6 March 1415 SR, Brandy Hall

I am 33 years old today, and my parents have helped me throw the biggest party Buckland has seen in years--and that's saying something, since we at Brandy Hall love to celebrate, and throw parties at the drop of a hat.

The main dining hall is dolled up in yellow and green and red, streamers and ribbons trailing from anything that stood still long enough to be anointed so (and some things that didn't; Lucy Hornblower swans by with ribbons twined round her wrists and ankles, ribbons that recently adorned one of the doors, I do believe). The trestles absolutely groan with food and drink, though they are admittedly quite a bit lighter at this late hour than they were when the festivities began, this afternoon.

I have eaten--and eaten and eaten and eaten--and drunk--and drunk and drunk and drunk--and I have handed out birthday gifts, not a mathom among 'em, and now I am sitting cross-legged on top of a table, 33 years old. These tables that I keep mentioning--they are pushed back against the walls now, so the dancers have a clear run. I would like a smoke, but I gave Pippin my pipe earlier (he forgot his in our room) and now he is hopping around the dancefloor and there's no pipe in sight. Heaven knows where he's laid it, but I am sated and tipsy and feeling much, much too lazy to go looking for it.

My folks hired a paid band for the dancing, but the musicians have long since vanished (into the kitchens for food and ale, I'd wager, having known a few musicians in my time), and the tunes are now provided by amateurs: at the moment there are three viols and a harp, and someone has a tambour, and pipes of various sorts (clarinets and flutes and at least one shepherd's pipe), and drums. The players are mostly skilled despite their lack of practice, and when they forget to compete for volume, something like beauty appears, for a moment or a phrase or a song, and even they are surprised--you can see Tom Halflily's eyes widen in surprise behind his flute, and Dilly Hoarfoot's fingers falter on her harp.

I turned 33 years old today, and outside it is a cold night, blustery and chilly--winter's last word, I hope, though as it is only March sixth this is doubtful. The grown-ups and gaffers and gammers and children have all gone off to bed, and it is only the tweenagers and younger adults left now, lads and lasses who will dance until their feet ache, and drink ale until dawn comes and someone announces that it is time for milk and tea. The cooks are all off--they have worked hard for the past several days, baking and boiling and frying--and so when the sky lightens, those left awake will troop into the kitchens and scramble up eggs and fry up rashers and stir up porridge until everyone is fed. When all that is done, there will be very few left awake, and those few (unlucky souls) will clean up the mess. And when that, in its turn, is done, they will roll their friends into blankets (and leave their enemies to lie on the floor) and then go to sleep themselves, in whatever comfortable corner they can find.

I am 33 years old today, and I am thinking of stretching out here, on this bare (though slightly sticky) table. Just for a nap, you understand.

And should the nap become slumber, I know that someone (most likely Frodo, as Pippin will be stealthily courting some pretty lass) will cover me with a blanket, and then I will not have to cook or clean, and that thought satisfies me thoroughly. So I yawn, and smile lopsidedly at the dancers, and lie down on my side, facing them. I close my eyes, but I can still see them in the safe darkness behind my lids: my friends, all dancing. The cacophony of talking and singing and instruments blurs into a comforting noise, much like the steady hum of the Brandywine on a summer day, over the rapids up by Girdley Island. I am 33 years old today. What a pleasant thought.