The long lines of wains wound like dusty streams through the countryside of Northern Ithilien on the white roads to Osgiliath at the waning of the summer.  War is never kind, though it is harsher on the conquered peoples, but to the farms and families of Gondor the Great War’s blight had hit hard.  Crops burned and trampled could not be replanted, nor were the fields able to immediately bear grain, and there was famine, alleviated though it could be by Gondor’s allies, yet even the Rohirrim suffered.  A dearth of men there also was; young men and old, both farmers and warriors, had been killed by orcs or Easterlings, and there were as yet none to replace them.  Crops withered; widows wept; maidens pined.

It is difficult to start a kingdom, even a fiefdom within a kingdom, during times of fat and plenty; to start one at the tail end of a horrific war, when hunger nips at the heels of even the wealthiest, is nigh impossible.  Yet that was the charge laid by King Elessar upon Faramir son of Denethor, erstwhile Steward of Gondor, now named Prince of Ithilien, and upon his wife Eowyn of Rohan.  Together they had toiled through the first two winters, aiding and succoring as they could, gathering unto themselves all the scattered peoples and vassals strewn abroad by the predations of the Enemy.  They and their people cared for the widowed and orphaned, the hungry and homeless, seeking to rebuild what the Dark Lord had all but crushed underfoot.  Now a bright spring had passed, and summer was waning; all about the hills and meads the shorn crops were stored in silos and warehouses, and carefully husbanded stock well-fed and watered dotted the green hills.  Houses were rethatched and chinked against the coming of the winter winds, trees pruned back and manure folded in amongst the roots.  Olives and fish were preserved in brine, onions and garlics braided into ropes and hung in attics and cellars; there was even beer in some casks in the more successful farmsteads.   Even as the last hot winds from the south died down, and the salt tang was brushed from the air by the rippling autumn, all hearts were lifted up, for now it was time for the Grand Tournament.

Gondor had held tournaments in the past, in times of peace and plenty, but pain and privation had prevented such pleasure for some time.  The threat of the Shadow had lain upon men, and thoughts of merry-making and mirth had been put aside.  Now, however, celebration could be truly made, for the immediate dangers were past; and although King Elessar still battled foes along the Bay of Belfalas and further south and east, peace reigned in Minas Tirith, and in Ithilien, its fiefdom.

Men were scarce, but greatly needed – men to reclaim land and ruin, to protect common folk who tilled the earth, to go at need to Prince Faramir or King Elessar to counter the raids upon the southern coasts of Gondor, where the people of Umbar still swarmed and stung, seeking revenge for losses and the recovery of their old ports.  So the call went out for a tournament from the King himself (advised, no doubt, by his Privy Council, who watched the war chests), to draw in strong men and brave, to try their strength in arms, to cement alliances, bond vassals, build marriages and ties. Thus it came to pass that from all lands in Gondor and abroad, to the north, the south and the west, fiefdoms and small kingdoms and forgotten tribes, rode the wains and waggons, rolling and jerking and bumping across powdery sun-drenched roads and cart tracks, pulled by mules, rouncies, and ponies:  Small waggons, with only tents and supplies, driven by a squire, while the knight in battered armour rode ahead on his horse; covered waggons laden with fodder and weapons pulled by pairs of mules, sporting two or more shields apiece, each with its separate heraldry; small chariots with but a single knight, having neither squire nor servant, seeking good fortune; penniless knights alone on their footsore destriers, proud tattered pennants floating along behind their lances.  The River, also, teemed with travelers, flocked with boats like waterfowl; and on the many barges were waggons with locked brakes, folded tents, uneasy palfreys and knights in their armour, draped over the sides of the barges, watching the banks of the Great River slip slowly by, or discoursing together in knots, forming alliances, sharing news, making friends.

When at last all came to Osgiliath, that once-magnificent seat of kings, ruined by the mangonels of the Enemy, they were greeted by its shining new bridges, east and west, springing from shore to shore in arches of pearl; the western walls, rebuilt, threw pennants into the air, snapping and dancing, a rainbow of colour above the brave white ramparts.  And when waggons crossed the bridges to the staging areas on the eastern side there were trees – saplings yet, but with the promise of beauty and great girth – standing as sentinels besides the guard houses:  Gifts, it was said, of the Elves of Mirkwood to the new King, just as the bridges had been gifts from the Dwarves of Erebor.  Within the ruins of the eastern city a great clearing had been made and stands constructed; the staging area for the tournament.  And to the west, where there still remained some grassy areas, was a massive city of tents, which housed the knights and squires, the reeves and armourers, the servants and kinsmen – denizens of a temporary village, bound together in both camaraderie and competition.  Outside the Tent City there dwelt the merchants, the booksmen and gamblers, the grocers and sops-in-wine, the fortune-tellers and businessmen, taking advantage of the influx of people and sales.  And all around Osgiliath, in the villages to the west of the River, inns were overcrowded with widows seeking alliances, old men wanting husbands for their spinster daughters, young men in quest of work in the houses of the visitors, as squires or servants or lackeys.   Yet in the center of Eastern Osgiliath there dwelt the Lord Faramir and his Lady, in hastily rebuilt mansions; the heart, it was said, of Ithilien in truth.  For as long as Prince Faramir lived in Osgiliath, the grace of Numenor resided there, and drew all good people to it.

The man who organized the quartering of this throng was hard-put and very busy, but he reveled in the work, loving his lord and lady, and wishing for the resurrection of Osgiliath of old.  There were choice sites there, corded off, for the most important knights, and indeed many had, by letter or messenger, reserved such; thus it was with surprise and amusement mixed he faced the child who had addressed him with,  “My good man, that site will be much too small for my master!”

“Indeed!” said the Quartermaster, looking down at the child.  “And what, pray tell, does your master think he is doing, sending a child to seek lodgings for him?  He ought to see to it himself, if he is so wrong-minded to have no proper squire.”

“Oh, I like that!” exclaimed the child indignantly.  “Look a little closer, my good man, and prove to me that you aren’t blind, or ignorant at the very least, and perhaps I’ll forgive your sauce, and give you a proper explanation in exchange for a proper site.”

The Quartermaster peered down at him, and indeed was both startled and abashed to discover the child was not a child, but a perian, standing with a piqued expression upon his small face, and clutching in his teeth a long curved pipe that brushed the tops of his furry feet. “I beg your pardon!” he cried, removing his cap.  “You must forgive me, Master Perian, for in my haste to see to all these visitors, I mistook you for a small boy!  And perhaps my eyes are truly failing me,” he added, looking more closely, “for I ought to have recognized you for what you are, as I had opportunity to observe the periannath who were the friends of the King Elessar and King Eomer – you are a relative, perhaps?”

“Much better!” smiled the perian, appeased.  “Yes, indeed!  Peregrin son of Paladin, one of the Tower Guards, a Knight of the City I’m told he is – my uncle, if you can believe it – I am Bandobras Took, son of Reginard, and I am the squire and reeve of Sir Lasgalen Oakleaf of Dale.  Many long leagues we’ve traveled, and I’m fair beat, I’m not afraid to tell you – through Mirkwood, and down the river we’ve come, oh dear!  Looking for a place to spread my pallet for more than one night I am, and mighty anxious for a bath and a hot meal.  And I tell you again, sir, that this tiny tract of land” – he pointed to the rough map drawn on the wooden gate of the Tent City – “is much too small for my master and our things.  We’ve got three big tents, you see.”

“Three!” exclaimed the Quartermaster.  “How many are in your party?”

“Just the three of us,” said the perian; “Myself, my master, and the armourer.  But we’ve got our supplies, see, and all my cooking gear – not but I’ve had much chance to use it up to now!  And we’ve got my master’s destrier and his palfrey, and our two ponies, and the four mules that pulled our waggons.”

“You can stable them at the north end of the city,” suggested the Quartermaster, not liking to give away the prime sites so early in the season, “or picket them off to the north.”

“That won’t be to my master’s liking at all,” said the perian sadly, giving his pipe a couple of puffs.  Heavy blue smoke curled around his toes, and he blew a tantalizing ring floating above the Quartermaster’s head.  “Likes to have his horses nearby, he does, and his destrier’s something of a handful – picks fights with other horses – very aggressive.”  He shook his head and popped and puffed on the pipe some more.  “No, I’m afraid it’ll be that one, or no one, you see.”  And he pointed a finger at a big, prime site, next to the well, and nearest the outer village of merchants, suitable for a prince or great lord.  The Quartermaster pursed his lips.

“I would hate to give your master disappointment – “ he began, but the perian interrupted him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, glancing up at the tall man; “I forgot to mention – it must have slipped my mind, so to speak, what with all the traveling and all.  But my master did say that I was to speak politely and patiently with you, as your job’s a busy one, and to treat you as he would, and he’s a generous man, is my master – yes, indeed,” he added, thoughtfully puffing on his long pipe.  “Generous indeed – very free with his money he is.”

The Quartermaster raised his eyebrows.  “Is he, now?” he asked, smiling.  “How generous is he, Master Perian?”

“Well, look at this!” said the perian, digging in his pocket and producing ten gold pieces – a sizable sum, and nearly a year’s wages to the poor of Ithilien.  “Just gave it to me, he did, before I came in – he’s sitting by the wains now – told me to use it as I saw fit, as he’d never miss it.”  The perian jingled the coins together and cocked his head up at the Quartermaster.  “I can’t see fit to use it in any proper way yet – though I’m sure it’d come in uncommon handy to you right now, in these hard times.”

“It would indeed,” said the Quartermaster, lightly wetting his lips with his tongue, and looking down at the gold.

“It would be worth a great deal to my master,” said the perian thoughtfully, shifting the coins in his hand, “to have a good site for the tents and horses – ‘twould mean a great deal to him, indeed!  And he’d be very grateful, you know – for a good site – and grateful men are generous men, are they not, good sir?”

 “I have heard so,” said the man carefully, “though I’ve not experienced it much of late.”

“Ah, but times are changing,” said the perian smiling.  “Things are looking up, you know.  War’s over, crops are in – it will be a time of plenty soon, and those who have the wherewithal will have a bit of a leg up, if you catch my meaning.  But if you can’t help my master,” he said regretfully, making to put the coins in his pocket, “We’ll camp outside the city, in the woods on the south side of the village.”

“I would regret indeed,” said the Quartermaster, staying the perian’s hand anxiously, “to make your master retreat to such an inconvenient place!  Wet it is, too, Master Perian – not good for the frog, you know.  And the frog is such an important part of a war horse’s hoof.  I think – “ he eyed the gold greedily “ – I can provide suitable room for your master and his tents.”

“Can you indeed!” smiled the perian.  “Are we come to an accord, then?”  He held out his right hand, lightly cradling the gold in the other, and gripped the pipe stem in his strong white teeth.

“Done!” said the Quartermaster, striking the Hobbit's palm with his right hand and receiving the gold in the other.  “Have your tents erected in that site, then.  There are men waiting to receive you and aid in situating yourselves.  They have already been paid,” he advised the perian, “but they, like myself, are poor men, and though willing to work have been pressed hard these past years.”

“Say no more!” laughed the perian.  “My master’s got gold aplenty.  There won’t be any wanting around his tents.  And if you could, when the grocers arrive, could you be sure to tell them to bring round the best of their wares?  For a month or more we’ve been on short rations, and I won’t deny some proper victuals will be mighty welcome.”

“I will do that!” promised the Quartermaster with a laugh.  “Anything to oblige Sir Lasgalen of Dale.”

“I knew I’d like you,” said the perian with a wink, and went out the wooden gate to where his master’s effects waited on a green lawn.

So it was that Lasgalen of Dale’s two great wains rolled into the Tent City.  They were covered in richly decorated canvas, and the sideboards were carved and gilded and marked all round with Dwarven runes.  And soon it was whispered abroad amongst all the local folk that the Knight of Dale’s reeve, a Halfling, was so free with his master’s gold that all the best food and fodder were brought to him, the armourer’s tent glowed with fire and roared with bellows, the oven next to the forge bubbled and sang and hissed with meats and cheeses, and good wine flowed in the jeweled goblets of his master.  The horses were quartered behind stout fences and their hooves cushioned with the finest hay, and they were fed with good grains and sweet grasses.  Folk would walk by and peek inside the pavilion, to catch a glimpse of this prosperous and worldly knight, but all they would see would be the Halfling, sitting on a stool outside the opening of the tent, peeling potatoes and puffing on his long pipe, while the armourer, a stout and sweating dwarf, sang or cursed in his own harsh tongue and wielded snips and nippers, hammer and tongs over his fire.  Rumor and speculation inflamed the images they had gotten of him, as he rode into the Tent City upon his huge destrier, clad cap-a-pie in bright armour figured with verdigris, crossed oak branches on his shield, his shining helm flanked by bats’ wings and surmounted by a plume of green feathers; many called out greetings to him, which he acknowledged silently, with but a wave of his gauntleted hand.  And betimes casual onlookers would catch sight of him, out of his armour but obscured by a great green robe with a cowled hood, walking from his tent to the paddock or out to speak to either his armourer or his reeve, but no other sign of Lasgalen of Dale was seen, neither face nor voice, until the tournament opened five days later.