Chapter Sixteen: Fast Away The Old Year Passes

“So, what are the damages?” Paladin was asking as the Tooks prepared to leave Bag End.

“Damages?” Bilbo blinked in surprise.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Paddin laughed. “I know what a handful of mischief a little lad can cause.”

Bilbo wondered if Paladin had quite forgotten how little mischief his particular lad was likely to cause at the moment, but then he recalled the curious fact that there had been no decrease -- indeed, a slight uptick could be detected -- in his market bills since young Merry’s departure.

He glanced over at the lad in question, who seemed to be turning a slightly embarrassed shade of pink and attempting to hide his face in Frodo’s shoulder as the young Baggins held him.

“Well, no matter the specifics,” Paddin concluded abruptly. He took out a small pouch of coins and stuffed it into Frodo’s waistcoat pocket. “Treat yourself to something, lad, while Bilbo sits on his dragon’s hoard -- or consider it payment in advance on the damages from the next visit!”

“Next visit?” Bilbo echoed.

“Of course! I said Pippin was old enough to go visiting on his own now, did I not? And I am a hobbit of my word.

“But now, it’s time to go home. Come, Pippin.”

Frodo feared briefly that Pippin would cling to him again as he had at his mother’s departure, and refuse to leave. But the lad merely patted his cheek and gave him a sweet kiss before turning in Frodo’s grasp to eagerly reach out his arms to his father.

When the round door had clicked shut behind them, and Frodo had watched the cart progress halfway down the hill, he announced to the smial,

“I am going to take a long, peaceful and uninterrupted nap.”


Paladin held Pippin, wrapped securely under several layers of blankets, on the cart seat in front of him. Pippin was nestled between his father’s legs, while Paddin’s arms encircled his son as he held the pony’s reins. Frequent squirming occurred beneath the blankets, and Pippin looked eagerly about, tipping his head back often to grin up at his father.

He was a far cry from the still child who had left the Smials a few months ago. Yes, it had been just the thing for the lad to visit family for a while. Done him good, it had. And yet, for Paddin himself, those months had been...

“Lasses! Nothing but lasses!” he informed his son with an exaggerated shudder. “While you” -- he drew one hand back enough to poke the tummy region of the pile of blankets, which caused several giggles to be emitted -- “have been spending time in an entire hole of lads, I have been returning to our quarters each evening to be greeted by nothing but” -- Paddin paused dramatically and lowered both his voice and his head to whisper into Pippin’s ear the last word -- “females!”

Another spurt of giggles erupted.

“And I therefore think, my lad,” Paddin leaned down again, this time to place a kiss on the little upturned face, “that you shall not begrudge me a stop at an inn.”

The cart had been traveling the Bywater Road, and Paddin pulled up in front of The Ivy Bush. Hitching the pony to a post outside, Paddin carried his son in.

Small it might be, but this was the season when The Ivy Bush did most of its business. Capitalizing on the name of the inn, the proprietors spent the month of Foreyule offering their famous pies, each topped with a candied sprig of ivy and one of holly. The crowd which had gathered to enjoy these delicacies was the largest group of hobbits Pippin had encountered since leaving the Great Smials at the end of the summer.

At first, he trembled a little in his father’s arms, but when Paddin set him on top of a table and hailed a serving lass, Pippin realized he had a good view that was much more interesting than the contents of Bilbo’s cupboards. His ear tips twitched throughout the meal as he strained to better hear the snatches of song and the jests from a multitude of hobbit conversations. His da joined in the hailing and conversing with the rest as he quaffed his ale at a seat on the bench in front of Pippin.

Of course, Pippin was somewhat distracted from his eavesdropping by the need to concentrate on his own food. When the serving lass had brought over the tray with sample pieces of each of the pies on offer, Pippin had been torn by indecision. His pointing finger hovered back and forth between the pumpkin and the mincemeat, until his father, laughing, obligingly ordered him a piece of each.

Each plate of pie had come with its own fork, and Pippin was using them both. He alternated shoveling a bite of mincemeat into his mouth with his right hand, and feeding himself pumpkin pie with the fork he held in his left. This made for rather a messy little hobbit, but a very satisfied tongue and tummy.

In fact, the whole experience was rather satisfying, as there was good food, laughter all around, and Da -- the biggest, strongest hobbit Pippin had ever known -- right there with him.

Until, that is, a certain hobbit approached Paladin from among the crowd.

Huthdred Bracegirdle of the East Farthing carried within him his family’s natural streak of ambition. It was quite pleasing to him when his sister Hilda married a hobbit who was in the direct line of succession to the title of Master of Buckland -- a bit far back in the line, true, but in the line still, there you go.

And when his first cousin Magnolia had married Adelard Took and produced a son who was even closer in the line to be Thain, well, that was something to be proud of.

And now, with Paladin Took struck with such misfortune in his son, it looked as if Regi’s prospects were likely to rise again in that regard. So Magnolia had hinted on the visit from which Huthdred had just returned.

Still and all, Paladin here was set to be Thain whenever old Rumby had the decency to pass on, and like as not would appreciate a kind word. It didn’t do to be on the bad side of the Thain.

“Hoy, there, Paladin,” Huthdred called, slapping the Took on the back with one hand, his mug of ale in the other. “How goes it?”

“It goes,” Paddin answered warily. He had learned to be leery of Bracegirdles, particularly after visiting with Bilbo and hearing more tales of cutlery gone missing.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Huthdred nodded, then took a quick swallow of his ale. “So sorry about your lad,” he tutted. “Such a shame.” His eyes flicked over to Pippin, who had paused with a forkful of mincemeat pie in his mouth and was now staring at him wide-eyed. He added, staring into his mug, “Such a waste.”

Throughout their meal, Paddin had been stroking the curls on top of one of Pippin’s feet as it dangled from the table, reassuring both himself and his lad that they were together again. Now his hand’s grip tightened on that foot, and he felt its small twitches within his grasp.

“What do you mean?” Paddin asked in a deceptively calm voice as he set his near-empty mug on the table.

“Oh, come now, Paladin, surely you know it’s near common knowledge by now,” Huthdred responded. “Though I daresay my young cousin Reginard has been a great deal of help to you, as always, in performing the duties of the Thain. Good practice, you know, now that he’ll have to take it on.” Huthdred said the last sentence with a slight nod toward Pippin.

Pippin had stabbed his empty fork toward his father at the mention of Regi’s name, but his father had eyes only for Huthdred.

“Your cousin Reginard, you say?” he asked, green eyes narrowing and going as cold as ice. “Were you a visitor to the Smials this past summer?” he demanded abruptly.

“Why, no,” Huthdred jumped back a bit, startled by the question. “It’s why I have just come from a visit with my cousin now. Why do you ask?”

“I ask because of my son,” Paddin answered, turning his gaze on Pippin. The lad was now looking back and forth between him and Huthdred, casting suspicious glances at the latter but turning a trusting gaze to his father.

“My son,” Paddin continued as he drew himself to his feet, maintaining his clasp on Pippin’s foot so that the leg became extended straight out from the table. “My son who is heir to the Thain. This foot” -- he lifted Pippin’s ankle slightly -- “has been imprinted in the book of Yellowskin as the hobbit who is to follow me as Thain.”

He maintained his hold as he leaned toward Huthdred, managing to fill every bit of space with the bulk of his imposing body. He concluded in a low tone, but in a voice so forceful that it hushed the inn, “And any hobbit who interferes with that will live to regret it.”

Paddin maintained his position for a moment before turning to toss coins onto the table and gather his lad up in his arm for their departure.

Pippin peeked one eye out above his father’s shoulder to observe the silent crowd as they left the inn. He had a lot to think about as he sat huddled in the blankets again for the rest of the drive home. Everyone in the inn had been afraid of his da, even the big hobbits -- everyone except Pippin. What would Da really do to a hobbit who had tried to hurt his lad?


It was nice to be home. Mama had greeted Pippin with lots of hugs, a few tears, and lots of kisses. His sisters had passed him from one to the other to smack welcome home kisses onto his face. Pervinca, at only five years older, had to exert a bit more effort to lift him from Pimpernel’s embrace, but was still able to do so.

While he was gone, someone had built storage drawers that took up all the space under his bed. They were big enough to hold quite a few toys and games and books, and even some out-of-season clothes, but not at all big enough to fit a hobbit lad into.

Pippin knew; he’d checked. He’d managed to pull himself into one after Nurse had finished dressing him and left him to play on the floor of his room while she went to help Pervinca. He was able to sit up, as you would on a pony, but the drawer was not long enough or deep enough for him to lie down. Just as it should be, he decided before leaning over to roll himself out of the drawer and back onto the floor.

The resulting thud brought Nurse running, but she continued to be often preoccupied with the regular bustle of Yule preparations and the lasses’ related tasks. She would often leave Pippin playing in a nearby corridor or adjoining room while the servants worked at festooning a particular parlor. She would check on him occasionally, but was afraid that in the gaiety of the work, the quiet lad would be trampled unnoticed as he played underfoot.

Pippin didn’t mind too much. It was lots more interesting than Bag End: much more noise and conversations to listen to. He was particularly interested in overhearing anything about the Yule Dwarf. And, he was lots better now than when Regi had put him under the bed: he could roll away if he saw a bad hobbit coming. Plus, when Nurse left him alone for a little while, it gave him a chance to work on his own Yule gift to his family.

He was doing just that one day when he heard a familiar voice coming down the corridor. Maybe he wasn’t quite that brave yet. Pippin dropped onto his hands and rolled behind the shadow of an open door as Regi and his brother came along the hallway.

“Why aren’t you happy, Regi? It’s almost Yule!” Everard announced gleefully.

“Why should that make me happy?” Regi muttered.

“Well, don’t you want the Yule Dwarf to come visit you?” Everard asked in surprise.

The footsteps stopped as Regi turned to look at his brother. “Everard, how old are you?”

“Eighteen, Regi,” was the confident answer.

“And do you still expect the Yule Dwarf to visit you?”

“Of course!” Everard answered, surprised that the question was even asked. “Mother says he visits all good lads and lasses, and I’m not of age yet.”

“Am I of age?” Regi asked.

“No, Regi,” another confident answer.

“And did the Yule Dwarf visit me last year?”

A long pause, as if Everard was trying to remember, then a hushed whisper, “No, I don’t think so...oh, Regi, were you a bad hobbit?”

“No, Everard,” Regi finally answered in an impatient voice. “I expect he just forgot. Or perhaps he ran out of gifts for the older lads because he had to give so many to the younger ones who were good.”

Privately, behind the door, Pippin thought that Regi was lying and that this just proved the Yule Dwarf really was magic! *He* knew who was a bad hobbit, even if no one else did.

“So, is that why you’re not happy?” Everard asked again.” Are you afraid the Yule Dwarf will forget you again?”

“No,” Regi said, almost to himself. “It’s not about Yule, really. It’s more about after Yule.”

“Afteryule? What’s in Afteryule?” Everard asked.

“A new year, for one thing,” Regi sighed. “A year when I’ll be thirty, and then the year after that thirty-one, and soon thirty-three, and then where will I be?”

“Won’t you still be here?” Everard asked, confused. “At the Great Smials?”

“Why?” Regi barked at him.

“Well, because...because you live here!” Everard responded, growing more confident of his answer.

“But what am I to do?” Regi asked, slumping against a wall. “I’m to be a grown hobbit soon, and I need a station in life. I won’t be a lackey the rest of my days.”

“What’s a lackey?” Everard asked, and Pippin was glad he did, because he was wondering the same thing.

Regi didn’t seem to answer, though, just said, “Nothing important,” and added quietly, “It’s starting to look as if I’ll never be Thain” as he tipped the back of his head against the wall.

“But I thought you helped Cousin Paddin with Thain duties,” Everard said, even more confused. “That’s why you can’t play sometimes, and I get lonely.”

“I do,” Regi answered calmly.

“And Cousin Rumby’s Thain now, and Cousin Paddin will be after him, and you after Cousin Paddin,” Everard answered, with the air of a long-memorized recitation, but grew more hesitant at the end as he saw his brother shaking his head.

“Who’s Cousin Paddin’s son?” Regi asked his brother.

“Well, Pippin, of course!” Everard answered. “That’s easy!”

“And who follows a father in his office?”

“His...son,” Everard answered slowly, then it was as if a light suddenly shone in his face as he added, “Oh! So Pippin will be Thain after Cousin Paddin.”

“Yes,” Regi answered quietly.

“But--but you won’t be,” Everard responded, now more subdued, his lower lip trembling slightly.

“No,” Regi answered, opening his closed eyes slightly to stare through small slits at his younger brother. “I would only be Thain if Pippin couldn’t for some reason, like if he wasn’t around.”

“But Pippin is here,” Everard answered matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” Regi said calmly, still staring through his slitted eyes for a long moment at his brother.

Everard stood before him blankly, blinking, for a few seconds before collapsing against the wall next to his brother. “Oh, Regi, what are you going to do?” he wailed.

“I don’t know, Everard,” he answered. “I think perhaps I shall have to go away somewhere, where a hobbit of my abilities can command respect in a fitting position.”

“Oh!” Everard gasped. “I shouldn’t like it if you went away though, Regi,” he said in a despondent tone.

“Why ever not?” Regi asked him curiously.

“Well, because...because,” Everard looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes as he said this last part. “I shouldn’t have anyone to play with. The other lads don’t like to play with me, because they all say I’m slow.” He looked sidelong at Regi. “But you’re my brother. You have to be nice and play with me.”

Regi closed his eyes again and sighed before straightening up and draping his arm around Everard’s shoulder. “Yes, I’m your brother,” he said in a long-suffering tone. “So come along, then, and let’s go to greet Mother when she returns from market.”

Peering out from behind the door, Pippin watched them go. Here was more to think about. He knew of course that Regi was a bad, bad hobbit, but Everard.... Pippin suddenly remembered how much he missed his Merry.


First Yule finally arrived. The Yule Dwarf would come in the night between First and Second Yule, in the magic hours when the old year passed to the new. Dwarves knew how to stoke the fires in their mines, and the Yule Dwarf was magic, so he would be unsinged as he leaped across the Yule log to lay gifts -- nuts and sweets and trinkets -- upon the hearth for all the good hobbit lads and lasses.

On First Yule, however, the families gathered privately to exchange gifts among themselves before they converged for the Smials’ great feast.

In their quarters, Pippin and his family exchanged such gifts. He acquired more cows for his farm set -- these had a ‘98 carved on the bottom, Pippin idly noticed as he handled them -- as well as a few pigs and sheep. He also got a shiny new spinning top, a ball filled with dried beans that rattled noisily when you shook it, and two fancy weskits, both of which he would likely be expected to wear for festivities in the coming days. Pervinca gave him a sturdy traveling sack with lots of intriguing pouches. “For when you go visiting again,” she explained. “I thought that was quite a good birthday present.”

Pippin smiled happily at her as he agreed -- it had, overall, been a good visit. He was perched on the floor among the discarded papers and ribbons from the exchanging of gifts. Each family member, after giving him their present, had leant down for a soft thank-you kiss upon the cheek.

For his presents to them, Pippin knew Mama had purchased some suitable item for each family member and put his name upon it, as he had been thanked already for several things that were completely unknown to him.

He still had his surprise left to give, though. Mama and the lasses were exclaiming over the ruches on Pearl’s new blouse -- *they* were actually happy to get clothes for holidays -- and Da had turned to bank up the fire around the Yule log.

The papers rustled beneath Pippin as he carefully leveraged himself to his feet. Slowly, deliberately, he placed one foot in front of the other as he crossed toward the huddle of lasses. Reaching them, he lifted a hand and gently untied the ends of Pimpernel’s new hair ribbon before tugging sharply on her braid.

“Ouch! Pippin, it’s Yule, don’t--” Pimpernel scolded instinctively as she turned around, then stopped, frozen, as she realized what she was saying and what she was seeing. Pippin stood behind his sisters, the floor he had walked across strewn with obstacles.

The floor...he had walked.... Eg didn’t realize she was holding her breath as her heart swelled. The room was silent as she and the lasses stared at the lad who stood before her chair. Paddin, too, was open-mouthed across the room where he still clutched the poker, although a grin was beginning to spread across his face.

Pippin’s face, however, was beginning to lose a bit of its shining pride and take on an uncertain cast. He had practiced lots, as soon as he felt his legs twinging with more than just re-fexes, but maybe this wasn’t such a very good Yule present.

Hastily, before that happiness could fade further, Eg reached out her arms and pulled her lad three more steps forward into her hug. “Oh, darling,” she exclaimed into his ear. “That was the best Yule present ever. Better than any magic the Yule Dwarf could do.”