For the Master and Lindelea for their birthdays.  (Sorry it's so late!)

Longo’s Game

          Frodo rose from the Mayor’s chair and reached for his cloak and water bottles from the stand.

          “You’re off then, Frodo?” asked Hildibrand Took.

          The deputy Mayor nodded as he drew the cloak around himself and drove the enameled brooch home.  “I saw that Ultimo has the Factor’s office open again, so I need to see to the disposal of my shares from the Goold Plantation, now that there are stocks of pipe-weed available once more.  Sam was to meet me within an hour.  Would you please advise him that I will be there, should he arrive and not find me at the Whitfoots’ home and come here in search of me?”

          “Will do,” Hilly assured him.  “Have a care crossing the Square.  The way is icy today.  And have a good ride back to Bywater.”

          Frodo Baggins nodded absently as he turned to the door, his water bottles slung over his shoulder.  “And be careful as you head back to the Great Smial.  I should see you on Moonday.”

          Ultimo Longbottom served as the general agent, or Factor, for the Union of Pipe-weed Producers of the Southfarthing.  He’d served in his post for close to fifty years, and in spite of his sometimes surly disposition was deemed most competent at his job.  He’d been dismissed from his post by Lotho Sackville-Baggins shortly after the latter named himself Chief Shirriff, and was much relieved when restored following the Scouring of the Shire.

          Throughout Foreyule and Afteryule, Ultimo had worked with the masters of the plantations to identify bales and barrels of pipe-weed found in the Brockenbores and other stashes throughout Lotho’s properties so as to return them with their proper places.  Stocks of Longbottom Leaf and Old Toby were much depleted, with wagonloads stolen from the warehouses by Lotho’s agents and .shipped off south, out of the Shire.  Only the Goolds and a few other, more independent plantations had suffered relatively little loss.  On realizing that shipments intended for the Great Smial and Buckland had not arrived in a timely manner, the Goolds had begun quietly removing stores from the shared warehouses and storing them in their private storage holes on their plantation.  Their land was, after all, quite close to the Sarn Ford, and they had learned the wisdom of having secure storage that was hard to identify by folks from outside the family.  Therefore, although there were shortages of Hornblower and Longbottom product, there was plenty of Goolden Lynch leaf as well as pipe-weed from other independent growers.

          Frodo thought on all of this as he approached the Factor’s office.  Ultimo Hornblower was back at his post, and one more thing had been set right within the Shire.  He was humming softly as he pushed open the door….

          He caught that flash of intense anger and hatred that briefly was aimed at him, but Ultimo had almost immediately replaced it with an expression of bland courtesy as he rose to his feet.

          “Yes, sir?  You have business with the Factor’s office, do you?  How might I assist you?”  It was as if Ultimo had never seen him before—as if he were a complete stranger.

          Should he ignore the behavior?  Perhaps….

          “Yes, Ultimo.  Well, I am wishing to have the leaf due me from the Goold plantation redirected elsewhere for a time.”

          The Hornblower affected surprise.  “You have shares in the Goold plantation, then?  I am sorry, sir, but I do not recognize you as one who has shares in Goolden Lynch.  Perhaps you have only recently inherited shares from an older relative who has passed away?”

          Frodo felt his eyebrows rise in shocked surprise.  Who might have left him shares in the Goold plantation?  It had long been a matter of debate as to whether Old Toby or Longbottom Leaf was the best pipe-weed in the Shire.  Frodo had experimented with Goolden Lynch primarily because of his Aunt Menegilda, who had grown up a Goold before she married his Uncle Rorimac and became the Mistress of Buckland and Brandy Hall.  He preferred the milder aroma and the hint of cherry wood to be found in Goolden Lynch, and so had directed his purchases of shares in crops of pipe-weed in that direction.  There were few enough Hobbits who had such a preference, and Frodo knew well enough that Ultimo knew each and every single one of those who had shares in Goolden Lynch.

          He decided not to play along.  “With Bilbo’s support, I purchased my shares through you when I reached the age of thirty.  Now, as to where my shares are to be sent from this time on----“

          Ultimo interrupted, “You were related to Bilbo?  Do you mean Bilbo Baggins?  I regret to say that I do not recognize you as any relative of Bilbo’s that I know of!  Nor is he available to vouch for your claim, having been gone for—what?  Eighteen or twenty years now?  Would you be able to call him forth from his grave to identify you?”

          Frodo felt anger straightening his spine.  “First, Bilbo is not dead, and so has no grave to rise from.  No, he no longer dwells within the Shire, but he now has a permanent residence elsewhere with one of the great lords of Middle Earth.  Were he not a hundred thirty years old now, I am certain he would agree to come back to the Shire and Michel Delving so as to assure you of my identity.  However, that not being practicable at this time, would you agree to accept the word of Will Whitfoot, who appointed me his deputy while he recovers from the injuries he suffered while imprisoned by Lotho’s Big Men?”

          Denying the word of the duly elected Mayor of the Shire would be far more difficult for Ultimo to pull off, Frodo thought.   And indeed the Factor’s face darkened, his dislike growing obvious now.

‘         “And just how am I to be certain that you are indeed the Frodo Baggins?  He left the Shire secretly well over a year ago, long enough ago that Lotho Sackville-Baggins would be able to declare him dead, had he so chosen.  You appear, out of the blue, claiming to be Frodo Baggins, and even though others will accept that claim, I do not intend to do so!”

          The door behind the Baggins opened and others entered.  “Mr. Hildibrand told us where we might find you, Master.  We hope as all’s going well for you.”

          Sam was accompanied by Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took.  At the sight of the heirs to the Master and the Thain, Ultimo straightened uncertainly.

          Sensing the tension between the deputy Mayor and the Factor, Merry asked, “What’s the matter here?”

          Frodo said from between clenched teeth, “He’s playing Longo’s game with me, Merry,”

          Merry was obviously confused, but Pippin straightened with understanding.  “You mean,” the Took suggested, “that he’s pretending that you aren’t really you, the way Bilbo’s Uncle Longo and others did when he came back from the Lonely Mountain?”  He turned to Ultimo, shaking his head.  “Do you know who I am, Ultimo Hornblower?”

          Ultimo’s visage grew darker still.  “Yes, I know you to be Master Peregrin Took.”

          “And my father?”

          Through gritted teeth, Ultimo answered, “Thain Paladin Took.”

          “And my companions here?”

          Ultimo gave up.  “Mister Meriadoc Brandybuck, heir to Saradoc Brandybuck, the Master of the Hall.”

          “As well as my cousin, and son to Esmeralda Took Brandybuck, sister to my father, the Thain.” 

Ultimo nodded stiffly.  He gave Sam a sideways glance and turned his attention back to Pippin.  “Him I don’t know.  I believe I have seen him before in the company of the real Frodo Baggins.”

          Pippin‘s expression had grown stern and slightly menacing.  “That’s a despicable game, you know.  Well, we three can certainly vouch for the gentlehobbit who preceded us into your office.  This is the Frodo Baggins that we left the Shire with last year after his fiftieth birthday, and that we returned with this year at the end of Winterfilth, the first of Blotmath.  Or, are you now going to question our identities, too?”

          Now understanding the situation, Merry added, “After all, Pip and I have changed far more than Frodo has, and Sam hasn’t physically changed at all, other than a few scars he didn’t have before he traveled to the King’s White City and back by way of Mordor.  But, then, I am surprised that you’d recognize Sam at all, for he was but a gardener before we left, and not one who owned shares in any of the plantations.  Although that is now changimg, now that he’s considered a Lord of the Realm for his heroism.  But what would a mere Factor of the Shire know about that?”

          Pippin gave a mirthless laugh.  “Even my da, the oh-so stubborn Thain of the Shire, has recognized us all, although he’s refusing to admit that I’ve changed in any way but height.  It’s funny—he’s admitting that by having a new bed made sufficiently long enough for me to stretch out in, but doesn’t want to have new clothes made for me.  It’s lucky we were able to have so much made for us in Gondor, I suppose.”

          Ultimo eyed the mail peeping out of the neck of Pippin’s jacket and the leather gambeson worn by Merry over his clothing.  “It does appear that you two have traveled in strange lands.”  At that moment Pippin shifted, and his sword glinted in the lights of the office.  Ultimo stiffened.  Slowly he raised his eyes to meet Pippin’s.  “You are wearing a sword?”

          Pippin met his gaze levelly.  “Yes, I am wearing a sword.  Merry is wearing one, too.  We are warriors now.  We have learned to fight.  We had to do so in order to survive and to help the world to survive.  We all came to carry swords while we were gone, and we all learned how to fight with them.  Even Frodo here fought to protect himself and the rest of us.  We were fighting in a war, all of us, Merry and me with our swords, and Frodo and Sam using the skills and gifts we Hobbits are best at.  Merry and I are still fighting, this time to protect our own people and land.  We just saw eight more Big Men thrown out of the Shire.  Do you think that they would have gone as peacefully as they did if we weren’t armed?”

          Ultimo snorted.  “But who ever heard of a Hobbit who fought with a sword?”

          Merry was shaking his head.  “Did you never hear how forty Hobbits marched out of the Shire to fight with the armies of Arvedui Last-King?  They mostly fought with slings, arrows, and thrown stones, according to the tales told amongst the Oldbucks and the Brandybucks.  But a few appear to have become skilled with a blade.  Certainly Bucca’s sword hangs in honor upon the wall in the Master’s study.  And the annals of the Northern Dúnedain indicate how much they were honoured by Arvedui and his son Aranarth.  So, having Hobbits again take up weapons to fight the enemies of the Free Peoples is not something that hadn’t happened before.”

          “Now, to bring the matter back to your pretence that Frodo here is himself a pretender, are you going to drop the game, or do we get to drive the point home with these swords we carry?”  Pippin slapped his weapon’s pommel.

          Ultimo held his breath momentarily, glancing sidelong at the swords worn by two of his visitors before turning his attention to the deputy Mayor.  “Now, sir, about the farm shares belonging to Mister Frodo Baggins:  just how are they to be dealt with as of this time?”

          All four of the Travellers noted how the Factor continued to refuse to address Frodo by his name, but Frodo straightened and went on with directing that the large barrels of Goolden Lynch for his own use that he was due were to be forwarded to the Lord King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor, in the Citadel of Minas Tirith in Gondor. 

          “And the small barrels of Longbottom Leaf and Old Toby that have been sent to Bag End each year for the Master of the Hill’s guests?”

          The Baggins shrugged.  “As of this time I am staying with the Cottons on their farm in Bywater, seeing that Bag End now belongs to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and I have no desire to return to the Crickhollow house that I purchased in Buckland.”  He sighed, and finally said, “I am not certain what I should do with them for the time being.”

          Pippin and Merry shared a wordless communication.  Merry looked Ultimo in the eye.  “My father has indicated that he will accept into storage anything intended for his cousin Frodo Baggins and hold it until he has obtained permanent quarters.  My father has commissioned me to speak for him on this matter whenever it comes up.  Shall I attest to this in writing?  We have the deputy Mayor here now to witness that I stand for the Master of Buckland and the Hall.”

          Frodo gave a sigh of relief.  “I am willing to accept Sara’s offer to hold my goods until I have settled into my new abode, wherever that might prove to be.  Thank him for me, please, Merry.”

          Ultimo made notes on this, then examined Frodo’s previous directions.  “So,” he said slowly, “you are having your personal shipments of pipe-weed forwarded to—well, just where is this Gondor?”

          Frodo exchanged puzzled glances with Merry.  “Gondor is the great realm of the south, below and beyond the Misty Mountains.  The great river Andúin flows through it from the northeast on its way to the Sundering Sea.”

          The Factor’s face was now suffused with anger.  “So,” he spat, “as with Lotho you, too, are sending our pipe-weed south, out of the Shire!”

          All four of the Travelers were shocked by Ultimo’s obvious fury.  Merry stepped forward to face him directly.  “Wait a minute, Ultimo Longbottom!  There’s no our here at all.  Frodo is proposing only to send his lawful share of pipe-weed south, and no one else’s.  Or are you saying that he has no right to do with what is now his own property as he wills?  He doesn’t smoke any longer, as he was directed by the best healers within Middle Earth.  He may look to be in good health, and he is indeed in good health as long as he doesn’t smoke, which could hurt lungs that were badly damaged by what he suffered outside the Shire.  But, as he himself no longer smokes, he has chosen to send his personal shares of pipe-weed to Aragorn to share with his kinsmen who remain at his side.”

          “So,” Ultimo returned, “he would send pipe-weed not to the—Lord King—but instead to this Aragorn?  What trickery are you thinking to foist upon us, Frodo Baggins?”

          Frodo’s face had gone white with anger, and his right hand had been hovering over his chest.  He touched the lump there under his shirt, and he first looked startled and then relieved.  Now, slowly, color returned to his face as he spoke, but his voice was the most chill his companions had heard from him in some time.  “Our Lord King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar was born here in the northlands, and was given the name Aragorn son of Arathorn by his parents, who were the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain and his Lady Wife.  Our beloved Lord King Aragorn has rather too many names for some people to appreciate.  After his father was slain by orcs—or goblins as we generally call them, he was taken to Rivendell and raised by Lord Elrond there as if he were the one of the Elf Lord’s own sons.  There he is known as Estel, which denotes Hope.  In Bree they call him Strider; in Rohan I have heard him called both Ælfred and Wingfoot.  I am told he has gone by other names in the past, although I am unsure as to what they might have been.  Bilbo refers to him as the Dúnadan, which means the Man of the West, indicating his descent from the ancient Kings of Númenor.  We were introduced to him as Strider, and he has granted Sam here permission to call him Lord Strider as Sam has difficulty calling people by different names from how he first met them.  And certainly by his great capabilities, gifts, birth, and stature Aragorn can easily carry each and every name and title he has earned throughout his life.”

          “But we’ve had no King since the death of the Last King!” protested Ultimo.

          “Arvedui and his younger son died in the sea ice of the far north, but his older son and heir survived the war with the Witch King of Angmar.  However, as most of the King’s lands within Eriador had been razed and most of its population was slain, Aranarth no longer claimed the title of King of Arnor, naming himself and his heirs Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain instead.  But he and his line have long known themselves to be the heirs to the rightful rulers of both Arnor and Gondor.  Aragorn went south to fight in the last war against Sauron, and on the downfall of Mordor was recognized as both King of Gondor and Arnor, the two Kingdoms of the people of Elendil and his sons, which are reunited at long last.  So, yes, we now have the King Returned.”

          “And,” added Pippin, “yes, we know him.  He accompanied us from Bree all the way to the borders of Gondor, and we were reunited with him in Minas Tirith, long the capital of that land, when he was crowned King.  His capital here in the north is Annúminas, but it is being rebuilt only now that the enemies of the Free Peoples are finally vanquished.  By the way, I am recognized there as one of Aragorn’s personal guards.”  He opened his jacket to show the tabard of his Guardsman’s uniform he wore over his mail.  “I am officially on duty as his representative to my father, the Thain.  If you have any difficulties understanding the relationship of Frodo to our Lord King, I am authorized to answer your questions.”

          Finally, apparently fully cowed, Ultimo wrote out the orders for the disposition of Frodo’s shares of pipe-weed and pushed them forward for the deputy Mayor to sign.  After Frodo first signed for himself and then as deputy Mayor to Will Whitfoot to certify the orders, he took out a stick of sealing wax, lit it to let a drop fall on the order, and finally took a stickpin from his lapel and pressed it into the wax.  “This is my personal seal,” he indicated to the Factor.  “When and if I leave Middle Earth at last, it will go to my heir.”

          Ultimo’s smirk could be seen for but a moment.  “But Lotho is your last heir, and I understand he’s supposed to be dead.”

          Frodo took a deep breath to control himself, and answered levelly, “Lotho Sackville-Baggins hasn’t been my proper heir for years, no matter what he and his parents thought.  My proper heir will be revealed when the time is right, but I am not telling you now.  My proper heir will be able to change that order should he desire it, but I rather guess he will have purchased his own shares of his preferred pipe-weed plantation by that time and will most likely not interfere with this order.  But when he comes bearing this seal, then and only then is my order to be changed.  And now, I bid you farewell.  I will take my further business to the owners of the plantations themselves rather than returning to this office.”

          With that he turned and led the way for the other Travellers to leave the office.

          “At least,” muttered Sam once the door had closed behind them, “that one called you by your proper name at last.”

          Merry and Pippin both laughed, but Frodo was beginning to shake in reaction.  Immediately Sam had his arm about Frodo’s shoulders as Frodo clutched the Queen’s jewel and let out an audible sob.

          “What’s wrong?” demanded Pippin.

          “I found myself reaching for—for It!” Frodo explained in a whisper.  “I would have cursed him, cursed him the way I did Sméagol, had I still had it there!”

          Sam embraced him fully at that.  “It’s all right, Frodo.  We understand.  Remember—It’s fully gone now, and you have the Queen’s jewel instead.  Be glad as you have her jewel to comfort and strengthen you rather than that filthy thing.  Now, come—it’s time to get your things and we’ll go back to the Cotton’s farm together.”

          Inside the office, Ultimo Longbottom peered out the window by the door, watching Sam release Frodo from his embrace and the four Travellers now turning across the Square to the Whitfoot place.