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Postcards From the Shire  by SlightlyTookish

A Yule Visit

"Well," Frodo said, dusting off the flakes of snow clinging to his cloak before hanging it on the hook by the door. "You didn't think that I would miss visiting you at Yule, did you?" He went into the sitting room, leaving Merry and Pippin in the hallway.

That is exactly what they had thought, since Frodo had not joined them for Yule the year before and when they had invited him again this year he not only declined again, but he also politely refused their offer of visiting him. And so it had come as a surprise to Merry and Pippin when they returned home early from the Brandy Hall festivities and discovered Frodo arriving at the same moment; a solitary figure walking down the lane, his face half-hidden by his scarf.

Merry went ahead to the kitchen to put the kettle on as Pippin followed Frodo. They could hear Merry’s voice trickling in from the other room. "More ridiculous than a tween," he grumbled. "Gallivanting across the Shire in this weather, alone and on foot.” His voice grew louder. “Don't let Frodo out of your sight for a moment, Pippin. There is no telling what mischief he'll get into next."

Pippin couldn't find it in his heart to scold Frodo, not when he was so happy to see him. Instead he took up the woolen blanket folded on the back of the sofa and wrapped it around his cousin’s shoulders with a flourish. He hesitated a moment, before lifting a corner of the fabric and crawling beneath it himself. One arm wrapped around Frodo’s waist and he snuggled close to him as he had always done.

"Merry and I thought of going to Bag End anyway, only then we thought perhaps we shouldn't surprise you. I'm glad we didn't, or we should have missed you on the road." Pippin rested his chin on his cousin’s shoulder and smiled. "I'm glad you're here Frodo, even if it was so very foolish of you." A few traces from Frodo’s last illness lingered - he was pale and the skin around his eyes was worn - and did not go unnoticed by Pippin.

But Frodo waved away Pippin’s unspoken concerns. “I was restless. I couldn’t get a shred of writing done. I’m not used to a quiet smial any more, and it was too quiet without Sam and Rosie. And then I kept thinking of the both of you. The last time we celebrated Yule together we were somewhere in the wild. And I thought - well, it hardly seemed right."

Pippin shifted, letting his chin slide from Frodo's shoulder and resting his cheek there instead. He didn't care much for Frodo's words, they seemed ominous somehow, as if Frodo was planning something, or thinking of planning something, when all he was saying was the truth. It had been a few years since they had spent Yule together in a normal fashion, with cozy surroundings and family gathered around. And Pippin supposed that his cousin couldn't help being the same old restless Frodo, even now.

Glancing across the room Pippin noticed Merry leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest and watching them both, scrutinizing. Pippin recognized that particular look on Merry's face, and he knew he was trying to puzzle something out.

If Frodo noticed it (and Pippin was certain that he did) he chose to ignore it. All he said was, "Stop frowning, Merry, and come here. There is room enough for you. I hope you don't think you're too old for hugs."

"You don't deserve a bit of encouragement after your naughtiness," Merry said, although he crossed the room willingly enough and burrowed beneath the blanket on Frodo's other side all the same. "What shall we do with him, Pippin? Throw him back out into the cold?"

The kettle whistled shrilly, and Pippin untangled himself from the blanket. "Perhaps we'll feed him first," he said, and left the room to prepare their tea. He added a plate of biscuits and a little less than half of an apple pie to the tray, along with their tea, and brought everything back to the sitting room. In the flickering light of the fire he could see flecks of gold in Merry's hair, and wisps of silver in Frodo's.

As they ate they spoke of Frodo’s journey from Hobbiton and the goings-on at the Hall. Then they sat in companionable silence, listening to the logs crackling in the grate and the icy wind rattling the windows.

After a time Frodo rose and wandered over to the mantle, poking through the collection of trinkets and other oddments arranged there. Pippin glanced at Merry; there were two faint lines between his brows and his eyes were closed tight, as if he had a headache.

The sound of a book creaking open drew Pippin’s attention back to Frodo. His cousin stood by the bookcase in the corner, holding a small, worn book in his hands and turning the pages slowly. “Oh,” Pippin said, smiling. “You’ve found it.”

“I’d wondered what had become of it,” Frodo said, his eyes skimming the pages, remembering.

When Pippin was just a very young lad and visiting Bag End alone for the first time he had begged his cousin for stories so often that Frodo copied down a few of the child’s favorites, the ones he asked for again and again, into a book, and sent it home with Pippin when he returned to Whitwell. In later visits Frodo added to the book, including his favorite stories, as well as Bilbo’s and Merry’s. Sometimes Frodo even made up stories, almost always about a brave young hobbit named Pippin who had the most marvelous adventures, visiting the lands of elves and dwarves but always returning home in time for supper. And so it was that every time Pippin visited Bag End a story or two was added to the book, until finally they ran out of pages. After that the book remained at Whitwell, and then at the Great Smials, a cherished token of childhood that Pippin had made certain to bring with him to Crickhollow.

“I’m glad you kept it,” Frodo said, shutting the book. His eyes lingered for a moment on the worn cover before he went to replace it on the shelf.

“Give us a story, Frodo?” Pippin asked, smiling. Merry sat up, looking interested, his frown lines gone.

“Well,” Frodo’s voice trailed off as he flipped open to the first page and stared for a moment at the familiar words of the tale written in his own hand. He glanced from one cousin to the other, smiling a little before returning to his place between them. “All right,” he said, and began to read.





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