24 October 1423 SR, Crickhollow

I don't know what it means: coming of age. I was at Tuckborough a week ago, and my parents held a small party for me. I gave away gifts but I didn't feel any older (or younger, it's true) than I had before. So I thought I had to wait a little, for The Day. But today is The Day, and this morning I woke up and felt just the same, and now it is night, and I still feel just the same.

Well, not quite the same--I mean, I am very, very drunk. I announce this to the room at large, and there are responses from those few left awake. Crickhollow is absolutely stuffed with tiddly hobbits, but most of them are snoring in the bedrooms (or the dining room, or the kitchen... in fact I see that Doderic and Ilberic Brandybuck dropped where they stood, and are now stretched out quite peacefully beneath the window). The responses come from Merry, who raises his mug to me, and Folco and Fatty, who nod like owls, and Berilac, who shouts "I'll drink to that!" from the kitchen. (Sam Gamgee is not here; he was invited, but Rose is quite near to her confinement with her second child, and he didn't want to go so far from her. And I am quite proud of myself, for remembering the word confinement. Really, isn't that impressive?)

I am very, very drunk, and I do not feel as though I have come of age today. (I am still speaking aloud, apparently, as Merry replies: "You don't look it, either.") No, honestly! Did I not come of age a long time ago--years ago, in fact? When I escaped from Old Man Willow, for instance. ("You were rescued," says Merry.) Or when the Barrow Wights spat us four travellers out--did that mean naught? ("Rescued again," Merry says, most irritatingly, and I pause to scowl at him, my fiercest scowl; he looks away, properly chastened, or else he is laughing.) Did I not come of age atop Weathertop? In the depths of Moria? In that horrid run across the plains of Rohan, with the whips at my heels? (I pull up my trouser cuff to display one of the better scars, a lovely thing really, and the others look suitably impressed, except for Merry, who sticks his tongue out and shows me his scars.) What about Fangorn? Was Fangorn not a true test of a hobbit?

I am standing on my chair now, and my ale sloshes rather alarmingly--can't have good ale spilt, now can we? I take a moment to drain the tankard (Fatty looks appreciative) and then resume my oratory.

I have been a grown hobbit for lo! these many years, I cry. Minas Tirith and the plains of the Pelennor--the madness of Denethor, may he be finally at peace--the Black Gate, for the love of heaven, the Morannon and the troll and the long recovery!

Merry has climbed to his feet and set his mug down--quite carefully--and is coming toward me. I think I have stopped talking. In any case, the room is swaying slightly (maybe it's me, now I think of it), and I am happy when Merry arrives, because I can lean down just a little and put my hand on his shoulder.

"I already came of age, Merry," I say, and I can hear my own plaintive voice, over-loud in the quiet room. Fatty and Folco are snoring now, and Berilac may have joined the Boffin brothers, sleeping it off in the kitchen. What awful heads they shall have in the morning. I nearly giggle at the thought. It seems quite unconnected to what my own morning will be like.

"I know you already came of age, Pip," says my Merry. He pats my hand and helps me climb (perhaps collapse would be a better word) from the chair. Walking down the hallway with our arms round one another (and why have I bumped the wall twice on my side?), he goes on. "You are all grown up, my Pippin-lad, and today is just the day everyone else finds it out. I've known it for years. Now let me tuck your grown-up self into bed."

Everard Took, my great ninny of a cousin, is snoring in my bed. Merry lets go of me (rather startling, and I grab on to the doorframe) and pushes Everard unceremoniously to the floor. We used to call him Everarse, when no-one would catch us at it, and pushing him requires strength and commitment--luckily Merry has both. Everard lands with quite a thud, but his snores don't falter for a moment, and Merry looks satisfied. He turns to me. "Now, last time I checked, Nibs and Nick were camped out in my bed, so you won't mind if I cop a kip in here, will you?"

Of course I won't mind. It will be lovely, I'm sure, and I don't want to go to sleep by myself anyhow. In fact I am not sure if I am ready for bed at all--I am a bit peckish, I think--but Merry doesn't agree. "The sun will be up in an hour, Pippin. Now shut up and get into bed." He tosses me about a bit, and somehow I end up in a nightshirt and under the covers. "Drink this," he orders, and I meekly obey, even when I discover that it is water (very disappointing).

Then I am lying down and the room is blessedly dark. Merry is a warm presence beside me, and I snuggle into him. There is a very warm spot, right against him, with my head tucked under his chin, and although I haven't slept this way in years, I find that spot unerringly and sigh in contentment. I feel his body shake and hear laughter under my ear, in his chest. "What is so funny, may I ask?" I say. I mean it to be indignant, but there is only so much indignance--indignity--indig--oi!--irritation that can be summoned up when you are this cozy and you have your arms flung about your favorite cousin and you are one inch from sleep.

"Nothing at all, my Pippin-lad. Go to sleep." I feel him stroking my curls and begin an inexorable slide into dreams--good ones tonight, because I grew up a long time ago, and what is there to fear now? "O, my dear, you are going to be so sick in the morning."

"Not," is all the answer I can manage, because I am so very sleepy... Well, I suppose I can fear Merry's revenge should I wake up and be sick all over the bed, but I can't be bothered with that idea, and after all, I feel absolutely lovely at the moment. I am 33 years old, and today I have come of age.