Setting: Hobbiton and Tuckborough; 1423, by Shire-Reckoning. 

Arwen (4 years old) birth date, said to be October 24, 1419;

Elanor (2 years old) March 25, 1421;

Frodo-lad (5 months) 1423

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them?  The only thing I might possibly own is Arwen Baggins (no relation to me, lol).  I own the girl, but not the name- that’s straight from Tolkien.  Confusing, I know.  Enjoy.

*          *          *

Title: His Little Evenstar

Chapter Five: The Kitchen Circus

            Arwen laid in bed the next morning, looking out the window, enjoying the peace and bliss of not having a care in the world. But then the hope and heartache of the previous night came back with astonishing clarity: her father's bad news and that he was indeed leaving followed by the good news that he wouldn't be leaving for another year yet. On the heels of that though, was the reminder that today was Uncle Pippin's party. Troubles forgotten, she jumped out of bed, threw on the dress and sandals that Aunt Rosie had set out for her the night before and dashed down the hall to her father's room. "Daddy, get up! We have to go to the party!" Only when she received no response did she realize that the room was empty. "Daddy?" She searched the room only to find nothing. What if he left already? No! Daddy wouldn't leave to go with the Elves! Not after he told her he could wait a year! And definitely not before Uncle Pippin's party! Determined and feeling uncharacteristic worry for her five years, she left and hurried down the hall. The sight that greeted her, she realized, was what she should have expected all along. There was Frodo, lying on the couch, dressed in his nightclothes and tangled up in a quilt. He was sleeping peacefully, like a child comforted after a long nightmare. Though at the moment there was nothing disturbing his sleep, but that wouldn't last for much longer - really not more than a few seconds.

            Arwen knew that she should have let him sleep. But it was already late morning, and a child can only be so patient with a party waiting - especially one with the kind of food that Uncle Pippin usually served to his guests. "Get up, Daddy! Get up!" she shouted, shaking him vigorously. What escaped her notice however, was that she was shaking his injured left shoulder, something that Uncle Sam had told her repeatedly to be careful with. Unfortunately, Frodo did notice - very quickly. He woke up with a startled cry, wincing in pain as he clutched his shoulder. For a second it looked like he was going to scream, but he bit his lip before it could come out. "Owww!" he gasped as the shock began to wear off. "Arwen! Let go!"

            Uncle Sam, who unbeknown to Arwen, had been camping out in the kitchen with Gandalf and little Elanor, jumped up from the table, and was by his master's side before Arwen even knew what was happening. "Master Frodo, are you alright?"

            Frodo, who by now had recovered from the sudden cold pain that had ripped through his sensitive shoulder, just nodded sheepishly. For one thing he hated causing such unnecessary worry, and secondly, he just realized that he was still in his nightclothes at such a late hour on such a fine day as this one seemed to be, if the view from the window was any indication. "I'm fine, Sam."

            "Are you sure, Mr. Frodo, because I can -"

            "Well if you insist, I could use some Kingsfoil tea. Arwen, little bundle of energy that she is, shook my shoulder right on the button!"

            "Are you sure, Mr. Frodo?"

            "Quite sure, Sam. Just a little tea should be fine. It's not bad, really."

            Sam didn't quite believe his master. It wasn't that Mr. Frodo would lie out- right, but he had a tendency to under-dramatize certain situations when children were present. With the pain all but gone, Frodo sat up slowly, and turned to face Arwen, who was on the verge of tears. "Sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean to hit you on the button! I though the only button was on your tummy, like mine. I didn't mean to hurt you."

            Frodo just smiled with sympathy. "It's not your fault, dear child," he soothed, motioning her over to his lap. "Well, you see, it's not really a button, it's just one particular place on my shoulder, it was hurt a few years ago."

            "And it's still not better?"

            Frodo shook his head. "It's like when you break a bone. Remember last year when Aemilia broke her arm?"

            Arwen nodded. "Yes, I remember. It hurt for days after."

            "Yes, and even though it healed it will always be sensitive. Just like Daddy's shoulder."

            "But Lia's arm doesn't hurt still. It's all better. Why isn't your shoulder better too?"

            Frodo sighed. This wasn't going to be as easy as he had hoped. "Well that's because my shoulder wasn't exactly broken. It was - well different."

            "Something from your adventures?"

            "Yes, something from my adventures. Would you like to see it?"

            Arwen nodded hesitantly. If she saw it, then she'd be able to avoid it and wouldn't hurt her Daddy as much. Though she couldn't quite understand what he wanted her to see. Broken bones and such were all on the inside. A person's skin couldn't tell you where the break was. But if there was something important that her Daddy wanted her to see, then she'd take a look.

            "Alright, here it is." Frodo unbuttoned the top half of his shirt (with what Arwen half-fantasized were shaking hands) and pulled the cloth away from the shoulder blade, and there plain as day was a small scare, unlike any she had ever seen. Whenever she got an "owie" it always healed a shade or two lighter than her skin, if it was really bad. But this was white as snow and rather large. "That's the 'button' I was telling you about."

            "Oh. What happened to it? Looks like it hurt."

            Frodo swallowed, tears gathering in his eyes at the mere memory. He closed his eyes, trying to squeeze out the image of the wraith king, pale and white, towering above him with his ice-blade heading right for him –

            "Daddy?"

            Frodo looked up, and forced himself back to reality: to his daughter. "I'm fine. Just memories." He forced a smile and looked at his ragged bedclothes and put a hand on his curly hair, which was sticking out in all directions - and laughed. "Alright now, this lazy old Hobbit has to get dressed. So up you go." He gently nudged Arwen from his lap, gathered up his quilt and headed back down the hall.

            "Um, Mr. Frodo, I could -"

            "Sam, stay there and eat!"

            " - put the quilt away," Sam finished softly as Frodo walked out of sight. "But I've already eaten, Mr. Frodo."

            "Then stay there and relax! You can help with loading Gandalf's cart later."

            Sam mumbled something about being the servant - and how could he do his job if his master wouldn't let him? But then again, he now had a master and a mistress - the little lass! Perfect. "Now, Miss Arwen." He gave a formal bow like one would before a Queen, like the Evenstar for whom she was named. "What would you like for Second Breakfast?"

*********************

            Frodo reappeared about a half an hour later, all dressed for the party in his best suit, a very handsome and very old hand-me-down from his late father, one that his mother had made herself. And consequently, the same suit Drogo had been wearing when he had treated his wife to a romantic boat ride under the stars on a certain fateful night, after a party. He had so many memories wrapped up in it that he had always considered it his finest, even if it wasn't in the best of conditions. He always wore it to formal occasions. The habit starting soon after he came-of-age. The Sackville-Bagginses always insisted that he was more a Brandybuck than a Baggins. He had gotten the idea after Bilbo had told him that he was the mirror image of his father the night he had tried it on, after finding it locked in a rusty old trunk. Drogo Baggins had been a respectable gentle hobbit among the Hobbiton-folk and none (not even cranky old Lobelia) would dare badger him about his family background when he looked so much like one of the Hobbits for whom they had had so much respect, even if he had married one of the queer Brandybucks. There was now no more reason to do so, now that the Sackville-Bagginses were all dead - but a habit was hard to break, and this one would have to wait until later.

            Frodo continued down the hall until he arrived in the kitchen once more and was greeted by a scene that really should not have surprised him - but it somehow did. Sam was running around the kitchen waiting on Arwen, Elanor, and - Gandalf?, as though they were back in the royal court of Minas Tirith. As Frodo thought back those times he realized that, though they were now in Bag-end and not some enormous palace, the situation was practically the same. Sam was attempting to be the servant that he was, though he had to do it when the powers-that-be were not looking. In that case it had been none other than the High King Elessar and Queen Evenstar - now though, it was being done behind his own back!

            Looking around, Frodo realized that the whole walking-party was here except Rosie and Frodo-lad. "Sam, you're doing it all wrong," Frodo teased. "You're supposed to be waiting on your wife!"

            "I know, Mr. Frodo," Sam said without looking up from his cooking. " But the little lad was hungry. Won't let his mamma eat! I'm making her some hotcakes right now, sir. And speaking of food, we've got fruit, hotcakes, breadrolls, and of course, mushrooms! And Master Frodo's special, Kingsfoil tea." He turned around and produced a cup of tea, from which rose the unmistakable of fragrance of aethelas.

            "Thanks, Sam," Frodo said automatically, removing both his plate and tea mug from the counter. But before he sat down, he turned to face his servant as he leaned up against the wall.

            "That's all I made for you, sir," Sam admitted shamefully, upon finding that his master was still in the kitchen - apparently waiting for something. And if that something was more food, then he was going to have to wait a while: there wasn't any more ready. Except for Rosie's, but he wasn't about to offer his wife's food to his master! Besides, it still needed to be re-heated.

            "I know, Sam," Frodo replied, shocked that Sam could even think that he could manage any more food than what was already heaped upon his plate. Sam knew full well that his health wasn't its best - and with that mediocre health, came a less than mediocre appetite. It had been this way for years and Frodo felt himself vaguely wondering how he was going to pretend to be normal at the Party. He certainly wouldn't be able to stuff himself full with half of the food that normal Hobbits did, and if he did manage it by some miracle, then it would surely result in his being sick all night - which he really wanted to avoid. However, he also wanted to avoid any events that might lead the conversation to the "Mad Bagginses". Why couldn't anything be as simple as it used to? WHY?

            "Mr. Frodo?"

            "Yes, Sam?" Frodo asked, coming out of his stray thoughts abruptly.

            "Are you going to sit down, sir?"

            Frodo shook his head. "Not until you do."

            "But, sir, I-?"

            "Sam, you may get back up to serve your wife once she is done feeding your son. Until she comes back, you are under strict orders to SIT DOWN!"

            "Best mind your manners, Samwise," Gandalf admonished gently. He had seen enough of these master/servant debates to know when to get involved, and when doing so might be stepping over the boundary lines of courtesy. Now, however, was not one of those times. Then again - ? Sam *was* giving him a look that could curdle new milk, if he may be so bold. Gandalf half- expect Sam to go into how he knew his place. How he had followed his master to the ends of the earth and so on. But he was spared from hearing another painful recitation of those days by two things: the presence of the children, and more importantly: that of Mr. Frodo.

            In the meantime, Sam continued to do what he did best: which was to serve, though he could have been a little more careful about it. He was trying to pour a cup of peppermint tea for his sick daughter, while at the same time holding a well-laden tray above his head with one hand, a trick he had learned from the king's personal attendants. The tray was tipping precariously and Frodo had a sudden urge to warn him, but decided against it. Any sudden movement would result in covering the whole kitchen with an appetizing, uneaten Second Breakfast.

            Sam may have been doing his best, but little toddler children, usually aren't in a hurry for warm peppermint tea - not with Huckleberries in sight. "Want Huckleberries!" little Elly begged turning her wide, hopeful eyes towards Gandalf. "Huckleberries!" Her daddy hadn't been listening, choosing instead to continue his circus dance with the breakfast for the past several minutes, resulting in her request falling upon deaf ears. So now Mr. Big (as she called him) was her new audience.

            "Elanor Gamgee! What do you say?" Sam's disembodied voice came from the kitchen.

            "Pease?"

            "That's a good lass," Sam praised, making his way slowly over to the table.

            Frodo cast a cautious eye on his servant's burden with a sense of dread. There was no way he'd make it. In order to put down the tipping tray he would have to first lay down the steaming mug, and in order to do reach the table, he would have to bend down - Frodo groaned, It was an accident waiting to happen! Gandalf had offered to help, but Sam stubbornly insisted that he had everything under control. Sneaking up quietly, so as not to startle Sam, he reached up to the tray to relieve it of a few items, so that it would be easier to carry. Well, it was a good plan, now if he could just - Nope! Wasn't going to happen! It wasn't bad enough that Frodo had grabbed the wrong plate, the one that caused the tray to tip even more due to the change of weight distribution, but Sam didn't seem to be cooperating with Frodo's plan. Having felt the removal of the plates, Sam swiftly turned around, knocking the tray in his master's face, and Frodo let out a cry - more out of surprise than pain. He had been dealt several painful blows on the Quest, and the cascade of food and dishes that landed on this head certainly could not be counted among them. Sam, however didn't agree. In Mr. Frodo's current state of health, a stubbed toe might as well be as serious as getting a shard of glass through the foot. "Mr. Frodo!" he cried, suddenly empty-handed, turning towards his master.

            There, in all his glory was Mr. Frodo Baggins of the Nine Fingers, praised Ring-bearer, dressed his late-father's good suit, with the Evenstar pennant displayed proudly around his neck. He would have looked the perfect gentlehobbit, if one did not count the egg yolk on his head - Gandalf had requested an egg 'sunny-side up' -, the milk and squashed berries that had their juice dripping down his face and fortunately lining his lips. "Mmm, great Huckleberries, as always, Sam!" he complemented, licking his lips in satisfaction. He looked up to find Sam staring at his master, his face battling between amusement and horror. So transfixed he was upon his master - hoping that no glass had pierced his skin, and at the same time trying not to laugh - that he didn't seem to hear his daughter's cry of "Huckleberries" for several seconds. Frodo was the first one to hear her. Walking over to the high-chair, ignoring the amused looks of Gandalf and Arwen, he reached his arms down towards the lass and to Sam's growing horror, nonchalantly held her at his side and allowed her to pick the berries from hair and clothes.

            "Mr. Frodo!" Frodo was startled, for it was not Sam's voice that sounded aghast and slightly amused. The next thing he heard was a series of what he imagined to be baby giggles. He turned around to face his accuser, and as he thought, it was Rosie, with his namesake on one hip and her hand placed upon the other. "What in Middle-earth is going on here?"

            Frodo's face had paled. But he quickly recovered, giving her his most beseeching look, and actually had the nerve to ask, "Would you believe that a herd of oliphaunts stormed through here?"

******************

            "Really, Gandalf? It's here! You didn't tell me that last night!" The voice of Arwen scolded. Frodo and Sam both turned around in unison to find the lass staring at the white wizard, her blue eyes lit up with an excitement beyond words. Those hopeful eyes next settled upon her father. "Daddy, Gandalf says you have a mithril shirt here! I thought Uncle Bilbo took it with him when he went with the Elves."

            Frodo, out of view, put down his cleaning rag and placed his head in his hands. This could not be happening! For the past fifteen minutes, Frodo, after having taken blame for the whole unfortunate incident, had taken a rag and gotten down on his hands and knees next to his servant, despite Sam's vehement protests. To avoid anymore mishaps, Frodo and Sam had recruited Gandalf to child-watch, while Rosie was commanded to sit down and eat her breakfast, which fortunately had been safely resting on the counter-top when the tray had capsized. Frodo now found himself thinking that perhaps that hadn't been the best idea after all. Gandalf's stories seemed to be getting out of hand - yet again. But Frodo didn't blame him for it. Every young lad and lass knew that Gandalf had taken the four Travellers on adventures and were eager for stories. Though unlike most children, she wanted stories about Frodo, not Merry and Pippin, who still took a fancy to riding around on their ponies, dressed in their armour. Since she knew that Gandalf had many such stories, there wasn't much hope of avoiding them. As a result, Frodo had given Gandalf permission to share certain stories so long as he left out certain parts. But it seemed as though another of Gandalf's attempts at a safe story had failed. And this time they had somehow ended up discussing the mithril shirt. Of all of the stories to tell - why the mithril shrit?!

            Frodo swallowed nervously, wondering why he was doing so. It wasn't as though Arwen had asked for a better story of how Frodo had lost his finger. He had left that one at an "accident". They were just talking about a shirt! A shirt !- never mind that the thing was made of the finest jewels and the hardest metal in Middle-earth. Never mind that the quality of the armour had saved him from being speared by both a troll and a wizard. "He did," Frodo explained, glad that his child couldn't see the tears welling up in his eyes. "But he gave it to me when I went to visit him a few years ago."  Please don't ask why! Please don't –

            "Oh. Why did he do that?"

            Darn it!

            "Well he didn't need it any more, since he weren't goin' on no more adventures. So he thought your Daddy could use it on his adventure and he did."

            Thank you, Sam!  He was a little bit surprised to find that Sam had answered in his stead, then again Sam had probably seen the panicked look on his face from his side-way position. He had tried to mask it, but it was getting harder every day to get past Sam. And Arwen, unfortunately, was beginning to be as perceptive as her "uncle".

            "I think you should wear it tonight!"

            What? "Um I don't that's such a good idea, sweetie."

            "Why not, Daddy? We're all supposed to look our best! And that sounds a lot prettier than the waistcoat you're wearing now! Besides," she said, standing on the kitchen table so her father could see her from over the countertop, "you can't wear that outfit! It's all ruined! Besides that, it's too big on you!"

            Frodo bit back a reply upon realizing the truth of those words. Everyone had seen him where his father's waistcoat a dozen times or more, and though it had been pressed and tailored over the years, it still looked every one of its 45 years. It wasn't in any condition to be worn anyway, it was still covered in egg yolk and berry juice - and now that he stopped to notice, he realized that it was indeed a few sizes too large. His father had been heavy even by Hobbit standards, and his own slight frame, diminished by illness, starvation and wounds, looked like no more than a skeleton-image of the Hobbit who had once worn it. It was certainly high- time for a change, and the mithril was beautiful, even if it was a bit too flashy for the occasion, but still - "Alright, Arwen, I'll wear it," he finally consented, trying to ignore the stares of astonishment of Sam and Gandalf, and Rosie, who was just re-entering the kitchen.

***************************************

            That night he astonished Pippin by arriving at the Party, wearing his father's old suit (having spent hours soaked in the wash basin under Rosie's watchful hands) and the mithril shirt sparkling beneath the treasured waistcoat.

            Pippin awarded Frodo's lack of promptness with his most endearing smile (for the little kitchen incident had delayed them by several hours. "Well look who finally made it," he teased, looking over at Arwen, the Gamgee family, and Gandalf. The long over-due hugs and kisses went around. Then Pippin scooped up both of his "nieces" in his arms - he insisted on calling Elanor his niece, despite Sam's protests - and proceeded to bounce them around in a most un-dignified manner befitting the Thain's son. But Pippin didn't care. "You girls got here just in time. The party's about to begin. All we have to do is wait for my mum to bring out the cake and it's feast time! Do you know what a feast is, Elanor?"

            Elanor shook her head. "Feast?" she repeated slowly, thoroughly confused by the word.

            "It's where there's lots and lots of food. And no one ever tells you to stop eating!"

            Elanor gasped. "Food!"

            Yes, and lots of it too. Of course, you'll never learn how to have a proper feast at home! Oh no, precious. You're mamma and daddy may be the best cooks in the Shire, but they have never made quite enough for a feast. And, Arwen, your Daddy doesn't eat nearly enough for a proper meal, let alone a proper feast. So you know what that means, don't you?"

            Both girls shook their heads.

            "It means," Pippin explained patiently, with barely contained excitement, "that I get to teach you two how to have a proper Hobbit-feast, Pippin-style!"

            Arwen had seen how much Uncle Pippin could eat in one sitting and wondered if she was ready for such a lesson. Oh what was she talking about? Of course she was! Any right hobbit-lass or lad, would gladly partake in such lessons, even if it did mean being sick later on. At least it would be fun.

            "And then," Pippin continued, "you can use what you learn from me to teach Frodo-lad and Kali. Now wouldn't that be fun!"

            Arwen just laughed at the thought as her Uncle began twirling them around in dizzy circles. This Party was going to be so much fun! Now if only Daddy could enjoy it too! He would. She promised herself that he would have the time of his life, just like everyone else! She could hardly wait.

~To Be Continued~

Don't Forget to REVIEW!