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Gandalf and the Seahobbit  by PIppinfan1988

Chapter Eight

Young Isengar is receiving round the clock care, as his father would put it, and he has done little more than sleep these past couple of days. The evening of the first day he acquired a dreadful fever, however, through a bit of ‘elvish medicine’, the fever has left him this morning, though he is still weak and sore. At least two times a day his soiled bandages are removed, his wound cleaned, and then wrapped again in clean bandages.

Today he has tried to sit up, but decided he was not quite ready for that, so he lies propped up on four pillows while listening to stories told by the sympathetic crew. I believe just about everyone, Men and Elves alike, have stopped by to greet and pay respects to the valiant Took. In return, Isengar tells his tale of obtaining his wound…though the tale has grown in the telling. The Harad soldier is now a large cave troll--of the sort that I have told him about many times in my own stories. Mirgalond’s wife is now the Queen of Belfalas, and the hearth rod he used is now a famous sword secretly forged by Cirdan himself.

Cirdan is now visiting the young story-teller and encourages the lad with a few words. I made the error of telling Isengar that he will need to eat heartily in order to gain back his strength. He is feeble, though hale enough to tell Cirdan that he will now need (in addition to the ‘normal’ hobbit meals) Third Breakfast, First Tea, Second Tea, and an added supper as well. Also, a handy supply of apples would not be turned away, neither.

As the Shipwright leaves, he walks past me and smiles, his long beard wagging as he shakes his head. I stand in the doorway, closing my eyes and shaking my head at the drivel as well. I deem it will not be long before young Isengar is back to his typically annoying, inquisitive ways. I muse on what sort of tales the young rascal will be weaving for his own family upon his return. As I turn to leave the sleeping area, Mirgalond walks past me with a small basket of apples; compliments of Cirdan! I clearly see that the lad has successfully wrapped the hearts of this hardened, salty crew around his small hobbit fingers.

I let out a long sigh, shaking my head again as I make my way towards the galley. The poor lad must be starving.

* * * * * * *


My thoughts are interrupted as the soft voice of a frail young hobbit breaks the silence of the tent. It is close to noon as he wakes up after a most difficult night. There seemed to be nothing that Aragorn could do to abate the pain in the lad’s aching limbs. In one final attempt, Aragorn took a vial and slipped half of its contents into the hobbit’s broth. The vial contained a sleeping potion that Peregrin detested and the broth was Aragorn’s last hope.

Poor Meriadoc. He continues to sleep soundly upon a cot situated near the bed. He has been so attentive to the comforts and needs of his dear friend ever since he arrived six days ago; I almost feel terrible.

He was out of the tent obtaining fresh water for his cousin when Aragorn put the potion into Peregrin’s broth. Apparently, Meriadoc was hungry and asked if he could have a bit of the broth as well. What were we expected to say? No, lad, the broth is now an elixir? In fact, the inadvertent ruse worked to our advantage. When Peregrin ate the broth he was no more the wiser, and now the both of them have gotten much needed rest.

I smile at Peregrin, “How are you feeling, my lad?”

There is a pause as Peregrin considers my question. “I’m hungry,” he finally answers, “but no more broth--I want solid food, if you please.”

I am pleased to hear the lad is asking for food. He has not eaten very well since his injury, so I am quite content to bring in a large tray laden with meat, bread, and two bowls of stew. As I presumed, upon my return Meriadoc is now awake and sitting up on his cot rubbing his sleep-bleary eyes. He thanks me for the provisions, but then he insists that I sample the stew before he will eat any. Again, his younger cousin takes his cue.

Satisfied that each bowl is potion-free, I watch as both young hobbits fall to “business” as they call it, like greedy little children. They both glance in my direction every now and then to make certain I remain awake.

Peregrin is first to finish his stew. He carefully eases back onto his pillows and asks me what I was thinking about when he woke up.

“Just someone from long ago,” I reply, leaning back in my chair.


I hesitate before I answer, unsure if the lad is up to the hearing of tales. “Your Uncle Isengar.” I watch as a smile widens on Peregrin’s face.

“You knew him?”

I nod. “We…traveled together at one time.”

“My father has told me many tales of Isengar’s adventure,” Peregrin says. “Isengar told my father that he built his own ship and went sailing with a crew made up of Elves and lords of Men.” Peregrin rolls his eyes and states matter-of-factly, “Even I didn’t believe that. But my father said that Isengar told him first-hand that he was in a huge battle.” Peregrin becomes enthusiastic as he relates his father’s tales, “and that he wielded a huge elven sword and felled a Man who stood over seven feet tall!” He catches Meriadoc rolling his eyes just as he did a few moments ago. “What? You don’t believe my father?”

“Of course I believe your father,” replies Meriadoc, “I just don’t believe your uncle.”

“Well, he’s your uncle, too!”

“Lads, lads,” I interrupt. I look at Peregrin and respond further, “Do not believe everything Isengar has told your father.” Then I continue on, looking at Meriadoc this time, “Although there is some truth to certain parts of it as well.”

As I fondly recall the story of the young, brave Seahobbit from years gone by, I find that I miss Isengar’s impish smiles and spontaneous laughter. Then I look at Peregrin. They are so much alike…and yet so different.

Both Peregrin and Meriadoc sit in rapt attention as I relate the story of their uncle’s tale. Probably because it is the absolute truth this time.

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