there in the garden early, though.  Those odd seeds as the lad planted t’see what they was--turned out t’be stingin’ nettles, they did!  Sam’s that embarrassed, he is.  Well, on with the two of ye--and I’ll not tell the lads--let them find out on their own--let’m be surprised!”

            And when Frodo bowed politely to her she was obviously most pleased and flattered.  “You’ll do well enough, lad,” she said as they started up the Hill to the gate to Bag End.

            They soon had all the luggage brought inside and quickly installed in their rooms, and Bilbo heard Frodo go out into the gardens, continuing to sing the walking song they’d sung on their way home from Bywater as he started toward the back of the place, intent on exploring the gardens and seeking out the entrance to the orchard.  Bilbo smiled again.  It would be a joyous time, watching his lad grow in competence and confidence as he came into his own.

            Bilbo had fetched some ham and boiled eggs from the cold room for their own elevenses when he heard Hamfast come into the gardens through the back gate, apparently with his lad Sam in tow.  “Don’t know as when the Master’ll be back, but I’d wish t’get this portion here weeded and them pansies by that window there deadheaded afore them does come, if’n it’s possible, o’ course,” the Gaffer was saying.  “So, you take care o’ here, mind, and I’ll put the new onion sets out by the vegetable garden afore I go back to pullin’ out them nettles.”

            “Dad,” Sam asked, “do you think as Master Frodo plays at conkers?  Or that he’d like t’go fishin’?”

            “Member, lad, he come from t’other side o’ the Brandywine.  Suspect as he does know fishin’--’tis said as them Brandybucks is always messin’ around about the river, and ’tis said as the pike and trout there’s mighty good.  But from what Mr. Bilbo tells me he’s not done much with games, poor lad.”  Then, more cheerfully the Gaffer added, “Mayhaps ye can teach ’im.  I reckon as he’d like that.  But not til yer own work is done, mind.”

            “Yessir, Da.”

            “He’s a fine little fellow, our Sam,” Bilbo murmured to himself as he set the table.

            “Oh, and there’s yer sissy, come with our elevenses.  What with havin’ t’go into the village like we did, we’ll welcome that.  Go on, now, child, ’n’ bring it up.  We can sup as we work.”

            Bilbo heard the back gate squeak open and closed.  “Here, our May--I’ll take that!”

            “Well and good, Sam.  And Mummy says t’remember t’bring back the basket, hear?”

            The old Hobbit chuckled.  It was much the same every day, he knew.  Young Sam had followed his dad about the garden for as long as he’d been walking, and the child had it in him to be an expert gardener, perhaps even outstripping his father and old Holman Greenhand.

            The gate opened again as Sam returned, but it didn’t close again.  Curious, Bilbo went over to peer out the window.  Sam was standing just inside the back gate, his eyes wide open and his mouth a perfect O as he stared at something that had obviously taken him by surprise.

            “What is it that’s taken him so?” Bilbo wondered to himself, craning his head to see what had managed to catch the child’s attention.

            It was Frodo.  His lad had just returned from his explorations, and had paused to examine the newcomer he’d managed to catch just coming in the garden gate.  Bilbo went out the back door.  “Well, there you are, then.  Is it as you remember?  It has been years, hasn’t it, my boy?”

            There was a sighing of the gate hinges, and both Bilbo and Frodo looked back to see Sam finish his entrance, his wide brown eyes fixed on the newcomer.  Bilbo smiled, recognizing that this little one had just been caught under the spell his Frodo seemed to cast on all who allowed themselves to become close.  “Ah, our lad Sam!” he said.  “Frodo Baggins, may I introduce young Master Samwise Gamgee, son of our inestimable gardener, Hamfast Gamgee, a veritable master of growing things.”  And as Frodo knelt to greet the gardener’s lad Bilbo saw the hero worship growing in the child’s eyes and his face brighten.

            They are intended to be there for one another, he thought.  No, not a moment too soon have I brought my dear boy home to Bag End!  Aloud he said, “Well, it looks as if our Sam has fetched elevenses for himself and his father, and ours is on the table now.  Come along in, my Frodo-lad, and let’s all enjoy a good meal this wonderful day!”

            No, not a moment too soon.  Hobbiton would become a new place, now his lad was there to explore and enrich it.

For Shirebound and Mews for their birthdays.  Beta as always by RiverOtter.

All Topsy-turvy

          The Gaffer watched, perplexed, as his Sam walked by Number 3 alongside Frodo Baggins. No longer did Sam walk a respectful half step or better behind his Master; no, now they walked side by side. Or the few times he had seen his son walking behind the young Master, it was more as if he were watching the older Hobbit to see to it that Mr. Frodo was not faltering in his step.

          "Watch it there, Master--there’s a stone as has rose up, pokin’ through the lane," he heard Sam say.

          "Thank you, Sam," Mr. Frodo answered, and without that hint of amusement his voice would reflect back when he was little better than a lad.

          No, now he heard in Frodo’s voice the same respect toward Sam he’d always heard in Sam’s voice when addressing the Master of Bag End.

          What was the world becoming, when master and man became brothers?

For Belegcuthalion and Vistula for their birthdays, late and early.  And a happy April Fools to all!  Beta by RiverOtter.

Honor Avenged

            As they walked through the forest east of the Breelands their second afternoon after leaving the Prancing Pony, the party of four Hobbits and the pony halted at the glad cry of Sam Gamgee.  “Mushrooms!” he said, hurrying off the path to examine the stand growing in a sheltered glade.  He smiled with satisfaction.  “Pearl mushrooms, Master,” he explained.  “Those will go down right well with our supper, I’m thinkin’.”

            The eyes of Frodo Baggins glowed with pleasure.  “Pearl mushrooms?  Ah, but Sam--I certainly do agree.”

            The two younger Hobbits exchanged long-suffering glances before Merry said, “And we will get our share, won’t we, Frodo?”

            Frodo appeared affronted.  “Your share, eh?  Well, I suppose so, if you insist!”

            Pippin giggled, and Frodo shot him a reproving look.

            Merry looked about as Sam began methodically gathering a number of them into a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket.  “Oh, dear--that Strider’s got well ahead of us again.  I have the distinct impression he’s not used to traveling with Hobbits--can’t seem to remember that we can’t keep up with him.”

            Frodo shrugged.  “Well, it’s not for lack of reminders from us.  I’ve warned him at least four times this afternoon alone that our legs are nowhere as long as his.”

            Pippin shrugged.  “Well, there’s not much question about the path we’re to take--not at the moment, at least.  Straight ahead at first, and then I see it’s veering to the right.”  He turned to watch Sam.

            After giving a look up the path they’d been following, Merry turned his own attention back to his older cousin.  “I still cannot fathom why you appear to be trusting this Strider so blindly, Frodo Baggins.”

            “We don’t have much choice, do we, Meriadoc Brandybuck?  And after all, Gandalf said we could trust him.”

            “And how do you know that letter really came from Gandalf?  How do we know this Strider didn’t give it to Butterbur and threaten him to make him say it did come from Gandalf?  How do we know this wasn’t a plot of some kind between the two of them?”

            For a brief moment doubt showed on Frodo’s face as Sam picked the last of his mushrooms and tied the corners of the cloth together before fastening it to his braces strap under his cloak.  The Baggins was saved answering when Strider reappeared from around that curve Pippin had noted, the furrows of concern on his brow smoothing some before being replaced by an expression of slight annoyance and exasperation.  “Gentlemen--we do not stop before nightfall.  Please try to keep up!  There are some wolves and even a few wild dogs in these parts--you should not be wandering about without protection.”

            Noting the expression of fear that had appeared on Frodo’s face, his own became somewhat softer.  “Do not worry, Mr. Underhill.  I will protect you.  Did I not give you my oath that I would do so with my very life?”  He gave a brief smile, one that they’d seen but rarely so far, one that transformed his face completely, making it appear far more noble.

            As the Man turned away to again take the lead, Frodo watched after as he readjusted the lay of his pack on his shoulders, murmuring to Merry, “That smile--that smile I trust!”

            The Brandybuck gave his cousin a disbelieving look in return that Frodo ignored as he started off after the Ranger.  And with that they had no choice but to follow after him as rapidly as they could.

 *******

            Sam, assisted by Pippin, saw to the cooking of dinner while Merry fetched more wood to last the night and Frodo saw to the laying out of the bedrolls.  Strider watched after Pippin as he went to fetch still another pan of water from the stream just beyond the clump of trees that shielded their fire from view by any others in the area.  “You need so much in the way of water tonight?” the Man asked.

            “It’s for the mushrooms,” Sam explained.  “Found a stand back there.”

            “Oh--so that is why you stopped.”

            Sam shrugged.  Frodo answered instead.  “Yes, that was part of why we stopped.  But mostly we were exhausted from trying to keep up with your great pace.  We are not tall Men as you are--we are merely Hobbits of the Shire barely half your height, I will remind you yet again.  We cannot keep up with you forever.”

            “Especially when we’re not getting anywhere near as much food as we’re accustomed to,” added Pippin.  “Existing on a mere three meals a day is a distinct hardship for us Hobbits.”

            “I am sorry about that, although I have been reassured that, given the need, Hobbits can make do with but three, or even less,” the Ranger said, rolling his shoulders to ease them some.  “We do have a fair amount of supplies on the pony, but it will do us no good if we eat them all now and leave none in case of emergency later in our journey.  We have entered the true wilds now, you must understand.  I cannot predict all that we might encounter as we continue on our journey.”  He looked about, and the Hobbits could tell he was listening intently.  “And there are the Black Riders to be taken into account as well,” he said at last.  “I hear and sense nothing to indicate they have managed to spy out the way I chose for us; but as we approach the Weather Hills we will be forced back closer to the Road or well south of it.  Their chieftain may well remember that.  We have not escaped them forever, I fear--merely are free of them for a time.  We must enjoy the respite while we can and make what speed is possible, hoping we reach that narrowing of the way before they do.”

            “But they have horses while we are afoot!” Merry objected, having returned to the camp with his arms filled with what wood he’d gathered.  He dropped his load beside Sam.

            The stouter Hobbit gave him a stern look.  “Mind the bark, Mr. Merry, sir.  You won’t want it in your food.”

            Merry gave a soft, “Sorry” before stepping back and brushing himself off.  “We’ll be wanting baths soon,” he muttered.

            “Oh, we’ll have our fill of water about us soon,” the Ranger sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.  With that he returned to his more normal quiet state, and after a few moments he rose to begin walking the perimeter of their camp, then slipped further out into the surrounding forest where he moved quietly from cover to cover, always pausing to look and listen closely before moving again.

            “Him’s a caution, and no mistake!” Sam said, shaking his head and watching after the Man briefly before turning his attention back to the meal he was preparing.

 *******

            When all was done, Sam served up the food onto the tin plates he carried in his pack.  Strider had not returned, so he set the Man’s plate by the fire to keep warm while the four Hobbits ate hungrily.  “I feel as if I hadn’t eaten in days!” Pippin noted around a mouth full of food.  “Ah, but these mushrooms are excellent!”  He eyed the small pan where a few more continued to bubble merrily by the fire.

            “Those are for Mr. Frodo for later,” warned Sam.  “Keep your fingers away from them if’n you don’t wish your head bit off.”

            The young Took sighed, giving his older cousin a sidelong glance.  “Oh, I know not to come between Frodo and his mushrooms,” he grumbled.  “You spoil him terribly, Sam Gamgee!”

            Sam merely shrugged and continued stolidly with his own meal.

            Strider returned just as Frodo was heading for the stream with his plate and cup to clean them.  “We’ll need to keep a watch about us,” he said quietly.  “Mr. Baggins--if you will watch next, as you appear to be finished?”

            Frodo nodded.

            “Good.  There’s a sheltered place over there, behind a large rhododendron.  You can easily watch from there without being seen.”  He indicated the way they’d come.

            “As soon as I have these clean,” Frodo said.  Within moments he had the dishes returned to Sam and was loosening his long knife in its sheath as he headed for the shrubs the Man had indicated.

            Sam was now rising.  “Your plate is by the fire,” he said shortly to the Man.  “You lot finished yet?” he asked the two cousins.  “Let’s get them clean and sorted away afore we lie down.”  Followed by Merry and Pippin, he headed toward the stream himself.

            Strider found his plate, covered by the handkerchief in which Sam had gathered the mushrooms, and examined it with interest.  He was not a bad cook, but there was no question that having Sam Gamgee along had distinctly improved the quality of the meals he’d had over the past day and a half.  He’d not been told that the gardener was anywhere as good a cook as he’d proved.  He’d have to mention that to Gandalf.

            Then he realized that a pan still simmered by the fire, and realized it contained more mushrooms.  He tasted one of those he’d been served--what pleasure! he realized.  He gave a quick glance around, then spooned the remaining mushrooms onto his plate, and moved off to enjoy his supper.  Ah--the sheer bliss of a good meal along the way!

            He finished eating and was rising as Sam, Merry, and Pippin returned from the stream, obviously having done a quick wash of themselves as well as the dishes.  “You goin’ to wash those?” Sam asked, setting one of the clean plates over the still bubbling pan as a lid.  “Good, then I can stow’em all away.”  He’d not realized that the pan contained only broth, and the Man had the distinct feeling it might not prove wise to so advise him.  When he returned he noted the covered pan had been moved slightly further from the heat of the flames--close enough to keep warm but not to cook that much more.  His lip twitched as he returned his plate and cup to Sam, but he kept his own council.

            “I’ll take the next watch from Frodo,” Merry advised him, “and Sam will follow me.”

            Strider nodded his understanding, and carefully removing his boots he rolled up in his blankets, setting his sword beside him and his belt knife at hand.  Why he felt secure allowing these to watch he couldn’t say; but he did.  Plus he knew it was wise to sleep as much as he could now, for once they were forced back toward the Rod he’d most likely need to be far more vigilant.

 *******

            “There’s more mushrooms in the pot by the fire,” Merry advised Frodo as he headed off to take up the watch.

            “Thanks,” Frodo breathed.  “The thought of them has sustained me this past hour.”

            Strider had awakened enough to hear the quiet interchange, then rolled on his side in hopes of returning to sleep.  He heard the scrape of the plate being moved away, then a soft wordless exclamation of disappointment.

            “What is it, Master?” asked Sam, immediately alert.

            “The pan--there’s but one mushroom left!”

            Strider was surprised to realize he’d managed to miss one.

            “But I’d left several for you!”  Sam was sitting up now.

            “Did Pippin eat them?” Frodo asked.

            “Mr. Pippin?  No, Mr. Frodo, sir--he laid down same time as me and Mr. Merry did.  And him knows what to expect should he eat what was set aside for you.”

            “Merry wouldn’t take more--not unless I offered to share with him....”

            The Man lay absolutely still, aware that the attention of the two wakeful Hobbits was fixed on himself.

            “Him was alone for a time while the rest of us went to the stream t’wash the dishes and do as much of a bathe as we could,” Sam murmured consideringly.  “And him wouldn’t know not t’touch what’d been set aside for you.”

            There was quiet for a time while the two of them remained in contemplation of their Mannish companion.

            At last Frodo said in soft tones, “He will regret it.”

            Strider heard the pan emptied and one of the others stirring up the fire and adding some more wood.  He shook his head briefly.  He’d regret it?  Hmmph!  He allowed himself to return to sleep....

 *******

            Frodo was decidedly cool the next morning, but the Man pretended not to notice.  He and Sam saw to an insect bite Pippin had received during the night and saw to it that the pony, which Sam was addressing as Bill, was led to the stream and properly loaded.

            It started with the small, hard pinecone he found in one boot, and the needles from a fir tree he found in the other.   He gave Frodo a glance, but saw not a sign that the taller Hobbit was watching to see his reaction.  Having thoroughly shaken out his boots he slipped them on and headed for the place where they’d been relieving themselves.  He then took a quick loop by the stream to wash hands and face, only to find that he apparently had a good deal of pitch on his hand that wasn’t coming off easily.

            The lacing on his trousers snapped in two when he went to tie it; one of the bootlaces did the same as he crouched by the stream.

            The serving of porridge given him by Sam was decidedly smaller than what he’d been offered the day before, and it appeared to have had some rosemary mixed into it, which tasted decidedly strange.

            The pin on his cloak brooch was bent when he went to fasten it.  There was more pitch on the strap of his personal bag, and although he found his extra laces, they were in an almost impossible knot.

            By now Pippin was watching him, his eyes wide.  “You are having a bad morning,” the youngest Hobbit noted.

            Strider cast a quick glance toward Frodo, who was heading for the stream with Sam.  “I noticed,” he grunted.

            Noting the glance, Pippin looked that way briefly, then looked back, his eyes suddenly wider.  “Did you manage to irritate Frodo or something?  Not a wise idea,” he advised.  “He’s very good at retaliation, you’ll find.”

            Frodo was not paying Strider the least bit of mind--or not that anyone could tell.  But his mouth did have a bit of a set to it.

            They’d been walking for about a good half hour when the Man became aware of a growing irritation on his ankle.  Twice he stopped to remove his boot, but he couldn’t find a thing--not at first, at least.  At last he found a very fine splinter protruding from the inner seam.

            Then it was his other boot, and he found a coarse horsehair was caught in the seam of this one, this time irritating the arch of his foot.

            He found a beetle in his luncheon, and some sour berries had been slipped into his water bottle.  Then when he stood up from the fallen tree on which he’d been sitting, he heard a chuckling from Pippin that spread to Merry as he started walking away from them.  He stopped, and found that he had squashed blackberries across the seat of his trousers.

            He did his best to not complain, but now Sam, Merry, and Pippin were all watching him carefully.

            It was when he found a slug had been slipped into his personal satchel, however, that he at last conceded defeat.

            “All right!” he exclaimed.  “I took the rest of the mushrooms!  I had no idea they were being set aside for you, Frodo!  I apologize!”

            “Oh?”  Frodo said, his brow arched.  Then he gave a slight smile.  “It’s nothing to apologize for, I suppose, although I do accept it.”

            Then he added, “One thing--before you don your other set of small clothes I suggest you rinse them thoroughly.”

 *******

            As he knelt by the stream by which they’d stopped, rinsing out his extra underthings, Strider could not see they’d been tampered with.  Had Frodo done something to them, or was this rinsing the Hobbit’s final salvo of revenge?  The Man wasn’t certain.  He then slipped out of his trousers, glad their tight weave had kept the berry juice from soaking through to his skin.  Before he pulled on his extra trousers he ran his fingers along the seams, and found a juniper needle had indeed been slipped through the cloth, and in a place where it would have caused a great deal of irritation as they walked or sat for any length of time.  The Man was most glad he’d thought to check them before donning them.

 *******

            At last they started off again, and Merry was amused to see Strider’s under garments and extra trousers flapping from the strap of his personal satchel that he wore over his shoulder.  It was wise to do this, he knew, as they’d be unlikely to dry over night.  He looked to his companions, and saw Pippin’s eyes sparkling with amusement, while Sam’s expression was most satisfied.  Frodo, however, only showed that very small smile he permitted himself when his vengeance had managed to hit home.

A joyful Easter to all!

Hearts Healed

            Sam watched Frodo dancing with a group of young ellyn and shook his head in delight and amazement.  “It’s more than we’d hoped,” he murmured to Gandalf, who stood by him looking much today as he had in those long past days in Middle Earth, “seein’ him able to dance once again.  He was so close, I think, to dyin’ then.  Now he’s learned to live again.  Why, I’ll wager as he lives as long as old Mr. Bilbo did.”

            The Maia smiled thoughtfully as he watched the Hobbit dance, the Light of his Being filling the area as if a flame danced there rather than a sentient being.  “No,” he said softly, “he holds no ambitions to best Bilbo as to age.  He’s only remained with us as long as he did that you not be disappointed on your arrival, I suspect.”

            The former Wizard straightened, his eyes acknowledging the coming separation he knew loomed ever nearer.  “Now you have come he will wish to complete the journey, and that all too soon, from our point of view, of course.  But he himself keeps reminding us that he is yet a mortal, and he has no desire to be otherwise.”

            “At least he made it here,” Sam said thankfully.

            “It was a near thing, though.  He was in a terror he might fail in front of you.  What you told him of your despair after the spider poisoned him, how close you came to destroying yourself in your grief, made a deep impression on him, and unfortunately in a most morbid of fashions.  He held on until he was certain you would not see before he collapsed.  He was all too willing to give over, I fear.  In the end Bilbo had to practically order him to remain with us.”

            The gardener turned to look at him, his eyes wide with surprise.  Slowly the shock gave way to amusement, and he began to chuckle.  “Mr. Bilbo had to play the Baggins again, eh?  Now, if that ain’t just like the two of them!”  He looked back to watch his friend in his dancing.  “But he was able to find his joy again, just as we’d hoped.  Bless the both of them!”

            “Yes, he has done that--and particularly since you have come to be with him again.”

            “I knew as he was well when I heard him laugh.  Always he’d had a delightful laugh!”

            “But he’s laughed the more frequently and easily since you came ashore here.  And with the tales you’ve brought of his home and family and how well they have done--he is assured that it was indeed all worthwhile.  You have granted him the last healing he needed....” 

            Sam completed the thought, “The last as he needed to be ready to go on?  I suppose so.”  He leaned forward, some, his gaze more intent on Frodo’s dancing.  “And seein’ him, alive and in joy--that’s healed me!  I’m that glad, you must realize.”  That fond smile lit his expression.  “Now, we’re both ready, I’m thinkin’.  My Rosie’s waitin’, and those as have loved him.  Not long.  Oh, not today--we’re not goin’ right away, but soon enough.  We’re neither of us young, you understand.”

            “Sam!  Come join us!” Frodo called, and Sam rose, went forward with purpose.

            “I may not be the dancer as he is,” he said over his shoulder, “but I’m not gone yet!  I may show even him a thing or two!”

            And Olórin laughed to see the gardener go forward to make good on his boast.

Written for the LOTR-Community Renewal-Bird Challenge.  For Inzilbeth for her birthday.  Thanks as ever to RiverOtter for the beta.

~~~

"Well, Sam," said Frodo, "I want you to see Rose and find out if she can spare you, so you and I can go off together.  You can't go far, or for a long time now, of course," he said, a little wistfully.

"Well, not very well, Mr. Frodo."

"Of course not.  But never mind.  You can see me on my way.  Tell Rose you won't be gone very long, not more than a fortnight; and you'll come back quite safe."

"I wish I could go with you all the way to Rivendell, Mr. Frodo, and see Mr. Bilbo," said Sam.  "And yet the only place I really want to be in is here.  I am that torn in two."

"Poor Sam!  It will feel like that, I am afraid," said Frodo.  "But you will be healed.  You were meant to be solid and whole, and you will be."

from The Grey Havens, RotK

~~~

Leaving the Flock

            Sam did not find his Master in the study as he’d been most of the time lately.  Nor was he in the parlor, the kitchen, nor even his bedroom or the nursery.  The bathing room and privy were also empty of the presence of the Master of Bag End and the Hill.

            “Master Frodo?  No, love, he didn’t go out, not as I saw.  But I’ll admit as I’ve been back and forth atween here and the back of the smial--could of gone out and I just didn’t notice.  Did you check t’see if’n he was down at the turnin’ of the lane, speakin’ with the children of the Row?”

            “I just come from there meself, Rosie, comin’ back up from Number 3.  The Gaffer’s feelin’ his joints somethin’ awful, he is.  Thinks as we’ll have but a couple weeks more of fair weather, and then the winter rains’ll settle in, or so he tells it.  Hope as it’s true--I’d hate to ride out to Bree and mayhaps a bit further and come back with it pourin’ down on me.”

            She peered back toward the study.  “I hate t’think on Master Frodo travelin’ through rain at all, what with all him’s been through already.”

            “I’ll say this--if’n there’s Elves involved it’ll be mostly dry about them if nowhere else, and I don’t think as a one of ’em would allow him to become ill.”  Then in much lower tones, “Or more ill than him is already.”

            So saying Sam resumed his search of the smial, and found Frodo Baggins, of all places, in the dining room, looking out toward the westering Sun as she sank toward the horizon.

            “Hullo, Sam,” Frodo said softly, his eyes still fixed out over the garden toward the sunset.  “The goldcrests are already building their flocks, apparently preparing for their migrations.  I so hope it doesn’t presage an early winter or a particularly harsh one.”

            In the silence that followed, Sam could hear the high chirping of the hundreds of birds gathered about the Hill.  Many were moving from branch to branch in the cherry trees and the lilacs; a large number took off from the hedge and circled the hill three times before moving in a chattering cloud to the branches of the trees Sam had planted opposite the Row, displacing more that swept up the hill into Bag End’s gardens.  One of the newcomers landed in the rosemary bush that grew right outside the southernmost window.  Sam could see the growing sparkle of delight in Frodo’s eyes as he found himself almost eye to eye with the tiny thing.

            “Oh,” Frodo breathed softly, examining the bird, its orange crest, its moss-green back and grey wings.  “How perfect.”

            He watched it for some moments as the bird changed its position from one spot to another on the rosemary, before at last it raised its wings to rejoin its fellows.  He whispered, “They will remain in their flock throughout the winter, going from sheltered place to sheltered place, always seeking what insects they can find.  Do you remember the flock that flew about us as we prepared to enter the Midgewater Marshes, Sam?  They must have eaten well there!”

            “As well, I’d think, as them midges ate off us,” Sam answered, and at last Frodo turned toward him, smiling.  But that smile was but the ghost of the smile that Sam had ever loved.  Oh, but it was indeed time to let his Master go, perhaps follow the flocks of goldcrests eastward to the sheltered vale of Rivendell, remain there with Bilbo for what time there was left to him.

            But Frodo was clearly thinking of other things at the moment.  “We are a lot like the goldcrests, we Hobbits,” he said softly, his eyes appearing to look at an interior map of the Shire.  “We’re numerous and small, sometimes hard to see, but always there about the edges.  Not as showy as the red-winged blackbirds or as demanding of attention as are the robins.  Not as ominous as crows or anywhere as wise as ravens.  We eat all the time and chatter perhaps too much.”  He lifted his eyes again to Sam’s.  “But we nevertheless enrich the earth.”

            He searched Sam’s eyes for a time, then whispered, “I leave the guidance of the flock to you, Sam.  Promise me you will help guide them always to where they find good food and shelter.  Promise.”

            His lips were rather pale, the gardener noted, and his eyes almost feverish.  Sam swallowed, finding his own throat tight and rather dry.  “I’ll do the best by them as I can--you know that, Frodo,” he answered, barely noting that he’d left off the ubiquitous “Mr.”

            For a brief moment that sweet smile could be seen clearly.  “I hold you to it, Sam.  And now it’s time for me to prepare for a new nesting place for myself.”

 *******

            As they rode westward with the Elves, Sam noted that a flock of goldcrests appeared to always be about them, several times a day.  And he could have sworn that even as Frodo walked aboard the grey ship one of the tiny birds broke free of the flock, and was clinging to the rigging as the ship left its berth and disappeared into the sunset.  He so hoped that the tiny thing didn’t feel lost and alone as it followed Frodo to its new nesting site, and that the flock there in the Undying Lands would welcome it.

For Rabidsamfan for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Worthwhile

            The wail of an infant’s cry cut through the stillness of the smial, and automatically Frodo Baggins sat up, as he’d done for some years as a lad.  Still half asleep he rose rather unsteadily to his feet and reached for his dressing gown.  “I’m coming, Merry,” he murmured.  “Don’t waken your mum and dad.”

            The bed, however, didn’t lie quite properly in relation to the door, although he seemed to know the way well enough, he realized.  Once he was in the hallway, however, things seemed completely turned about, and he stood blinking rather stupidly until he realized he was not in Brandy Hall but in Bag End.  The child wasn’t his small cousin Merry--no, it was--it had to be Elanor.  Oh, yes, Elanor!  Sam and Rosie’s daughter, who’d been born the day before.

            He turned toward the door to the nursery and peered in.  No, she would be lying in the cradle Sam had been given by his own father, there in the master bedroom, at least for now.  And certainly the crying had stopped for the moment.  He turned toward that door that now protected the brother of his heart and his wife and new child, feeling envy.

            “At least, though,” he whispered after a moment, his face softening, “one of us is able to know this--love, marriage, being a father.  Certainly you deserve this happiness, Sam.”

            Then the door opened and Sam came out carrying the covered crock they’d been advised to keep for dirty nappies.  Sam appeared tired, but content nevertheless.  He was surprised to see Frodo in the hallway.  “Mr. Frodo, sir?  And what are you doing up this time of the night?”

            “I was going to rock the baby so it didn’t keep you up all night.”

            “You’d do that--for us?  For Rosie and me, I mean?”

            “Certainly, Sam.  I did it often enough when I was there in Brandy Hall, taking care of Berilac or Merry so their parents could get some rest.  Having to work through the day and then caring for a sometimes fussy infant through the night can become tiresome.  Hearing her cry--that’s what I thought of--of Merry crying in the night and me going to hold him.”

            “Well, what she’s doin’ now--that neither me nor you could do for her.”  Sam’s smile was infectious.  “That you need to be a mother t’do, if you understand me, Master.”

            Frodo found himself smiling also, and the two of them were quickly chuckling together.  “Let me get this out of here,” Sam said as he sidled past Frodo.  When he returned with the cleaned crock, having rinsed the nappy and set it to await laundering, he invited Frodo into the bedroom with him.

            Soon enough Frodo found himself, wrapped in a warm blanket, sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of the room, Elanor, clean and fed, nestled in his arms.  “Oh, sweetest one,” he breathed as he nuzzled the down of her golden hair, “sweetest one!  How we have all awaited your coming forth.”  And he began singing to her softly one of the nursery songs his own mother had sung to him.

 *

            Rosie watched Frodo Baggins with some awe as he cradled her daughter in his arms.  “He’s so gentle with her,” she murmured to Sam.

            Sam was nodding solemnly.  “That he is,” he whispered back, settling in the bed beside her and taking her in his arms.  “That he is.  But, then, I suspect that for him she’s the sign he did it all proper, and that for tonight, at least, he’s glad he did what he did.  Makes it all worthwhile for him.”

            She nodded against his chest, listening as Frodo sang sweetly to the tiny child he held.

For RiverOtter--a special gift for her birthday, and betaed by her!  Love always!

Change of Guard

            Hamfast Gamgee approached the front door of Bag End and removed his hat, self-consciously running his other hand through his unruly greying hair before reaching for the bell chain.  He hoped his appearance was seen as sufficiently appropriate that it gave no offense, for he was afraid his errand just might do so.  Steeling himself, he gave the chain a decided pull, wincing at the aching in his elbow due to the movement.

            After a few moments the door opened a crack, and a wary eye peered out.  He heard a wordless sigh of relief, and the opening widened to show the Master’s kin, that Mr. Fatty Bolger, stood there.

            “Oh, good, it’s you, Gaffer.  I hope you took no offense, but the relatives have been that bad, you know.”

            The Gaffer had to chuckle at that, for there was no question they had been that bad--and worse.  “I do understand, Mr. Bolger, sir.”

            “And did you need something for the gardens?”

            That recalled the gardener to his errand.  “For the gardens?  Oh, but I’m sorry--no.  No, Mr. Bolger sir, I need t’speak with the Master’s all.”

            “But Cousin Bil--no, wait.”  The Master’s kin stopped and gave a nod, reminding himself, the Gaffer thought, of the facts of the new order of things here on the Hill.  “Yes--you want to see the Master.  He’s down in the study.”  So saying, Mr. Fredegar stepped aside courteously to allow the gardener to enter, waving his hand vaguely to indicate the direction of the Master’s current position while he saw to it the bolt was securely driven home.  “That Lobelia is driving us rather mad--she must have been here with one ruse or another to try to get inside Bag End at least six times today.”

            The Gaffer had been keeping a surreptitious watch on the Sackville-Bagginses, and knew Missus Lobelia had actually made eight approaches to the place, once being driven away by Sam, who’d rather cleverly managed to stumble as he pushed his barrow by her while she was trying unsuccessfully to hide behind the lilacs, pouring steer manure for the vegetable gardens on her feet.  She’d given a most unlady-like screech and retreated back out the side gate to the satisfaction of all the residents on the Row.

            Now he waited for Mr. Bolger to show him down the corridor--it wouldn’t do for the likes of him to wander freely through a fine place such as Bag End when there was one here to serve as a proper escort!  Mr. Fredegar, having satisfied himself that the door was properly secured, turned and seemed surprised to find Hamfast Gamgee still standing patiently, again had to apparently rethink matters, colored some, and led the way down the hallway to perform a proper introduction.  He knocked at the open study door, announcing, “Frodo--Mr. Hamfast is here to see you.”

            Well, the Gaffer found that covered proprieties nicely enough!

            Frodo Baggins turned from the desk and nodded rather warily.  The Gaffer was pleased to see he was dressed well enough today to have satisfied Master Bilbo, with one of his better waistcoats over his linen shirt, the chain of his new pocket watch hanging properly across his chest, his hair neatly brushed (although it did appear Master Frodo had been running his fingers through it on the right side, a habit he’d shared with old Mr. Bilbo).  He rose gracefully, his feet apart and his knees slightly bent, almost defensively, the gardener judged.  Well, that was understandable enough, considering the assaults on the smial and on Frodo himself that had been made in the few days since the Birthday and old Mr. Bilbo’s inexplicable disappearance.

            “Yes, Master Gamgee--you wished to speak with me?”

            “Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo sir.”  That young Master Frodo would address him as had old Mr. Bilbo pleased the Gaffer.

            “I see.  Then--why don’t we both sit down?”  Frodo indicated the sofa.  The Gaffer wasn’t positive that accepting that particular seat was quite proper to his position, but then it was true the young Master was rather new at the business of being full Master of Bag End and the Hill.  He sat down rather stiffly, continuing to hold his hat between his hands.

            “How is it I can help you, Gaffer?”

            “Well, it’s this way, Mr. Frodo, sir--as you should know well enough, I’m not gettin’ any younger, not any more’n was the old Master.  And my joints--them hurt me somethin’ fierce at times.”

            “I see,” Frodo said a bit uncertainly, his attention fixed on the gardener’s hands, where the knuckles had become decidedly knobbly lately.

            “So, I was thinkin’ as it might be best if’n I was t’give over my position fully t’my Sam.  Oh, I know as he’s still but a tween and but a lad in the eyes of most, but you ’n’ me. we both know as he’s been doin’ most of the work in the gardens for at least the last few years.  If’n I didn’t think as him could handle it--or if’n you was to object--I’d think twice about it.  But, y’see, sir....”  He found his explanation petering out.

            Frodo was nodding thoughtfully.  “I see, and believe me, I do understand.  Bilbo and I have both seen how much harder it’s become for you to spend hours kneeling down and then trying to straighten up afterwards.  If you feel your health would suffer, who am I to seek to convince you to continue working?  And I do wish you to know that Bilbo left a fund to provide you with a pension to be paid quarterly, intended to start whenever you expressed an interest in cutting back in your work here.  He did not wish for you to be forced to work when it might indeed not be to your best interests just to provide for food on your table.  He--and I--have both appreciated your work and dedication over the years since you took over for old Holman Greenhand, after all.  Oh, and would you like some tea?  I could have Freddy fetch some----”

            “Oh, no, sir, Master Frodo, sir.  That’s not necessary, you see.  I must be gettin’ back down t’Number Three, sir, and lettin’ my Sam know as he’s now the proper gardener for Bag End and not but the gardener’s lad no more.”  He felt his joints pop as he straightened to stand upright.  “I know as him’s been your man since him was but a little’un and you first come here t’Bag End.  He’ll do ye proud, just you wait ’n’ see!”

            Frodo’s expression relaxed.  “Oh, I’m certain of that, Gaffer.”

            “T’tell the truth, sir, him’s twice the gardener as I ever was.”  He forestalled Frodo’s protestations with a wave of his hat.  “No, I mean it, sir.  My Sam has a true feel for flowers--much better’n me, you see.  And as the years’ve gone on, my first love’s the more for me root vegetables, and taters in especial.  All I ever knew o’ flowers I learned from Cousin Holman and even from old Mr. Bilbo, who learned it from his own dad ’n’ mum.  But flowers is in my Sam’s blood, flowers and a love of beauty.  You c’n give him the flowers, and share your own love of beauty more’n me.  Let me look at turning the earth more profitable, and let him fill it with color and scent.  Oh, I’ll come up and help with the veg’tables as is needed an’ all; but him’s the one what should be in charge.”

            He found himself leaning forward confidentially.  “An’ truth be told, Master, him’s been directin’ what’s t’be planted where for quite some time now, not me!  Oh, I make a show of tellin’ him t’spade this bed, er that’un, and t’get the weedin’ done and all; but it’s him as has truly made the decisions for ever so long, if’n you’ll believe it!  Nah, ’tis best as I just let him be the gardener in name him’s been in deed these last five years ’n’ more. 

            “An’ more’n that, him’s been doin’ it all t’best please you.  If’n I was t’suggest some plant ner bush be moved or pruned and him had the least inklin’ as ye’d prefer’t otherwise, him’d just go right deaf on me--and then if’n him wasn’t right all along on how it was best t’let it be!”  He realized he was smiling proudly.  “You accept him as the gardener, and ye won’t never regret it, Master Frodo, sir.”

            Frodo’s face and eyes were alight.  “There I must admit you are undoubtedly right, Master Gamgee, sir.”

            The Gaffer searched the Baggins’s eyes, looking for hidden meaning, but found none.  No, Master--Mr. Frodo--he meant it honestly.

            Frodo continued, “I’m positive I will never regret it--never, to my dying day.  I will miss seeing you up here every day, but I will always know you are there and helping with the vegetables and quietly inspiring your son to your own standards of excellence.  And I do thank you--for myself and for Bilbo, who always respected you so.”

            As he returned down the Lane to Bagshot Row, Hamfast Gamgee went with a far lighter heart.  He’d not want for anything, he knew, between the promised pension and what the young Master would pay his Sam.  And he was convinced that Mr. Frodo would indeed never regret it, not to his dying day.

For Addie and Kaylee for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Just Desserts

            Frodo was picking up his trousers to don them and paused, his hands on the pockets.  “That beast!” he said through clenched teeth.  “He’s done it again!”

            Merry paused with his own shirt in his hands, looking up at his older cousin.  “Which beast?” he asked.  “Not that foul Lotho?  I thought he’d gone off to the Southfarthing with his folks.”

            “He has--the only reason I felt it was safe for you and me to come down to the Water for a swim.  No, not Lotho; Ted--Ted Sandyman.”  He pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket and peered at it as if it somehow held the missing item before restoring it and beginning to don the trousers.

            “Sandyman?  You mean the miller’s lad?”

            “Yes, that’s the one.  He lives just over there, and loves to prowl along the waterside, of course.  Almost every time I come for a swim he seems to sneak in and go through my pockets.  And this time he’s taken my new striker set!”

            “The one my dad gave you for his birthday?”

            “Yes.”  Frodo glared at the Mill.  “I’m not certain which is the biggest thief; Ted, Lotho, or Lotho’s mother.  Each will see something shiny and just snap it up.  It’s as if I lived in the midst of a flock of particularly rude magpies.”

            Merry had finished pulling on his shirt and reached for his own trousers, then paused.  “My things have been gone through, too,” he said as he picked them up and checked the pockets.  He looked up, angry.  “The silver button from my great-grandda’s coat--it’s gone!”  He felt again.  “And a silver penny and four coppers,” he added.

            Frodo was fastening the buttons on his redonned shirt, still looking toward the Mill thoughtfully.  “This is going to have to stop,” he said after a moment.  “That button--I know how much it meant to you, having that.  It’s just too bad.  Yes, it is going to have to stop.”  He went silent, then gave a half smile that Merry hadn’t seen in years.  “And I think I know what to do about it,” he added as he shrugged his braces into place.

 *******

            Ted Sandyman looked out the window of his bedroom and saw splashing in the Bywater Pool.  He smiled.  “The fool,” he murmured to himself.  “Back again, is he?  Don’t seem t’learn none.  An’ what’ll him have with him today, I’m wonderin’?” 

            He dressed and went swiftly through the low house his family lived in adjacent to the Mill, hastily catching up a pear and a sweet bun to take with him as he headed up to the place where the Baggins brat was swimming.  Imagine--swimming in the Water and the Pool?  But, then Baggins was half Brandybuck, too, and had spent most of his childhood in Buckland.  Everyone knew that!  Imagine, growing up in Buckland and swimming in the Brandywine there!  Ted shivered as he walked just at the thought of it!  No Hobbit who wasn’t cracked in the head swam!  Just went to show how strange that Frodo was!  And while he swam, Ted regularly searched the clothing the foul orphan would leave on the banks.  True, Ted hadn’t come away with much recently as Baggins had apparently been thinking to empty his pockets before leaving Bag End; but yesterday there’d been quite a haul!  That striker set as he’d found in Baggins’s pocket was a nice one, and would go with Ted’s own pipe right well.  As for what the Brandybuck squeak had carried--well, Ted had been happy enough to relieve the lad of that much coin.  It would buy him a fair amount of leaf, it would.  And then there was the button he’d found, silver, if Ted didn’t miss his guess.  Good chance as Lotho would like that once he got back from the Southfarthing, or maybe Lotho’s clever cousin Timono.  Too bad there was but the one, though....

            He was outside his own gate now, and was working his way carefully from tree to tree to the banks of the Bywater Pool where Frodo was swimming with the Brandybuck squeak--yes, both of them were out there in the water.  No, neither one was looking his way.  That was good!  Now--to find where their clothing had been left.

            He spotted a jacket lying over a pile of other clothing, then a second pile of smaller garments nearby.  Ted smiled with satisfaction.  If these two were so eager to have their pockets picked yet again, who was he to argue?  He moved toward the piles.

 *

            “Shall I call the lads?” Saradoc Brandybuck asked as he entered the kitchen to find his cousin Bilbo contentedly stirring a pot of porridge.  Sara sniffed appreciatively, noting the scent of cinnamon on the air--Bilbo’s Dwarvish connections brought many a rare spice into Bag End to the delight of his guests.

            “Oh, if you would!”  Bilbo didn’t bother looking up as he cast an eye toward a kettle where eggs were boiling.  “But they’re not in their rooms--Frodo insisted on an early morning swim before Paladin and Lanti arrive with the lasses and young Pippin.  They are down in Bywater Pool, I believe.  He suggested I should have you come down to fetch them about now, actually.  You should have just enough time to get there and back before I’m ready to put all on the table.”

            “Gladly,” Sara assured him, gathering up a handful of cherries from the bowl in the center of the table on his way out.  He turned toward the entranceway to fetch his walking stick before heading down the Hill toward the Water.  Ordinarily he might leave his stick here, but the ground in the area where Frodo liked to swim was rough, and there was always the chance an adder or two might be seen there, sunning themselves as they digested meals of small frogs.  The shy snake was rarely a bother in spite of being poisonous, but they were not Sara’s favorite creatures to encounter.

            Humming one of Bilbo’s songs in praise of green trees and groaning tables under them, Sara went out the wicket gate and down the steps to the Lane, turning downhill toward the Bywater Road, nodding an acknowledgment to Hamfast Gamgee as he came up it from the Row, a dinner pail in his hands.  “A fine morning to ye, sir!” the gardener greeted him.  “The Master’s fixin’ second breakfast fer ye and yer missus, is he?”

            “Indeed,” Sara answered, interrupting his singing momentarily.  “And your lad?”

            “I told’im not t’bother with work today, Mr. Brandybuck, sir, beggin’ yer pardon.  Instead, I told ’im to head down t’the Water t’fetch home some fish, I did.  Too fine a day t’keep him cooped up in the garden, and the lad always brings home a fine string fer us to have at nuncheon.”  He looked up appreciatively.  “Have a mind to some trout today, I do.  And the growin’s slowed down, it has--little enough t’do in the gardens today.”

            Sara smiled.  “Well, may he have good luck, then, Master Hamfast.  And may you enjoy the day as well.”  With another nod he continued down his way, once again singing as he went.  It was, after all, already a beautiful day, and promised to be finer as it progressed.  He only hoped that the breeze kept up and kept it from growing too hot.

            He was beginning to feel warm as he followed the Water down toward the Pool, and having finished his song he was now walking quietly, listening to the goldcrests gossiping in the avenue of trees, and from further off the delightful song of a red-winged blackbird from the margins of the Pool.  Yes, a lovely day--until he saw the lad furtively approaching the piles of clothing Sara knew must have been left there by Frodo and Merry.

            “What’s this?” Sara asked himself, and watched as the youth picked up Frodo’s jacket and began furtively rooting in its pockets.  “Ah,” he murmured under his breath.  “A sneak thief!”  So saying, he lifted his walking stick and smacked it softly against his left palm as he went forward as quietly as only a Hobbit bent on stealth could go.  Someone, he knew, was going to rue sneaking about the banks of the Pool today!

 *

            Ted Sandyman picked up the jacket and began searching its pockets.  Ah--there was indeed something there, something knotted in the corner of the Baggins’s handkerchief.  He quickly pulled it out, having ascertained that there was nothing else, and dropped the jacket negligently back on the pile once more.  He began working at the knot, hoping to find out the nature of his prize, when suddenly he felt a blow fall on his backside.

            “Ow!” he called out, taken completely by surprise.  He dropped the handkerchief and its contents to grab at his behind as he turned about.  The second clout caught him high on the left arm.  A furious gentlehobbit was facing him, walking stick in hand.

            “So,” Saradoc Brandybuck growled, reaching out and catching the miller’s lad by the collar, “you think to pilfer my nephew’s clothing do you?  And have you been into Merry’s clothing as well?”

            “It’s not what it looks!” Ted protested, knowing that this was a lie--that all was precisely as it appeared.  “Was only fetchin’ the tidbit as Frodo asked for, is all.”

            “What’s this, Mr. Brandybuck, sir?” asked another young voice.  It appeared that Sam Gamgee had been following the Heir to the Master of the Hall down the road, fishing pole in hand, a length of twine to which to fasten his catch looped to his braces’ button.  “What’s Ted Sandyman a-doin’, pawin’ at Master Frodo’s things?”  The gardener’s lad glared at the miller’s son, the animosity he’d always held toward the older lad plain on his face.  “Doin’ some more filchin’, is he?”  He looked up into the eyes of his Master’s guest.  “Master Merry--he told me last evenin’ as this one had been botherin’ their stuff yesterday, and took some coin from his pockets and Master Frodo’s new striker set as well.”

            “Is that so?” the Brandybuck asked in an interested tone.  “Sam, my lad, would you mind going to fetch this one’s father?  I think as he’ll have some concerns for what his son has been doing.”

            Sam set his pole against a tree before turning toward the Mill, and soon enough Miller Sandyman was standing beside Saradoc Brandybuck, glaring furiously at his son.  “What’s this about you pilferin’ from the pockets o’ gentlehobbits?” the older Sandyman demanded.

            “I didn’t take nothin’!” Ted protested.

            “Only because I caught you when I did,” the Brandybuck declared, eyeing the knotted handkerchief lying there at the lad’s feet.  “And I suppose that that handkerchief just happened to fall out of Frodo’s pocket by way of your hand, did it?”

            “Him asked me t’fetch it fer him!” Ted again insisted.

            But Frodo and Merry, alerted by the argument on the bank, had emerged from the Pool, Frodo grabbing a length of toweling from where he’d hung it over a branch and throwing it to his younger cousin as he took a second length for himself and pulled it over his shoulders, tossing his wet hair out of his face.

            “Did not!” Merry said.  “Frodo and I’ve not seen you at all until now!  And we were swimming about over there, not here by the bank.  How was Frodo to ask you to fetch anything to him when we were in the center of the Pool?  You don’t swim, do you, to bring it out to him?”

            “Swim?” demanded the miller.  “And since when’s my lad goin’ t’be doin’ somethin’ so outlandish as swimming?”  He returned his attention to Ted’s face, and Ted felt his spirits sink lower.  No, his old dad wasn’t going to be sticking up for his own flesh and blood today!

            “Now,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, “what for are you goin’ about, pinchin’ stuff from the gentry.  And you been stealin’ from them?”

            “No, Dad,” Ted protested, hoping his father would stick up for him anyway.  “I didn’t take a thing from nobody!”

            “Then turn out your pockets and let’s have a look!”

            Uh oh!  This was going to be bad, and Ted knew it.  When he made no attempt to follow his father’s orders, the miller at last gave a wordless exclamation and did it for him, exposing the silver striker set, those of the coins he’d taken from Merry he’d not yet spent, and the silver button.

            “What’s this?” the miller asked, looking at the items he’d just taken from his son.  “And where’d ye come by such as these?  Three coppers?  I’ve not give ye pocket money fer a week, and I know as ye spent all that as I give ye then!”

            “He took four coppers and a silver from me yesterday,” Merry said.

            In another pocket was found a bag of pipeweed, fresh from the market in Hobbiton.  “So, that’s how ye were able to be a smokin’ yer pipe last night, is it, smokin’ fine Longbottom Leaf instead of Inn’s Best like me, eh?”  The miller shook his head.  “Well, if’n ye’d be smokin’ fine weed like a gentlehobbit, mayhaps ye’d first see to it as ye did enough work as to earn it fair!”  He took the bag of pipeweed and the other items and handed them to Saradoc Brandybuck.  “Here, sir--mayhaps as ye’ll appreciate this, and mayhaps pay the lad back, like--don’t know as he’s old enough to be smokin’ pipeweed, after all.  But this ain’t rightfully Ted’s.”

            “But, Dad--he hit me, he did; hit me with his stick!”

            “Him did, did he?  And weren’t ye deservin’ it, lad, pinchin’ his kin’s things, and his son’s things?  Seems t’me as ye owe some folks an apology!  And ye’ll not be sittin’ down tonight, I’ll promise ye, not what ye’ll be having much in the way of time t’be sittin’ for the next week, as busy as I’ll be keepin’ ye!”  He brushed away the Brandybuck’s hand, replacing in on Ted’s collar with his own.  “You’ll apologize--now!”

            It was humiliating, having to say, “I’m sorry,” to that Frodo Baggins, and seeing that look in the Baggins lad’s eyes, that barely expressed glimpse of the satisfaction the other young Hobbit felt.

            “And it’s a right canin’ as ye’ll be knowing,” his father was promising in his ear as he led Ted away.  “Shamin’ me like that afore the whole o’ Hobbiton and Bywater both!”  And indeed quite a crowd had gathered, drawn from their usual early morning pursuits to investigate the drama going on by the Bywater Pool.

            Ted shivered, for he knew full well that his father didn’t make such promises lightly.  No, he’d not be wanting to sit for his supper--he could count on that!

 *

            Sara watched as the miller hustled his errant son away.  “So, a proven thief, young Ted is, eh?”  He looked at his son.  “And why didn’t you tell me about the coins being stolen, Merry?”

            “How could I prove it, Dad?” Merry asked simply.  “If he was searched and coins were found, how could I prove it was mine?”

            “Well, the button would be proof enough, I’d think,” Saradoc said.  “I know you’ve been proud of it since your grandda gave it to you to remember his father by.”  So saying, he handed it back to his son, along with the three copper coins.  He examined the striker set before restoring it to Frodo.  “I’d suggest not leaving anything of value in your pockets when you come down to swim from now on,” he added.

            “Oh, I’d not intended to, but forgot the striker set yesterday,” Frodo said.

            “At least he didn’t get away with this,” Sam said, scooping up the fallen handkerchief and whatever was tied into its corner.

            “Oh, it would have been little enough he’d have taken this time,” Frodo said, an odd smile on his face.  He took the handkerchief and worked the knot free, exposing a tiny wooden box.  He carefully removed it’s small lid, and held it out to Saradoc to see.  Inside was a intricately folded wad of paper.  Sara pulled it out and carefully unfolded it, laughing when he read its message.

            On it, in Frodo’s careful script, were written the words, Stolen from Frodo Baggins.

            “Just in case I didn’t arrive in time, then?” Sara asked.

            Frodo shrugged, but the little smile remained.  There was no question that he was pleased with what had befallen Ted Sandyman.

A gapfiller for "For Eyes to See as Can," following the last supper shared by Frodo with Merry and Pippin's parents.

For Cathleen and ShireHobbit for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Last Comfort

            “I have you, Frodo,” Saradoc Brandybuck said in soft tones to his former foster son as he helped him to his bedroom, Frodo’s arm over his shoulder.  With his own arm around his younger cousin’s back he could feel just how little flesh Frodo had over his fine bones, and how erratically his heart was beating.  The younger Hobbit’s face was pale, his eyes shadowed, his lips not quite blue.  The very fact Frodo didn’t appear embarrassed by the situation, however, seemed the most telling symptom of how weakened he was.  Frodo had always hated to be seen by others when he didn’t feel well, a situation that had obviously become critical in the last two years since his return from lands east and south of the Shire.  That Frodo was not protesting his older cousin’s attentions at the moment indicated he was sufficiently ill that appearances were quite beyond him.

            The door to Frodo’s room wasn’t quite closed, and Sara was able to push it open with his foot.  In moments he had Frodo seated on the edge of his bed, his hands braced on his knees.  It took no real time to find which drawer of the dresser held Frodo’s clean nightshirts and to choose one, one of fine silk, Sara judged, probably come from the King’s city, possibly a gift from the King himself.  He brought it to lay on the bed beside Frodo, then turned to helping Frodo disrobe.  Frodo had managed to shed his jacket; now, however, his fingers fumbled at the buttons of his waistcoat, buttons of fine glass of a cobalt blue shot with flecks of silver.

            “These are beautiful,” Sara murmured quietly, running his finger over one before he slipped it through its hole.

            “They came in--in a packet sent from Minas Tirith, from Master Celebrion, who is a master of glass,” Frodo said softly, allowing his older cousin to remove the garment.  “He’s given me other sets in the past.”  He managed to slip the left strap of his braces down over his shoulder, then had to pause just to breathe.  Sara efficiently slipped the other down, then reached to release the fastening on Frodo’s trousers, helped him to stand so that the trousers could be slipped down his legs.  Before they’d quite reached the younger Hobbit’s ankles, however, Frodo had collapsed to sit upon the bed again, a fine sheen of sweat discernible on his brow and upper lip.  “I’m sorry, Uncle Sara,” he whispered.

            “Sorry?  And for what, Frodo Baggins?  For pressing yourself to do all you can?  Nonsense!”  He saw the placket of Frodo’s shirt unbuttoned and removed the shirt studs from their places, setting them in their box on the dresser.  He helped remove the shirt, then paused to look at the quilted silk garment Frodo wore under it, one held closed by lacings.  “And this?  Where did you get this, dearest one?”

            “They had it made for me--to go under--under my mail--keeps it from chafing.  It keeps me warmer.”

            “I can imagine.”  Sara untied the lacing, and quickly had it, too, removed.

            The room was not dark--it was only just sunset, after all.  The rosy light from outside filled the chamber.  As Saradoc Brandybuck went to slip the nightshirt over his cousin’s head he had plenty of light to see Frodo’s back, and to see the scars there--scars ordinarily hidden by his clothing.  Frodo had told them, only moments ago, of the scars--where he’d been beaten and bitten, and where the chain on which he’d worn the Ring had dug into his neck; now he saw those scars and was appalled.  Carefully he pulled the nightshirt over Frodo’s head.  Its neck was loose, again with a soft lace to fasten it.  Now it hung low on Frodo’s left shoulder, and as Sara reached to pull it up and settle it properly before tightening the lacing he paused, seeing the scar from a wound just below Frodo’s collarbone.  It had healed, yet appeared irritated.  Indeed, Frodo began rubbing at it as if it ached, and he could easily see the place where his finger was missing--bitten off by that Gollum creature of whom Bilbo had told so often?--and he could see the patient pain in Frodo’s eyes.

            Oh, the pain could be seen.  That was the hard thing to accept--that their beloved other lad was in pain, and had been in pain apparently since he’d returned to the Shire.  All had been done for his comfort--that could be seen in the rich, soft nightshirts; that quilted garment to wear beneath the dwarf mail; the new lamps and candle stands within the bedroom; the soft, sweet-smelling linens; extra pillows and cushions gathered to help support Frodo’s torso; new curtains, and soft rugs upon the floor by the bed; familiar dressing gown hung over the back of the wooden chair; the hob built into the refurbished fireplace; the comfortable chairs settled near the hearth with the footstool before the one.  It was a room apt to comfort and reassurance, but it couldn’t ease the pain.

            Sara reached down to help lift Frodo’s feet free of the trousers and onto the bed, and saw more scars--his cousin had been bound so tightly it had cut into his ankles; and there were faint lines on the backs of his legs similar to those on his back, confirming that Frodo had indeed been beaten there as well.  He helped Frodo get his legs under the sheets and soft blankets, helped place cushions and pillows to Frodo’s best comfort, and drew the covers over him.  “Are you comfortable, Frodo my lad?” he asked.

            The younger Hobbit looked up at him and gave his sweet smile, the one seen so rarely any more.  “As much as I can be, Uncle Sara,” he murmured.  “Thank you.”

            Saradoc picked up the discarded clothing, all still clean.  He smoothed out the trousers and straightened the braces and settled them over the valet stand in the corner; then the shirt, noting that a slight amount of padding in the shoulders had helped hide the lack of flesh.  Then there was the vest, smooth and soft, dove grey, the cloth excellent.  The jacket, also a soft silver-grey, had even more padding in the shoulders, and was delicately decorated with lines of silver spirals along the collar, front, and hem, the embroidery almost the same color as the fabric.

            The last thing to pick up was the soft shawl Frodo had worn about his shoulders.  Sara smiled as he carefully folded it and laid it over the back of the wing chair with the stool before it--Estella Bolger had knit that years ago when she was a young tween, and all had laughed softly as it has turned out so large.  Now Frodo was making use of it, obviously appreciating its warmth and size.

            The room tidied, Sara turned back to Frodo, whose eyes were blinking almost as if he were trying to clear them.  “You don’t think you’ll suffer a nightmare, do you, sweetling?” he asked.

            Frodo shrugged slightly.  “If so, it won’t be the first one, or likely the last one, either,” he sighed.  “Don’t worry for me, Uncle Sara.”

            The older Hobbit leaned over his younger cousin.  “It’s only we love you so much, and I don’t wish to see you uncomfortable in any way.”

            Frodo’s blue eyes searched his for a minute.  “If only love could keep the pain away, then I’d never know discomfort at all.  Aragorn, Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin, Sam and Rosie--they all have done all they can to see to it I’m ever surrounded by the knowledge of how they all love me.  But love isn’t enough to ease it or to keep it at bay.  I was hurt too long and too deeply.”  He rubbed at his eyes, then again at his shoulder.  “I love you so, Uncle Sara--you and Aunt Esme and Uncle Pal and Aunt Lanti....”

            “And we love you, too, best beloved.  Rest if you can, Frodo.”  Saradoc sat upon the bed near the Baggins’s waist, reached to brush the curls back off Frodo’s forehead.  “Sleep, dearling.  And know that, no matter what, we’ll never stop loving you.  Rest, lad.”

            Again he saw the sweet smile, and Frodo turned his head slightly, settling it more comfortably, his eyes closing, his breath slowing as he drifted into a doze as the evening fell out of doors.

            So it was Saradoc’s last glimpse of his beloved younger cousin was of him sleeping, his face pale yet seeming to glow in the darkening room.

For Claudia's birthday--a drabble and a half.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Probing

            “Is she comely?”

            Surprised, Aragorn pulled his gaze from the beauty of the dawn that had indeed reminded him of his beloved Arwen to consider the Hobbit now standing beside him.  “Is who comely?”

            Frodo gave him a twisted smile.  “I’ve seen that look on too many of my cousins’ faces to mistake it for anything but longing.”

            “You are certain I long for a woman?”

            Frodo shrugged.

            “And you--is there one of whom you think with longing?”

            The Hobbit’s expression grew distant.  “And what Hobbitess of good standing would wish to ally herself with as eccentric a soul as I’ve proved?”

            “You have not answered my question.”

            Frodo gave him a sharp look.  “Neither have you answered mine--neither of them.”

            The Man and Hobbit examined one another.  “Then perhaps we should count the score even,” suggested Aragorn.

            After a brief pause to consider the proposal, Frodo agreed.

For Dreamflower for her birthday, with many thanks for her friendship and the pleasure her stories bring me.  Beta by RiverOtter. 

Choice of Heirs

            Lobelia eyed her husband on his return to the smial.  “And what is the news in the village?” she asked.

            “Cousin Bilbo has returned from Brandy Hall with that Frodo he keeps speaking of--you know, the son of Drogo and Primula, who drowned in the Brandywine ten years ago or so.”  Otho was quiet for the moment, then added, “There is talk Bilbo intends to make this Frodo his heir.”

            “Nonsense!  I refuse to believe it!  Bilbo is a Baggins, after all.  He would never so flout tradition!”

            “He is the Hobbit who dared to go out on an adventure--and then the gall to return again and insist on acting as if that didn’t matter,” Otho reminded her.

            Lobelia shuddered with studied revulsion.  “He wouldn’t dare!  He knows that the whole of the family would be up in arms at such an act.  Have you seen Lotho?”

            “Yes--saw him near the bridge over the Water.  I do wish he would choose a better companion than that Ted Sandyman--the lad is a wastrel and a bully.  His father can barely get an honest day’s work out of him.  Perhaps Lotho will take up with young Frodo--the lad isn’t that much younger than he is, if I remember correctly.”

            “A lad who has grown up wild in Buckland?  You know the talk that’s been about--the child is a thief and a ruffian, stealing from better than half the farms in the Marish by all accounts.  Oh, I know that Peony speaks of it as though it were merely youthful high spirits, but I know better.  Drogo Baggins was ever slightly off, with all that fanciful carving he used to do, then marrying Primula Brandybuck of all people!”

            Otho gave her a jaded look.  “As if you hadn’t done everything you could think of to capture his attention for yourself, my love.  Oh, don’t give me such a look--you and I both know I wasn’t your first choice.”

            She managed to appear quite hurt.  “We all make mistakes at times.  I thought he was drawn to me, and was quite taken by that thought--that is all that there ever was between us.  It was nothing such as I have always known with you.”

            He gave her a disbelieving glance, then turned away, hanging his jacket and summer-weight cloak on the pegs in the hall.  “It’s far too warm for this jacket,” he said.  “I believe I shall change to my linen ones for the rest of the season.  And I cannot think what possessed me to wear a cloak on a day such as this.” 

            “It was rather cloudy this morning when you left the hole,” she pointed out as she led the way into the parlor where she had a light tea ready to serve him.  “And how did the negotiations for the Goodchild farm there near Needlehole go?”

            “He’s changing his mind yet again.  I’ve almost decided not to pursue it further.  I’ve just had word from young Lothario that your Cousin Evenbo Banks has taken to his bed, and may not live more than a few more months.  His farm is the other side of our holdings there, and has better drainage.  I might do better to work with his son.  Boddo has never liked farming, after all--has done a goodly amount of delving, he has, and I’m told he’s quite good at it.  If I could set him up near Threadneedle he could do right well, I believe, and I certainly could turn a good deal more coin on the land there than the Bankses have done in years.  Evenbo was never the farmer that his father was.  Good land for leafy vegetables there, and the hazel thickets toward the back of the farm have always been good producers.  I could turn a few pigs out in that oakwood on the north side each fall to fatten on the acorns, and do a brisk sale of hazelnuts with the folk from the Northfarthing where they are more popular.”

            She handed him the cup of tea she’d poured him.  “That sounds very good, my dear.  Now, I do believe we should go up to Bag End as soon as we can--see this lad and judge for ourselves just what kind of child he might be, and allow Bilbo to be reminded as to who his proper heirs are.  We should take Lotho with us, of course.”

            “We could go tomorrow, I suppose, although we might do better to go early next week.  Otherwise the folk in the village are likely to see it as being too pushy,” Otho decided.  “Were there any letters today?”

            “Yes, one from the Council Hole in Michel Delving.  It is under the doily there.”  She indicated the small table on the other said of him that held a silver candlestand.

            He reached for the barely visible envelope eagerly.  “From Will Whitfoot.  Probably about the change in deed I sent in last week putting the property there near the Longbottom estate in Lotho’s name.  About time the lad learned how to manage the property he will inherit one day.”

            “You always do know how to do such things properly,” Lobelia simpered admiringly.

            “Well, of course I do--I am a Baggins by birth, after all.”  So saying, Otho Sackville-Baggins set his cup on the tray so as to better open and peruse his correspondence. 

            Lobelia, on the other hand, was imagining how well Lotho would do by his tenants, and how much profit the farm would possibly bring.  She would do her best to convince her son to remember his mother by purchasing her that new hat she so admired in the milliner’s shop in Michel Delving, that one with the blue ribbons and the baby’s breath adorning it.  She so enjoyed coaxing such presents from the two gentlehobbits in her life.

*******

            Lotho was joined on the bridge by Ted Sandyman, who’d continued as the muscle to Lotho’s brain all these years since Lotho had first assaulted the lad, then but seven, and convinced him to give Lotho the candy stick his uncle had just  bought him.  Lotho had then given the stick back.  He’d not wanted it himself--merely wished to prove to the younger lad he could take what he pleased when he pleased.  That Ted would react by following Lotho and doing everything the older Hobbit commanded was not a reaction that Lotho had expected, although he certainly took advantage of Ted’s subservience when it suited him.  It was easier to intimidate the other children of Hobbiton, Bywater, and Overhill when he had Ted at his shoulder, for Ted had always boasted a broader, more muscular build than Lotho himself, until the last year when at last Lotho Sackville-Baggins had finally grown taller than his father and had begun to fill out.

            Right now Lotho was staring up the Hill toward the wicket gate that protected the grounds for Bag End, before which stood a trap from which old Cousin Bilbo and that lad who’d arrived with him early that morning were removing parcels of groceries.  Imagine--the greengrocer was delivering Cousin Bilbo’s purchases right to his door!  This was not something old Greenfields ever did for the Sackville-Bagginses.  Again Lotho felt the anger that his family was not properly respected by the Hobbits of the Shire roiling in his breast.  It was not right!  Everyone knew that Bilbo Baggins was anything but respectable, and certainly they laughed at him both at the Green Dragon in Bywater and in the Ivy Leaf in Hobbiton as being cracked.  But the simple matter was that in spite of his lack of respectability and his eccentricities--or perhaps because of them--folk liked the mad old thing!  And now that he’d brought that orphan home with him folk were certain to speak better of him and how he’d finally done the right thing by the lad and honored the memory of poor Drogo and similar twaddle.

            “So, the old cracked head is home again, is he?” suggested Ted.

            “Yes.  With that Frodo chap he’s gone on so much about all these years,” Lotho sneered.  “You’d think the Sun rose and fell due to the wishes of that Frodo Baggins, to hear him tell of it.”

            Ted shrugged.  “Mayhaps we should greet ’im first time as him heads into the village.  What you think?”

            Lotho gave a cruel smile.  “I do believe, Ted Sandyman, that you have the right idea there.  The first time he heads into the village proper, you and I shall indeed welcome him to Hobbiton.”

*******

            Three days after Frodo’s arrival in Hobbiton Otho indicated he would agree to the proposed visit to Bag End to give the new arrival a good looking over.  Lobelia, who’d been eager to see this done, insisted that Lotho stay home that day from his proposed wanderings, which did not please him, and that he dress in his best.  “You must show your quality today--remind that old fool that we are his proper heirs.  After all, Bag End will be yours one day!”

            Lotho grumbled, but not too much.  It was shortly after second breakfast they drove their trap up the Hill, Lobelia having insisted it would not do to arrive like common visitors on foot.  Otho threw up his hands at the extra time needed for such nonsense, but at last he agreed and saw the pony harnessed.  So it was they arrived with some ceremony at Bag End.

            Lotho stayed behind his parents, not wanting as yet to become clearly identifiable to the orphan, and wanting to see his mother’s reaction to the brat.  Lobelia led the climb up the steps to the wicket gate, where it was plain that Gaffer Gamgee was plying his trade by trimming the hedge, being watched by the new lad.  Lotho’s mother examined Frodo, and Lotho could see her jaw clench.  Obviously she felt that this soft lad could possibly be a threat to their future, but was determined to pretend that was not so.  Rather than opening the gate and sweeping by the party involved in the hedge trimming, she stopped just outside it and glared at the lad.

            “So,” she said, “I take it you are Frodo?”

            “I beg your pardon?” the orphan replied.

            “Silly child,” Lobelia said, turning her head to meet Otho’s eyes.  Lotho, who was following behind them, snickered.  She turned back to Frodo.  “I asked,” she said particularly carefully as if she were talking to someone foolish or deaf, “if you are Frodo?”

            “Of course I am Frodo,” he answered.  “And whom do I have the honor of addressing, if honor it is?”

            That was not a reaction Lobelia had expected, and it took her a few ticks of Otho’s pocket watch to rally.  She straightened and puffed out her chest importantly.  “We are the Sackville-Bagginses, young Hobbit,” she said, her nose rising in the air and her voice rising with it.  “We are part of society here, whatever you might be.”

            Frodo looked at her, and his own voice took on a level of courtesy that had clearly been modeled on that shown by his formidable Aunt Menegilda Goold Brandybuck.  “I see.  Well, I fear I have little idea of how to act with important folk, for the only ones I’ve known with pretensions of being important in society have been my uncles, the Master and the Heir of Brandy Hall and the Thain and his Heir--, oh, and my aunts, their wives.  But they are very rustic, I suppose, compared with you.” 

            Lotho saw his mother’s mouth working as she alternately paled and flushed, but no words would come. 

            The orphan continued, “I shall go in and tell my cousin that the Quality have arrived, shall I?”  And without waiting for a response he turned and stalked into the smial.  A moment later Bilbo arrived outside, his hand in his pocket fingering the things he kept there, looking both amused and wishing he were miles away at the same time. 

            “Why, Lobelia and Otho, and dear little Lotho,” he said in what was plainly a forced, bright tone.  “I understand you’ve met my young ward for the first time since he was a little lad.”

            “Oh, was that Frodo?” she asked.  “Whoever he was, he was so rude as to be inexcusable.  And, pray tell, what made you bring the child here?”

            “He’ll soon be twenty-two, Lobelia, and is definitely not a child.  He is a Baggins, and Drogo’s son and heir.  Shall he be forced to remain forever in the wilderness of Buckland and not know what it means to live in the Shire proper, much less what it means to be a Baggins?”

            “And who are you, pray, to teach anyone the meaning of being a Baggins, Cousin Bilbo?  Or are you going to convince him that disappearing for a year at a time instead of settling down and marrying the way sensible Hobbits do is a right and proper way to live?”

            Bilbo grew stiff, and Lotho could see the anger building up behind his eyes, but the wily old Hobbit’s words were carefully courteous.  “If I had thought of marrying since I returned from my travels, it would have been vain, would it not, considering my reputation as one who had made the questionable choice to leave the Shire to begin with?  And, as I am certain you know----”  The words, “due to your own effort of keeping it before the Shire that I am a crackpot and eminently unsuitable due to my unpredictable nature” didn’t need to be said aloud.  “----my reputation is such no Hobbitess of much worth would even consider a suit from me, save for those who knew me well before I set off for parts unknown, and those, for the most part, have all been most happily and respectably married for years.”

            “Well, you could have made a good match long before you made that unfortunate journey.”

            “Oh, indeed I could have done so, I suppose.  Save that had I taken the one lady who made a point of throwing herself in my way, I would have deprived my dear Cousin Otho here of the most appropriate match he has made.”

            Lotho found his ears twitching.  His mother and Cousin Bilbo?  But he was at least twenty years older than she was!  Was that why his mother so hated Bilbo--because he had refused to fall in love with her?  As for Lobelia, her face was darkening with a flush of anger.

            Bilbo continued, “Not that I regret that journey, you know.  It helped me broaden my horizons considerably, and helped put a good deal of my former studies and reading into proper perspective.  There is nothing like coming to know Elves and Dwarves and even some Men personally to help one appreciate what they are truly like and their place in the outer world, after all.  And, as Gandalf had predicted, the journey did prove eminently profitable, even if I chose not to accept my full share of the proceeds at the time.  You must understand, having Dwarves in my debt has given me some distinct advantages.”

            Lotho knew it was some of those advantages that had led his mother to so covet Bag End, for there were many gifts and embellishments to the place Bilbo Baggins had secured from the Dwarves in the intervening years she would give her eye teeth for.  And it was rumored that each time they came to visit the Dwarves brought more treasure to add to the fabled hidden storerooms he was supposed to have excavated after his return.

            “And will those advantages be passed on to your heir?” Lobelia asked.

            Bilbo looked her up and down before turning his attention to Otho.  “That,” he finally said slowly and thoughtfully, “will depend, I suppose, much on the nature said heir might display.  Dwarves are a very proud people, and do not have patience for dealing with those who are purposefully rude to them.  They still might acknowledge the debt and do their best to see it finally satisfied, but are likely to do so in a manner that is not intended to greatly benefit the recipient.  Finding a back door into one’s smial that was not wanted, through which all of Hobbiton can freely enter, exiting again with things that just shouldn’t be missed, could be seen by the Dwarves as an excellent way of discharging the last of their debt to me.”

            “And just why,” Otho asked, “did you choose now to bring that child here to Bag End?”

            Bilbo was clearly losing his patience.  “You and Lobelia have been complaining for years that, as the Baggins, it has been my duty to provide for the lad as my father provided for his father and uncle and aunt when it was Fosco and Ruby who’d died, leaving them orphaned while still in their minority.  And now when I at last exercise my right and responsibility to do just that you would see it as questionable?  The lad has been reasonably happy and well cared for among his mother’s people for years, but the time has come for him to take his place as a Baggins.  He is no longer a child, and will soon enough come of an age to inherit his father’s estate.  That means he needs proper guidance to see to it he will handle his responsibilities to the land and tenants he will inherit properly, and to learn how to wisely deal with investments.  Do you find my handling of my own investments lacking?”

            Lotho’s parents eyed one another, uncertain how to respond.  It had to be acknowledged that Bilbo Baggins’s ability to invest profitably had become the stuff of legend since his return from the Wilds of Outside.  Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, and those who’d considered building up businesses of their own would travel from the furthest reaches of the Shire to get his advice, hoping he would invest in their enterprises.  Those farms he held shares in usually produced particularly well; the carter’s business he held a half-interest in received a good deal of custom from the Great Smial and Brandy Hall as well as from most of the Boffins, Grubbs, Chubbs, and Proudfoot families about the region; and who knew exactly how many partnership agreements he held?  It was rare enough that coin Bilbo used to pay for his purchases hereabouts was stamped with anything other than common Shire images of smials and plants and birds or trees.  He didn’t have to use his reputed dragon treasure to live on, after all.  And even then he had built up his own business as a scribe and copyist, describing it as keeping him in money for leaf.

            The Sackville-Bagginses did not stay a good deal longer.  At no time did Bilbo indicate he was intending to make Frodo his heir, and there was no question it was his responsibility to see the child of Drogo Baggins prepared to keep up the Baggins traditions of canny investment and wealth.  The child would soon fully inherit the traditional Baggins family hole now known as Number 5, Bagshot Row, which had remained empty since his father had moved the family east to Buckland, and he reputedly also held title to homes in both Buckland and Whitwell in the East Farthing.  Probably only Bilbo as family head for the Bagginses knew the full extent of the holdings Drogo and Primula had left at their unfortunate deaths, but it was likely that this young Hobbit they’d seen that day clad in simple but suitable Brandy Hall cloth was far wealthier than he imagined.

            Frustrated in their attempts to appreciate all of Bilbo’s intentions at taking Frodo into Bag End at this time and determined to indulge the belief that Otho continued as Bilbo’s proper heir, the Sackville-Bagginses at last turned back down the stair and reentered their trap, going back to Sackville Place with honor satisfied, even if questions still stood as to their future status.

*******

            Lotho and Ted didn’t manage to waylay the orphan the very first time Frodo went into Hobbiton, as he went that time accompanied by Bilbo himself, someone they’d learned it did not pay to try to intimidate.  Bilbo had carried a walking stick for as long as Lotho had known him, and he’d proved willing to use it on those who thought to give him sauce--never more than a single blow properly aimed at upper legs and lower behind, but always truly struck in Lotho’s experience.

            But the evening of Frodo’s fifth day of residency he was sent back to the village not long after teatime, apparently on some errand by Bilbo, and he found himself confronted by two lads both more muscular than himself who blocked the road into town just beyond the turning of the Hill.  “Well, if it isn’t the new lad,” drawled the older, better dressed of the two, one Frodo judged must be nearly a Hobbit grown.

            Frodo looked at him, and after a moment Lotho saw signs that the lad recognized him.  Lotho already recognized the orphan--he was the one who last year at the Free Fair had shamed all the older lads, cheating as he’d done and beating them all in the dancing, winning from Isumbard Took a fine penknife with a particularly nice silver casing to it, and Lotho’s own walnut burl knife, which had several more blades than the Took’s knife had boasted.  But Lotho had coveted that knife, and even more he’d coveted the pocket watch the Took had first offered but that the apparent Brandybuck brat had said was too expensive to wager, and he’d wanted the seven silver pennies that Frodo had set in the circle drawn by the other lads to hold the wagered items.  But all the others had declared Frodo the winner, and one of the Boffins who’d stood by had glared at Lotho, insisting Frodo be allowed to scoop up the spoils.  With all the Tooks and Brandybucks there to back the stranger lad up, what was Lotho to do?

            Well, now he would even the score a bit!  “I understand old Mad Baggins has taken you in,” Lotho continued.  “Perhaps you don’t realize just how mad he is.  Let us enlighten you.”

            “He likes the Dwarves, you know,” the other continued.  “Big one fer Dwarves, old Bilbo is.  And you know what Dwarves do, don’t ya?  Dig in the hills, they does.  Dig mines--deep mines.  And they loves to have slaves t’do the diggin’ fer them.  Best watch out as he doesn’t sell you t’them Dwarves and set you t’diggin’ up gold and treasures fer them t’enjoy.”

            The orphan was watching both warily.  “And you think that I would believe such things?” he asked, his voice cold.  “I have known Bilbo Baggins all my life, and although he has a reputation for doing odd things, he has none for slave trading or for lying.  That’s apparently not true for you two, however.”

            Lotho felt the anger rising in him once more.  “You don’t even know me, little boy,” he said threateningly.

            The orphan straightened, and it could be seen he was taller than Lotho had realized, although he was a slender lad.  And the tone of disparagement discernible in his reply itself was an insult.  “You dare to call me a boy--with both of you as tall and broad as you are?  Seems to me a case of the chimney pot calling the inside of the stovepipe black!”

            “Where are you going?” demanded Lotho.

            “Uncle Bilbo has sent me to the leafseller--he wants some Old Toby, and he forgot to pick some up when we went into the village earlier in the day. What is that to you?”

            Lotho shared a look with his companion.  “Oh, he wants some leaf, does he?  Well, what right does he have to send a mere child to the market for something proper only to gentlehobbits?  Seems to me you’d do well to give us the money he gave you for it, and go back and tell the old fellow that if he wants some Old Toby he should go fetch it himself.”

            “I’ll wager as there’s some change comin’ to us for buyin’ the weed fer you,” Ted added.  “Not what we’ll really give you the weed, mind you.  But if’n he give you a copper, there’s some brass comin’ back fer a bag of Old Toby.  And it would get me and him a cider each, it would.”

            “And is that all you really want out of it--the coin for some cider or small beer?” Frodo asked, sounding unconvinced.  “If that is all, then you have merely to ask and I’d give it you out of my own pocket money,  But I have no authority to give you Bilbo’s coin.”

            Ted sneered.  “You think as we care about authority?” he asked.  “Nah, we take what we like.”

            “So I gathered,” Frodo said, backing up slightly and widening his stance a bit.  “But I already had that worked out, considering it takes two of you to confront one of me.  But I have no intention of giving you what isn’t mine to begin with.”

            Ted flicked his glance sideways, saw Lotho’s cruel grin, and smiled, turning his attention back on the new lad.  A slight movement of Lotho’s hand and both of them lunged forward.

            It was obvious that the new lad was no coward, considering how he stood his ground.  And he definitely gave as good as he got.  In moments Ted was groveling in the lane, curled around himself as a result to a sturdy kick to the groin.  Lotho’s shirt was now torn--there would be no keeping his parents unaware of this fight; his lip was split, his left eye was swelling shut rapidly, and his ear was ringing where he’d received a clout across it, although it was possible that Ted had managed to do that accidentally before he’d folded up on the roadway.  But Lotho had more weight to him, and soon had Frodo borne down to the ground and was lying on him, pounding at the side of his chest.  “You would think to say no to me, would you?” he grunted into Frodo’s ear.  “You’d best realize that I am not going to allow some Brandybuck orphan to walk into Hobbiton thinking he can make folks feel sorry for him and make him welcome just because his parents used to live here.  Why don’t you just go back where you came from?”

            Ted staggered to his feet and came over, falling to his knees at Frodo’s head.  “That wasn’t nice,” he growled, his face still covered with sweat.  “Not nice at all!  You foul thing!”  He grabbed Frodo’s wrists and forced them up even with his shoulders.  “I’ll hold ’im down, and you teach him a lesson, Lotho.”

            Lotho slapped Frodo’s face with an open hand, glad to see tears springing to the orphan’s eyes.  “Nobody says no to Lotho Sackville-Baggins,” he said, glaring down into the newcomer’s blazing blue eyes.  “You had best keep that in mind.”

            “And no one tells me what to do!” Frodo managed to say.

            “Oh, is that so?” Lotho said, rising higher on his knees.

            But they’d been seen.  Two Hobbits coming around the Hill from Hobbiton toward the bridge over the Water to the Green Dragon in Bywater had seen them, and one shouted out.  Lotho scrambled to his feet, gave Frodo a vicious kick to his shoulder, and fled into the shrubbery along the line of the Water and the Bywater Pool.

            Ted, however, wasn’t finding it as easy to rise, considering the pain Frodo’s kick had left him with.  The first of the two Hobbits, one of the Boffins who lived on the square, managed to catch the miller’s son by his shoulder.  “It’s Ted Sandyman, all right,” he said to his Grubbs companion as the other came even with them.  “That means the other was that Lotho again.  And you know what that means--neither Lobelia nor Otho will admit their son is nothing but a bully, so will do their best to convince everyone that this one was the one who started it.”  He indicated the lad lying in the roadway.

            “Don’t recognize him,” the Grubbs said, going to his knee and looking to turn the young Hobbit’s face toward him.  “That dark hair--I say, this must be Primula Baggins’s lad.  Look at them eyes, will you!”

            “And it’s a Baggins face,” agreed the Boffin.  “And I’d say as he’s hurt.  Tell you what----”

            Just then there was a slam of the door to the miller’s house, hard by the mill.  Sandyman the Miller came out to the gate to his sparse garden and glared over it.  “What’s the row?” he demanded.

            “It’s your lad--seems as Ted’s been helping Lotho at his task of devilin’ the younger Hobbits again,” the Grubbs called out.

            “It’s his fault!” Ted whined, pointing with his free hand down at the lad on the ground.  “He’s got Lotho’s coin, he does!”

            “And how did this one get hold of coin from Lotho Sackville-Baggins?” demanded the Boffin.

            Now the citizens of the Row were coming out of their holes, Hamfast Gamgee and Daddy Twofoot side by side, arrested on their way also to the Green Dragon.  “And what’s this?” demanded the Gaffer.  “Ted Sandyman--you been layin’ into the smaller Hobbits again?”  He came closer, then stopped and straightened in surprise.  “Master Frodo!  You all right?”

            Frodo was trying to sit up, but went white as he made to move his shoulder.  “I think so,” he murmured through gritted teeth.

            “No, he’s not,” the Grubbs said, shaking his head.  “The other one kicked him afore he ran off into the bushes.  That Lotho, I think, although I was too far away to see his face.”

            “Oh, it was Lotho all right,” interrupted the Boffin.  “Laying for the new lad--it’s his way, after all.”

            The Gaffer had been followed out of Number 3 by his wife and daughters and younger son.  He turned toward them.  “Bell, if’n ye’ll bring a cup of water, and Daisy, you tend t’the bairn.  Sam-my-lad, run up t’Bag End and fetch the Master.  Tell ’im as young Master Frodo’s been hurt, but not too bad, you hear?”

            The small lad nodded his head and ran off up the Lane to the front steps to Bag End--this was not a call one carried out at the back door, after all.

            Daddy Twofoot sent one of his lads off into the village to fetch Laurel Chubbs, who was the healer Bilbo usually used.  Young Frodo was carefully helped to his feet in spite of the directions of some that he not move lest he’d been badly hurt, cradling the arm whose shoulder Lotho had kicked.  “I’m all right!” he kept trying to assure them.

            Then Bilbo arrived, and was clucking about him like a hen with one chick.  “Who was it?  Lotho and Ted, eh?  You’ll need to carry a walking stick to keep those two at bay, you’ll find.”

            Ted’s father cleared his throat.  “My lad says as yourn’s got hold of coin from Lotho Sackville-Baggins somehow.”

            “What?  And when and how should he have done that?  He’s been into the village but once since he got here, and that was with me earlier in the day.  This is the first time he has been off the Hill alone since I brought him here five days ago!  And he’s not been gone long enough to do much but get jumped by Lotho and Ted.”

            “Does him have coin on ’im?” Sandyman persisted.

            “Well, of course.  He had about twelve brass left of what I gave him earlier in the day, and the copper I gave him to fetch me some Old Toby.”  So saying, Bilbo nodded to Frodo to turn out his pockets.  Frodo brought out a worn coin purse that had been his father’s--several recognized it at once--and opened it, spilling twelve small brass farthings and a copper into the palm of Bilbo’s hand.

            “It’s all I have on me,” he said, indicating it to the others.  “And the copper belongs to Uncle Bilbo, not to me.”

            Laurel Chubbs arrived at that point.  “And what is this?” she asked.  “That awful Lotho and this one ganging up on you are they, dearie?  Well, let us get you back up to Bag End and I’ll see what damage has been done.”

            The Boffin ended up sharing some of his own pipeweed with Bilbo, as the leaf seller would have closed up his stall by now there in the market.  Meanwhile the miller dragged his son into their home where harsh words on not lying about the gentry could be heard, as well as a blow and a cry of pain from Ted.  There were some guilty glances shared between those who stood in the lane, although all realized that the lad deserved what he was getting in this case.  Unfortunately, the miller had a reputation of being harsh with his son at such times.

            But as there was little left to see, the others dispersed.  Laurel Chubbs and Bilbo herded young Frodo back up the hill while Bell Gamgee, having retrieved the cup in which she’d brought water for young Master Frodo, shooed her Daisy with little Marigold on her hip, May, and Sam back toward Number 3.  The menfolk headed toward the Green Dragon for their evening half-pint, and the last of the curious lads and lasses returned to their evening chores.

*******

            Bilbo stood at the door to Sackville Place and rang the bell.  He was most properly dressed today in his most solemn Master of Bag End attire, intent on making it plain this was business.  It was Otho who answered the door, a letter in one hand.

            “Bilbo?  And what brings you here?”

            “I wish to speak with you and Lobelia is all, Otho.  Is she at home?”

            Otho grudgingly led his guest into the parlor.  Lobelia sat there in her wing chair, examining a shirt.  “Who was at the door, Otho?” she asked, not looking up.  “I swear I cannot imagine how Lotho came to do this damage to this shirt!  It looks deliberately torn!  And I’ll swear there’s blood on it, too!”  She looked up, lifting the shirt to show him, and only then realizing that he’d not come back alone.  She immediately sought to hide the shirt behind her skirts as she rose hastily to her feet.  “And what brings you here, Bilbo Baggins?”

            “I came to speak with the two of you about Lotho,” he said stiffly, “and to present you with the bill I was given by Laurel Chubbs for her fee in treating my ward last evening.  It seems that Lotho and young Ted Sandyman were lying in wait for him, and sought to steal from him the coin I gave him to purchase some leaf for me.  Apparently Frodo did seek to defend himself, but in a case of two against one, and particularly with two as well built as Lotho and Ted against someone as slight as Frodo, there was little contest.  He has bruises on his face and side, and his shoulder has been dislocated.  He will be wearing his arm in a sling for at least three weeks, or so Laurel says.  I must say he was quite brave when she put it back in place for him, but it is badly hurt and has turned some awful colors.”

            “But you can’t be certain that Lotho had any part in attacking your Frodo!” Lobelia protested.

            “I can’t?  He was seen by two witnesses, and Ted admitted that Lotho was involved.  And as I suspect you have already seen he has his own bruises, I doubt you can deny he was indeed involved.”

            It was unfortunate that at that moment Lotho hobbled into the room from the passage to the bedrooms, his eye blackened and his lip swollen.  “Mother, it hurts to....”  Seeing Bilbo, he stopped, uncertain.

            Bilbo examined him coldly, then turned his attention back to Otho and his wife.  “I give you fair warning--I will not put up with this one seeking to intimidate my lad again.  If any of you wants aught of my estate when I judge myself ready to give it over, even as much as a silver spoon to match those you have already managed to acquire, you had best remember that.  Do you understand me?”  So saying, he held out the bill to Otho, and turned on his heel and left, leaving the door standing open behind him.

            “Not a moment too soon,” Bilbo told himself as he stalked back through the village toward the Hill.  “Not a moment too soon to get myself a new, proper, decent heir!”

Written for FEBOBE's birthday, and for Roisin, Cathleen, and Golden for healing.  With many thanks to RiverOtter for the beta!

Comfort Given

            He woke feeling rather befuddled, then froze mid-stretch, suddenly alarmed.  Instead of having the coldness of chalk under himself, Fredegar Bolger felt a surprising softness, and all about himself he felt warmth, and--and comfort!  He cracked open one eye, looking up, bemused to see not the roughened walls of his cell looming over him reflecting filtered torchlight, but instead a corbeled ceiling rising over a properly paneled and plastered bedroom wall, but one he certainly did not recognize.

            “Would you like a sip of water, Freddy?”

            He carefully turned his head.  “Frodo?” he whispered.  He found the familiar blue eyes of his cousin, and felt such relief.  “Frodo!  Frodo!  You are back!”  His voice was rough with disuse, he realized, and he felt as if just turning his head had taken more strength than he had.  “Then it wasn’t but a dream, being carried out of the Lockholes!”

            Frodo gave a small smile, but his eyes were still filled with concern and seemed somehow distant, as if most of his mind was focused on quite different things.  “Then you remember us finding you?”

            Freddy shook his head.  “No--not folk finding me.  I remember hearing a screeching noise as the lock on the storeroom door that held me was cut away and the doorway opened.  And there were voices everywhere, and that soft, comforting light after the hours of darkness!  Then I was on a stretcher, but I don’t remember being placed on it--just squinting against the sunlight and realizing Pippin was walking beside me, but grown to a giant!  He had to be as tall as a Big Folk!”

            His cousin gave a small laugh to match the small smile.  “No, not that tall, thank the stars for small favors.  But you will find he and Merry both are quite the tallest Hobbits you will ever meet now.  Oh, yes, they both grew while we were gone.”

            “Grew?”

            “Ent draughts,” Frodo told him, as if these strange words explained everything.  Then seeing the confusion in Freddy’s eyes he said, “I must suppose it is a sort of native magic within one of the peoples we met on our journey.  These are folk associated with trees, and they brew drinks from the waters of streams and springs that promote growth.  Treebeard shared one of the growing draughts with Merry and Pippin apparently twice, and they are showing the effects.  I do think that the two of them have indeed managed to outgrow the Bullroarer, even as Merry suggested they were attempting to do when Sam and I awoke in Ithilien.”

            “Where?”

            “Oh, dear!  I fear, my beloved cousin, that you are going to be hearing quite a lot of new names and words from all of us.”

            “You took a long time,” Freddy whispered, “to get to Rivendell and back.  Is this Ithilien somewhere nearby it?”

            The smile faded, and Frodo sighed, looking away briefly.  “No,” he said softly, returning his gaze to meet Freddy’s eyes again.  “No, nowhere near Rivendell.  And, yes, we did make it there.”

            “Is it as Bilbo described it?”

            Frodo’s smile was both wider and sadder.  “Oh, yes, it is much as Bilbo described it, and more!”

            “It took you so long to get there?”

            Frodo looked away again.  “We were there within a month,” he sighed.  “Almost exactly a month.  But then--but then we had to go further.  Much further.”

            “And the--the Ring--you were able to give it to the Elves?”

            Again Frodo looked back, and Freddy could see a memory of great pain in his cousin’s eyes.  “No,” Frodo said solemnly, “the Elves would not accept It.  I had to take It on, back to where It came from.”

            Freddy searched Frodo’s face.  Finally he asked, “Why?”

            The Baggins shook his head.  “It had to be destroyed, and before It could destroy us.  It almost destroyed me, you see.  Here--let me help you sit up a bit, and I’ll give you something to drink.”

 *******

            Sam came with some peculiar broad leaves in his hand and a bowl of steaming water, and after rolling the leaves between his palms and murmuring a poem of some sort half under his breath he cast them into the water, and with soft cloths he carefully bathed Freddy all over. 

            Then after he’d been given some porridge to eat a healer came--Drolan Chubb, who’d been the healer used by the folks of the Hill for some time.  He examined Fredegar Bolger as thoroughly as Sam had bathed him, even examining his water, which Freddy found embarrassing.  He went out for a time, then returned with Frodo and Lily Cotton.  “You did well to bring him here instead of sending him to his parents,” Drolan told Frodo.  “Although perhaps you ought to have found a place for him right there in Michel Delving.  His health is rather fragile at the moment.” 

            He turned to face Freddy directly.  “There’s no gentle way of saying this, I fear, Mr. Bolger.  Your heart--it appears your heart has been damaged by what you have been through.  Its beat is quite irregular now.  You will need careful building up, and will probably need to be careful in what you do for the rest of your life.  Oh, you will be able to return to most normal activities; but I would advise you against ever resuming the smoking of pipeweed or drinking sufficient to become drunken, and you will need some exercise every day that is steady but not particularly taxing.  I do suggest you take up walking--a nice, long walk daily will do wonders for you and will help strengthen your heart.  And you must not regain all the weight you used to carry--that would be more than your heart could bear, I fear.  You would do best to find a place for yourself where you can live in a degree of peace and calm.”

            “Not with my mother, then,” Freddy commented under his breath, and he saw a quickly suppressed smile in Frodo that told him his cousin had heard him and agreed with the sentiment.

            “I will leave certain herbs and draughts with Mistress Cotton here to be given you at regular intervals, and will return in a few days.  What Lotho’s Big Men did to you--oh, I would have them flogged for it!”

            Freddy was surprised, for Drolan as he knew him was quite one of the gentlest individuals within the Shire.  Such a pronouncement was not what Freddy expected from the Hobbiton healer.

            Drolan turned to Missus Cotton and Frodo.  “He might have a fairly normal diet, but it is best he be given meats with little fat--poultry is usually preferable, and a good selection of fresh fruits and vegetables.  And water--every day, at least eight glasses of water throughout the day.  He might have a beer or ale or two in the early afternoon and evening, for that will help strengthen his blood.  But more than two or three per day would not be advisable, and at this point preferably but one a day for the next week, or until he finds he can stand without aid.

            “He needs calm and peace, and to be kept free from distress, again at least until he can stand without aid.  Even then it is best he avoid any truly upsetting situations as much as possible.”  Here he turned to look at Freddy.  “Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Bolger?  Are you willing to follow this advice?”

            “Oh, indeed,” Freddy hastened to assure him.  “I quite understand!  After all, I do have relatives who are Boffins.”

            The Boffin family seemed to produce more than its rightful share of individuals who developed troubles associated with their hearts.  Drolan, who had a number of Boffins under his care, nodded.  “Then you do understand how not caring for your general health could be most--distressing?”

            “I do.  Thank you, Mr. Drolan,” Freddy said softly.

            The healer smiled.  “You should do fairly well, Mr. Bolger, sir,” he said, gently feeling Freddy’s forehead with the back of his hand.  “No fever!  I do believe you will be able to get up tonight if you feel like it.  Several light meals throughout the day at hourly intervals for the first week, then gradually back to a more normal schedule of meals.  But, remember, no stuffing yourself.”  His eyes were more solemn as he said that last.  Then he smiled again and inclined his head respectfully, and turned to leave.  He paused at the door, and gave Frodo a careful look.  “And I must say, Frodo Baggins, that although I am glad to see you looking more as you did when we were lads together, yet I am concerned that you are now so much more slender than you were then.”

            Frodo paled, although his cheeks were distinctly more pink.  “I will have you know I did considerable walking while I was gone.  It was only natural I should have lost some of my extra weight.”

            “Indeed, so, Mr. Baggins.  However, if you would care to stop by the smial, I should like to examine you when you have the time.” 

            Frodo gave a noncommittal grunt, but Freddy noted that his cheeks were even pinker.  Drolan Chubb gave another nod toward the former Master of the Hill, cast a last glance at Freddy, saying, “And thank you, Captain Fredegar, sir,” and went out.

            Lily Cotton remained for a moment, murmuring, “And he said just what you did, Mr. Frodo, sir, about how he should be fed.  How did you know?”

            Frodo looked rather uncomfortable.  “When we were with the King--he said that this was the proper way to treat those who had not had proper food and drink for a time.”

            “And what is this about a King?” asked Freddy once Lily had followed the healer out of the room and toward the front door.

            Frodo gave a true smile, one that actually met his eyes.  “One of the good things that came of our journey--that at last the King has returned, and we saw him crowned and recognized as the King of Arnor and Gondor.”

            “Gondor?  What is Gondor?”

            “The other ancient realm of mortals within Middle Earth, the land to the south.”

            “And what do you know about Gondor?”

            Frodo shrugged.  “Far more than I ever dreamed I would.  We went there, you see.  And Pippin is a knight of Gondor, and a Captain of the King’s own Guard.”

            Freddy waited to hear the laugh-line of the joke, but Frodo had apparently said all on the subject he intended to say.  Instead, he looked out the round window to Freddy’s room.  “I must ride back to Michel Delving today, although I should return here again late tonight.  Will begged for me to come again this afternoon.”

            “How is he?”

            “Even thinner than you are.”

            Freddy shivered.  “He was the first they took and imprisoned.”

            “We found Ferdi Took in there, too.  He’d been kicked several times in the head.  He appears to be blind now.”

            “No!”

            “And after all we did, to come home and find this....”  There was naked pain on Frodo’s face.  “I took the Ring away to protect the Shire, but evil found and took it anyway!”

            There was quiet for a time.  Freddy fumbled his hand to reach for Frodo’s, taking and holding it in comfort.  “I am safe now, Frodo.  Oh, my dearest cousin, do not be distressed.  You did the right thing.  We just didn’t know it yet that Lotho had already sold the Shire to this Sharkey’s folk.”  He could see the silent tears on Frodo’s face.  “They spoke a good deal about Sharkey, those who guarded the Lockholes, and especially the ugly ones.  They talked about how it would be when he came, how all of us rat-folks would learn that the world was nowhere as jolly as we’d always found it, how we didn’t deserve the easy life we had always known.  And Lotho would find he was nowhere the fancy Chief he imagined himself as he learned just how powerful was the Old Man.”

            Frodo turned to look more directly as Freddy, his face filled with even more distress.  “They did?”

            “Oh, yes, they did.  There was one who would come to my cell and speak through the gaps they’d left, taunting me.  ‘You thought you were so clever, stealing from us.  Well, Sharkey’s coming, and you ratlings will find there’s little enough left for you!  As for your precious Chief--he’ll find what real power is all about!’  That sort of stuff all day and much of the night.”

            “And you didn’t wish to leave the Shire with us, because you were afraid.  I suspect you would have done better to be with us than to stay here.”

            “Perhaps,” Freddy said, squeezing Frodo’s hand.  Then he realized that somehow Frodo’s hand didn’t feel quite right--not as he remembered it from when they were younger, when the Bolgers would come to Bag End for Frodo and Bilbo’s joint birthdays and Frodo would take his hands to teach him how to dance.  How it was different, however, he couldn’t really say; only that it was not how he remembered it having felt.

            At last Frodo shook his hand free.  “You need to drink some more now,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his left hand and reaching for the nearby pitcher.  He poured some more water into the waiting cup, then turned to help pull Freddy more fully upright before holding the cup to his lips.  “Here.  I’ve not poured you more than you can handle.  Drink all you can.”

            Freddy drank obediently, glad to have sweet, clean well water to drink after so long of the fetid stuff they’d allowed in the Lockholes.  It was after he’d finished the last in the cup and Frodo turned to replace it on the table that he noticed--Frodo hadn’t extended all his fingers--the ring-finger was apparently still folded in against the palm.  How strange!

            He was tiring now, but before he let himself sleep he wanted to know something.  “Old Pimple--Lotho--were  you able to rescue him?”

            Frodo’s face went pale, pale and sad.  “No,” he said, giving Freddy but the barest glance before looking away again, folding both his hands in his lap.  “No, he was murdered on Sharkey’s orders apparently just after he came here, some time before we made it back to the Shire.”

            “And there really is a King again?”

            “Yes, there is, Freddy.  And now, my sweet young hero, it is time for you to rest.  They have told me how you led those who stole back what the Big Men stole from our folk, and how you tried to see to it the Hobbits of the Shire did not die of starvation.  I am so proud of you, Fredegar Bolger.  And if Aunt Rosamunda tries to tell you how irresponsible you were, I shall tell her myself just how wonderful it is to be cousin to the hero you are!”

            Again their eyes met fully.  In Frodo’s blue eyes Freddy saw reflected only love and pride and relief.  And Fredegar Bolger allowed himself to relax back against the pillows, feeling Frodo carefully bringing the blanket up under his chin as he used to do when he and Folco had come to visit in Bag End and Frodo had tucked them in in spite of the fact they were anything but faunts.  He’d always felt safe then in his older cousin’s care.  Bilbo might mean stories and odd ideas, but Frodo had always, in Freddy’s eyes, personified responsibility and caring as expressed in all of Hobbitry.

            Freddy found himself yawning as he shifted slightly.  “I’m glad you are back, Frodo,” he managed to say about the edges of that yawn.  “I am so glad.”

            He heard Frodo respond, “And I am glad to be back, and to find we were in time to save you, dearest one.  Sleep now.”  And a gentle finger rested against his eyelids.  “Sleep now.”

            And as he drifted into a doze Freddy could hear Frodo beginning to sing a lullaby he didn’t remember and couldn’t quite understand, but one that still soothed him into sleep.

For the birthday of Anglachel, who wished a story looking at midlife crisis.  Beta, as always, by RiverOtter.

Time Wasted?

            “I’ve heard them all these years, Freddy,” Frodo said to his cousin as he and Fatty Bolger fetched another pitcher of ale from the cellar where the barrels of such drink were stored.  “Old Odo and cousin Olo, Aunt Wisteria and Cousin Ponto and all--they all think I’ve done nothing but waste my life.  Why haven’t I married and settled down?  Why do I continue do such foolish things as celebrating Bilbo’s birthday when there’s no proof he’s even alive still?  Why do I entertain Gandalf at all, as unsettling an influence as he is?”

            He turned to search Fredegar’s eyes.  “Half my life already wasted, they tell me.  How, they ask me, am I to amount to anything at this time in my life?  I’m not young any more, no matter how young I might appear--the candles on my cakes, after all, keep mounting up now!”

            He slapped his hand on the beer barrel by which he’d paused, causing Fatty to jump at the unexpected sound.  “Well, now I’ve done something at last, and they are all complaining of it!  I have sold Bag End and am leaving Hobbiton, and what do I hear?  ‘How could you do such a thing--give the Hill to the Sackville-Bagginses when Bilbo made it quite plain he wanted it kept in sensible Baggins hands?!’  The same ones who last week were rejoicing I’m apparently but a few steps above poverty are the very ones now to bemoan my profligacy and how it will affect them!  They seem to take it as a personal affront that I have indicated that I will no longer buy my fish and fowl from their stands in the marketplace, and that I will purchase my weekly rations of pipeweed in Bucklebury or at the Kingsbridge market from here on out.”

            He turned west now, although there was no window in this inner room to look out over the Shire.  Now he murmured so low that Fatty had to listen closely to hear, “But, if half my life indeed is spent, perhaps it is I this time who wishes to see something of worth accomplished in what time I have left.  It is time, Freddy--time to finally test me to see whether or not it was a mistake I was even created to walk Middle Earth.”

            Such words made the Bolger shiver.

For ChickLovesLOTR for her birthday, and for Jay, whose vision matched mine!  Enjoy!  Beta by RiverOtter.

Visitation

            What is it? Frodo asked.

            “I am being invoked,” Aragorn said, his head cocked, hearing a voice in his heart calling him.  “Will you come with me?”

            Where is it you will go?

            Aragorn flashed a smile at his friend.  “Gondor!  Come, small brother!”

            They stood on the fields of the Pelennor, there where land had been granted for the burial of those who had fought in the defense of Minas Tirith.  There they found other spirits rising to stand witness to the procession that even now issued out of the gates of the city of the Tower of Guard, led by a tall beardless figure who wore the Elendilmir upon his brow.

            It is not the same circlet you wore, Frodo commented.

            No, it is not.  This is the original, the one worn by Elendil himself when he died, and that was lost with the body of Isildur.  We found it, Gimli and I, as we searched through the tower of Orthanc, in a hidden storeroom wrought by Saruman.

            He did not take it with him when he fled into the wilderness, then?

            The former King of Gondor and Arnor Reunited gave an ironic smile.  Oh, that he did not.  Apparently when his staff was broken he lost control of many of the magics he had previously wielded, and he could not open that closet again.

            Then how was it you were able to open it, then?

            I wore the Elessar stone, which is a stone of renewal, after all; by focusing my attention on the door with Gimli by my side, the magic was renewed and became one that Gimli could invoke.  It appears that the spell originally set upon this door had been based upon Dwarven magics.

            Frodo nodded as he watched the procession approach.  And this is your son?

            Even so.  And that one to his left is his son, my beloved grandson Valandil.  How he has grown!

            Worthy Men they prove, tall brother.

            The procession came closer, and it could be seen that the participants carried plants in their hands, some in pots and others with bound roots.  They walked to the furthest plot, over which were raised statues of a great lord of the realm, a fisherman, and an artisan.  Those who fought from the southern fiefdoms, commented Aragorn as respect was offered to those who were buried there. 

            Some of those who’d taken part in the procession, dressed in the livery of Dol Amroth, Lossarnach, Lebennin, the Falas, and the other lands from south of the capital came forward with plants from their regions, and now knelt to see them planted over the mass grave in honor of the sailors and knights, men-at-arms and fisherfolk, merchants and husbandmen who had come to protect the White City from Mordor’s assaults.  Then they came closer to the city where those clad in the greens, golds, and browns of Rohan came forward to plant slips of simblemÿne upon the tumulus raised over the bodies of their own who’d died here.  Then, closer still to the city gates, there was the plot in which were buried those who’d died from the White City itself, as well as those who’d come from the garrison in Osgiliath, from the Rangers of Ithilien, and from Anórien and Cair Andros.

            The last plot to be honored was small, and upon it stood a single statue.  Now those who came forward alongside the King and Queen were clad in grey and silver with a circle of seven stars upon their breasts, a single silver star holding closed their cloaks upon the left shoulder.  With them walked forward a few Hobbits, although none either Frodo or his companion recognized.  Over the small gravesite stood a single statue of a tall Man with a sword in his hand and a long bow upon his shoulder.  Then there appeared a spirit before the statue, on whom the statue was obviously based.

            Aragorn smiled.  My cousin Halbarad--brother to Halladan and Hardorn, and my closest friend during my years as Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Eriador, one of my other closer-than-brothers.  He looked to the statue.  One of Ruvemir’s apprentices, Owain, learned his skills as one capable of reproducing the features of those who are no longer present, and he wrought the memorial for me, as he did the figures there before the gates.

            On the south side of the gate stood a tall statue of Lord Denethor, the last Ruling Steward of Gondor, girded as a warrior with a great sword at his belt and the Rod of the Stewards in his hand, with Peregrin Took garbed as a Guard of the Citadel beside him.  On the north side of the gates stood Boromir, the former Warden of the White City, his head raised proudly, sword and shield in hand, and beside him Meriadoc Brandybuck with his sword from the Barrow-downs raised in guard.  Frodo fair gleamed with surprise.  You would have Merry and Pippin remembered here? he asked.

            And did they not both nearly die protecting Gondor? Aragorn responded.  Who better to aid in the protection of the new gates to the city?

            The King and Queen and others of the Royal House knelt at the last plot alongside the party from Arnor, planting athelas upon the grave.  The spirit of Halbarad came to join those of the Hobbit and the King.

            It would appear, gwador nín, that your son keeps alive the memory of those who fought against the Shadow.

            Aragorn smiled brilliantly and drew him near.  So it is.  But we have held this memorial every year on the anniversary of the victory upon the Pelennor since the first year after the fall of Mordor.  And at least each seventh year there have come embassies from Rohan and the north to take part in the ceremonies.

            Frodo looked over the various plots.  I remember them as covered with scarred earth.  Now the poppies appear to be everywhere, amidst the other flowers.

            Aragorn smiled solemnly.  In Rohan, the white blossoms of Evermind cover the resting places of the dead.  Here in Gondor it has ever been poppies--so I remember from my time as Thorongil as well as my time as Elessar.

            The spirits of two Hobbits drew near them.  Merry looked down on those kneeling over the grave in which Halbarad and the others from Arnor had been buried, noting the Hobbits who knelt with them, each with his athelas plant being added to the herbage growing over the place.  I do believe that one is my Melody’s son--how he has grown up!

            And look, added Pippin.  There’s my grandson Frodo, who was to be Thain after my Faramir.  So, where is Farry?

            Here! noted another spirit who drifted to join with them from that plot.  I asked to be buried there, so I must assume that this is the reason why my son is here with these others.  Oh, dear--he does appear old now. 

            I was buried there, too, noted Hamfast Gardner, son to Frodo-lad and grandson to Samwise Gamgee and long-time Master Gardener for the Citadel of Minas Tirith.  My gaffer didn’t come with you, then?

            I suspect he is looking in on the residents of Bag End, Frodo smiled.  The Hill has ever been the home of his heart, even more so than it was for me.  He watched as two others as tall as the King himself if not taller came to kneel down on either side of King and Queen, carrying not athelas but white Elven lilies.  Even your brothers come, although I can tell the Sea Longing would draw them away if they allowed it.

            Aragorn gave a soundless sigh.  I cannot imagine they will remain here in Middle Earth that much longer, and particularly not once Valandil is gone, too.  So little remains within the Mortal Lands to keep them bound here.

            Frodo leaned down to run a weightless finger along the edge of one of the petals of a lily once it was planted.  Bilbo loved these so, and so did I, and your gaffer, Hamfast.  And particularly after he’d rescued a few of them from your father as a child, Faramir.

            Eldarion raised his head, alert.

            “What is it, beloved?” asked his wife Loreth.

            “Laughter--laughter amongst the athelas and the poppies,” he said.  He watched as a white lily his uncle Elladan had just planted bobbed in a breeze nothing else appeared to feel, and a broad smile brightened his formerly solemn visage.  “They are here, and are happy.”

            Aragorn reached out to brush his son’s dark curls, which were now heavily threaded with silver.  That we are, my so beloved son--that we are.  We have every reason to be content that we accomplished what we meant to do.

            And for a moment all who’d come out of the City for the ceremony of memorial seemed to see a great light gathered over the plot by which their King now rose to stand.  Many ascribed it to him, for it often seemed the little of the Elven Light that remained in Middle Earth seemed to gather about Eldarion Telcontar.  But for some it was obvious that on this day of remembrance there were many being honored who had come to accept the respect offered.

            “There,” murmured Valandil’s young daughter.  “Do you see?  I am certain it is Daeradar!”

            Elladan and Elrohir raised their attention from the flowers, their movements as similar as their looks.  And the same smile spread across each fair face as they noted the attention of their lost little brother.

            Aragorn drew Frodo and Halbarad, Merry and Pippin to him, smiling down at Faramir Took.  Yes, what we did was not done in vain.

Written for the A_L_E_C "Sun and Moon" challenge, and for Alassante just because, and for Michelle for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Questions of a Young Hobbit

            “Bilbo?”

            “Yes, my lad?”

            “Is it true that when the world was new there were no Sun or Moon?”

            “So the ancient Elvish reports tell it.”

            “But how do we know that is true?”

            “Well, there are, I understand, a few Elves within Middle-earth who were there and knew the days before the Sun and Moon arose.”

            “Are there really?”

            “Well, Elves don’t have to die at the end of an appointed time as do mortals, so, yes, it is true.”

            “And you’ve met Elves?”

            A pause.  Then, in low, almost sad tones, “Do you doubt me, Frodo?”

            “Oh, no, of course I don’t!  It is only--well, you know how the Sackville-Bagginses always insist everything you say is a lie, and not even Merry or Pippin’s parents seem to take it all seriously.”

            His voice slightly bitter:  “Well, of course not--they are not children, but responsible, adult Hobbits who cannot admit that there may be folk about they have never met who might have done things they would rather not imagine.”

            A silence.  Then, “Yes.  I see.”  Another silence.  Finally, “Did my father believe you?”

            A snort.  “Well, if he didn’t he had too much courtesy to confront me openly about it, and the same with your dear mother.”

            Again a silence.  At last, “The Sun and Moon are beautiful, but I think I love the stars best.”

            Softly:  “Yes, I can see that.  But then you have more of an Elvish feel to you than is normal with our kind.”

            “Will I meet Elves one day--to talk to, I mean?”

            “I am certain you shall, my dear boy.  I am certain you shall.  And perhaps you just might meet one or two of those who can describe what it was like to waken beneath the Light of Stars, long ago on the shores of the Water of the Beginning....”

            At that Frodo shuffled somewhat nearer to lie pressed up against Bilbo, pleased to listen to the story the old Hobbit wove as the two of them lay side by side atop the Hill, watching the stars wheel over them.

For Queen Galadriel and for SpeedyHobbit, for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Shared Grief for a Fallen Brother

            As he came around the back of the Citadel, Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, paused, noting a small dark-haired figure staring up at the Tower of Ecthelion.  He altered his course to come to stand behind the form of the Ringbearer.  Quietly he asked, “Would you wish to go up the tower, and look out from its height?”

            Frodo Baggins looked up at him, his eyes alight with mingled curiosity and concern.  “Would it be acceptable?” he asked.  “After all, I am a stranger from a distant land, and have no right to ferret out the private places of the Lords of Gondor.”

            Faramir laughed, placing one hand on the slender shoulder of the Hobbit.  “My dear Master Baggins, you are after all recognized as a lord among all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  Nowhere within Gondor is closed to you, you will find.  I would gladly escort you to the top of the tower, although I am not certain how well you could bear it.  You remember the day I sought to take you down the inner stair to the great archive, and how it distressed both you and Master Samwise?  I would not see you in such anxiety once again.”

            Frodo gave a glance toward the top of the tower.  “Is all enclosed as it was on the stairway down to the archive?” he asked.

            The Man looked up thoughtfully at the tower.  “There are windows frequently,” he said.  “There is not the feeling of being closed in that one can feel descending to the archive from the Citadel.  There are seven levels to the Tower before one reaches the level of the observatory; and above that there are the parapets.”

            He could see concern warring with curiosity on the Hobbit’s face before Frodo suddenly said, “Will you take me up, then?”

            “If you so desire, Master Frodo.”  So saying, the Man led the way to the lowest level of the tower, where a guard immediately produced a key and opened the doorway for them, bowing deeply as they passed inside.

            As Faramir led the way toward the back of the tower where the first stairway began, he explained, “There are those who had climbed up the tower with bladders of water or paint, who then drop them from above upon the heads of those below.  And there have been others who have dropped other things, or who have sought to pour water or--other liquids--from the parapets.  We have learned that many who climb to such heights will suddenly become quite giddy and foolish, and clear thought appears to flee from them.  Also, this was intended to be a place from which those who watch the stars or watch for signals from far away might do so.  Oft our father came here for solitude that he might consider what the Enemy might think to do next or what strategy might be best for Gondor to follow.  We knew not that the Palantir of Minas Anor yet remained within the tower, and that he consulted it when he climbed to the observatory.  It was but customary during most of my life to keep the tower locked and to restrict those who might climb to its heights that it not become a focus of mischief and that those who studied or thought within it not be interrupted by those who thought only of foolishness.”

            “Those such as the small sons of the Steward?” Frodo asked.

            Faramir laughed.  “Indeed--and so it has been!  Here--look upon the stair, and tell me whether or not you believe you might find it oppressive.”

            The stairs were wide and solid, and indeed there were windows that allowed in good light and air.  After a moment of consideration Frodo said, “I do not believe that they will cause me much in the way of distress.”

            “Good.  Now, do not begin too quickly.  It is better to go rather slowly that you not tire yourself before we reach the upper levels.”

            The Hobbit nodded, and reaching up to place his right hand upon the rail he began the climb.

            They paused upon the landings, neither speaking much as they worked their way higher and higher up the building.  Ever Faramir allowed Frodo to set the pace, following after that he might offer assistance should it prove necessary.  On the third landing Faramir bade his companion to stay for a moment, and went into an inner room to bring back a cup of water for Frodo to drink; and he did the same on the fifth.  The Hobbit accepted the drinks, nodding his thanks but conserving his breath.

            At last they reached the door out onto the parapet, and there Frodo went forward, his face pale, planting his hands firmly upon the crenellations, peering westward at the mountainside that rose yet above them, then walking the full circuit of the walls.  He paused finally at the north side of the tower, peering at a distant shine and mist that spoke of the Falls of Rauros on the borders of the realm.  There he stopped, his eyes sad but determined, his posture straight.

            Faramir surprised himself by saying, “You remind me of him, you know, standing there like that.”

            The Hobbit turned, questioningly.  “I remind you of whom?”

            “Of my brother.  He used to stand here with me, both of us speaking of the ongoing battles against the Shadow in the east, both of us wondering what lay beyond Rauros, both wondering what tales we’d heard of Elves and Dwarves might be true and which but fantasy.  And he would stand just as you did, staring north toward Rauros, as if he were drawn that way.  I now wonder if he realized that--that there was where it would end for him?  Did he have a foreseeing of orcs and arrows, the need to protect Halflings and having called in vain for assistance?”

            Frodo turned away toward the northwest once more, giving a single nod and a brief shiver.  At last he spoke.  “The last I heard from him--much of it muffled by the sound of the wind that at times surrounded me when I wore--It--was of him begging me to forgive him.  He realized at the end that It had betrayed him, and through him had sought to betray me.  He was calling, calling for me to come back.”

            “But you did not.”  It was not a question.

            At last:  “No, I did not.  It had broken through his last defense.  It would seek to take him again--and again; and each time It would break through that last defense that much more swiftly and surely.  Oh, It was so very proud of Itself!  I could not subject him or anyone else to such torture.”  His voice, when he spoke again, was soft.  “Or myself.”

            Faramir took a deep breath, and came alongside the Hobbit, peering northwestward toward that distant gleam, setting his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.  He might have lost his brother, but, he realized, the Hobbit felt much the same, and shared his grief.

            He grasped the shoulder more tightly, more protectively....

Written for NancyLea for the Baggins Birthday Bash.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Gaffer’s Watchdog

            “You really think as Mr. Bilbo’ll let you keep it?” Sam asked, peering down at the tortoise Frodo carried.

            “I think he might,” Frodo said.  “It’s not like a kitten that would need to be taken care of while we’re away from Bag End.  It can live in the gardens, and I doubt your father would begrudge it.”

            “He would if’n he finds it feastin’ on his tomaters,” Sam advised, looking suspiciously at the creature as if it had plans to attack the prize pumpkin the Gaffer was preparing for the Overhill Harvest Exhibition.

            “We can put some boards up to keep it out of the vegetables, Sam.  And besides, it’s my birthday, and most of them have been harvested anyway.”

            Sam wasn’t so certain, but wisely kept further objections to himself.

 *******

            “Oh, Master Hamfast,” simpered Lobelia, “how beautiful the dahlias are!  I swear that you have indeed outdone yourself this year!”  She looked about.  “But your son ...?”

            “Him’s off with the young Master,” the Gaffer said guardedly.  “Been workin’ hard for weeks--deserves a bit o’ time fer hisself.”

            “And young Frodo is not here to welcome his guests?”

            He did his best not to glare.  “As the guests ain’t serposed t’be here fer an hour yet, it’s not like he was needed right aways.”

            As she headed for the kitchen door he stopped her.  “No good, Missus Lobelia--Mister Bilbo locked the door ere he left to fetch the final packages.”  And mostly t’keep you and yourn out shouldst yer come whilst him’s away, he thought.

            “Nonsense,” she began, putting her hand on the latch.  But he was right.  Foiled, she turned about.  “I’ll just look about the gardens, then.”

            And I’ll just be a-followin’ after t’keep yer out o’ mischief! he thought.

            The back gate squeaked.  Sam was holding it to admit Frodo, who held a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief in his hands.

            “Ah!  One of the byrthings!” Lobelia trilled, her lips smiling as her eyes flashed daggers at Frodo.  “And what is this?” she asked, reaching for the trailing edge of the cloth.

            “Mr. Frodo’s present for the Gaffer,” Sam said hurriedly.

            “Oh, do let me see it, won’t you?” she asked, lifting away the square of linen--and shrieked as the tortoise, alarmed to have its comforting cover pulled away pulled its head back and gaped its jaws open defensively.  In a trice Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was but a memory in the garden as they heard the front gate clatter shut behind her.

            For a moment they stared after her, before the Gaffer began to chuckle.  “So,” he said, “you was tryin’ ter sneak that by me, eh?  But with a watchdog like this ter keep the likes of her away....”  He laughed aloud.

 *******

            “Gaffer!” called Bilbo from the gate.  “This sign--since when do we have a watchdog?”

            Smiling in satisfaction, Hamfast straightened from where he’d been offering the tortoise some prime lettuce leaves.  “It’s this-a-ways, Mr. Bilbo, sir,” he began.

Written for the October LOTR Community Challenge.  Beta by RiverOtter

“History Becomes Legend, and Legend Fades into Myth...”

            “You hear all kinds of stories, you travel outside the Shire,” Dedoro Bracegirdle commented to the Hobbit from the Westfarthing who’d joined his train of wagons headed south toward the Gap of Rohan.  “All kinds of strange things, they tell out here.  Stories of trees that can change their place, and even talk and have eyes; stories of trolls that are supposed to turn to stone if sunlight touches them; goblins to make the one old Bandobras slew look small; and then others, of some land far to the west, one where mortals can’t come, where only those who can’t die can go. 

            “There’s even a tale told of a Hobbit of the Shire--the Dwarves--oh, yes, there are some Dwarves about still, though you don’t see them much.  Anyway, the Dwarves tell that tale.  If you can believe it, a Hobbit of the Shire is supposed to have accompanied their longfathers outside, all the way across the Misty Mountains!  He traveled with them across the Great River, the way they tell it, to a lonely mountain with none others anywhere about it, and fought and killed a dragon.  Can you imagine such a thing?  They all refer to him as ‘the Esteemed Burglar’ even!  They’ll go on about him for hours if you let them.  Seem to think the world of him, this mysterious ‘Esteemed Burglar.’

            “And then there’s the even more mysterious Lord Iorhael.  Almost everyone goes all solemn and teary-eyed when they speak of him.  They claim he was a Hobbit of the Shire, too, and if you tell them you’re from the Shire they’ll almost fall all over themselves to give you things----

            “What kind of things?  Oh, well; things such as a room for the night for free in their inns, or a meal.  In Rohan the women weave straw charms--they’ll come out and press them on us by the basket-load just because we’re Holbytlan the same as he was supposed to have been.  We all accept them--they sell well in the Shire for the Free Fair, don’t you know.  I’ve had weavers give me kerchiefs and leatherworkers give me bags; herbalists have presented me with some herbs you can’t get anywhere in Eriador and that the healers will pay dear for.

            “Gondor?  No.  No, I’ve never been there--just to Rohan and back.  There’s no question that Buckland has developed ties there, and they all seem to know all about Buckland’s Magnificent Master.  Sometimes I’ll have special cargo to bring to the King there--last time it was a fine barrel of the best brandy from east of the Brandywine!  And the ponies that I was asked to lead back--oh, there’s no ponies as fine as those from Rohan.  The Rohan folk--they prize horses and ponies, and they breed the best!  Hated to give them up once we got to the Shire, but the King from the horse folk had sent a specially sealed letter with me, and I couldn’t take the chance that the Master would realize perhaps one of the ponies sent had gone willful-missing, you see.  Not, of course, that I wasn’t paid well to bring them back to the Shire.  But that one black pony with the white star on its brow--I would have loved to have such a steed!  I understand that one was intended for the Thain himself.  Now, I don’t covet the Thain’s position, mind, but I definitely can imagine myself riding that pony.  Of course the Thain must look wonderful riding it, especially when he’s wearing his black tabard.  Although that’s much bigger, I understand, than it was when he came back to the Shire.  He looks more a proper Hobbit now, my father says, than he did when he came back so long ago.  I don’t really remember, though--I was just a little lad, after all.

            “Of course, things aren’t the same now as they were then, of course.  The King hadn’t given us the Western Marches yet.  I barely remember seeing Mayor Samwise then, back when he was still the gardener at Bag End, before he became the Master of the Hill.  My father was most upset about that, that a mere gardener should become Master of the Hill.  But then he always said that Frodo Baggins didn’t have proper Hobbit sense.  Not, of course, that the Shire was ever served ill since Samwise Gamgee became Master of the Hill and then the Mayor.  Oh, no--he’s been good for the Shire--everyone agrees on that.  And far more practical, my mother always said, than Frodo Baggins ever was.  Had his head in the clouds, that one did, dreaming about things outside the Shire, following after his mad old uncle, that Bilbo Baggins.  Did you know that Bilbo Baggins left the Shire, back when he was fifty?  Can you imagine, leaving the Shire in those days?  And such stories as he’d tell--dragons and talking spiders!  Who could believe such tales?

            “Not that Frodo Baggins couldn’t tell a tale, though.  No, he could do that.  I remember, as a little lad, sitting behind the ale tent at the Free Fair, listening to Frodo Baggins telling his tales of Elves, and the King being crowned, and him marrying his Queen on Midsummer Day.  Frodo Baggins saw it, you know--the King’s wedding.  That must have been a beautiful thing to see.”  Dedoro’s voice had now become soft, introspective.  The Hobbit from the Westfarthing saw the momentary longing on his face.  “I could almost see it, I swear,” he continued, “the King with a crown of leaves on his head, all in black and silver, his face shining in joy as his bride came to him, her hair loose about her shoulders, her eyes filled with the light of stars....”  He went silent for a time, the vision of that day apparently shining in his memory as he’d imagined it then.  At last he added, “Yes, I could almost see it, just as he described it.”

            He suddenly shook his head, becoming more brisk and businesslike.  “I saw the King, once, when Elanor Gamgee was fifteen and the King came to the Brandywine Bridge.  I didn’t see him up close, of course, although I could see Mayor Samwise introducing his family to him.  The Queen--she was even more beautiful than I’d imagined as a lad.  I’d never dreamed that Men could be so tall as her and the King, though.  So tall!  And treating Mayor Sam as if he were a close friend!  Who would have thought of such a thing!  And he gave Mayor Sam that gem, the one that sparkled like a star!  And there were the Thain and the Master, too, laughing as if it were the most natural thing in the world, to share jests with the King of the West!

            “I’ve not seen him since, though, not our Lord King Elessar.  Not that Big Folk would think to enter the Shire, of course.  I’m glad the King decided on that law.  I mean, if you didn’t live through the Time of Troubles, you can’t begin to imagine what it was like!  Lotho’s Big Men and that Sharkey--they had everyone terrified, going about and stealing, and doing unspeakable things!  I remember being sent with my sister and Cousin Lavinia and her children to the bolthole on our side of Hardbottle, and us cowering in there it seemed as if for days, hiding from the Big Men, until Uncle Bedlo came to tell us it was safe to go home again.  They’d been in our place--took my mother’s promise bracelet and my father’s opal shirt studs he’d bought from Dwarves who’d come one year to the Free Fair in Michel Delving.  I remember when we got them back--a package came in the Quick Post, from the Mayor’s office in Michel Delving, with a letter from the deputy Mayor, saying he believed that these had been ours.  I don’t know where they’d found them, but I know I’ll always be glad Frodo Baggins saw them returned to my parents.  My mother was so happy she was weeping, and my father was shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he was seeing them back again!

            “But then that Frodo Baggins decided he wasn’t going to run for Mayor, in spite of all who’d planned to vote for him.  Cousin Bedlo was hurt--he’d been going about amongst the Bracegirdles, doing his best to convince us all that Frodo Baggins was the best Hobbit for the job; and then he refused to run after all.  Insisted we all vote for Will Whitfoot, he did.  My dad--he was downright insulted, and said he wasn’t going to vote for any Hobbit who didn’t think the Shire was worth working for!  When Frodo Baggins left with the Elves my father wasn’t the least surprised.  Question is, where did they go, Frodo Baggins and all those Elves he left with?  And why didn’t he ever come back?

            “It’s unnatural,” he muttered, “how he and old Mad Bilbo thought more of Elves than they did of their own kind.”

            He dug through a bag he wore slung over his shoulder.  “Would you like some dried fruit?  I’ll admit I’m feeling a bit peckish, although not enough to stop and eat a proper meal.  Here--here’s a dried apricot.  This is a fruit, I’m told, from the south kingdom.  Perhaps you’ve not had it before.  I don’t particularly like them when they’re fresh--I’ve had them offered to me in Rohan--but they taste fine when dried like this.  They tell me that the mysterious Lord Iorhael liked dried apricots to eat while he was riding, so the folk of Rohan are convinced all Hobbits will like them fine and make certain we are well supplied with them when we leave their lands.  And dried these keep well.  Oh, and here are some nutmeats as well.  These are called almonds--they are imported, I’m told, from south Gondor.  Lord Iorhael is supposed to have liked them as well.  I know that at times we bring back shipments of them for Bag End, the Great Smial, and Brandy Hall--apparently the Thain, the Master, and the Mayor all like them well enough.  And at the last Free Fair I attended the Mayor had an almond cake, and if it wasn’t among the best things I’ve tasted in a long time!  There’s a biscuit of sorts they make at Meduseld, the King’s house in Edoras in Rohan, that is full of almond meats, finely sliced.  It is so good!  Such a delicate flavor!  I wonder if Lord Iorhael ate them as well?

            “Although I am not certain if this Lord Iorhael is still alive.  They tell such things of him--how he and his esquire together walked all the way into the great Enemy’s lands and defeated him by great sorceries.  They are supposed to have slipped by all of the guardians of his lands, you know--Iorhael and his faithful esquire.  They speak of them facing a great demon they call Shelob, who was supposed to have taken the shape of an enormous spider, larger than any three or four ponies by the way they tell it.  And there were other demons they faced as well--some great beast that dwelt in a lake that reached out with rope-like hands of some sort and sought to draw Lord Iorhael down into the depths, only he was supposed to have been rescued that time by the King himself, but before he was crowned King.  And there were a fire demon or two as well--in fact, the Enemy himself is supposed to have been the greatest of fire demons!

            “And of course they faced great numbers of goblins, only they speak of them as orcs in Rohan.  Once they are supposed to have been captured by orcs, but the faithful esquire was able to make the two of them invisible somehow--they had magic cloaks given them by the Elves of the Golden Wood, I am told, that could make them appear to be trees or boulders, depending on whether they walked in forests or sere lands.  So I suppose the esquire is supposed to have covered them both with his cloak so that they could not be seen by the orcs who had captured them.  The orcs are supposed to have fallen then into arguments as to which one had allowed them to escape; and while they were fighting the two of them slipped away amongst the stones.

            “It is the final battle that they speak of with the most reverence--how the Lord Iorhael faced the fire of the great Enemy and was almost overwhelmed by it, and how he somehow sacrificed his own finger in order to defeat the great, fiery Eye.  Only some speak of another creature being there, a dried up thing, like these apricots here--here, have another one.  Do take it--I have plenty for myself.  The creature?  Oh, yes.  They call it Gollum, the same as the creature that mad old Bilbo Baggins is supposed to have traded riddles with.  In these stories it is this dried up old Gollum who somehow manages to save the Lord Iorhael, but by hurting him first and somehow stealing his finger.

            “That’s the way of stories, though, isn’t it?  There’s never but one version, you know.  As this person tells it it was the Lord Iorhael himself who sacrificed his finger, while that one says it was the Gollum creature who stole it at the last moment and fell into the fire!  But the finger had to go into the fire somehow in order for the fiery Eye to be defeated, although how that would defeat a fire demon who takes the form of a fiery Eye I have no idea!

            “Well, no one ever said myths had to make sense, I suppose.  I’m surprised that Frodo Baggins didn’t tell that tale when he returned to the Shire!  I wonder if he ever saw this Lord Iorhael?  Those of the Queen’s folk, there in Rohan, who came from Gondor, say he blessed the King’s wedding with his presence--even that he stood by the King as one of his witnesses and that he signed the King’s own wedding contract!  Now, that would be quite the boast to make for a Hobbit, that he signed the King’s own wedding contract!

            “But I’ve never heard of any Lord Iorhael there within the Shire, of course.  And you haven’t either, have you?  Well, of course not!  That’s why I think he’s but a legend to begin with!  Although to the folk of Rohan he seems real enough!  And now--wait!  I am so sorry, for I don’t believe I caught your name, and if you are to be traveling with us I suppose I should know it.  I mean, I don’t wish to be reduced to saying, ‘You, there--the cooks have the supper prepared, if you wish to eat it with us’.”

            “My name is Frodo--Frodo Gardner.”

            Dedoro Bracegirdle paled a bit.  “Oh--oh, I see.  Oh, but I am sorry--you were named for Frodo Baggins, weren’t you?  And your father is the Mayor!  Oh, but I do apologize if it appears I was disrespectful of your father in any way--I mean, he’s a hero to us Hobbits, after all!”

            “He was a hero to Frodo Baggins as well,” said Frodo Gardner, rather stiffly.  “As was Frodo Baggins to my dad.”

            “Well, of course!  And adopted by Frodo Baggins as his brother, I understand.  Now, that was an unusual move, to adopt a friend and former servant as a brother and thus make him an heir.  Not that I blame him, of course!  But I don’t think it was ever done by any other Hobbit in the history of the Shire!

            “Not, of course, that Frodo Baggins was quite like any other Hobbit in the Shire.  Him with his quiet nature.  Did you know that somehow, during the time he was gone, he managed to injure his hand?  Had only nine fingers when he came back!  I saw, the time he was telling of the King’s wedding!  Counted them myself!  I suppose he injured himself with that sword he carried back with him.  I remember hearing him tell one of the Tooks that he’d not proved to be any good with a sword, not like the Master or the Thain did.  I know he’s not supposed to have fought the way the others did at the Battle of Bywater.  Probably afraid he’d kill himself or one of the other Hobbits who was fighting instead of Sharkey’s ruffians....”

For Primula Baggins for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

Greed

            “I’m not certain what to do with you, Frodo Baggins!”  Primula held her faunt up before her face, and tried to appear stern as he opened his blue eyes to their widest extent and stared into hers as if he hadn’t the slightest idea as to what had disturbed her.  But the bluish tinge about his mouth told of how it was her bowl of brambleberries was now empty.

            “Oh, you scamp!” she said.  “Those were intended for a pie for your Uncle Bilbo!  Now we’ll have to eat strawberries and cream instead.”

            The child broke into a wide grin.

A Yule gift to all, and particularly to Ainu Laire and CuriousWombat for their birthdays.  Joy to all!

A Yule Communion

            Frodo and Sam returned to door to the guesthouse they shared, there on the edge of the great gardens north and west of the city of Avallonë.  It was a beautiful night, slightly chilly, but not uncomfortably so.

            Sam looked up, his face alight with appreciation for the beauty of the stars.  “It’s been a long time,” he said softly, “since I saw the stars like this.  Not since we left Rivendell, I’m thinkin’.”

            You are right, Sam, Frodo returned.  But then it is Yule, and we Hobbits don’t usually see that much of the night sky in midwinter, do we?  Between fear of sudden winter storms and our love of being comfortably warm, we are usually under cover on the nights when these stars might be visible.  I remember traveling to Buckland for Yule and looking up at their beauty, and imagining that I was the only one anywhere to appreciate their loveliness during December.

            Sam took a deep breath, smiling gently as he nodded his understanding.  Then he looked at his companion curiously.  “I thought as you couldn’t count time proper here in the Elven lands,” he commented.

            Frodo’s laugh was delightful.  I can’t.  But we were invited to a solstice celebration, if you will remember.  And the solstice celebration is held on Yule.  His own smile broadened.  It’s the only way I can begin to keep track of what time of year it might be.  I can remember every solstice celebration I’ve attended, but can’t keep track of time at all.  Isn’t it odd?

            “They call it Mettarë in the King’s cities,” Sam commented.  “We’ve spent a few now with Strider, once in Gondor and several times in Annúminas.  And there was one time, there after we come home with little Tolman, accompanied by Strider and the Lady Arwen and their family and all, we had a most interestin’ Second Yule sunrise.  Snowballs--all of us, Strider, Pippin, Merry, and me-- we was all hit by them!  And no one ever saw the one as threw’em.  We just heard him laugh, and saw as where he’d woke, there in the middle of the pavement.”

            Frodo’s face lit with joy.  Then it wasn’t but a dream!

            “You thought as it was but a dream?”

            There was snow on my feet....

            They shared a smile that deepened, and their Lights flared.  They turned toward the gardens, and followed the path to the White Tree.  Frodo looked to his companion in question.  “No, you first,” Sam said.  Frodo smiled, then reached toward the trunk.

*******

            Returning from the lighting of the Mettarë fires, the King Elessar and his beloved Queen paused by the White Tree of Minas Anor even as the Sun began rising over the mountains to the east.  The King laid his hand on the trunk, then his tired smile brightened.

 *******

            In the Shire Frodo Gardner and his older sister crept out of Bag End, leaving the rest of their families asleep.  Together they walked down to the Party Field and the mallorn that grew there, a feeling of excitement growing between them.

            “I hope that they are together,” Elanor said softly.

            Frodo nodded.  “I am certain they will be.  This is one time of year that our Sam-dad always counted on knowing that Uncle Frodo would be there.”

            Still, they shared an uncertain glance between them before first Frodo and then Elanor reached toward the silver trunk....

 *******

            Sam watched the brother of his heart gently lay his hand on the rind of the Tree, then pause, a bright smile lightening his features.  They are there! Frodo shared.

            Quickly the gardener reached forward, and immediately sensed his two eldest and the King’s presence.  “Well, and if’n the Queen ain’t there, too!” he murmured with pleasure.  “Yule greetin’s, all of you!”

 *******

            “Joy to you, my blessed friends,” Aragorn said.  He looked to his wife.  “Apparently the family has gathered about Sam for Yule.  And Frodo is joyful to notice that, I think.  His presence is so strong and happy this morning.”

            Arwen nodded, but her eyes were distant as she felt for other presences she seemed rarely to sense.  No, her parents and grandmother seemed to leave the White Tree mostly to Frodo.

            Her husband divined her sadness, and shifted his hand to touch hers.

 *******

            “The Lady Arwen is sad,” Elanor said.  “But Uncle Strider is with her, and is glad we are here for Daddy.”

            “He thinks Da’s still here,” Frodo noted.

            “We’ll have to tell him when he comes north in the spring,” Elanor said.

            He nodded before whispering, “I’m glad you’re together, Da, Uncle Frodo.  We love you.”

            Above them on the Hill the door of Bag End opened.  “Dad?” called Holfast.  “Shall we start preparing first breakfast?  You have a number of impatient faunts waiting for you!”

            Brother and sister laughed ruefully.  Sending one more regretful thought of love to the others who stood beneath their own trees, they pulled away.

 *******

            There--their lives are full, Frodo shared in thought with his friend.  I rejoiced every time I felt you called away, knowing that indeed you were living as I could not, not there in the Shire.  His attention returned to the one hand he still felt in the King’s City.  They are not here, not on Tol Eressëa, he tried to reassure her.  They do their best to keep watch over you in thought from afar, even as once you kept such a watch over your beloved, but their pain is still so new.  Know this--they will never stop loving you.  They will never stop caring for the welfare of you and your children--never.  And the pictures you sent----

            But a great Light could be seen approaching, and Frodo’s mouth opened in surprise and delight.  Feeling the touch on the White Tree of Minas Anor grow tentative prior to pulling away, he thought vehemently, No, my Lady!  No--wait but a moment!  Please!

 *******

            Arwen was about to pull away from the Tree, her eyes downcast, when she stopped, raising her face in confusion.

            “What is it, my most beloved?” her husband asked her.

            “He does not wish me to leave as yet,” she murmured, glancing uncertainly at him.

            “He is aware of you?”

            “Yes!  Sam’s children have pulled away, but he remains beneath his own Tree, apparently.  But both are growing increasingly excited.  Excited and pleased--very pleased, in fact!

            He withdrew his hand from hers, and returned it to the trunk of the Tree.  Yes, there was no question that Frodo was most pleased about something, and pleased to sense the return of his attention, although the Hobbit’s own attention was mainly fixed upon something approaching him.

            And then he and his wife both felt....

            Ion nín--sell nín--are you there?  Do you realize how very, very much we love you?

            And among the other presences there was one of which the Queen had been bereft for far, far too long.

            “Oh, Naneth!” she murmured.  “You are well--well and happy!  How glad I am!  How very glad I am!”

            And he who had been Aragorn son of Arathorn smiled as he saw the tears of joy that had sprung to his Evenstar’s eyes.

Written particularly for Golden for the LOTR Community Yule Exchange, and betaed by RiverOtter, with many thanks for the quick work!  Jada, you love so to give specific challenges....

Marred Gifts

            Saradoc poured tea for himself and Paladin, listening to his brother-in-love’s complaints with interest.  “He’s driving us quite to distraction, Sara,” Pal was saying.  “You know how difficult it can be at times to follow his thinking.  It’s now to the point that his thoughts skip about so they seem to run together, making it almost impossible at times to appreciate just what point he might be trying to make.  And it’s just as bad in his writing--the letter he intended to send Jade thanking her for the gift she gave him for her birthday--well, you read it!”

            He produced a sheet of paper from his pocket that had been crumpled and then carefully smoothed and folded, handing it to his sister’s husband.  Saradoc set the teapot on the table and accepted the sheet, unfolding it carefully.  Pippin’s scrawl appeared more illegible than usual, it seemed, and his words were just as difficult to interpret.

Dear Auntie Jade,

            I can’t tell you just how pleased the bow is wonderful!  I love the carving on the handgrip is so well wrapped.  Did you find Pervinca says it in Pincup?  I love the ones Uncle Ferdinand likes the coffee the Dwarves bring Frodo.

            Saradoc looked up, his right ear twitching slightly as he rubbed thoughtfully at his temple.  “Did she give him a bow, then?”

            “Yes--she bought it in Waymeet rather than having Ferdinand make it for him.”

            “How he got from bowmaking to Pincup to coffee I can’t begin to make out, Pal.”

            “Nor can we.  It’s why I’m here, really.  The lessons master at the Great Smial is at his wit’s end as to what to do, so I was wondering if you’d agree to allow me to send Peregrin here for the winter.  It’s said that your Cousin Meriman has done wonders for discipline in the school room in the Hall since he became lessons master here.  Do you think he’d take on Pippin?”

            Sara smiled.  “He will if I say that my nephew is to be here, Pal.  Certainly you can send Pippin here for the winter.  Merry and Beri will be delighted!”

 *******

            Berilac Brandybuck was most certainly not delighted to have his cousin Peregrin residing at Brandy Hall for the winter.  For one thing, now the small Took was here it seemed that all the plans he and Merry had made to prepare Yule gifts together had gone hang; and even when he could get Merry to help him, Pippin was always there to put his own all-too-destructive hand into the mix, leaving any project he touched marred and grubby looking.  The potholders they were weaving for the cooks were all filled with holes since Pippin had found them and tried to “help” finish them.  The wall shelf he’d been making for his father was improperly glued and had been painted an unwholesome pink, then was dropped on the floor of the workshop while still tacky and now had wood shavings and dirt adhering to it.  As for the poem he’d been copying and illuminating for his mother--Beri shuddered!  Frodo had provided him with the parchment and ink, and had sketched in the illustration of the shepherd lad Beri’d wanted done for him to paint himself.  Finding this with its ink drying on the windowsill in the schoolroom, Pippin had taken it on himself to fill in the colors in the shepherd lad’s costume, and there were now spots of blue and orange all over the sheet, many of them running together to make a horrible muddy brown.

            “It’s not so bad,” Merry was saying as Beri held this latest disaster in his hands, shaking with anger and frustration.  “He means well, you know.”

            “But it’s the only sheet of parchment I had!” Beri shouted.  “You know that!  I don’t have enough pocket money to get any more, and who knows when Frodo will come again to do the drawing over?  And Pippin never seems to understand how he’s ruining things rather than helping.  He’s just a walking accident any more!  I wish he’d go home to Tuckborough and let us get on with things without any more of his doubtful help.  And when you ask him about why he’s done what he did, he comes out with sheer nonsense, and seems to think you just ought to understand what he means.

            “I mean it, Meriadoc Brandybuck--if he touches one more thing I’m working on I’ll thump him from here to Hobbiton and back!”  With that he laid the ruined poem back on the sill and stalked out of the room.

            The next morning when he arrived to help Cousin Meriman with the younger children’s lessons, he found that Pippin was already there, receiving one of Manny’s most acerbic dressing downs yet, and in front of all of the other children in his class.

            “You call this a description of the Great Smial?” demanded Master Meriman.  “Listen to this tripe!”  His voice took on a shrill falsetto as he read, “The doors are red.  The shutters are made of walnut wood and there are lots of nuts to be found there.”  He glared at Pippin.  “The Tooks keep nuts inside their shutters, do they?”

            “But we do get lots of nuts from the woods where the walnut trees grow,” Pippin explained.  “Although we have to fight the squirrels for them sometimes.  Did you know that squirrels run about the trunks--flick their tails and chirrup like mad at times?  I like squirrels, really, but they can be that bad, you know.”

            Meriman slapped the paper down on his desk.  “Will you confine yourself to the topic, Peregrin Took?  What do squirrels have to do with the question I asked you?  I asked if the Tooks store nuts inside their shutters!”

            “Well, of course not!  We keep nuts in the storerooms until we bake them into cakes!  The one my sister Pearl had for her last birthday was magnificent.”

            The lessons master rubbed his eyes.  At last he dropped his hand to his hip, glaring at the small Took before him.  “I did not ask where it is you do store nuts or what kinds of desserts you make of them.  All you had to answer was yes or no.  You are becoming far, far too cheeky, Peregrin Took, heir to the Thain or not as you might be.  You will go forward right now and write lines for me.  Twenty-five times you will write:  I will answer only the question asked.  Do you understand?  And confine yourself to a single word in answer.”

            “Yes.”  The word was almost tearfully spoken, and the expression on Pippin’s face was of quiet shame and misery as he turned to the slate board and took up the slate pencil.  As he was so short, he soon had the lower margins of the board filled, and noting this Cousin Meriman indicated to Beri he should fetch the footstool for Pippin to stand upon to finish his punishment.

            I will answer only the question asked.  I will answer only the question asked.  I will answer only when spoken to.  I will answer only when spoken to.  I will answer only when I speak up.

            Berilac shook his head as he set the stool for the younger lad’s use.  He’d only get into more trouble for this behavior.  What cheek!

 *******

            Then next day word spread through the Hall rapidly--Cousin Frodo was here, six days early!  Beri abandoned his work in the kitchens to race to the Master’s parlor to greet his cousin, pleased beyond telling.  Perhaps something could be rescued of the poem now, before Yule arrived.

            But Pippin had arrived first, and Frodo, seated on a stool with a towel about his shoulders to dry him from the rain falling upon Buckland, was talking to the young Took.  “And how do you like your lessons here?” he was asking.

            Pippin was standing very straight, and the pleasure he’d shown now faded rapidly.  “They are well enough, I suppose,” he said rather stiffly.  “Master Meriman doesn’t like me, though.  He asks a question, and when I answer it  he says I’m being cheeky.  How does one become part of one’s face?  Do you know?”

            Frodo’s own cheek twitched, just a little.  “What kind of questions has he asked?”

            “Yesterday he asked if we Tooks kept our nuts in our shutters.  How are we to keep nuts in our shutters, especially if they are open?  I don’t keep nuts on the windowsills--that’s the place to set pretty stones and my best marbles so everyone can see, after all.  And----”

            Frodo interrupted smoothly.  “Why did he ask such a thing?”

            “I said in my essay that the shutters at the Great Smial are made of walnut wood.”

            “And how did the matter of nuts come up when you were describing the shutters?”

            “Well, I said that we get lots of nuts from the wood where the walnut trees grow----”

            “Oh, I see.”

            “Well, he didn’t.  He made me write lines, and then when he checked them he said I was being cheeky and gave me three slaps on the hand with his ruler.”

            Aunt Esme had returned with another towel for Frodo’s hair.  “You ought to have carried an umbrella, you know, Frodo Baggins,” she scolded.  “You know how rapidly the weather can change in Buckland and the Marish this time of year, after all.  You’ll catch your death of the cold, you do this often enough.”

            “Nonsense, Aunt Esme.  I can’t carry everything with me, after all, and my cloak kept off the worst of it.”

            “So tell me why your shirtfront is soaked, as are your shoulders?  We hung your cloak from the rack in the kitchens--it will dry the quicker there, I think.  Better than soaking the hearth rug here or letting it drip in the entranceway.”

            “You are too kind to me,” Frodo said, smiling his thanks to Beri’s mother as she bustled in with a large mug of tea and a small plate of raisin cakes.  He nodded at Berilac where he stood just inside the door.  “Hullo, Beri.  You’ve been quiet so far.  Not a word to say?”

            “Trying to get a word in edgewise with that one around is often difficult,” Beri pointed out.

            “And where’s my Merry?” Frodo continued.  “I’m surprised he allowed you two to get here first!”

            “In the schoolroom with his father, speaking with Master Meriman,” Esme said with a sideways glance at Pippin.

            “About me?” Pippin muttered.

            Esmeralda sighed.  “I fear that, yes, it’s about you, Peregrin Took.”

            Frodo drank half the cup of tea in a gulp, and rose.  “I will go to the schoolroom, then, and see if there is anything that I can do.”  He shrugged away from Esmeralda’s ministrations and set the mug on the table.  “I will be well enough, Aunt Esme.  And, no, Pippin.  It would be best that you stay here.  I don’t wish to find myself in the midst of an argument in which you are trying to defend yourself.”

            Swiftly draping the towels over the back of a wooden chair where they would not be in danger of leaving upholstery wet, he beckoned Berilac to follow him and headed for the portion of the Hall where most formal lessons were given.

            “It’s been a time since I came this way,” he commented to Beri as they approached the open door to the schoolroom.  “And to think that at one time I thought I might well one day serve here as lessons master.”  He gave a smile and shrug to his Brandybuck cousin before the two of them entered the chamber.  Uncle Saradoc and Cousin Manny were near the slate board, examining the lines Pippin had written the previous day.  Merry stood aside from them, plainly troubled.  Glancing at the board from a distance, Frodo murmured, “Oh, my.  Well, that is interesting, isn’t it?”

            “I tell you, he is the cheekiest of imps to come under my tutelage within living memory,” Master Meriman was saying.  “I set him twenty-five lines--and this is what he gave me!”

            “I don’t really believe he means any cheek by it, Cousin Manny,” Merry said.  “We are speaking of Pippin, after all.  And he gets distracted so easily....”

            “This is not distraction, Meriadoc Brandybuck.  This is sheer Took foolishness, and a waste of my time and his!”

             I will answer only the question asked had become I will not question the one who has no answers by the time Pippin had finished his writing, with his letters becoming increasingly untidy and hurried as he finished the last lines.  The sentences were not lined up under one another, but written one after another across the board, sometimes slanting alarmingly upwards when the last words failed to fit quite right, and in other instances a word might have been written sideways to try to force it into the space where it had originally been left out.  Some of the sentences had been reduced to tiny letters so cramped together they could not be read at all.  Again, Frodo’s cheek twitched as he examined the evidence of Pippin’s industry, noting the places where some words had been smudged almost away when he’d leaned on one sweaty palm while writing as rapidly as he could with the other hand.

            Uncle Sara sighed, “Well, he appears to have decided that rather than trying to count the lines he should just give as many as he could fit.  I count at least thirty-two, although I’m not certain whether this--” pointing to an almost indecipherable line of pinched lettering, “--is meant to be one or two separate repetitions.”

            “But he didn’t even repeat them as he’d been told to write them,” the teacher pointed out.

            “No,” Frodo interrupted, “he didn’t.  I doubt that he can, really.”

            The two older Hobbits and Merry turned to look at him questioningly.  “You doubt he can?  What are you about, Baggins?” Master Meriman demanded.

            “Did you ask him about why the sentences kept changing?” Frodo asked.

            “Ask him?  I pointed out to him that he’d failed even in the process of writing the line I gave him to write!” Manny burst out.  “He just looked at me as if he couldn’t begin to understand the problem!”

            “As I said, I doubt that he can see the problem.  It’s just not the way that Took mind of his works, Meriman.  It works far too quickly, you see, causing him to say or write just what’s flitting through his thoughts at the moment.  Now and then he notes he left out a word or two, so he tries to make them fit back in, but more often than not he just goes with the new thought rather than the original one.”

            The idea was obviously a novel one to the lessons master, who exchanged glances with Saradoc as if not certain what to think.  He then looked back to Frodo.  “How do you know this?” he asked.

            “Manny, I’ve known Pippin all his life.  Do you think I’ve not noticed how his attention wanders from topic to topic, and how easily distracted he is?  It’s not all that unusual amongst the Tooks, after all.”

            Merry, somewhat excited and yet still concerned, interrupted, “Then, it’s not really Pippin’s fault that he gets distracted easily?”

            Frodo smiled at his favorite cousin.  “No, not truly his fault.  But it will be his fault if he does nothing to try to focus better in the future.  From what I can tell the situation appears to be getting worse rather than better as he grows older.  Bilbo told me how his Uncle Hildigar had to help him get past many of the same problems when he was a child.  He was driving Uncle Bungo quite mad as he couldn’t appear to finish anything and was careless in what he did try to do.  He said Uncle Hildigar took him in hand for a month or two, always asking, ‘What were you supposed to be doing?’ until he learned the lesson thoroughly.  He said he had to learn to be very methodical in what he did in order to get anything finished and done properly.  But although he hated it at first he was afterwards very glad that Hildigar was willing to spend the time to see the lessons learned.”  He looked at the slate board again and winced.  “I do hope we are not too late.”

            Berilac asked, “Is this why he won’t leave other people’s projects alone--because once he sees them and thinks he knows what to do to finish them he just goes ahead and does it?  Think of it, and then do it, I mean?”

            Noting the frustration in Beri’s voice, Frodo nodded, a bit of a crease to be seen between his eyebrows.  “I suspect that is exactly it, Beri.  What’s he done with your things?”

            “Well, he’s ruining the Yule gifts I’ve been working on.  And I’m glad you’re here early....”

            Frodo took a  look at the poem that lay still on the windowsill, and appeared relieved.  “Oh, this will be quite easy to fix, actually, having been done on parchment.  If it had been on paper we’d need to start right over again.  We’ll use a scraper gently, and I’ll redraw the picture for you so you can paint it as you please.  Your lettering is much improved, I must say.”

            For the first time since Pippin’s arrival Beri felt hope his gifts would be finished on time, and as well done as he’d hoped to make them.

            Meriman, having watched Frodo for some time quietly as he considered the Baggins’s evaluation of Pippin, finally spoke up.  “So, you think that the scamp can be helped?”

            “Oh, yes, I do believe he can.  But it won’t be an easy process.”

            “Well, I haven’t the energy to work on constantly reminding him what he’s supposed to be doing when I’m working with a room full of Brandybucks,” the lessons master pointed out.

            Saradoc sighed.  “I can see your point, Manny.  However, part of the reason Pal asked me to take the lad for the winter was because you are so good at instilling discipline in your students.”

            Frodo looked from his older cousin to Meriman and back.  At last he gave Merry a thoughtful glance, then smiled ruefully as he returned his attention to Manny.  “How about I stay a month or two past Yule, then?  Would it upset you to have an assistant for a time, do you think, Manny?”

            “And what about your own business in the Westfarthing, then?” the lessons master asked.  “Will Bag End and the Hill suffer for you being gone that long?”

            “Well, I was intending to be here and there for at least a month anyway,” Frodo pointed out.  “I was to spend a couple of weeks in Budge Hall with the Bolgers next, you see.  But as they are planning to be here for Yule it won’t be as if I’d be avoiding their company.  I do believe that Uncle Odovacar will understand.  As for Aunt Rosamunda--well, where would she be if she didn’t have something to fuss about?  And the Gaffer and Samwise will see to it that Bag End does not become infested with mice and dust while I’m gone.  Plus, with Brendi as my lawyer and here at hand, any business that comes up he can help me see to it.”

            Sara focused his own gaze on Frodo.  “I’d still like to be certain that it’s as you say, Frodo.”

            “Shall we call Pippin in and try to get him to tell us what he was thinking when he wrote this?” Frodo asked.

            At the Master’s nod, Beri volunteered, “I’ll go and fetch him, then, shall I?  He’s with Mum and Aunt Esme.”

            In minutes he returned with Pippin, accompanied by Esmeralda and Adamanta.  Pippin’s expression was wary in spite of the attempts Merry was making to smile encouragingly at him, and he was doing his best to avoid meeting Meriman’s eyes.  “Yes, Uncle Saradoc?” he asked, apparently hoping that he would receive a more merciful welcome from his aunt’s husband than from the lessons master.  Meriman sighed, nodding to Sara to carry out the questioning.

            “About the lines you wrote yesterday,” Saradoc began, at which the child winced.  “Can you tell us why the wording kept changing?”

            Pippin gave a swift look to the board before turning a puzzled expression up to meet his uncle’s inquiring gaze.  “I wrote what he told me to,” he insisted.

            Frodo looked from Sara’s face to Manny’s, and said, “If you will allow me?”  At the Master’s nod and the lesson master’s shrug he crouched down somewhat so as to look directly into Pippin’s face.  “Do you remember which one you wrote first?” he asked.  Pippin nodded and pointed to one of the two repetitions of I will answer only the question asked.  “And which was the last line you wrote?”  Pippin dumbly indicated one of the highest lines on the board, which read I will not question the one who has no answers.

            Frodo nodded and stood up.  He pointed at the first line the lad had indicated.  “All right--read this sentence to me, please.”

            “I will answer only the question asked,” Pippin said dutifully.

            “Very good.  Now, this one?”

            Pippin repeated, “I will answer only the question asked.”

            Frodo again nodded, a slight smile as if this was precisely what he’d expected to be discerned on his face.  “Well, dearling, I’d like you to read this again, but this time actually read precisely what you wrote.”

            The lad appeared puzzled by this, but looking carefully he started to read, “I will answer----”  He sputtered to a halt, his face flushing.  “Oh,” he said rather miserably.  “I changed it!”

            “That you did, my dearest Peregrin,” Frodo noted kindly.  “You do that fairly often, don’t you?”

            Slowly Pippin nodded, his face crumpled slightly as he looked between the two lines, noting the differences.  He then looked randomly at another of the sentences, and sighed as he realized this one said I shall answer only when addressed.  “I changed this one a lot, didn’t I?”

            “That you did, sweetling.  We need to work on this, don’t we?”

            Pippin looked up despairingly at Frodo. “But I didn’t realize I’d changed it!”

            “I know.  But if you’re willing to work on it, we can make things better.  I’m going to stay for a time and work with you so that you can keep on the track of a single thought at a time rather than haring off after this one and that as you’ve become used to doing.”

            More hopefully, the child asked, “Then you’ll be my teacher instead of Master Manny?”

            Frodo shook his head.  “No, I’ll not be your teacher.  I’ll only be the one who pokes your memory to keep it working on the question asked and not another.”

 *******

            Things were improved fairly quickly.  Pippin was moved in the schoolroom to a table where he sat alone, and usually Frodo would sit behind him and slightly to one side.  When Pippin was answering a question put him by Meriman, Frodo would tap his shoulder once his answer started to wander.  The child was to stop and ask the lessons master to repeat the question, at which Pippin would repeat it, too, and then answer it.  For the first four days he’d often have to do this three or four times per question, but on the fifth he was answering the actual question asked more often than not.  It was a bit harder for him when he was writing.  After he’d written something Frodo would take him off to a corner where he’d ask him to read it aloud.  By the seventh day Pippin himself was beginning to identify where his thoughts had begun to wander, and after two weeks he was doing much better at keeping his writing to what had been asked of him.

            Berilac was much happier, too.  With Frodo working with Pippin after classes had let out, he and Merry had more time to do things together, and with Frodo in tow much of the time when Pippin was with the two Brandybuck cousins the child was doing better focusing on his own gifts and leaving those they were working on alone.  Frodo arranged for one of the carpenters to help Pippin cut out new boards for the wall shelf, and the child delivered them to Berilac with an apology for ruining Beri’s first attempt.  Frodo had scraped the parchment for Beri in those spots where Pippin had marred it, and redrawn the illustration.  He now wrote out a poem of Pippin’s choice for Pippin to present his mum, and allowed Pippin to decorate it as he pleased while Berilac worked on his own project.  He had Pippin undo the weaving of the potholders and set up the warp threads, leaving the actual weaving to Merry and Beri.  While they worked on their projects Frodo showed Pippin how to do fingerweaving, and he made sashes for his sisters.

            By First Yule all was finished, and Frodo smiled as he presented a very neat Peregrin Took to his parents on their arrival from the Tooklands.

 *******

            Paladin and Saradoc sat in Sara’s office, enjoying an ale and pipe together as they looked over the work Pippin had been doing brought in by Meriman.  “Much improved!” Pal said admiringly.  He looked up gratefully at Manny.  “I’d heard you could help instill discipline in your students, and I see your reputation wasn’t exaggerated.”

            The lessons master shrugged uncomfortably.  “Well, if he’s improved--and there’s no question he has--it’s more due to young Baggins than to me.  He’s been right at Peregrin’s side, helping him to keep turned to the question at hand rather than going scattershot from one thought to another, and it does appear to be sinking in.  I’ve been amazed to realize that your lad is actually very bright indeed--perhaps too bright, really.  By that I mean nothing bad, you realize--merely that he had so gotten into the habit of following various hopping thoughts that he was making no sense at all much of the time.”

            Paladin nodded his understanding.  “That you agreed to keep on with him is a wonder to me,” he confided.  “He’s driven our lessons master quite mad, I fear.”

            “I suspect he’s about ready to return to the Great Smial if you should wish it, although now he’s actually made a start at learning I’d like to see what else he’s capable of.  If you should wish to leave him here until just before first sowing, I shouldn’t mind.  And several of our children have begun picking up Frodo’s cues, and could help him continue as he’s finally begun to progress.”

            Looking mightily pleased, Paladin Took agreed.

 *******