As usual, these characters do not belong to me, except for Saro and Bob Ferny, darn it! I write this only for the pleasure of visiting with dear friends in Middle Earth, and get only reviews. The characters and places belong to Tolkien/New Line/Peter Jackson. If you want to sue me, blow yer eyes out, you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.

I dedicate this to my husband, Beornomir, the love of my life, and to Ruby, whom I miss, now and always. I also dedicate this to Billy Boyd, Dom Monaghan and Sean Bean, to PJ, and last, but not least, to Tolkien. Oh, and let me not forget Mr. Wet Rat, himself, the man who lent new meaning to the word “reticent”- tha Steelso, Stewart. Still miss ya, Steelso! You can kill me later if you can find me!

Also to Pearl Took, Pippinfan88, Marigold, Heartsings, littlehobbitgal, Mysterious Ways, Thovie, Daughter of Olorin, Blue Iris, randomwriter96, sappho, halethrim, Pansy Chubb, Brassy Bane, galadrielwannabe, Black Jaguar12, TxQueen, halethrim, Platinumblond612, Hai, Anne-Marie, Actias luna, Evindim, pmochizuki , Elrawien and Zebbo at The Billy Place, MPfan, Pipsqueak at WME along with RB and all the other mods, all the denizens of the original Ernil i Pheriannath thread (yes, that means you, too, lost sailors!) at Ye Old forum and all my lovely, loyal Loons who share in my Zen Boydism, as well as many others too numerous to name, especially those who have been kind enough to E-mail me about The Bee Charmer...

Also…(DRUMROLL!) Let me give hearty thanks and much gratitude to my wonderful, wonderful Beta-reader, my queen of corrections and counselor of conundrums, Lin. May you always walk in the Light.

So, speak “friend” and enter!

Welcome to the universe of the Bee charmer...

The Bee Charmer

Chapter 1

Of Honey and Battlefield Dressings

Pippin kissed Diamond goodbye, and after a lingering embrace – he never could give her a brief one – exited the side door of Great Smials. “Good morning, Sigismond!” he bid his stable-master, then took the reins of his pony. “And good morning to you, Dapplegrim.” He stroked the pony’s nose affectionately. The pony was a tall pony, long of limb with a long, graceful neck. His coat was a lovely white with silver-grey dapples. Being quite tall for a hobbit, Pippin had searched far and wide for a pony such as this, and now many of Dapplegrim’s colts frolicked about with the mares in the paddock. These were the swiftest ponies in the Shire, and of all of these ponies, Dapplegrim was the swiftest. Usually Dapplegrim had a somewhat noble air about him, but this morning he seemed in a fanciful and fine mood. He whinnied, nodding his graceful head, and then nosed Pippin about the pockets. Pippin laughed, withholding that which the pony was searching for until Dapplegrim began to blow hard from his nostrils; only then did Pippin produce the desired item, that being a few slices of dried apple.

It was a fine day in early spring. This year’s harvest was planted and growing well. He had caught up on business, and was now free to attend lesser matters - lesser, but not unimportant. Last spring beekeepers in the West Farthing had taken quite a blow to their apiaries when sickness spread through their hives, and many had turned their hands to other business, at least for a while. The result was a shortage of honey, with prices soaring, when it could be found at all. News had been had that there was a new supplier east of Buckland, and Diamond wanted honey.

Diamond and Pippin’s son Faramir, called Faro by those who knew him best, had been visiting Brandy Hall for the last six weeks. Merry and Estella’s son Theomac and Faro were of an age and quite good friends, just as their erstwhile fathers had been. Since Pippin had to go that way to fetch their son anyway, Diamond had insisted on his setting up trade with this supplier. Perhaps this suppler had managed to keep his apiary disease-free.

Great Smials was a hive of sorts, itself, and its many inhabitants required a great amount of provender, honey included. Diamond had been at Pippin to get honey for some time now, and Pippin knew he dared not ignore the request. Diamond was fond of honey, and Pippin meant not to disappoint her. She would be most put out if he neglected this request any longer. One thing Pippin avoided at all cost: putting Diamond out of sorts. He knew better.

And that is how he came to be riding along Stock Road shortly before sunrise, a basket of bread, fruit, boiled eggs and salted pork behind his saddle right next to a flask of passable wine. He would forgo the White Hart Inn and stop over at the Oak and Acorn – he wanted to put some distance behind him. The third inn on the way, The Lark and Rose, was the best of all three inns on Stock Road, but that was too far to go in one day, even with a very early start and with a pony as swift as Dapplegrim.

Around three-quarters of the way, not quite yet in the Woody End, he dismounted and took a late second breakfast; he slipped the bit from Dapplegrim’s mouth and gave the pony his head, the better to munch the clover that covered the low, rolling hills. Wild bees droned about. Pippin noted that there were far fewer in these parts than had been the case this time last year, and he hoped the bee bane had not spread too far.

Lying on his back and chewing a bit of dried apple, Pippin looked up at the clouds. The sun shone her face on him quite brightly, and he closed his eyes. Somewhere nearby he could hear the hooves of Dapplegrim shift and the homey munching of clover. A bee hummed somewhere near his ear, and a slow smile spread across Pippin’s features. He let his mind wander back until his memory paused, stopped, turned faces and voices over in his mind. He could almost feel the stony ground of Hollin beneath his feet as he dozed off…

It was rough going in Hollin, no question about it. They were all weary and ready for rest, and Pippin was so tired he was tripping over his own feet, which is how it happened. One wrong step and he had fallen from a narrow and winding path down a rough, steep slope, fetching up in a deadfall tree. One of the branches impaled itself in his leg. Legolas and Boromir had scrambled down, nearly falling themselves- and Legolas an Elf and all! If Pippin hadn’t been so frightened and in such pain, he might have laughed at the Elf.

When the Man and the Elf drew near, Boromir sucked in his breath, producing a sharp hiss. "Ah, Pippin, your leg" he breathed. Boromir steadied the leg while Legolas looked it over. They concluded that the wound, while bad enough, was not overly deep or near a bleeding vessel. Boromir gently drew the wounded leg off the impaling branch to Pippin’s silent and drawn out "ouch" which he had mouthed while scrunching up his entire face. Boromir lifted the hobbit in his thick arms and carried his wounded passenger back up the slope.

Aragorn had been anxious to treat the wound, but Boromir was quick, and had a dressing out of his pack in a flash. "Don’t worry, Pippin,” Boromir said, voice even, calm and soothing. “Just because I can inflict a wound in battle doesn’t mean I’m so very clumsy at healing, you know. If one of my men is hurt, or if I am hurt, and no healer is around, a dressing can perhaps preserve a life. That’s why I bothered to learn the skill." With a calmness and confidence which put Pippin at ease, Boromir stooped beside the wounded Hobbit. "Now, this will stop the bleeding. Aragorn will clean the wound as soon as we find a safe resting place.” He swiftly and neatly bound up the wound, giving a grunt of satisfaction when done. His glance swept the hobbits from hovering Ring-bearer to worried Merry, biting his lip, finally coming to rest on Pippin’s frightened face. “That’ll stop the bleeding. But it could become putrid, and I know of something that can stop that.” He pointed a little further back on the trail. "Do you remember that big, hollow tree just there? That’s a bee tree. I’m going to get some honey. Honey will protect a wound and keep it from growing foul and gangrenous.” He gave Pippin an affectionate pat on the arm. "Rest a bit, and watch this! Perhaps you might learn a trick or two!”

Legolas tried to persuade Boromir to let him get the honey, but Boromir would have none of that. They watched the big man approach the bee tree. A cloud of bees swarmed there, so many that the Company could hear the buzzing from where they sat. Pippin was not the only one who thought that Boromir was about to get himself stung to death.

What followed was nothing less than amazing. Even Legolas and Aragorn were as astonished as Pippin himself was. Boromir slowly walked up to the tree holding his shield up like a great dish. He reached one large, long arm into the tree and pulled out comb after comb of honey, eventually filling the shield. He smiled through it all, and not once was he stung. The big man walked calmly back, popping a bit of honeycomb into his mouth and savoring its sweetness.

"Well, I’ll be blessed!" Aragorn said softly and appreciatively. "He’s a bee charmer!"

Soon the wound had been cleaned, treated with honey, and swiftly and neatly re-bound by Boromir. The meal that evening was wonderful, consisting of the regular fare, but ending with honey-cakes Sam had been able to produce in a pan. There was plenty of honey left, enough for the next two days rations, plus enough to use during changing of wound-dressings.

Pippin woke with a start. What a dream! Why, he could almost feel the wound on his leg! He sat up only to find a wild bee had lit on the site of the old scar and stung him. Brows knitted, he plucked out the sting, then rubbed his leg, examining the scar as he continued to examine the memory. He grinned, recalling how Boromir and Aragorn had let him sit on their shoulders over the next two days of the journey.

Rising, he collected Dapplegrim’s reins. “And now, my worthy friend, I shall ride upon your back,” he said softly. “Sometimes, I do wish I had those shoulders to ride upon once more. What a tale! I shall tell it to Faro and Theo. Not every hobbit has had a chance to ride such noble steeds as the King of all the Free Peoples, and the Heir to the Stewardship and throne of Ithilien!” Dapplegrim met Pippin’s gaze with his bright eyes and nodded as if in agreement. “Now, shall we make for the Oak and Acorn? The innkeeper’s mare will be delighted to see you once more, I warrant!” Dapplegrim nodded again with a low whinny. Pippin stroked his long neck, then remounted. He took one last deep breath of the sweet scent of spring wildflowers and went on his way.

The Oak and Acorn had been built some five years earlier. It sat nestled halfway through the shaded path through Woody End, and was built of timbers from that quiet stand of trees. It wasn’t a fancy inn, but it was well maintained and cozy. What the inn lacked in amenities, it made up for in the quality of ale and the fine food; the innkeeper’s wife knew how to turn a fine joint of venison, with just the right amount and kind of spices. The bedding and chairs were quite comfy, if not fancy, and there was usually singing and dancing among the guests. After Dapplegrim had been seen to in the small but scrupulously clean stables, Pippin took his evening meal, sat about the great-room and enjoyed a smoke and a song with his ale, retiring early to rise early yet again.

After a breakfast of porridge, he was once more on his way, and Dapplegrim’s pace was such that he arrived at Brandy Hall in the mid-afternoon. As he entered, he expected a warm welcome from Merry and Estella. What he got was a servant requesting he join Merry in the study. Pippin tapped on the door and opened it to find Faro and Theo sitting before Merry’s desk, with Merry scowling at both of the youngsters.

When Merry saw Pippin, he gave a great heave, as if relieved of a burden. “Glad you’re here, Pippin,” Merry said in a subdued manner. “I’m sorry you haven’t had a proper welcome. It seems we have a little problem with our sons.”

“Faro?” Pippin, brow knitted and arms crossed, regarded his son. Faro was familiar with the pose. His father only crossed his arms like that when he had decided to be difficult, expected an explanation or was about to give someone a piece of his mind. The young Took could easily see why the Big Folk of Minas Tirith had mistaken his father for a prince. Faro seldom saw this side of his father, but he knew it when he saw it. Lost in thought, Faro kept silence until Pippin’s mouth became a grim line and his jaw clenched with ire. No more reticence would be tolerated, and Faro knew it. The young hobbit shifted in his seat and slumped in defeat.

“We took our ponies out without asking, Papa,” Faro admitted. “We stayed gone all day yesterday, and didn’t get back until well after dark. Uncle Merry sent us to our rooms. We have only just been allowed out so that Uncle Merry could give us a talking-to.”

“Tell him the rest, Faro,” Merry said, his voice low, his blue eyes flicking from one young hobbit to the other.

“We… well, we went to the Lark and Rose. There was a lass there. She dared us to go into the Old Forest, and, and… well, we did.”

“You did what?” Pippin said, his voice raising in ire. “Faro, do you have any idea what could have - Och!”

“Finish it, Faro,” Merry said, grim but patient in a very terse sort of way.

“I took a spill from my pony and hurt myself, but it’s all right. There was someone there who helped me.” Faro pulled up one leg of his breeks, revealing a neatly bandaged leg. “He was one of the Big Folk, you know, like the ones you know, and he was very nice. In fact, he was as nice to us as the King and Queen were, only he was… different. He seemed noble, somehow, like a prince, and yet not.”

Pippin examined the bandage carefully. His face was drawn with concern for his son, but Faro saw some other emotion there, too, one he couldn’t quite read. Pippin looked at Merry. “That’s a battlefield dressing, or I’m a troll,” he half-whispered.

Pippin looked hard at Merry, and Merry shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, Pippin,” Merry said. “It’s just a coincidence, I’m sure.”

Pippin sat down hard on the floor, bringing an expression of alarm to the faces of Faro and Theo. He looked from one lad to the other. “This fellow, this Man,” Pippin murmured. “He did have a name, did he not? What was his name?”

“Pippin, I don’t think he…” started Merry, but Pippin cut him short with a hand raised, palm out, for silence.

“His name, Faro,” insisted Pippin. “What was his name?”

“Beeman, Papa,” answered the young one, “He said his name was Beeman. Only, that’s not the funny part.”

“Funny part?” Pippin retorted, “What could possibly be funny about any of this, young hobbit?”

“Well, he said his first name was Boromir,” said the lad. “Just like your friend from the quest, Papa! Isn’t that funny?”

But Pippin wasn’t laughing…