I now know to dedicate this story to Holly. I hope you enjoy your special story.
HAPPY YULE!

This was written for the LOTR Community General Fanfiction Yule Exchange.
The request I was given was:

I'd love to see a story where a young one (man, elf, or Hobbit) is hoping that THIS will be the year they get their first pony for Yule. When Yule morning comes, the little one ends up getting assorted gifts and trys to act appreciative, all the while lamenting that there was no pony. They can't help themselves and their disappoint causes them to act out.....only later after they have apologized to have their father,/Ada/Da, ask them to come to the barn with them while they check on their horse, only for the young one to find a pony with a huge bow on it.

I did manage to work in the huge bow - twice.

I also made good use of my two main characters being not too far apart in age.

I hope Holly and everyone else enjoys the story. Well, actually stories.

I had help with ideas and brain storming from Cathleen, Golden, and my husband. Many thanks to all of you.
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YULE TAILS

The little lad sat unhappily in a sunlit corner of his room. His mother had died not long before and he had been unhappy often since then, but this time was one of the worst times. It was Yule Tide.

He sighed.

Many special parts of the day that he could remember from his other Yule Tides had either been less special or had not happened at all. His older brother was still at his tutoring, it had not been suspended for the day. At six years of age, the younger lad only had lessons for two hours each day. He had finished his lessons that morning. His father was . . . well . . .

The lad squirmed a little as he tried to put words to what his father did all day and much of the evenings. Time that he wasn’t with the lad; which was most of the time.

Father was the Steward, so Faramir reckoned he stewarded. Whatever that meant. Mostly, from what the lad had ever seen of it, stewarding was sitting on a special chair in the Tower Hall and talking in very serious tones to all sorts of visitors and advisors. All young Faramir really knew about it was that now it seemed to be more important to his father than he was, and that it hadn’t been more important than he was when his mother . . .

He stopped to sniffle a little and rub at his face with his sleeve.

It had all been so different when his mother had been there. Everything had been better when she was there. Even the Yule decorations in the Hall of Feasts looked duller than they had last year. He missed her, oh, how he missed her. But talking about her only made Father sadder. Boromir understood and they often talked about the things they remembered about their mother.

He sighed. Somehow Faramir knew nothing would ever be the same again.

* * * *

Far away, in a large but cozy farmhouse, in a land where it was much colder at Yule Tide than it was in Minas Tirith, things were very different. A large family sat about the lovingly decorated parlor with their farm hands and their families. They were all happy and smiling. Especially Mistress Eglantine and Mister Paladin.

This was their new, and only, son’s first Yule.

********************************************************************************
SIX YEARS PASS
********************************************************************************

“It isn’t fair, Rothari, and you know it.”

“Fair has little to do with it, young Master.”

Faramir rolled his eyes as his manservant patted and brushed at his tunic. There were times that it was most annoying being fussed over so much. Boromir insisted that he always look his best, though Faramir wasn’t sure why. At least Rothari was a good sort. He knew funny stories and songs and he was often good at looking the other way when the brothers were having fun that bordered on being improper for young men of their station.

“Fair has everything to do with it. How often have I had to hear about when Boromir received his first horse that was all his own?”

The thin twelve year old drew himself up as tall as he could, assumed his father’s stance and, in as good an imitation as was possible for a lad whose voice had not yet changed, began the recitation.

“I gave Rochallor to Boromir when he was but a lad of ten because he was strong and already showing signs of becoming a superb soldier. I might consider a horse for you if you were to get your nose out of your books and improve your combative skills.”

Faramir sighed as he diminished back into a youth.

“It is only the truth, young sir, and since you do prefer that to lies . . .” Rothari stood back and motioned for his charge to turn around in place. “I can only assume that the truth is what you wish me to speak.” The man dropped some of his formal bearing. “Boromir was half a head taller and half again as wide as you at your age and able to win over lads three years his senior in most competitions.”

“Yet *he* can see I’m a more than able horseman, why can’t father see it? Even Theodred says I ride well and surely he is a good judge of someone’s ability to ride?” Faramir pouted, a gesture that did not suit his age.

“Yes, yes. I’m certain the young Prince of the Horse Lords is a very good judge of a rider’s abilities. Alas, you live under your father’s rule, not his.” Rothari nodded. The lad looked perfect. “There you are, Master Faramir. As perfect a Steward’s son as can be. You need to hurry along now or you’ll be late to the Yule Feast, and you know what you’ll have to endure should you arrive late.”

Faramir nodded as he shrugged. “Father’s icy glare of disapproval.”

Faramir met up with his brother on his way to the Hall of Feasts.

“Do you know what Father’s gift to me is, Boromir?” were the first words out of the younger brother’s mouth.

“Good afternoon to you as well, brother. I am quite well, thank you for asking,” Boromir smirked.

“Good afternoon, brother,” Faramir sing-songed. “How are you this day, brother? Do you know what Father’s gift to me is, brother?”

The strapping seventeen year old roared with laughter as he slapped his younger brother on the back.

“Persistant!” Boromir said through his laughter. “If persistence can win a battle, you shall always be victorious, little brother.”

Faramir did not join in the jocularity. “Thank you. Let Father know of your opinion of me. Do you know?”

“No,” the elder sobered a little. “No, I do not know if you are getting a horse.”

“I won’t. I just know I won’t.” The youth’s lips tightened. “In a few years time I shall be ready to take my place among the soldiers while riding a wooden horse with yarn for it’s mane and tail.”

“I’m sure you will be allowed to ride any horse in the Citadel stables.”

“That’s just perfect! I’ll have an old nag that is kept about for the wives of visiting dignitaries.”

“Or one of the swiftest horses in the realm. The message rider’s horses are kept there as well.”

Faramir replied only with a scathing look as the brothers entered the hall.

The meal was grand. The decorations were extravagant. The gifts for the Steward and his sons were . . .

. . . fine - to everyone except Faramir.

Various courtiers and relatives gave him nice enough gifts; books, maps, a potted plant of an unusual species, drawing supplies, but he wasn’t seeing any indication of his receiving his heart’s desire. Farmir tried to be gracious. Tried. He did not succeed.

“Perhaps,” his father intoned part way through the opening of gifts, “you would prefer to be sent to your chambers, Faramir. You seem to not be well, if one may adequately judge by your demeanor and expression.”

The lad started to give a cheeky reply, but caught sight of his older brother’s slight shake of his head.

“I am well, Father,” Faramir quietly stated while looking down at his toes.

“Good.”

The gifting continued with the Steward’s youngest now being overly polite.

At last, there were only two sets of gifts that remained to be opened by the two heirs to the Steward of Gondor; one from their father and one from their uncle, the Prince of Dol Amoroth. Tradition held that the Steward’s gift was presented last, but Imrahil stepped forward and spoke.

“I think, brother, that your gift should precede mine this year.”

“And why would you think that.”

“Because I have brought two separate gifts for my younger nephew and which of those I present him with will depend upon what your gift to him is.”

Denethor considered the matter then waved to a servant to take his presents to his sons.

Boromir was given a fine new surcoat and a new scabbard. Faramir was given a matching surcoat . . . and a book.

Boromir watched his brother carefully. The color had risen in his face and the twelve year old was struggling with his emotions.

There would once again be no horse of his own for Faramir.

“Thank you Father,” the youngster said in a stiff, quiet voice, bowing equally stiffly. “I’m certain I will benefit greatly from this book on swordsmanship.”

“Thank you Father,” the elder said, bowing gracefully then draping an arm about his brother’s shoulders. He could feel the lad’s stiff muscles beneath his hand. “Now Faramir can give me pointers.” To his brother he whispered, “All is well, Faramir. You are doing well.”

“And now my gifts to my nephews,” Imrahil said, a bit loudly in his effort to break the tension that had settled upon the room. Everyone in the court knew the youngster desired a horse of his own.

Imrahil indicated one of the three gifts to be brought over to him as the other two were given to his nephews.

Boromir had to nudge his brother into opening his gift, even so, the lad seemed to barely have the strength to undo the ribbon that bound the wrapping. When the package was finally opened, a finely tooled leather halter lay in Faramir’s hands.

Faramir went pale.

Slowly he looked at his uncle, but he addressed his father. “It seems I wasn’t the only one who erroneously thought I would finally be given a horse, Father.”

He let the halter fall to the floor as he turned and ran toward the door of the Hall.

“Faramir!” Denethor’s voice rang out in the stunned silence of the huge room.

The boy skidded to a halt.

“I think you will find there is something in that present which you over looked,” his uncle called out before the boy’s father could say anything further.

A servant ran over to Faramir with the halter and a piece of parchment in his hands. Faramir took them both, read the note, then ran from the building.

Imrahil calmly turned to his brother-in-law. “The notes says, ‘What fits into the halter is in the Steward’s stables.’”

“You brought him a horse.” Denethor said flatly.

“I did. I sent word of my intentions but did not receive a reply. I decided to take that as an affirmative response, brother.”

Denethor sat a moment. “She . . . she . . .” He drew a shuddering breath. “Your sister would have liked that you would consider such a gift for her son. I had . . . intended to say as much in a reply to you, but the matter was driven from my mind by some recent events near Cair Andros.”

Imrahil considered his brother-in-law. It was obvious that Denethor had truly meant to send such a reply for he only mentioned Finduilas in conjunction with matters he felt deeply about.

“Then I am happy my interpretation was correct. Shall we go and see your son’s joy at his gift?”

“Come, Father,” Boromir spoke up. “I want to see Faramir’s new steed.”

“Yes, let us go see what manner of beast Dol Amroth produces,” Denethor sounded stern, but he winked at his royal kinsman.

“He’s a fine gelding, Master Faramir,” the old stablemaster was saying as Boromir, Denethor and Imrahil entered through the large double doors.

“Look, Father! Look! Did you know? Isn’t he beautiful?” Faramir glowed with excitement as he stood proudly beside the large dapple grey horse whose braided mane and tail were adorned with blue, silver and sable ribbons to represent both Dol Amroth and Gondor. The large black, silver and blue bow that had originally been placed over his withers hung from the young horses’ mouth, mangled and chewed up. He kept tossing his head up and down, playing with the streamers that dangled from it.

At a slight nod from Imrahil, Denethor replied, “Yes, Faramir. I knew of your uncle’s plan and gave my approval. You are pleased then?”

“Extremely, Father!” The lad turned to the Prince. “Thank you more than I can ever say, Uncle.”

Denethor’s next words surprised everyone. “You will find his bridle and saddle in the tack room with a blank plate above them for his name, when you give him one.” Then the steward paused. Those in the stable could feel him sink inside himself. “Care for him well, Faramir,” he said then turned quickly away and left.

For a moment no one spoke and the lad’s head drooped. Softly he said, “He shall be called Sea Mist as he is a gift from my family who dwell by the sea and he is the color of the mists that lie upon it.”

His uncle smiled. His brother-in-law had indeed intended to allow the gift and had even thought to have tack made for his youngest son’s first horse. “A worthy name, Faramir,” Imrahil said, hugging his nephew about the shoulders.

“Come then!” Boromir exclaimed breaking the solemn moment. “Let us see you put him through his paces.”

Faramir ran to the tack room.

* * * *

In the distant Shire, a small six year old hobbit lad had joyfully greeted the morning of First Yule by jumping upon his sleeping cousin.

“Merry! Merry! Yule, Merry!”

“Umph! Eh! Off me you little beast,” the elder cousin laughed.

“Grrrr!” growled Pippin. “I’m the Pippin beast!”

Pippin smiled and started bouncing on the bed.

“Yule first breakfast Merry! Yule second breakfast and Yule ‘levenses and Yule luncheon and . . .”

“Yes, Pip.” Merry cut him off. “Special Yule meals all day long and all day tomorrow too.” He sniffed the air. “I think I can smell it. Can you?”

The little lad giggled. “Silly Merry! The dinin’ room is too far ‘way to smell the special breakfast.”

Pippin suddenly stopped and slid off the bed. He ran to the bedroom door. “Gotta go, Merry!”

Merry laughed a moment then hurried after the lad. He hoped Pip made it to the privy in time.

If young Peregrin Took was a handful for his family most of the year, it was altogether true that he was even more so at Fests, Feasts and Holidays. As soon as he had learned how to walk (or run as was more the case) the lad appeared to be everywhere at once. At Yule he would tease his sisters about what they may be getting for gifts (“You’ll be getting a toad, Nell!”). He would be asking all the older relations and guests what Yule was like when they were his age (“Was the snow really up to the window sills?”) And always, he was keeping his eyes on the gayly wrapped presents and his ears open for the announcement that it was time to open them.

Finally, after afternoon tea when the day would soon be darkening and the candles in the great hall at Brandy Hall would glimmer their best, the announcement was made. There was, however, no thundering rush of children. Although hobbits were generally easy with their young ones, anything which smacked of greed was not condoned, so the children would all proceed into the hall with their families in a reasonably quiet manner.

The number of gifts was not allowed to be extravagant and, as with birthday gifts, they were often mathoms.

It was his older sister Pearl who first noticed that much of Pippin’s joyous energy and fallen away.
“Mummy,” she said, nudging her mother’s shoulder. “Mummy.”

“Excuse me a moment,” Lanti said to her sister-in-law, Esme. “Yes, dear?”

“Mum, something is wrong with Pippin.” She pointed to the small lad who sat with a good many gifts strewn about him yet was frowning. “He has eaten a great deal today and I was thinking if his tummy is upset I should tell you so you can give him a tonic.”

Eglantine was a healer and her eldest child had shown signs of being similarly gifted.

Lanti nodded. “You may be right, dear. Thank you for noticing. Go back to your cousins and your gifts, dear, and I’ll see to Pippin.”

Pippin didn’t look up when his mother sat down beside him.

“What is wrong, my little lad?” Lanti asked as she put a caring arm around her son’s shoulders. He leaned into her comforting embrace.

“Nothing Ma.” Pippin’s tone showed that to not be the truth.

“My lad sitting amongst his Yule gifts with a frown upon his dear face is something wrong.”

He snuggled in closer.

“It isn’t here,” he whispered.

“Something that you had asked for, dear?” She felt his head shaking no against her side.

“Something you wished for?” He nodded his head

“The big pony,” he mumbled into the folds of her dress.

That was a surprise. A pony? And a “big pony” at that. Pippin knew that Merry had a pony of his own, as did his sister Nell. Pearl had shown no interest in having her own pony and Vinca was too young for a pony of her own.

Lanti’s thoughts jumped. Pervinca *had* been going on about wishing she might get a pony this Yule instead of having to wait until next year when she would be twelve. Perhaps . . .

“Do you wish to have a pony because Vinca has been asking for one, Pippin?”

Her son’s head popped up from where it had been tucked against her. He had a surprised look on his face.

“I’m not big ‘nough for a real pony, Ma. I’m still scared of them, ‘though Buttercup is nice,” he said naming the quiet old mare that drew the light pony trap and on whom Paladin would let the littlest children ride. “No Ma. I want the big pony that doesn’t go anywhere.”

Now his mother really was confused. What could Pippin possibly be talking about?

“Where is the big pony, Pippin?”

“Here at the Hall.”

“Where at the Hall did you see it?”

Pippin quickly ducked his head back under his mother’s arm.

“Somewhere you weren’t allowed to be, Peregrin?” she asked, a touch of sternness coloring her tone.

He nodded.

“Where is the big pony, Peregrin?”

He didn’t move or answer.

“Peregrin?” Lanti’s tone let her son know he had better answer her.

“Big mafum room.” came the muffled, whispered reply, followed by the quick reappearance of her son’s now tear streaked face. “Didn’t go in alone, Ma.
M-Merry took me in. I w-was w-with Merry.”

This didn’t do much to appease his mother. The big mathom room was a huge place with items of every size and description piled precariously about; piles which had been known to topple from time to time. Not to mention that her lad could have easily been lost in there. Just two years ago she had become separated from Esmeralda in that room and it had taken them nearly fifteen minutes to find each other.

Eglantine sighed. She was just about to question Pippin further when Merry came rushing up to them out of breath. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw his little cousin’s teary face. His own expression turned to one of concern.

“I’m sorry Pippin!” Merry exclaimed. “I was busy with my own gifts and forgot yours wasn’t in here yet. I’m so sorry Pip!”

He knelt down to hug the little lad tightly.

“Go Pip.” He said after a few moments. “Go over to the big doors. Run!”

Pippin ran off toward the large double doors that were the main entrance to the great hall as Merry stood then helped his aunt up so they could follow after him.

“Merry,” his aunt said softly. “You took him into the big mathom room? You shouldn’t even be in there.”

Her nephew hung his head but was spared further discussion of the matter by Pippin’s voice ringing out.

“The big pony!” he shouted. “You knew Merry! You knew I wanted the big pony!”

Eglantine and Merry got to the door way in time to see Saradoc helping Pippin up onto the back of the biggest rocking pony Lanti had ever seen. It was as tall at its back as Pippin himself. There were bright ribbons braided into its mane and tail, a huge rosette with ribbons streaming down from it was tied to its bridle. Its wooden body gleamed in the candle light. Lanti was certain that Merry had worked hard at getting it clean and ready to give to his favorite little cousin. She smiled.

“The big pony that doesn’t go anywhere,” she softly said. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she watched her youngest happily rocking back and forth.

“Look Mummy!” he cried as he waved at her. “Look Papa! Look at me!”

Paladin came up behind her, putting his arms about her waist. “Now, if only Vinca would be happy with a pony like that one,” he softly laughed.

“If only indeed,” she replied as they watched their joyful son.

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SIX YEARS PASS
********************************************************************************

Pippin woke to the familiar chill of his bedroom on a midwinter’s morning. He pulled his arm under the blankets then covered his head for good measure. He really didn’t want to wake up nor even look to see if Merry was still in bed beside him or Frodo was still in the folding bed on the other side of his room. Pippin had been having the most wonderful dream and he wanted to see if he could go back to sleep and continue it. The lovely warmth surrounded him and he dosed off.

“Happy Yule!”

“Thank you Da! Thank you! Thank you!”

Pippin would have jumped and danced about with joy over his Yule present . . . but that would have startled the timid dapple grey pony.

“My very own pony!” he exclaimed as he walked as calmly as he was able to up to the animal’s head. Slowly he began to stroke its soft nose and the pony made a soft nickering sound in its throat as it pushed its nose into the gentle rubbing.

“She likes me, Da! My pony likes me!”

“Yes, she likes you Pippin.”

“Pippin.”

That voice that just said his name didn’t fit with who was in the stable with the pony so he ignored it.

“Maybe later she can have . . .” Pippin was saying to his father, when . . .

“Pippin!” cut in the other voice, accompanied this time by his shoulder being shaken.

“. . . foals,” Pippin finished saying to his father and the pony as they both slowly faded away.

“It’s first Yule morning you goose! Get up or I’ll set Merry on you and he’ll pull all your covers off and tickle you. He has been up for nearly half an hour. Aren’t you excited about Yule, Pippin?”

The lad pulled his blankets down enough for one green eye to peer at his sister.

“I’m excited. I’m just . . . eh, I’m . . .”

How could he explain to Nell that he was not really wanting to be disappointed again? He had been asking for his very own pony for a Yule present for ages, ever since he was nine, and every year it had been the same.

No pony.

When he was nine and again when he was eleven, he had reckoned it had been because that they were at Brandy Hall for Yule, but that didn’t excuse the year he was ten nor this year. This year it was once again the Brandybuck’s turn to come for Yule at Whitwell. Still, Pippin had a sinking feeling that it wouldn’t matter in regards to his most desired gift.

“I just am all warm and don’t want to get up and be all cold,” he said unconvincingly.

Nell’s mouth pulled to one side as the opposite eyebrow raised. “I see. Well, it is no colder this morning than it was yesterday morning or the morning before that and you were the first one up and at the breakfast table on those days just as you are most everyday.” She sighed and shook her head at him. “Get up or I’ll make sure we eat all of your favorites before you get to the table.”

“You wouldn’t!” he shouted as she sauntered out of his room.

“Wouldn’t I?” she shot back over her shoulder.

Pippin passed Nell in the hallway as he ran to the privy. Somehow the dream of his pony had driven Yule First Breakfast clear out of his head. As he took care of his morning ablutions his thoughts were now filled with a mountain of scrambled eggs, heaps of sausages, a ham the size of a large mellon, a trough of herbed mushrooms, a bin of fried potatoes and his mother’s special honeybuns all served on the best porcelain dishes. He kept wondering how even the thought of his very own pony had managed to drive out thoughts of Yule first breakfast!

The meal was everything it was supposed to be, better because Aunt Esme had made the special griddle cakes.* These were normally served for afters following luncheon but Paladin and Esmeralda’s mother had always made them for afters following first breakfast on First Yule, and all of her children carried on the tradition.

It was a marvelous beginning to, what was for Pippin, a terribly long day.

He and his father, Merry and his father, and Cousin Frodo did the dishes after first breakfast and again after elevenses and after tea. His sisters did them after second breakfast and luncheon and would do them after dinner as well. Everyone would help after supper.

But, that was as it always was on the two days of Yule.

Pippin and his father cleaned all the cinders out from under the grates in the fireplaces then brought in a fresh supply of wood for all the fireplaces. It was an everyday chore, although usually one of the farmhands would help Paladin instead, but on the Yule days, their boss would cover most of the day’s work as a gift to his employees, so Pippin and the lasses did a few more chores than was usual for them. The farmhands did cover all the morning chores, however, so their boss could sleep in on the two Holiday mornings.

There were meals to eat and stories to listen to. Not that they weren’t wonderful things to do, they were. It was just they were part of the waiting; part of the waiting until after afternoon tea for it to be time to open presents. Even when the time arrived, there was more waiting to endure as everyone took a turn at opening their gifts, and with Merry and his family, Cousin Frodo and the farmhands and their families all comfortably squeezed into the parlor, the process took a goodly amount of time.

Around and round the circle of friends and family they went until there was only one gift left for each child to open. Pippin hesitated. It wasn’t that he expected to have his pony brought into the house; he knew better than that, but this box did not look big enough to hold anything to do with a pony.

Well . . .

. . . maybe a dandy brush? Or a curry comb? Or a hoof pick?

Something of that sort with a note attached to it saying, “Happy Yule, Pippin! Your Pony is in the Stable!”

Slowly, as though he was afraid it would burst open like a cracker and something would fly out at him, Pippin opened his last box.

It was a new slingshot, a gift he wanted but not THE GIFT he wanted.

Pippin stared. Pippin gasped. His face twisted up as he quickly sucked in a sniffing, gasping breath.

“I didn’t get it!” he whispered sharply between clenching teeth. “Nell had hers when she was twelve and Vinca got her pony when she was twelve.” Pippin’s voice was growing louder, his face was turning red. “Don’t say I’m too young. Don’t even say I’m too small.”

The lad turned to face his father with an angry glare.

“I’m not too small! I’m not! And you aren’t being fair!”

With that he threw the slingshot at the floor, hopped up and ran from the room.

“About what I expected from him,” his father quietly said as his eyes lingered on the doorway his son had just disappeared through.

No one else said a thing.

Awhile later, Merry and Frodo entered the bedroom they were sharing with their youngest cousin. One look at the curled up lump on the bed made it clear that the lad had fallen asleep crying. There were tracks of dried tears and dried snot on his face along with a partially dried stain of wetness upon the pillow below his now peaceful face.

Merry shook his head. “Poor Pip,” he sighed. “And poor Uncle Paladin as well. He offered Old Farmer Adalbard a more than fair price for that mare and the old coot wouldn’t budge an inch!”

“Pippin would set his heart on someone else’s pony when there are plenty of lovely ones that his own father owns.” Frodo smiled as he shook his head, then his eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “But she is a beauty. Pippin seems to have the Baggins eye for ponies. His great-grandmother Rosa used to be a judge at the fairs in Tookland.”

“Don’t let Uncle hear you say that, Frodo,” Merry chuckled as he nudged his cousin, then, turning to cover Pippin up with a blanket from the foot of his bed, he added, “Best to just let him sleep I think. I’m certain he’ll be in no better mood if we wake him.”

“No, let him sleep.”

The two each kissed the lad’s forehead before tiptoeing from the room.

“Pippin.”

“Mumph,” came the sleepy response.

“Pippin, lad,” the voice said as his shoulder was shaken. “We’ve evening chores to do lad. I need you to help.”

“Aye,” the lad sighed without opening his eyes. “I’ll help take care of everyone else’s ponies. ‘Twill be the most fun I’ve had all day.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Paladin said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m more than happy to let you have a pony, Pippin, only I knew you had your heart set on that dapple of Adalbard Took’s. I tried son, I truly did. Would you want to look over our three year olds tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” Pippin said with no enthusiasm. “That will be good, Da. We’ll do that.”

“Up you get then lad,” Paladin replied with only a bit more cheer in his voice than his son’s hollow response. “I’ll meet you in the barn. The cows need milking before we head to the stable.”

The farm had a small herd of milk cows, enough to supply Mr. Paladin’s family and the families of his hired help. Merry and Frodo helped out as well and the milking was done in a short time.

Pippin had worked steadily but he had not hurried, and he did not rush through washing out his milk bucket and hanging it back on its hook. He took his time putting away his milking stool as well. Pippin was not eager to make his way to the stable. His father and cousins and not bothered him about hurrying along with his tasks, they understood how the youngster was feeling.

As Pippin approached, lamp light and voices poured out of doorway where the large sliding door of the stable had been pushed aside.

“It was what he said he wanted, Mr. Paladin.”

“But I had offered to pay.”

“He said . . .”

“My Pony!” Pippin’s voice interrupted the hobbit who stood holding the dapple grey’s reins. “You bought her for me after all! You . . .”

Pippin paused. His excitement had frightened the mare. Her head raised, her ears flattened and her eyes showed whites around their edges as she pranced lightly at the end of her reins. However, that was not the only reason Pippin had stopped in mid-sentence. His happy smile faded into fury.

“Why did you make me think you hadn’t got her for me, Da! Why? Couldn’t you see . . .”

“Peregrin Took!” Paladin bellowed. It was the first time that day he had raised his voice at his son. Pippin’s mouth shut with a soft pop. His father looked hurt, not angry.

“Do you really think I would do that to you? If I had known of this earlier in the day, I would have spoken up before you had managed to run from the parlor. You are hurting me worse now than how hurt I felt then, having to disappoint you.”

Pippin lowered his head, his anger drained from him like his foggy breath faded upon the chill night air in the stable.

“I’m sorry Da,” the lad said earnestly.

His father continued in a softer, quieter voice as the hobbit holding the pony quieted the mare.

“I’m sure you recognize Isenbard Took, Pippin. Adalbard Took’s eldest son.”

Pippin looked up and nodded his head. “Hello Mr. Isenbard,” he said in a small voice.

“He has something to tell you, son.” Paladin looked to Isenbard. “Would you tell him, I think it will mean more coming from you.”

“Well,” Isenbard started, then cleared his throat. “Ya see, young master Pippin . . . eh . . .”

It was clear to Pippin that something was upsetting the older hobbit but he was surprised to see a tear start to roll down his right cheek. Isenbard wiped it away with the back of his free hand, and it was then Pippin noticed the black band of cloth tied around the hobbit’s arm. Isenbard cleared his throat then started again.

“Ma Pa passed this mornin’. And . . . and one of the last thin’s he talked about with me last evenin’ was this here mare. He said as he felt he’d been right stingy. That there had been naught but spite in his not lettin’ yer Pa buy her. It had galled him fer years that yer Grandpa and yer Pa had a bigger n’ more prosperous farm than ours. He . . . eh . . .”

Isenbard had to pause again to calm his emotions.

“He said that lyin’ there on his . . . death bed, that he’d come to reckon it weren’t the proper way to have been an’ he said, ‘Give the wee mare to Paladin’s lad.’”

“G-Give her to me?”

“Aye. He said as she would look at you same as you were lookin’ at her all this past year, and that ‘twas just a meanness to keep her from ya. He said as I’d bring a curse on m’self if I should take as much as a penny for her.”

Everyone was silent for a few moments.

“Done and done then,” Paladin said as he held out his hand for Isenbard to shake on the deal. “If you would, I’d like to buy her tack from you.”

“The tack sir? It ain’t much sir. It . . .”

“Was she trained with that saddle and bridle?”

“Aye.”

“She’ll settle in better with her new rider if the tack is as she’s used to,” Paladin said calmly. “I’ll be back with the money for it in a moment, Isenbard. Pippin,” he patted his son’s shoulder as he went past him. “Show Mr. Isenbard that you’ll take good care of the lass by putting her up for the night in the end box.”

“Aye, Da.” Pippin said softly. As happy as he was to have the pony of his dreams, he was sad for Mr. Isenbard’s loss. He would hate to lose his Da, especially on a Yule Day. Pippin, Isenbard, Merry and Frodo all walked the mare to the box stall at the end of the row of stalls on the left. Isenbard watched with satisfaction as the young lad gently removed the tack from the mare, checked to see if she needed cooling down, then left the stall to quickly return with a bucket of fresh water and a basket with grooming tools in it. After she drank her fill, Merry held her head while Pippin started to give her a good, thorough, grooming.

Paladin soon returned and called Isenbard out of the stall.

“Here you are,” he said, handing over a rather full bag of coin.

Isenbard took it, then quickly tried to give it back. “No, Mr. Paladin! No! This is too much and more!”

“It is what I wish to pay you, Isenbard. It is not payment for the pony, so have no fear of any curse. It is for the tack, for your time and trouble bringing her over here on First Yule evening, and a bit to express our sympathy to you and your family in your time of loss.” He then handed the stunned hobbit one more thing. “A hamper for your family. Bread, preserves, several rashers of bacon, dried mushrooms and a few other dainties for your family’s first breakfast in the morning. Oh, and a wrapped jar of hot tea for you to warm yourself with on your way home.”

“Bless you and thank you, Mr. Paladin! Bless your missus too.” Isenbard started to walk out the door of the stable, but he paused. Softly he said to Paladin, “Your lad is a right good hand with ponies. He checked to see if she were too warm yet, which a lot o’ youngsters forget to do. She has a ticklish spot and he noticed it first time he brushed against it.” He sighed rather contentedly. “He’ll do just fine with the lass. Has he a name picked for her?”

“Stardust!,” came Pippin’s voice from the box stall. “Her name is Stardust because that’s what is sprinkled all over her grey coat.”

A look of pure amazement came to Isenbard’s face. He whispered softly, “That was what ma Pa said, that she had stardust on her coat.” He nodded to Paladin, mounted the pony he had brought to ride home on, and disappeared into the dim light of the rising moon.

* * * *

“You’ve taken your sweet time getting here,” Faramir chided his older brother. “One might think you did not want to come home for Yule.”

“One would be wrong then, little brother of mine. I did want to come home for Yule, I just did not want to have your gift be less than presentable because of my hurrying.”

The eighteen year old tipped his head to one side, as though a slight change of angle would make what his brother said more comprehensible.

“How would hurrying make my gift less presentable? What, have you brought me? A tavern wench and she needed time to fix her hair?”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, then both brothers laughed. “You are not old enough for wenching, little brother,” the elder said. “And even if you were, you have your station in life to be concerned for. No. I have not brought you a tavern wench.”

Faramir thought a bit more.

“You have brought me an older brother! How very thoughtful of you Boromir. But, alas, I have one of those already and I find that to be taxing enough . . .”

Faramir was interrupted by needing to duck a smack to the side of his head.

“Not an older brother then. Good. I really like the one I have.” He grinned at his brother a moment, then again his look was one of concentration. “No,” he finally said. “I can’t think of a single other thing that your hurrying with it would sully its appearance.”

Boromir took a step away from his horse, then swept both hands toward it in a gesture of presentation.

“Yes . . .” his brother slowly said. “Your new war horse. Very nice, Boromir.”

“No,” said the elder brother. “YOUR new war horse.”

Faramir’s eyebrows flew up as his jaw dropped down. “Mine?” he breathed. “But . . . but you . . . just six months ago you were so thoroughly excited with him. I . . . eh, is there something . . . eh, wrong with him?”

This time Boromir’s smack connected with his brother’s head.

“No! In fact he is nearly the best horse I’ve ever sat astride, other than Nahar , who I will tell you has been most jealous these past six months. I was training him for you, dear little brother. How can you be a proper Captain of Gondor’s armies, when you come of age, without a war horse that makes men envy you and all the mares squeal with desire? Happy Yule, Faramir!”

Faramir stepped forward, gently taking the huge stallion’s chin in his hands to lift his head and blow into his nostrils.

“On the field of battle you will be my life and breath, Hros.” he murmured.

The stallion softly huffed his breath onto his new master.

********************************************************************************
SEVENTEEN YEARS PASS
********************************************************************************

Faramir and Pippin walked into the quiet warmth of the stables in the sixth circle of Minas Tirith, stopping before the stall which housed Shadowfax.

The proud horse lowered his head into the hobbit’s hands. Pippin touched his forehead to the velvet soft muzzle, then began to rub the boney spots along the sides of Shadowfax’s huge head.

“He likes this,” Pippin commented. smiling broadly. “If he could he would purr.”

At that, the horse nudged the hobbit in the chest, but then he nickered and once more held his head still for the rubbing to continue.

“And you have ridden upon him,” Faramir said, shaking his head in wonder.

Pippin sighed. The occasions had not been pleasant ones, but the wonder of riding the White Wizard’s horse was not diminished by it.

“Yes. The entire way here from somewhere near Isengard. A three day ride. And again . . .” The hobbit tensed. It was a memory that was all to fresh. A memory that did not rest easy upon mind or heart.

Faramir laid a caring hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “Yes. And again on the night you helped to save my life.”

Pippin swallowed hard and nodded.

Faramir looked around them, seeking something to talk about to break the sombre mood.

“I received the first horse that was my very own in this stable.”

Pippin perked up. “Really? I remember well getting my first pony. I was six and visiting Merry’s family for Yule at Brandy Hall.”

“You were six when you received your first pony! I had to wait until I was twelve.”

“Well, it was a rocking pony but . . .”

“A rocking horse!” Faramir exclaimed. “That hardly counts, Pippin.”

“Rocking pony, Faramir,” Pippin corrected in a mock offended tone, “and it was the largest rocking pony I had ever seen in my entire life. I couldn’t even get on it without being lifted up by an adult. We had to borrow a small wagon to take it home and it was so big that it was kept out in the stable. That surely should count for something.”

The two friends laughed easily together, ending with contented sighs.

“I think my father sent it back to Brandy Hall when we left the farm to live at Great Smials. I hope it is still in some mathom room at the Hall,” Pippin sighed again as he looked off in the general direction of his homeland. “I should like to give it to my son, should I ever have one.”

Faramir had been thinking. “You were six, you say. Then that would be the same Yule Tide that I received my first horse, although mine was very much a real horse.”

“Yes,” Pippin exclaimed. “Yes it would be the same year that you were twelve. Interesting that we both got such similar gifts. And actually, I was twelve when I got my first real pony. She was a dapple grey.”

“Truly! My Sea Mist, my first horse, he was a dapple! And if you were twleve, then that year I was eighteen and received Hros, my first war horse, from Boromir.”

“It seems, my friend, that we had similar Yule gifts in the same years,” Pippin bubbled with enthusiasm. “Do you remember . . .”

They over-turned feed buckets, sat down upon them there in the warm, sunny stable, and talked the afternoon away about the horses and ponies they had been gifted with upon various Yule Tides. Shadowfax hung his head over the door of his stall, ears shifting to best hear each of the friends as he spoke. After all, he enjoyed good horse stories as well.

The end

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*A/N: In Scotland and Ireland pancakes, locally known as drop scones, pancakes or griddle cakes, are more like the American type of pancake and are eaten for afters not at breakfast. Since these are Tookish treats, they are that sort of pancake.