Marigold's Challenge 25

In Dreams by Elanor Silmarien

2006-02-06T20:54:56Z

Eglantine Took comforts a new generation of hobbits...

In Dreams
By Elanor Silmarien
Marigold’s Challenge #25

It was the middle of the night almost exactly when something awoke Eglantine Took suddenly. For a moment she didn’t know what it had been, until she heard quiet sobs coming from the room next to hers. She rose quietly, so as not to wake her husband, and slowly edged open the door to see two young hobbits crying in each other’s arms. One was Frodo Gamgee, who had just recently turned twelve. The other was his younger brother, eight year old Merry. They had come to stay with Eglantine’s son, their Uncle Pippin, while their parents Sam and Rosie were away in Sarn Ford for the month.

“What’s wrong?” Eglantine asked, taking the younger boy in her arms and sitting on the bed, her back to the wall. Merry put his little arms around her waist and said, “We hadded nightmares.”

Eglantine looked to Frodo, who said, “He had a nightmare almost exactly like me.”

“What about, love?” Eglantine asked.

“Mum and Da. They were in trouble and couldn’t get help. In my dream they got eaten by trolls and in Mer’s they got ‘tacked by a giant spider from Da’s stories,” Frodo replied, wiping a tear off his cheek.

Merry began to cry again, remembering his dream. “I want Mummy back!” he said.

“Shh, dear, it was only a bad dream. She’ll be back in a few weeks,” Eglantine said as Frodo scooted closer to her.

“But it was scary, Aunt Tina,” Merry said.

“I’m sure it was. But it’s over now. Do you want me to stay with you for a little while?”

“Tell us a story, Aunt Tina,” Frodo said, looking pleadingly at her with his shockingly blue eyes, the only part of him that resembled his namesake.

“Tell us about when you had a bad dream,” Merry requested, resting his curly head on her shoulder.

“All right,” Eglantine said. She remembered one such instance vividly. It had been only a few days before Pippin, Merry, Sam and Frodo had returned from their adventure.

***
Eglantine awoke suddenly. It was nearly midnight, and she was trembling in fear. She had dreamed about her son standing in front of a burning funeral pyre, with a tall man burning to death in the midst of it. She saw the expression of horror and hopelessness on Pippin’s face. Not knowing what had happened to her son made her mind imagine all the most horrible things that could have happened to him.

She had suffered from nightmares since a few days after she had realized that he was gone, and had spent most of the next year and a half sticking close to home in case he were to come back. But she had lost her hope of that months before.

Thus when he did return, she fainted at the sight of him, not able to believe it was him. She never told anyone why. They never asked. Her dreams had ceased and she knew Pippin was safe, and that was the end of it.

***
Of course, Eglantine did not tell this whole story to the children. They were too young to understand. “It was very scary,” she said. “But then… Guess who showed up at the door, Merry!”

Merry scrunched up his nose in concentration, totally immersed in the story. “Who?” he asked.

“Frodo, do you know?” she asked. Frodo had heard the end of this story from his Da, who thought Merry a little young for the real version still.

“It was Uncle Pippin!” Frodo said excitedly.

“Yes it was. I was very surprised, because my dream said he wasn’t coming back home.”

“Does that mean Mum and Da are coming back?” Merry asked. “They’re all right, aren’t they?”

“Yes love, they’re fine.” She bent over and kissed Merry’s forehead, then Frodo’s, and said, “Do you think you can go to sleep now?”

“If Frodo stays with me,” Merry said, curling up beside his brother under the covers.

“Of course,” Frodo replied, hugging him comfortingly, scaring away the demons of the night.

Eglantine smiled and closed the door quietly.

“You dreamed about me when I was gone?” said a familiar voice behind her.

She turned to give her son a hug. “What are you doing up?” she asked.

“I came to see if Frodo and Merry were all right, I heard them from my room. Answer my question,” Pippin said, smiling at his mother.

“Yes,” she replied. “I dreamed about you and Merry on top of a great tree. I dreamed about you going to war, and I dreamed about you watching a Man burn to death.” She shuddered and said, “They were horrible, but they were just dreams.”

Pippin looked at his mother sadly, slightly confused. “They weren’t just dreams, Mum,” he said. “That all happened.”

Eglantine stared at him a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I was there, remember?” Pippin answered. He shook his head. “No matter,” he said. “I need to get to bed, and so do you.” He kissed her cheek, then turned and left.

Eglantine watched after him, the realization of what he had been through finally dawning on her. Then returned to her room, only to be awakened a moment later by Rose and Little Goldilocks climbing under her covers saying, “Aunt Tina, can we sleep with you? We had bad dreams!”

The End

They Also Serve by Lindelea

2006-02-06T08:22:35Z

They also serve who only stand and wait: Marigold Gamgee does what she can...

Title: They Also Serve
Author: Lindelea
Rating: G
Main Characters:
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, but I sometimes sneak out with them for a cup of tea and a biscuit or two, or sit and watch them sleep.
Brief synopsis: They also serve who only stand and wait: Marigold Gamgee does what she can.
Challenge Starter: Write a story including Marigold just before and during the time the Travellers return.

They Also Serve

If it wasn't for Rosie Cotton, and for the fact that my old gaffer needs me, I think I'd just lay me down and die, I really would. Dad's been awful sick, the past few weeks. It started with a cough, just a little one, for he held it in, not wanting me to worry, and o' course he never let on that it was paining him. Said 'twas the lack of pipe-weed, catching up with him at last. But we both know it's this draughty house, built so badly the wind blows in through the cracks and whistles in the stove pipe. Not that there's wood to burn, even with all the trees they've cut down.

Ever since Sam's been gone to Crickhollow and then up and disappeared altogether, or so they say, I keep hoping he'll get word somehow of how things are, and come back. I think on him, every night when I pull up the thin blanket over my head to shut out the wind that finds its way through the cracks in the walls, and I send good thoughts his way, for surely he must need a good thought or two, wherever he is. He must be facing danger ahead, and more danger behind, or he'd be back by now from wherever it is he went with Mr. Frodo.

That day he left, and that Black-cloak Man came round asking after "Baggins" I had a terrible bad feeling, and so I think good thoughts for Sam and send them after him, wishes for his safety, and hopes that he hasn't forgotten us as has been left behind.

I wish I could get word to Ham or Hal or Daisy or May, but there's no travelling allowed and no post, and it's just me and Dad here. If it wasn't for the kindness of the Cottons I don't know what we would do.

It's no use longing for Bagshot Row; it's all dug up and gone, Mum's garden, Dad's taters and all else, save Bag End, and they've made the garden beds into rubbish heaps and put up ugly sheds that block the windows. How I 'member me, bringing pots of fresh-made strawberry jam to Mr. Frodo, last Spring before he went away and took our Sam with him. The windows sparkled, and the breeze carried the mingled scents of the flowers, and Tom Cotton had asked me to walk out with him, and I was never so happy in all my life.

I went out to gather what herbs I could, for Dad's coughing fits grew so bad he'd go red in the face and gasping, and there's no going out without a "pass" any more these days, and even so a lass takes her life and virtue into her hands to stir outside her door. If it wasn't for Rosie Cotton...

I don't know how she manages, but she comes every week or two, a basket of rags on her arm, looking frightful. The last time she came, her eye was blacked and she was missing a tooth and her clothes all ragged-like and dirty and dirt on her face and she smelled as bad as a goat. I doubt any ruffian would come near enough to get a whiff of her and come any closer, close enough to bother her, much less tease her for a kiss, those nasty Men! I've heard worse, and Dad won't let me go out no more... any more. I'm forgetting what Mr. Bilbo taught Sam, and Sam taught me, how to talk proper and all such. It's just Dad and me, sitting by the cold stove, talking over things as we remember them.

But now I've started to write things down in the bound book Mr. Frodo gave me for a last present when he went away. Mostly happy things, like Mum's fresh apple tart, so good that Mr. Bilbo would knock upon the door to say how good it smelled, cooling on the windowsill, and she'd always ask him in and cut him a large slice and send him home with another. 'Twas his apples, after all. Dad always got a bushel to keep when we picked the apples in the orchard for the Bagginses.

Did I say a basket of rags? Well, yes, but the rags, they're only the top part, you see. Rosie has a pass to go to Bywater market every market day (Market, huh! Naught for sale but the ruffians like to make it look as though life goes on. I don't know just why.) to bring rags to the rug-maker. I don't know how she manages to come all the way here with a pass that says "market" but she does. I don't suppose she'd manage if we still lived on the Row. This shed is not above a mile from the end of Bywater, and that helps. Who'd've thought the ruffians would do us a service?

And under the rags she'll have a roasted chicken, and a jar of calves-foot jelly, and another of lamb broth, and a few vegetables that haven't yet been "gathered". At that it's more food than the ruffians allot us for a week of eating. I don't know what we'd do... in the old days we'd've et up that chicken in just one sitting, but now we stretch it out to two or three days, and then I cook the scraps into soup with the little bit of cooking wood the ruffians allot us. Good enough for two or three good fires a week, perhaps. Some folk might stretch the wood out with poorly little fires, but you can't really cook that way. I cook up griddle cakes and soup and bake bread with those two good fires, and we eat cold food the rest of the time.

The light is going and my old Dad's already snoring. O' course he is--I would hardly be writing this if he were awake. He never did hold with Sam learning his letters, and if he knew Sam had taught me he'd be right put out.

***

Dad's cough is some better. Rosie brought herbs from the farm, now that it's too hard for me to get out. Really I feel like one of those poor Lockholes hobbits, but at least I can see the Sun through these unnatural square windows. They may be badly made, and let in the wind, but at least they let in the light. They're not glass windows, o' course, that would be too good a thing for "Shire rats", but greased paper. Still, the light comes in, and it's a mercy that ruffians passing by cannot see in, for they'd want to know where the chicken came from, and such. As it is, we pry up a loose board in the floor, to bury what leavings we absolutely cannot stomach in the dirt under.

Did you know if you boil chicken bones long enough they'll be soft enough to chew? And vegetable peelings make a broth o' sorts, and if you close your eyes when you drink the soup, you can pretend the peelings are Mum's homemade noodles.

Rosie had been looking glum as anyone else, since they closed all the inns and hauled Mayor Will off to the Lockholes, but today she seemed different. Her other eye was blacked, that wasn't it--I mentioned a blackened eye before, and forgot to say it was her dad that did it. He didn't blacken her eye, not with his fist, but with smudges from a piece of charred wood. She looks a sight, with her front teeth coloured black and her black eye and dirty face, but under it all she was cheerful today.

We sat down for our usual chat over tea--she and Tom gather weeds as they're walking and we brew them in our day's allotment of water over a small fire--and Tom and my old Dad got to talking and she leaned over and said, 'It's going to be all right, Mari!'

My mouth must've dropped open, for she reached her dirty hand to my chin and pushed up before Dad noticed, and I closed my mouth again and stared. I was sure she'd lost her wits. She laughed, ever so soft, and Dad broke off what he was sayin' 'bout taters to ask her about the joke. She spun a tale of how a couple of those ruffian louts came up to her and Tom to ask for their "pass" but when they smelled the goat smell they waved Tom and her on without even looking at the paper, muttering about dirty rats.

When Dad and Tom went back to talking, she leaned close again. 'Sam's all right,' she whispered. I sat up straight as could be, but managed not to shout out loud. We don't want any ruffians knocking at the door, demanding to know what all the noise is about. Door's so poorly made it would likely fall in.

'You've heard from him?' I hissed, and questions tumbled out faster'n I could ask them, even. 'Where is he? What's...?'

She put a hand on my mouth and as quickly she put it back down in her lap before Dad could see. 'Don't tell the gaffer,' she said. 'But he's all right, and he'll be coming home.'

'When?' I whispered. I thought perhaps Dad and Tom could hear my heart pounding. Sam's been gone so long, and no word, and I know he'd've sent word if only he could, and if he knew what was going on and that they'd dug up Bagshot Row he'd never have stayed away if he were living and in his right mind. I was sure he was dead.

My hand is shaking so, I can hardly write the words. O Dad and I have talked, sometimes, about Sam and where he might have gone. 'That's what comes o' mixing with your betters,' he'd always say, but I've seen him wipe a tear away when he thought I wasn't looking.

I was sure he was dead. I don't think Rosie ever gave up hope, but like I said, she was looking grim, the last few weeks.

But today, even the blackened eye was sparkling, and I found enough hope down deep in the bottom of my heart to believe her. I've been thinking good thoughts for Sam's sake, all along, all the good things I remember, but it's been hard. What I really was doing, the past few weeks, was trying to keep him alive in my heart, for it seemed that so long as I could remember him, I'd not lose him.

***

It has been weeks since I wrote the last, and things is grim and grimmer in the Shire. They've cut down all the trees on the Avenue, Rosie says. It almost makes me content that I must stay indoors, in my ramshackle shed of a Lockhole, behind my greased-paper window, for the Shire remains in my mind as I remember it.

Sometimes I slip out when Dad is sleeping, for a fresh breath and a glimpse of the stars. Mr. Frodo loved the stars, he did, in a way that made me think of elvish things. (Stuff and nonsense, Dad would grumble when Sam would tell us one o' Mr. Bilbo's or Mr. Frodo's stories, but he'd listen all the same.) The stars make me think o' Mr. Frodo, and I wonder if he lives, still, or if only Sam has come through, whatever it is he's come through. Rosie won't say, and when I try to ask her she shushes me, with a look at my old gaffer, and squeezes my hand.

She and Tom can only come every so often, now. It's just as well, for we'd been cutting up Mum's old dresses, that Dad couldn't bring himself to give away when she died, we'd been cutting them up to add to the rags in Rosie's basket so it didn't look as if she left off anything when she visited our shack. It's the sort of thing a ruffian would notice, if the basket seemed piled high with rags when she went in, but the rags was half-gone when she went out again. Anyhow, there's not much left to cut up, not even any more of Samwise's clothes. We cannot very well go unclad, and so our clothes, worn and likely to become rags themselves sooner than later, must stay whole as can be managed.

When there's no food at all left, and Rosie and Tom haven't come, Dad'll go round to the Cottons', all against The Rules o' course, and they feed him a good meal and he hides food in his clothes to bring back to me, and so we eat for a little longer. Some folk go without altogether, he tells me, for the ruffians allot only enough food for a body to eat every other day, and call any hobbits that protest "gluttons" and such, and even haul them as says anything off to the Lockholes if they're in a foul humour.

And summer nearly over, and winter to follow, and how ever will we keep warm and fed?

It may be harvest time, but we've seen none of it, save what Rosie brings hidden under the rags. She says that waggonloads of stuff has been going South ever since last year at this time. Either the hobbits of the South Farthing are sitting on heaps of food, or it's going out of the Shire altogether. I wonder what's there, beyond the Bounds?

And still I think my good thoughts of Sam, and send my hopes his way, and hope he'll remember where it was he come from, and turn his face towards home once more. Even if there's not much "home" to come home to.

***

Mr. Frodo's and Mr. Bilbo's birthday come and went, but no Birthday Party, o'course. Dad poured out glasses of water for each of us and raised his hand in a shaky toast, and whispered his blessings, and he and I drank, and remembered.

And something else has happened. There's someone new come to Bag End, they call him Sharkey, and they say he's the Big Boss of all the ruffians. I only hope he sets them straight. They've run roughshod right over the Shire, and near to spoilt it to death. Perhaps now there'll be food, and the market will open again, and the inns, and...

...and Sam will come back. Bless him. I wonder if Rosie still thinks he's alive and coming home? It's hard to think the good thoughts, but I'll keep on, if only for Sam's sake.

***

I really do think that I shall lay down to sleep, and never waken in this world. I go to bed and I feel all hollow inside. It's worse than when I used to go to bed and the hunger would be a-gnawin' at my insides. But things is worse rather than better, and if we thought the ruffians bad, well, that Sharkey...

It seems he's the one behind the orders to cut down the trees, and fill the blue skies with horrid greasy smoke, and pour nasty offal into the water until the fish begin to wash up on the banks, stinking and dead.

And now they've taken Mistress Lobelia to the Lockholes, and nobody's seen Mr. Lotho in some time, and Rosie and Tom's not been by in days, and when Dad tried to go to the Cottons they stopped him and gave him such a fright, for they acted as if they were marching him off to the Lockholes, and only as they passed our shed did they shove him in at the door with loud and raucous laughter, and he was shaking and the tears was leaking from his eyes, even though his jaw was set and grim.

I've not seen Dad weep since the day Mum died. He's always been strong, tough and strong, like the roots that go down deep into the soil and hurt your arm, trying to yank them out, and even then they won't come out but break off and make you dig deeper to take hold once more, and even then you cannot yank them out!

He's afeared, I know, that if he's hauled away, the ruffians will come for me next.

***

I thought I'd seen a ghost, I really did. It was not much more than six o'clock, but the dark was coming down, and a knock came at the door. We knew it couldn't be a hobbit, being after the curfew hour and all that, unless it was a Shirriff, and so Dad told me to hide myself, and he opened the door, for what else could he do?

And I heard him cry out, and I grabbed up the skillet, heavy iron that it is, and the closest thing to a weapon we might have, and I stepped out and swung at the figure that stood there, metal shining out from under his cloak...

...and I near to knocked the brains out of my brother, dear Samwise, standing there real as life.

It was like he didn't even have to think about it, the way his hand come up and seized my wrist and stopped that skillet before I could even blink, and his dear voice said, 'Mari! Marigold!'

And I was laughing and weeping and clinging to him, and he was hard--it was like hugging a tree, only harder, for he was clad in a mail shirt under his cloak--and Dad was weeping and his arms was about the both of us, and Sam was weeping and...

Well, let's just say there was no dearth of tears in that shack for a good few minutes.

And now I am writing by the light of the fire, for before Sam went off again with our old gaffer he hauled a couple of armloads of wood from somewhere and told me to get myself warm, for I was all over gooseflesh.

I'll say I was all over gooseflesh. It's not every day you see the dead come back to life.

And Sam's gone off to throw the ruffians and their Boss out of the Shire, and I believe him, for he's not the same Sam that went off a year ago. He's hard, and it's not just that he's wearing a mail shirt and a sword, and there's a cold light in his eyes, and I wouldn't want to be that Sharkey-fellow when Sam gets through with him.

And Mr. Frodo is back, and well... well, perhaps not well, for Sam's voice faltered a little in the telling... but Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry are back and tall as anything from drinking tree sap and they have swords and shields and know how to use them...

And they're going to throw the ruffians out of the Shire, and everything will be all right again.

So I guess Rosie really did know what she was talking about after all.

Caws Llyffant by Llinos

2006-02-04T16:56:21Z

Which shows how misunderstanding an idiom can wreak havoc with one's party plans...although it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good!

Note from Marigold: This story was actually meant for next month's Challenge 26, part of which is to include a made-up idiom, but I thought that I would post it now to give folks an example!

Author's Note
The language in this piece of nonsense, whilst claiming to be Sindarin, is actually Welsh, as is the idiom. Llinos

Caws Llyffant
By Llinos
Beta by Marigold

"Frodo?"

"Mmm?"

"Remember I'm counting on you."

"I know."

"You will do everything?"

"Don't worry."

"Our guests expect a lot you know."

"I know."

"And we have a standard to maintain."

"Uhum."

"So try not to forget anything."

"I won't… I mean I'll try."

"Frodo!"

"I won't forget anything, I promise."

"You'll attend to your studies as well?"

"Of course."

"Because Gandalf might look in and he said he would test you out the next time you met."

"I'll be fine."

"I just hope you and that scoundrel Meriadoc don't do anything to start the neighbours talking."

"He's supposed to be coming to help me Uncle, not get me into trouble."

"What he's supposed to do and what he does, don't always correlate."

"He'll be good, I promise. Even if he isn't much help, he'll be company and there's Sam, he'll be keeping us both in order."

"Hmm," Bilbo shook his head, really unsure at the last minute if he was doing the right thing, especially as Frodo had not even dragged his nose out of the volume he was reading. "I'm going now."

Frodo finally put down his book and jumped up from his fireside chair. "Safe journey then Uncle, and give my regards to Grampa Rory."

"I will, and your fine present. By rights you should be coming too, to give it in person, but I suppose one of us has to stay behind to see to everything."

"That's right Bilbo," Frodo helped his Uncle into his coat, "One hundred and tenth birthday parties don't organise themselves."

"Neither do thirty-second birthdays." Bilbo smiled at his adopted nephew as he wrapped himself in his warm walking cloak and took up his second best walking staff.

"It's next year when you'll have to surpass yourself," Frodo lifted up an apple from the bowl and held it out to Bilbo, replacing it when his Uncle shook his head. "My greedy cousins are already negotiating what amazing presents you're going to give them for my coming of age!"

"Well you'd better start saving your pocket money!" Bilbo laughed good-naturedly, "Once you're a grown up, big adult hobbit, you're on your own."

"I think if I weren't already a big, grown up adult hobbit, you wouldn't be leaving me to organise your one hundred and tenth birthday party. Now get on the road or it will be dark and the spiders'll get you!"

"Not me!" Bilbo patted Sting at his side. He generally left it hanging over the fireplace, but for long walks to places like Buckland he took it – just in case. Bilbo almost trotted down the garden path, happy to be on the road again, if only for a relatively short time. "Oh and the shopping list is on the mantelpiece – be sure to get everything!"

"Don't worry Uncle," Frodo flapped his hand to usher Bilbo on his way. "I won't miss a thing!"

0-0-0-0-0-0

It was a bad business that Rorimac Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland, was laid up with a broken arm and unable to attend Bilbo and Frodo's joint birthday party. So Bilbo had elected to pay him a brief visit and give him birthday presents from both Frodo and himself.

Bilbo was famed for giving expensive or unusual gifts on his birthday and he always made a point of giving something extra special to the Master of Buckland. to the Mayor and to the Thain.

Bilbo knew that whatever he gave would be the talk of The Shire for several weeks, something which he claimed annoyed him intensely. "Busybodies! Minding everyone else's twopennorth of nothing!"

"Nonsense!" Frodo had chortled at his Uncle's indignation. "You love it!"

But whether or not he loved it, Bilbo still endeavoured to outdo himself year after year. So, as it was 1400, a momentous date, and his own 110th birthday, the elderly hobbit had decided to present The Master of Buckland with a legendary "Melting Purple Dragon".

It was, in fact, not an actual dragon, but a flower. Well, not even really a flower, but a glorious presentation of jewel-craft, botany and magic, all in one.

This very special item of dwarven design and make, woven about with elven magic, was almost impossible to come by and it was only through Bilbo's contacts with elves and dwarves, to say nothing of wizards, made on his great adventure, that and his extreme wealth, that enabled him to give such gifts.

The tricky part was, that it only lasted a couple of hours!

The flower had been crafted to bloom only during the week of Bilbo's birthday. The silvery golden seed would be placed on a blue star in a warm, draft-free spot and, once commanded with the words "blodeuyn tyrd yma!" it would shoot forth a silver-gold stem, green petals and be topped by a magnificent purple flower, all crafted from mithril, amethysts and emeralds.

The flower would last for about 5 hours and then slowly melt away, although the gems would be left and could be made into jewellery.

So that was why, when Bilbo had received the news that Rorimac would not be able to attend his party, he had decided to deliver his present in person. After all, there is no point in giving the most magnificent gift the Master or any other hobbit, had ever received in the whole history of the Shire, if he wasn't there to see it.

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Bilbo, where is it!" Frodo licked his finger and leafed through another little stack of paper. "Confound it! He said it was on the mantelpiece, but all that was there were some of his elvish notes."

"Maybe he wrote it in Elvish." Merry looked blankly at the piece of paper Frodo had dropped on the floor. He picked it up, "Is this is? It looks like a list."

"What?" Frodo glanced at the paper in Merry's hand and tutted in irritation. "Oh… yes," he looked sheepishly at his younger cousin. "You know, I think you could be right. That old scoundrel. You know what he's done?"

"Written you a shopping list in code," Merry suggested, "so no one can see what you're buying for the party."

"Nothing as simple as that," Frodo sighed. "The cunning old fiend, he's written it in Sindarin."

"Why would he do that?" Merry was turning the paper around and around, twisting his head about, trying to make sense of it. "We can't read this."

"Oh I can," Frodo said airily, "that is, I should be able to. Bilbo has been making me work really hard on my Sindarin recently. He says I never know when I might need it. This is just his way of making sure I keep up while he's away. Let me see."

Merry shrugged and handed the list to his older cousin, "rather you than me!" Merry enjoyed book learning, but as he got older he discovered the lessons of the stable and farm and surrounding countryside, offered more excitement and adventure than the Brandy Hall Schoolroom. He was pleased that his father now considered him well schooled enough to only send him to the tutor twice a week.

"My vocabulary isn't too bad," Frodo frowned as he ran his eyes over the list, "hmm, but I think I might need the lexicon for this."

"A lexicon, you have a Sindarin lexicon." Merry in his youth had requested such an item. The kind of books he preferred were maps and charts or anything that seemed foreign or exotic. Merry longed for adventure. "My Da tried to get one in Bree, but he couldn't find anything."

"Bilbo had it sent from Rivendell," Frodo was running his thumb along the volumes on the library shelf, "he says it was a copy made by Elrond himself…"

"…whoever Elrond is."

"You remember Merry," Frodo punched his cousin lightly in the arm, "from Bilbo's stories. The Elf Lord who lives in Rivendell. We should go there one day."

"Well if you don't get this shopping done, you won't be going anywhere," Merry pointed out, "because you'll be dead. Because Bilbo will kill you."

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Are you all right there Sam?" Merry piled another package on top of the pile that was already obscuring the gardener's view of everything. "We're getting most of it delivered, but Frodo needs these bits and pieces right away."

"Thass not to worry, Mister Merry," Sam's voice was decidedly muffled from behind his wall of parcels. "I can always run these messages up to Bag End and come back for more."

"You could carry something Merry," Frodo pointed out. "You're supposed to be helping, not letting poor Sam do everything."

"I am!" Merry spluttered indignantly, "I'm organising."

"What are you organising?" Frodo ticked off another item from his list. "I've got the list and the coins and I'm carrying this big basket."

"I am organising Sam's parcel tower," Merry pointed out patiently. "It's very delicate. One packet placed slightly in the wrong place, with a view to wind direction and speed, plus an average calculation of weight to strength ratio, and the whole thing could go."

"Merry!"

"Oh all right! Here give me some of that Sam." Merry lifted three of the smaller parcels off the top of the pile and tucked them under his arms. "Are we nearly finished?"

"I think so," Frodo checked through his list again. "I've got cig, that's meat, afalau, apples, bara, that's bread, I've ordered that."

"Well at least we don't have to carry it," Merry sighed deeply, as if his minuscule burdens were already wearing him down.

"Moron…"

"Excuse me?" Merry took a lot of abuse from his cousin, but name calling was not one he enjoyed.

"Moron," Frodo repeated, "it means carrots, idiot!"

"Well, I suppose being an idiot is better than a moron."

"Can we get on?" Frodo turned back to his list, "I can understand most of this, but I'm not sure about the cheese."

"What's to understand about cheese?" Merry managed to drop one of his three parcels and bending down to retrieve it, knocked Sam's stack flying. "Cheese is cheese."

"Opps, Sorry Mister Frodo!" Sam put all his parcels down and proceeded to pile them into a neat stack once more so that he could lift them up. "Won't be a moment. You just order your cheese and I'll be ready."

"Well, to be honest Sam," Frodo put his hand out to stay Sam's attempt to rebuild his wall of groceries. "I'm not sure what Bilbo wants in the way of cheese. What do we usually get?"

"He's partial to a bit of cheese on toast," Sam reminded Frodo, "but that's just ordinary Rushock. Oh and I think he likes that blue rind cheese, but I'm not sure what it's called."

"Well," Frodo frowned at his list. "It says here, 'caws llyffant', and, according to the lexicon, that means, 'frog's cheese', but I don't think I ever heard of that one before."

"Must be something exotic that Bilbo discovered on his journeys," Merry added, helpfully stacking the parcels back onto Sam.

"I guessed that much," Frodo looked around to see where the cheese was being sold. "But what does it look like?"

"Just ask the cheese seller," Merry finished off Sam's parcels by topping the pile with his own three. "Let Sam take this lot back and we'll sort out the cheese."

"You mean you're going to help carry the cheese?" Frodo watched exasperatedly as poor Sam staggered under his rebalanced burden.

"Oh no," Merry added hastily, "I thought we could get it sent."

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Well now Mister Baggins," the cheese vendor rubbed his hands with professional anticipation. Old Mad Baggins, the lad's uncle, was something of a connoisseur when it came to foreign foods, and he carried some of the most exotic cheeses this side of Bree. "How can I help you today?"

"I'd like 4lbs of Rushock and 2lbs of Blue Rind." Frodo was a little worried that the cheese vendor would think him provincial and unsophisticated if he had to ask for help straight off, so he started with what he knew.

"Certainly," the cheese vendor expertly sliced off the Rushock and lifted a whole, round Blue Rind, as that weighed exactly 2lbs, and wrapped them in thick waxed paper. "Anything else?"

"Um… yes," Frodo wasn't too sure he had done the translation properly and he did not want to appear stupid by asking for something that was wrong. "What else do you have?"

"I've a nice Oatbarton Sage from the North Farthing," The vendor held it up, "or a Red Rushey a good full-bodied cheese from The Marish," he pointed to a hard looking orange cheese. "Mature Pincup, that's a Took speciality." The vendor certainly knew his cheeses, Frodo thought.

"Erm," Frodo pointed to a green looking item in the front, hoping that might be the elusive frog's cheese. "What's that?"

"Green Hill Goats," the cheese seller went back into his sales pitch. "Another beauty from the Tookland. Those Tooks can certainly make cheese. Then there's your Cream Crow Cheese from South Farthing, not strictly a Took original, but close enough."

"Is there any cheese from Frogmorton?" Frodo asked hopefully.

"No, sorry," the cheese seller shook his head, "they don't really go in for much cheese making in the big towns."

"What about Buckland cheese?" Merry was casting an expert eye over the stall. "You've got Standelf I see."

"Indeed," the cheese vendor picked up the block, "a crumbly white cheese from Buckland, goes perfectly with Old Winyards and I know your Uncle has a bottle or two of that put away."

"You're not helping Merry," Frodo hissed at his cousin, "I need to find this frog's cheese. It's on Bilbo's list and I promised I'd get everything!"

"I've a lovely Yalesbrough from the East Farthing," the cheese hobbit indicated a white creamy cheese. "A Yellow Nobottle, but that's something of an acquired taste; some Cracknutt, a brittle cheese with walnuts from Stock; Thistlerind, a smoked cheese from Woody End, or…" the cheese vendor paused for dramatic effect. "If you want something really unusual and different, a Bree Blue! Now what'll it be?"

"Do you have any…" Frodo decided to throw caution to the wind, "…frog's cheese?"

"Um… no." The vendor was baffled by this. "I must say, there's not many cheeses I don't know, but you've got me there."

"Bother!" Frodo had been certain that once he admitted to the cheese vendor that he didn't know what frog's cheese was, at least he would know and put him out of his misery. "Are you sure? Only it says it here. It's what Bilbo asked for, frog's cheese."

"Sorry," the cheese vendor sounded full of remorse, "I've never heard of it, but if you find some, will you let me know."

"It must be one of these," Merry reasoned. "He's got every cheese known to hobbit on his stall. Bilbo wouldn't have asked you to get something that didn't exist."

"But which one is it?" Frodo was baffled. "You're right Merry, it must be one of these, but I don't know how to find out and Bilbo's never going to let me forget it if I don't get everything on the list."

"Simple!" Merry was always expedient if not too practical, "buy them all."

"You're right!" Frodo snapped his fingers with delight, "that way I'm bound to have frog's cheese, even if I don't know which one it is."

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Mewwy! Fwodo!" Although Pippin was ten, he still had not yet completely shaken off his baby lisp and it tended to be most pronounced when he was excited.

"Pippin!" Merry picked him up and swung him round. "It's a good job your name doesn't have an R in it or you'd never be able to tell people who you are."

"Silly Mewwy… Merr-y… everyone knows who I am!" Pippin, having been set on the ground by Merry, now decided to jump on Frodo. "Fwo! Fwo! Ho! Ho! Did you miss me?"

"About as much as I'd miss an overweight bunny wabbit. Oww!" Frodo removed Pippin from his lap and his foot from his groin, "You're getting too big to leap on folk Pip!"

"Be careful with him," Eglantine followed her exuberant son into the party marquee. "He's been very poorly and I almost didn't let him come."

"I'm glad you did, Aunty Eg," Frodo ruffled Pippin's hair, "I would have missed being jumped on and flattened for my birthday, so much!"

"Is Bilbo here yet?" Paladin had followed his wife and their three daughters, "I want to have a quick word."

"I'll come with you, Uncle Pad," Frodo loved Pippin and was pleased to see his other cousins, but he was also anxious to make sure he'd got everything right for the party.

"Mamma wanted me to stay home with Nurse!" Pippin exclaimed indignantly to Merry after Frodo had left, "and you would be here having all my fun and eating all my food!"

"Well wouldn't that just be terrible of us?" Merry laughed as he turned Pippin upside down and swung him round again."

"Meriadoc!" Eglantine Took put her hands to her face in horror, "put him down at once! My poor little Pippin has been so sick and he is quite off his food. Jostling him around like that might give him the ague!"

"He seems fine Auntie," Merry dutifully placed his ailing cousin, who was kicking and giggling, back on the ground.

"Well he's been very badly off!" Eglantine did tend to be rather neurotic about her precious son. He was the baby of the family and the only boy. "The healers only let him come on this great journey because they said he would fret if I left him at home. But he's on a very strict diet of mushrooms and plain bread. No meat, fish or milk at all."

"At all?" Merry looked sympathetically at his boisterous little cousin. "Poor Pip, and here's me thinking you were all better."

"I am!" Pippin whispered conspiratorially, "Mamma is just fussing. But you know what's the terriblist thing Mewwy... Merry?"

Merry bent down to Pippin's eye level and whispered back. "No, what?"

"No cheese!"

"Oh my poor Pippin!" Merry's heart went out to his poor deprived cousin, "But you love cheese more than anything else."

"I know!" Pippin sighed. "Almost as much as I love you Mewwy!" The young heir to the Thainship of the whole Shire made quite a good job of being an invalid every so often, as he knew it kept his mother happy, but some things pushed even his good natured limits.

"Well I suppose mushrooms and bread won't be too bad." Merry crossed his fingers behind his back as he said it.

"I do love mushrooms!" Pippin confided, "but don't tell Mamma or she'll ban those too."

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Yes, it all seems in order," Bilbo was walking along by the laden tables and checking a list. "You've done well, my boy!" He turned to Frodo with a raised eyebrow, "but why all the cheese?"

"Well, um," Frodo frantically racked his mind for a good explanation, "folk like cheese, and um I thought…

"But who's going to eat it all?" Bilbo scratched his head, "I'm sure I didn't put so much cheese on the list."

"… I thought it would be a nice gesture to have a cheese from every Farthing of the Shire and from Buckland and Tookland as a mark of honour to all our guests!" Frodo declared triumphantly, thinking as he did, 'brilliant! Frodo, I think you've got away with it.'

"Hmm," Bilbo looked up and down the table. "Well it was a nice gesture and it does look rather impressive. Oh is that Bree there? Haven't had that in a while."

"Yes, I don't think I missed anything," Frodo was feeling both relieved and proud, especially as the gong had sounded for the feast to begin.

"So the Sindarin didn't hold you back at all?" Bilbo chuckled at his own deviousness. "I knew you wouldn't practise unless I played you some trick."

"All perfectly clear," Frodo lied. "It was no trouble. In fact, I enjoyed it. Even taught Merry a little."

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Mewwy… Merr-y, where's mine?" Pippin was seated next to his older cousin. He had pleaded with his parents to be allowed to sit with the bigger boys and girls and Paladin had finally insisted.

"You baby him too much, dear," Paladin complained to his wife, "Just let him go and have some fun with his cousins."

"What's up Pip?" Merry had already laden his own plate with the first course, when he noticed that Pippin only had a chunk of dry bread in his dish. "Why aren't you eating?"

"There are no mushwooms!" Pippin said it in a louder voice than he had intended and most of the table turned to look at the youngster. "I need mushwooms Mewwy… Mewwy, I'm not supposed to have anything else. Mamma said."

"I can't believe Fro forgot mushrooms," Merry began checking all the dishes on the table, lifting tureen lids and poking into mounds of green vegetables to see if they had been hidden by something else. "A party without mushrooms? Not possible Pip."

This instigated a major mushroom search by everybody, including Bilbo. "Frodo, where are the mushrooms? You did order them – didn't you?"

"Well I got everything on the list." Frodo had joined in the search now, although he had a horrible sinking feeling that he hadn't actually ordered any mushrooms. "Are you sure you wrote it down Uncle?"

"I remember it clearly," Bilbo pulled Frodo to one side, so the guests would not realise the terrible omission, although it seemed to be too late now. "I put it right there with the carrots and onions."

Frodo pulled the battered list from his pocket. He had kept it against just such an eventuality. "I can't see it Uncle. Look," Frodo held the list out for Bilbo to read. "See wynwyn, moron…"

"…and caws llyffant, I did put them on the list." Bilbo was a little too triumphant.

"But, caws llyffant,, that means, frog's cheese," Frodo frowned as he mouthed the words out again, "I even looked it up."

"Yes, yes," Bilbo tutted, "that's what the elves call mushrooms – frog's cheese. They are like little pieces of cheese that pop up overnight and the frogs think it's cheese just for them."

"Oh Bilbo!" That's why I…"

"Why you bought all this cheese?"

"Um... well yes…"

"That's all very fine and good," Eglantine had caught the bulk of the conversation, her concern for Pippin running on overload and about to explode. "If my poor baby doesn't have mushrooms to eat he'll die. All he can have is dry bread and that's not enough for a sick child. And… and… Oh Pippin!"

Eglantine's last exclamation was closer to a scream as she threw both hands up to her face in horror, "My baby! What are you doing?"

"It's all right Auntie Eg," Merry looked inordinately proud of himself, "I gave him cheese and he's not being ill or anything."

"No look Mamma, I'm eating all the verwy lot of cheese," Pippin's diction was serious inhibited by the amount of bread and cheese in his mouth. "…and I didn't even be sick yet!"

"No, no, his constitution is far too delicate," Eglantine was beside herself with anxiety and anger. "You foolish boy Meriadoc! You shouldn't let him eat that when I expressly forbade it."

"You know dear," Paladin was by her side and gently took her by the elbow, "the healers aren't always right about these things. He's not vomiting or even looking slightly unwell on it."

"Pleeeeze Mamma," Pippin looked up at his frightened mother, his eyes filled with tears and his mouth full of cheese, "it's so… glub… nice and I don't…schlurp… feel badly at all."

"I sometimes think Eg my dearest," Bilbo spoke gently now, "these healers just say what they think you want to hear. I never knew a Took that couldn't take his cheese and the lad looks quite all right."

"Well, yes, I suppose so," Eglantine calmed down a little, "not too much now Pippin, and eat more bread with it, and stop if you feel bilious, and…"

"…and stop it." Paladin steered her away from her cheese eating son, casting a surreptitious wink at Merry as he did so. "Come and join the grown-ups. Pippin is fine." He added firmly.

"Fwo… I mean Fro," Pippin had finished his Rushock and was about to start on the Oatbarton Sage. "Why did you buy so verwy much cheese?"

"Because my dear little lad," Frodo was glad the cheese seemed to be diminishing, if only slightly, "because, I mistook an idiom whilst shopping."

"You took an idiot out shopping?" Pippin looked up at Merry, who was already busily eating his way through the pudding courses, "but I thought you took Mewwy shopping with you."

"Yes Pip," Frodo ruffled his cousin's curls, "same thing."

"I heard that!" Merry paused long enough to mutter, before drenching his treacle suet pudding with the thickest layer of custard possible and launching a surprise attack on it with both spoon and fork.

"But Fwo,"

"Yes Pip?"

"I'm so glad it were a verwy... I mean... very, very lot of cheese!"

The End

In the Service of the Thain by Lbilover

2006-02-04T15:53:08Z

Pippin leaving the Shire is just the beginning...

Title: In the Service of the Thain
Author: Lbilover
A/N: With thanks as always to my wonderful beta marigoldg. My
challenge was to write about Pervinca Took during the time of the Troubles.
Rating: G
Characters: Pervinca Took, Paladin Took, various other Tooks
Warnings: none

1.

Pervinca Took knocked softly on the door of her father’s study, and waited for his familiar “Come” before opening the door and slipping inside. Much to her surprise, she discovered her sisters Pearl and Pimpernel seated on the plump sofa near the study fire that was lit against the chill of the autumn evening. She had assumed that it was she alone whom he wanted to see, no doubt to take her to task for some mischief or other. Now that she was of age, her parents were no longer so tolerant of what they called her ‘harum-scarum ways’.

The Thain was standing spread-legged in his usual attitude in front of the fire- warming his arse, as Pippin liked to whisper to Pervinca in hopes of making her giggle and earn a stern look from their father. But the expression on Paladin Took’s face chased any humourous thoughts straight out of Vinca’s mind. Never had she seen her father look as he did now: tired, haggard even, and somber, so very somber.

“Sit down, Pervinca,” he said in a quiet voice that sent a chill of apprehension through her. Only an hour earlier, when she had snuck into the kitchen to steal a few biscuits, Vinca had overheard Cook telling one of the kitchen maids that their mistress, Vinca’s mother, had taken to her bed with a sick headache. Was something seriously amiss with Mother?

She took the remaining spot on the sofa, to Pimpernel’s left, and almost immediately her sister’s small cold hand stole into Vinca’s and held it tightly. Pimpernel’s other hand was clasped in Pearl’s, and both her sisters’ faces looked tense and worried. Clearly her sisters felt the uneasy atmosphere, too; or else they already knew something that Vinca did not. As the youngest of the Took daughters, Vinca sometimes felt left out of the concerns of her parents and older siblings. Perhaps that was one reason why she and Pippin, the baby of the family, were so close.

Her father’s hands were hidden at the small of his back, lifting the tails of his blue frock coat. But he brought them to the fore now, and Vinca saw that he was holding a folded piece of cream-coloured parchment in one hand. It looked from its size and shape as if it was a letter. He was staring down at it almost as if surprised to see it there; but the knuckles of his fingers were white with the strength of his grip upon it.

“This letter,” her father began. He stopped, struggling for words in a way that was entirely foreign in Vinca’s experience. Her father was never at a loss for words- quite the opposite, in fact. “This letter,” he began again hoarsely, “is from your brother.”

Vinca glanced at her sisters, and could see by their expressions that they were as baffled as she. Why would Pippin be writing to their father? And what could be in his letter that brought that terrible look of fear and grief to his face?

“Your cousin Fredegar Bolger delivered the letter this morning on his way home from Buckland. You have heard the gossip, I’m sure, about the events at Crickhollow.” It was a statement, not a question. Vinca and her sisters nodded. Indeed, little else had been discussed since word came about the attack in Buckland by mysterious Black Riders, and the blowing of the Horn of the Brandybucks for the first time since the long ago Fell Winter.

Vinca had found it a deliciously thrilling tale, and only wished that Pippin would hurry home and share his part in it with her. He had been staying at Brandy Hall and, knowing her baby brother, Vinca was quite certain that he had been in the very thick of the excitement.

“The rumours you have heard are true,” her father continued. “Fredegar was a witness to the attack, and he confirmed them for me. But there is more to the tale that you may not know that I have learned from Fredegar and from your brother’s letter to me. It appears that those Black Riders were in the Shire for a specific purpose: to find your cousin Frodo. Pippin says that Frodo possesses something of value that those Riders want, and that he never intended settling in Crickhollow as he led us to believe. That was merely a ruse to throw any pursuers off guard. His true plan was always to leave the Shire, and make his way to Rivendell, the home of the Elves. Frodo set out several days ago to do just that- and took the Road into the Old Forest.”

“Oh Father,” exclaimed Pimpernel, her hand tightening on Vinca’s until it hurt. “Not the Old Forest. Poor cousin Frodo!”

“Yes,” her father said heavily, “poor cousin Frodo indeed. I only wish, however, that that was the worst of the news.” He stared down at the letter, looking utterly stricken. “My dears, Frodo did not go alone. I’m afraid your brother and your cousin Merry have gone with him.”

***

Vinca set the lamp down on the bedside table. She had fled from the study as quickly as she could, unable to bear one moment longer the pitiful sounds of her sisters’ weeping, or the expression upon her father’s usually calm countenance as he tried to comfort them. She had run, literally, flying down the twisting, winding corridors of the smial as if she could outrace her own tears, or the intolerable thought that she might never see her beloved younger brother again.

She had sought refuge in Pippin’s room, wishing to grieve alone. But now that she was here, she no longer felt the urge to cry; it was impossible to feel sad when she was surrounded by the cheerful jumble of Pippin’s belongings, and touched by his almost palpable presence. His bright spirit lingered even in his absence.

Vinca began to walk slowly around the bedroom, hugging her arms about her middle, for it was cold without a fire on the hearth. She stopped now and then to examine one of Pippin’s many treasured possessions; her mother had often joked that Pippin was part magpie, the way he liked to collect things. Here was a bird’s nest fallen from a tree during a storm. There a bluebird’s feather, the exact colour of cousin Frodo’s eyes, Pippin claimed. On top of a bookcase, he kept his rock collection, rocks chosen mostly for the absurdity of their shapes or the brightness of their colours; many of them had been given to him by Merry, for they were stones shaped by the waters of the Brandywine. A little wooden horse, so cunningly carved that it appeared almost alive, stood in their midst; cousin Frodo’s servant Samwise Gamgee had carved the beautiful thing for Pippin. Vinca touched the smooth wood gently, and continued her circuit of the room.

Against the far wall stood Pippin’s bow and a quiver of arrows. Vinca picked up the bow, fashioned from the finest ash wood, and held it with hands that knew its feel well, for it had in fact once belonged to her. She had given it to Pippin several years ago, after she had received a new bow as a Yuletide present from her parents.

Her mind wandered back in time to the day she had given Pippin his very first archery lesson. He could not have been more than 7 or 8 years old. She and her sisters had been practicing at the butts behind the Smials, and their mother had brought Pippin along to watch. Pippin, who had been born impatient Vinca always thought, had soon escaped Mother’s watchful eye, and darted forward to tug at Vinca’s skirts. “Please, Vinca,” he’d clamoured, jumping up and down in his excitement, “can’t I have a turn now?” “All right, Pipsqueak,” she’d said, smiling down at him; she never had been able to resist the pleading look in those cat-green eyes. “I guess it’s time you learned how to use a bow and arrow. We Tooks are famous for our skill at archery, you know.”

How tiny her brother’s hands had felt as she’d shown him how to hold the bow, and helped him to place the nock of the arrow over the string. His childish strength was not sufficient to draw the bowstring to the anchor point at his chin, so Vinca had unobtrusively assisted him, and oh, how proud he’d been when he loosed the arrow and it flew, a bit slowly and crookedly to be sure, toward the straw target and hit it, sticking fast. “I did it, Vinca, I did it!” he’d cried, his eyes bright as stars, and he’d hugged her in his excitement.

That had been the first of many lessons she had given Pippin, for Vinca was considered even then one of the best archers in Tookland, and with her help, her brother had become a very proficient marksman indeed. But now he was gone off into the Old Forest without his bow, and who knew what might happen to him in that horrible place, about which so many frightening tales were told? And even if, by some miracle, he didn’t disappear in the Forest, never to be seen again, her father had said that cousin Frodo was bound for Rivendell. Vinca had no idea where Rivendell was, or how many leagues away, but it seemed certain that Pippin would be gone for weeks or even months- if he ever returned at all.

Hot tears began to fill her eyes at last, and she sank down onto his bed, cradling the bow in her arms, and wept.

How long Vinca sat there, lost in her grief, she had no idea, when she heard the creak of the bedroom door. And then there was her father, coming swiftly across the room to sit beside her and gather her into his warm embrace that had always meant safety and security.

“Oh Father,” Vinca whispered tearfully into his shoulder, the familiar scents of pipeweed and wood smoke enfolding her with his arms. “Father, will we ever see Pippin again?”

“My dear,” her father replied, stroking her hair gently with his hand, “you know better than anyone else that your brother is like a cat: he always manages to land on his feet. Why, before you know it, he’ll be home again, and making us all laugh with tales about his adventures. And you mustn’t forget, Pervinca, he has Frodo and Merry to look out for him. They will keep him safe, I have no doubt.” Her father pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and began to dry the tears on her cheeks. “There, that’s better,” he said. “I’ve had a river of tears shed on me today, and my coat is getting quite soggy.” Vinca gave a small hiccup of a laugh. Then her father went on very seriously, “You have always been the strong one of my girls, Pervinca, and now more than ever, your mother and your sisters are going to need your strength to rely upon.”

“Yes, Father.” Vinca struggled valiantly to smile and look the strong, brave hobbit he believed her to be. But it would be so much easier to be brave if she didn’t fear that her father’s assurances that Pippin would indeed return home to them had been said as much to convince himself as to convince her.

2.

“No. I absolutely forbid it, Pervinca,” said her father in a stricter voice than he had ever used with her. “You march straight upstairs to your room and change your clothes, young lady.”

Pervinca and Paladin Took confronted each other across the length of his study. Father and daughter were engaged in a battle of wills, as they often had been in the past. But never before had the situation been as serious, or the stakes as high, as they were now.

The months since Pippin’s departure from the Shire had been difficult ones for Vinca. She missed her brother acutely, and as the days passed, it became harder and harder to keep faith in her father’s words, and believe that she would ever see Pippin again.

Her mother, whose lively, cheerful disposition was so like Pippin’s, now smiled only rarely, and Vinca could not recall the last time she’d heard her laugh. Her father’s face bore deep lines of care that had not been evident before his only son and heir had disappeared into the Wild. Vinca and her sisters found themselves tiptoeing about the smial, and the servants spoke in low, hushed voices almost as if they were working in a place of mourning.

Sometimes it seemed to Vinca as if they were in mourning, and she hated the feeling, hated the endless waiting and the uncertainty about Pippin’s fate. She itched to be doing something, and often wished that she might have gone with her brother, for surely nothing could be so bad as this intolerable feeling of helplessness and inertia.

And now, as if the worry about Pippin had not been enough for their family to bear, the Troubles were come upon the Shire. Troubles brought by Men who were in league with that awful Lotho Sackville-Baggins: cruel, greedy Men who had taken over much of their peaceful and prosperous land, and were turning it to their own selfish devices.

Rumours ran like wildfire through Tuckborough as the days passed: hobbits who protested or resisted were being imprisoned in lockholes in Michel Delving; trees were being cut down all over with wanton abandon; an ugly new mill was being erected in Hobbiton. Each day seemed to bring with it more and more bad news, and the dread that the eyes of these invaders would soon turn to Tookland.

But the Thain had been quick to declare his intention of resisting, of digging in at Great Smials and defying Lotho and his Men if they came looking for trouble. He sent messengers out across Tookland, requesting that every able-bodied hobbit gather in Tuckborough so they might organize their defense.

And they had answered his call, arriving singly or in small groups at Great Smials that morning: a great crowd of grim-faced, determined hobbits wielding bows and swords, pitchforks and axes. And there in their midst, clad in some old clothes of Pippin’s that she had taken from his room, with her sandy curls bound back by a green scarf and her bow and a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder, was Pervinca.

Her father had said nothing when he spotted his youngest daughter in the crowd of fighting hobbits, but Vinca thought his grim face had turned a shade grimmer, and her heart sank. She had hoped he might understand that this was something she needed to do, that she could not sit idly by while her home was threatened, not when she had a weapon and knew how to use it.

But when the muster was over, and the hobbits were dispersing to their various duties, the Thain had gone to her, taken her by the arm, and marched her away, protesting vociferously, to his study.

“But Father,” Vinca said now, raising her hands in supplication as she pleaded her cause, “I’m the best archer in Tookland, you know I am. Why, I’ve been the champion at the Free Fair for the past five years. ”

“I don’t care if you were champion at the Free Fair for the past fifty years. If you think for one moment that I will allow you to risk your life shooting at those ruffians…” her father began angrily, but then the anger passed over like a cloud, and he looked simply old and tired and very sad. “Pervinca, is it not enough that your mother and I have lost one child already? Must we risk losing you, too? Do not ask this of us.”

“Pippin may not be lost, Father,” Vinca said stubbornly, refusing to give in to despair. “He may yet return home; you said so yourself. But if Lotho and his ruffians take over Tookland, he won’t have a home to return to. Father, please let me do my part. Please, for Pippin’s sake.”

She could see that her words had made an impact on him. He fell silent for a long moment, and then he sighed. “Vinca…” And her heart leapt with hope, for her father had never before called her by her nickname. “Very well,” he said, and shook his head to forestall the rush of words he could see trembling on her lips, “but you will obey orders as if you were any other hobbit in the service of the Thain, do you understand? This is no game, no lark such as you and your brother were used to get up to.”

“I understand, sir.” She tried to quell the excitement surging inside her, to be sober and serious, but at last she could stand it no longer. She ran to him and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you, Father” she whispered. “I promise I will be careful.” Then she stood back, and saluted. “Now your newest recruit must go and report for duty,” Vinca said, and was relieved to see a reluctant smile appear on his drawn countenance.

But when the door had closed behind her, the smile faded from Paladin Took’s face and he sank into a chair and rested his head in his hands. What had happened to their peaceful, blessed land, he thought sadly, that even the Thain’s daughter should be forced to take up arms?

***

Vinca huddled into her cloak. It was early Blotmath and quite cold, yet she and her companions- her cousins Reginard and Everard Took- could build no fire, for they were on scout duty, patrolling the northern border of Tookland. They were taking a rest now in the concealment of a small stand of ash trees, and sharing a meagre late supper.

Food was carefully rationed these days. The Tooklanders had held off the ruffians that Lotho had sent- proving the Thain’s wisdom in preparing for the possibility. The hobbits had killed three Men in the initial confrontation, and scared the others away; but while the Men had been kept out of Tookland, they roamed its borders and allowed no hobbits into or out of it. And that meant that no outside supplies could be brought in.

Vinca listened as Reginard and Everard discussed the likelihood of the standoff lasting until spring. The ruffians were growing bolder, and their new leader, whom they called Sharkey, was a great deal more ruthless than Lotho had been. Lotho had not been seen in some time, according to such intelligence as had been snuck into Tookland under cover of darkness. How long could this untenable situation go on? How long before another, more concerted attack was made on Tuckborough?

The months of strain were telling on everyone, and any glamour had long since gone out of Vinca’s position as an archer in the service of the Thain. True to his word, her father had treated her like any of the other hobbits, making no concessions either to her status or her sex. But Vinca had not wanted them, and in return had well repaid his trust in her. It was by her skill, by her keen eye and steady hands that one of the Men sent by Lotho had been brought down, an arrow piercing his heart.

Since that day Vinca had not been involved in any more fighting, but only endless waiting. Her days were sometimes filled with boredom, as she was forced to sit and watch for any signs of the ruffians for weary hours at a time. And they were oftener filled with exhaustion, as she patrolled the borders with her cousins, tramping mile after mile in rain and wind and cold. But it was better, Vinca had long ago decided, to endure boredom and exhaustion out-of-doors than be confined to the Smials as her sisters with nothing to do but read or sew- or watch their mother fading quietly away...

Trying to shake off the melancholy mood that had overcome her, Vinca raised her mug of water to her lips- and froze.

“Reggie,” she hissed, and the conversation faltered. Her cousin looked at her inquiringly. “Listen- do you hear that?” she asked. “I think there are riders approaching.”

The three hobbits became still as only hobbits can. A faint sound could indeed be heard, as of galloping hooves striking the ground. And the sound was growing steadily louder.

“You’ve quick ears, Vinca,” said Reginard, giving her an approving look. “There are a fair number of riders, too, to judge from the sound. We’d best look sharp. They’ll be here before we know it.”

They abandoned their meal, and readied their weapons. With lightning speed, they strung their bows and nocked arrows. They then peered cautiously around the boles of the trees that hid them from view, until the sound of pounding hooves became a thunder, and a group of half a dozen or so riders appeared, galloping as fast as they could in the direction of Tuckborough.

When the riders were almost abreast the waiting hobbits, Reginard stepped out and confronted them, followed closely by Vinca and Everard, bows at the ready. “Halt, in the name of the Thain,” Reginard said loudly. “No one crosses the border into Tookland without permission.”

The foremost of the riders was an imposing figure, tall and clad in a uniform of silver and black. He looked quite foreign to their eyes, and therefore threatening, as he reined in his mount so sharply that a spray of dirt flew up from beneath its hooves. He raised a hand, and the riders with him also reined in their ponies. “Is that Reginard Took?” he called out.

Vinca started at the sound of the stranger’s voice. She must be imaging things… he sounded exactly like her brother…

“Yes, it is. And who might you be, and what is your business?” Reginard replied without lowering his bow. “Speak quickly.”

“My business is with the Thain, my father. And I can’t believe you don’t recognise me, Cousin Reggie. Have I changed so much that you don’t even know my face any more?”

“Pippin?” Reginard sounded dumbfounded. Everard let out an exclamation of surprise.

Vinca’s bow and arrow fell from her nerveless fingers. Pippin… her mouth shaped the word, but no sound came out so great was her shock. It was her brother, but taller and commanding and richly dressed, it was no wonder Reggie had not recognised him. Vinca could hardly believe it herself.

“It is indeed,” he was saying. “Merry and Frodo and Sam and I have returned and we’re raising the countryside. These ruffians have had it their own way for too long, and it’s time we did something about it! I’m on my way to the Smials to see my father. I need an army of Tooks to bring back with me to Bywater by morning.” Then his bright green gaze fell on Reginard’s companions. “Everard- how good it is to see you again, cousin! And-" his eyes widened as he realised who the third hobbit was. “Vinca?” he asked incredulously, “Is that you?”

VInca nodded and moved forward, still unable to speak for the tears that were clogging her throat and spilling from her eyes. Pippin was off his pony in a flash, and brother and sister were locked in a wordless embrace.

Vinca drew back first. “I can’t call you Pipsqueak any more,” she said, smiling through her tears as she looked up at her brother. “Pippin, you’ve grown!” And in more than stature, she realised as she studied his face, and saw the lines that responsibility and maturity had carved there.

“Aye, I have, and a good thing since it appears you’ve taken to wearing my clothes,” Pippin said, as he studied her in turn. He added thoughtfully, “I’m not the only who has grown, it seems.”

“I’m an archer in the service of the Thain now,” Vinca replied proudly. “Oh, Pippin, I’ve so much to tell you.”

“And I to tell you. But there is no time now. I must ride to the Smials at once and see Father. But tell me quickly, is he well? And Mother? And Pearl and Pimpernel?”

“They are all well, but missing you terribly. Hurry home to them, Pippin.” But she could not bear the thought of being parted from him again so soon, and clutched at his sleeve, feeling the softness of costly velvet beneath her fingers.

Pippin grasped Vinca by the hand. “Come on,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “My pony can carry us both. I want you there, too, Vinca. We Tooks need to stay together.”

Vinca glanced at Reginard. “Go ahead, my dear,” her cousin said, smiling. “Everard and I will wait here, and join the army upon your return.”

Pippin mounted his pony. He stretched down his hand, and Vinca took it, and set her foot on his where it rested in the stirrup. He pulled her up and she swung a leg over the back of the pony and settled down behind her brother, wrapping her arms snugly around his middle. “Hold tight,” Pippin said, and urged his pony to a gallop, the other hobbits following close behind.

The wind was a rushing roaring sound in Vinca’s ears as they galloped down the road toward the Smials. It tore at her scarf and sent it spinning away; her curls streamed out behind her like a banner. She threw back her head and laughed for sheer joy. Pippin was home, her brother was home at last, and everything, she knew, would be all right.

~end~

A Bill Too Big for Your Purse by NickeyB

2006-02-03T17:20:37Z

A moment in time as Sam contemplates Ted Sandyman...

Title: A Bill Too Big for Your Purse
Author: teawith
Rating: G, but a little angsty
Notes: This is the starter Marigold gave me ‘Write a story including Ted Sandyman that takes place from just prior to the Travellers coming into Hobbiton, and continues after they have gone up to Bag End.’ The story doesn’t take things as far as suggested – this is more like a moment in time :) Sam’s POV.

It were too much.

Sam’s heart was beating hard, his blood thundering in his ears. His face was still wet with tears, and his chest was heaving for breath, after all the shouting he’d done at Ted Sandyman. Such a person to lose his temper with, after all they’d seen and endured. Such a little straw it was, to bring the whole bale tumbling down. What had he been thinking?

Sam stared at Ted, as first Mr Frodo spoke quiet-like to him, and then Mr Merry as spoke all roused and brazen, like a flame that’s been lit and won’t give over burning now on just anyone’s say so. And that was another thing. Why was it Mr Merry as had taken over here, now they were back at home? Why wasn’t Mr Frodo doing what was right and proper, and receiving the credit that that he should – leading his people forward like he should be, here in Hobbiton. He was the Master on the Hill, its true master, not some jumped up jack-a-napes that thinks he can be called Boss just because he has a lot of coin, and even more cheek?

It were all too much.

Unwillingly, Sam’s eyes were drawn back to what had started this, or, well, maybe not started this, but finished it, maybe. The last thing Sam had expected to see, worse almost than all the black and burning images he’d seen in Lady Galadriel’s mirror, because this one was real. As real as the soil between his toes, or the weight of the mail on his back. The party tree, all cut down, forlorn and broken in its field, and that was somehow more terrible than anything. Worse than seeing Bagshot Row a gaping gravel pit (although that were bad enough), worse than seeing the destroyed hedgerows, the tarred sheds where the Old Grange ought to be. Worse than anything. Because that tree had always seemed so eternal, so unchangeable. And it reminded Sam of old Mr Bilbo, and the Elves, and how they had always seemed so unchangeable too, when he was a lad. Except that now Sam knew they weren’t, no more than that there tree. Elves could die, and Mr Bilbo could get old, and even their friend Legolas could hear a gull crying on the wind and find his heart moved in strange and peculiar new ways.

And here was Mr Frodo, looking more fragile by the day, when by rights he ought to be getting stronger, and instead being faced with all this ruin. It weren’t right, it weren’t right at all. Mr Frodo oughtn’t be having to face this, and to listen to impertinences from the likes of Ted Sandyman; he should be looking forward to warming his feet on the grate in the Ivy Bush, or thinking about popping out for a nice ale or two at the Green Dragon, or deciding which of his cousins to visit with first. He ought to be thinking about going home.

But as Sam looked at Ted with his heart overflowing so much he couldn’t even speak, and watched him nip inside this monstrous new-fangled contraption of a mill to fetch his horn, it occurred to Sam that maybe that was the worst of all. He’d wanted Mr Frodo to come home, he’d wanted them all to come home – when it seemed that they didn’t really even have a home to come back to. And Sam stood stunned as he thought about it. None of them did, really. Here was Bagshot Row all dug up, and Mr Frodo had sold Bag End afore he went, so really even his own garden (that weren’t ever his own, but Sam knew what he meant) was really his no more. And there was Mr Pippin all bright-eyed and grown-up, and would he even be recognisable as the same care-free lad that walked away singing a year ago? Would his parents trace his scars with wondering fingers, and let him be? Or would Mr Pippin find the old assumptions chafing, and discover that his childhood had ended, but that no-one else had noticed? Even Mr Merry, tall and lordly, with all of Buckland waiting for him, might find things changed, what with him having gone off without a word, and coming back now, still all unheralded, with that shadow in his eyes, and a hand that remained cold to the touch?

Had home really changed that much? Had Sam himself changed too? Was it all lost? He found himself wanting to grab for dear Mr Frodo’s hand, for what, he did not know. Reassurance? He was no babe to need his hand held, nor even himself in the deserts and despairs of Mordor, when such liberties would have been a welcome touch of warmth. He was Samwise Gamgee come home again, that’s what he was, and he was sturdy on his feet, and would face this, as he’d faced everything else the quest had thrown at him. And besides – a-holding of Mr Frodo’s hand would only remind him of other things that had been damaged, and he didn’t want to weep no more. He didn’t. He didn’t.

And there was Ted Sandyman, whose eyes were bulging from the blowing of his horn – such a thin and feeble sound compared to Mr Merry’s – and he was all dirty and black. All little and wizened, or so it seemed, and Sam thought about the last time he’d seen Ted, in the Green Dragon, wiping his mouth free of ale and laughing about his betters. Explaining how the world wasn’t changed, or dangerous, and how walking trees weren’t real, were children’s tales, and you shouldn’t listen to your Halfast, Sam, there’s no elm trees on the North Moors, stands to reason. That’s no more than you know, Ted Sandyman, thought Sam, no more than you know, but I do, and so do my friends.

He looked at him, and looked at him, and it was a wonder how much Ted reminded Sam of the recent past. He thought, we were like that, me and Mr Frodo. Creeping about, black and wizened, under the yoke of the Eye. We were like that, but we succeeded in our task, and crawled out of there, and were carried home under the wings of eagles. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Master Ted high-and-mighty Sandyman.

And then Sam thought, look at us now, all of us, in our splendid coats, and mail upon our backs, so fine we look – we’ve never looked so well even in party clothes. See what we can come back from, Ted? See how the damage and the fear can be overcome? See how we can fight? And maybe that was something he should have seen a long time ago, but it seemed like another wonder to him, then, in that moment, with those tears still damp upon his cheeks, and the taste of salt in his mouth.

But the mail was only another kind of disguise, no more true than the nasty orc garb they’d donned all those months ago. No more true to anything that Sam really held dear. He knew he’d take it all off as quick as quick when the time came, when they could afford to lay it all by and just live as hobbits again. And then what would he be? No more an Adventurer, and certainly not any kind of hero. He’d just be plain old Sam Gamgee once more, with maybe a bit of decent hobbit-sense to be going along with, and a certain way with potatoes (although not as good as his Da, not by a long chalk).

And the Shire? Well, perhaps you could say the same for the land. When this mess was over they’d be wounds to tend and repairs to undertake, but grain would still be grown in the fields, and apples would still ripen on the branch. That hadn’t changed, after all. It would take a lot more than their small troubles before that would ever change. Trees could be replanted. Smials rebuilt. The Shire could crawl out from under its own darkness, and learn to soar with wings of eagles too. Couldn’t it? Anyway, it were a darn sight better thing to hope for than just rolling yourself over into the grease and the muck, like a dog fawning for a cruel master. Like that pinched face in front of him had done, and revelled in it too.

But he felt sorry for Ted, despite all that, Sam thought, too melancholy to feel the revelation. He felt sorry for him, because he’d always be bowed into the dirt. Sam had won his own battles, and he was going to fight for the Shire until they had victory here too, more than likely. And then he’d hold his head up high, because he’d know that they’d done what was proper. But what would Ted have? What would Ted have, when they’d put the Shire all to rights again?

They’d crawled out from under the Yoke of the Eye, him and Mr Frodo. But he’d be forever crawling, would Ted Sandyman. He’d be forever crawling under a pitiless sky, and there wouldn’t be no eagles for him.

And that was sad, Sam reckoned. That was as sad as anything.

Nothing to Speak Of by Maripo5a

2006-02-03T09:53:21Z

Marigold finds a message from her brother...

Nothing to Speak Of

Author: maripo5a
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. I only borrow them, and I promise to return them.
A/N: My starter was: Write a story including Marigold, at around the time that Sam left, supposedly to walk to Buckland with Frodo and Pippin. Discussion with marigoldg followed, and she shared my belief that Marigold, too, could read, and that it was in fact a special bond between herself and Sam. And so this story was born.

~*~*~*~

The paper was in the back of the cupboard, folded under a jar of blackcurrant jam, flat upon the shelf. Marigold would never have seen it till midwinter, but Widow Fuller'd a fever, and the Gaffer had sent Marigold into the pantry for something to tempt her appetite. It was common knowledge that Widow Fuller had a sweet tooth, and also common knowledge that Marigold's blackcurrant jam was the best in the West Farthing, perhaps the whole of the Shire. Hadn't she won the ribbon at Michel Delving on the Downs five summers ago, and all the proper wives looking sideways while her Tom laughed to see them beat by a tween? She had, and no doubting it. So Marigold had fetched the little stepstool and rummaged in the back of the cupboard for the jams she'd usually save out for the New Year's feasting, and here was a paper. She picked up the jar (no sense leaving it behind) and the paper, and jumped lightly from the stool, backing from the pantry with her two hands occupied.

"Put it in the basket, then," the Gaffer said, gruff but not meaning it; he seldom did, Marigold thought. Mayhap because she was the littlest, or mayhap he'd never meant it, but been taken awry by her elder siblings; but Marigold had always spoke as she pleased, saucy as cream Samwise said admiringly, and the Gaffer responded rough and smiled behind his hand. "What's that you're after lollygagging with?"

"If I knew I would tell you, then," Marigold retorted, laying the jam jar in the basket she'd prepared already. She stepped to the window – rain finally, and the grass needed it, but it made the room dim – and unfolded the paper. "It's from Samwise," she said curiously, not looking up.

And still not looking up as she read it to herself, lips moving a little and then stopping as the meaning came clear. She felt her hand shake and stilled that, too, finishing, keeping her face to the glass, bent down over the letter.

"What does he say?" the Gaffer asked. He didn't wait for an answer, though, stepping into the pantry after the stool and bringing it out in his gnarled hands. "Leaving this to be tripped on, you've more wool than wit," he muttered, pushing it under the wash table. "Have you done with your letter? Widow Fuller's belly's not getting any fatter with us loafing about here."

Marigold folded the paper again, just as it had been and then one more to be even smaller, and pushed it into her pocket. "Oh, aye, I'm done all right." She set her chin and smiled at the Gaffer. "We'll need the umbrellas today for certain sure, and my feet barely dry from fetching in the eggs."

"The rain didn't come beforetimes," the Gaffer grunted; he lifted the heavy basket from the table and turned away. "What does Samwise need to tell you so he must write?"

Marigold followed behind him, through the little front parlour and bent over to pull two tattered umbrellas from the stand, handing one to her father, reaching for her cloak on the hook. "Oh, nothing to speak of, Gaffer. A good-bye note is all, and reminding me not to touch his precious book, the one Mr. Bilbo given to him back away for his Birthday."

"So and I've already seen you reading that book," the Gaffer said, and she caught him smiling and smiled back. She shrugged and opened the door for him, his hands full as they were.

"I'll treat it kindly," she said. She could feel the paper crinkle in her pocket as she stepped outside, lifting the umbrella neatly to block the rain. "It may be some time before he calls to have it sent on to him."

~*~*~*~

Dear Marigold –

I expect you'll find this by Midwinter Litheday, and you'll know by now that me and Mr. Frodo are gone adventuring, off into the Wild. I won't say I'm not feart, for I am, but I'll go with him, as is right. There's danger in it and all, but he's a good friend to me and I couldn't let him go without someone to do for him, whether that meant at Crickhollow or further on. Mr. Merry Brandybuck and Mr. Pippin Took are coming too and between the four of us I have a hope we'll be safe. I can't say where we're going, or why, but I did see a need to say at least good-bye, and fare thee well, sister. Take care of the Gaffer as best you can – you always could do that better than the rest of us put all together. And when Tom Cotton goes and offers for you, make sure you lead him a merry chase before you say him aye. Mayhap when I come back you'll be married and all, but I hope I'm home afore then to see it.

Love, Your Brother, Samwise Gamgee

News by Pearl Took

2006-02-03T09:50:48Z

How Berilac learned of the disappearance and return of the Travellers...

News

I’m being roughly shaken awake.

“Berilac! Get up. Now!”

There is a tone in my Uncle Saradoc’s voice that I have never heard before.

“You’ve five minutes to get dressed, son. Be in the main entry.” I hear my father add in an equally strange tone. As soon as I reached the tunnels nearer to outside walls, I heard the horns. I grabbed the first hobbit I saw as he was running past me.

“Madoc, what . . .”

“The Horn-call, Berilac! It’s the Horn-call!” he exclaimed as he tried to tug away from my grasp.

“I know that, but . . .”

“Don’t know the why nor wherefore of it. Just know it is and the Master and your father are waiting for you in the Entry.” Madoc wrenched free and started away. “Go, Berilac. Just go!” And he was gone around a turn in the tunnel.

As I run, I realize that terror was what I had heard in my father’s and uncle’s voices. Terror in Madoc’s voice. Not worry nor concern as I’ve heard in the past. They were terrified. Now, hearing the horns crying out, so am I. I get to the Main Entry and, still with no explanation, I’m running out the doors, onto the back of a waiting pony and flying away from the Hall east on the Ferry Road then north on the Buckland Road. Racing along with my father and uncle to the continuing sound of the horns, heading I know not where.

Finally, the Master chooses a small farm lane leading off the road to the east. We slide our ponies to a halt in the farm yard. My uncle is off his pony with the speed of a youth, running into the small farmhouse without as much as a knock nor calling out a greeting. Father and I are on his heels, following him into the main room of the simple home.

There, lying beneath several quilts upon the sofa, shivering as though he were outside in the dead of winter, face pale as the moon, is my best friend, Freddy Bolger.

Uncle Saradoc has stopped. He turns and, grabbing my arm, flings me toward the sofa. “Comfort him, Beri. Speak to him. See if you can make sense of him.”

I barely manage to stop before falling atop poor Freddy. Hands grab me and push me down upon a stool that has been hurriedly placed beneath me. My face is now barely two feet from Fredegar’s.

His eyes are clenched tightly closed, as though he fears what he’ll see if he opens them. His voice is small and tight with a terror greater than any of the voices I’ve heard this night. I lean even closer, trying to hear his muttered words.

“Black . . . big black . . . not . . . I don’t have it . . . gone . . . not me . . . gone . . . horses . .
. black, big . . . I don’t have it . . .”

I listen a while to this stream of nearly meaningless words before I take hold of Freddy’s hand with my right hand while idly brushing sweat-soaked curls away from his face with my left. His eyes fly open. He looks at me but doesn’t see me as he continues his stream of words.

I feel a gentle, though trembling, hand upon my shoulder and Uncle Saradoc speaks as softly into my ear as his terror will allow. “He was at Crickhollow, Beri. With Frodo and Sam, Pippin and . . .”

His voice catches. His hand on my shoulder twitches.

“. . . and Merry.”

I hear my uncle swallow hard. I hear him take a deep breath. “They aren’t here with him, Beri, and he has given Caladoc the impression that there are enemies abroad in Buckland.” The trembling hand pats my shoulder then is withdrawn.

Now I understand the sounding of the Horn-call of Buckland.

“Freddy, lad. Freddy, it’s Beri. I’ve got hold of you. I’ve got hold of your hand, Fredegar. Freddy?” I’m babbling away nearly as nonsensically as my dear friend. I try patting his face. It’s cool and clammy beneath my fingers. “Freddy? Come now, my friend. Do you see me, Freddy? Freddy?” Still he has the glazed, terrorized stare of a cornered animal. Still he mutters his chain of words.

I let go of his hand. Grimacing in pain myself as I do so, I strike him firmly across his colorless cheek.

There is no cry of pain or surprise. His eyes and mouth both close and he lies there, no longer even shivering.

A clock ticks slowly from its place on the mantle. I hear the shuffling of hobbits leaving the room and I know without looking that the Master, my father and I are now the only ones in this vigil by the sofa.

“Berilac?”

I almost don’t hear Freddy speak, if he hadn’t said my name I might not have. Interesting how your name will most always catch your ear. His eyes are still closed. He recognized my voice.

“Yes, Freddy-lad, it’s me.”

“Beri-lad,” he whispers. “I’m . . . two months
older.”

I feel a bit of the tension leave my shoulders. It is a long standing jest between us. My friend has come back to himself.

“They were . . . sneaking up . . . on the house, Beri.” He swallows, or tries to, he gagged a bit instead and at the side of my vision a small mug appears. I hold up Freddy’s head, helping him drink until he moves his head aside. “Big People, Beri. They . . . they were big . . . Big People. All cloaked. Black. All cloaked in black. Drink.”

I hold the mug to his lips until he once again is finished. He lays his head back a moment. He opens his eyes but stares at the ceiling, he doesn’t look at me.

“I ran. Remembered this farm . . . that this farm was somewhere west of the house.”

Freddy chuckles nervously as he finally turns his head a bit, focusing his eyes on me. “How did I manage to remember that, Beri?” His chuckling grows sharper, higher in pitch as the wild look returns to his eyes. He has wormed his other arm out from under the quilts to grab my hand tightly with both of his. “They . . .They were . . . were . . .” He finally looks about, eyes flitting over the room, stopping to widen at the sight of Uncle Saradoc and my father standing behind me. He now speaks to them. “Did they . . .” he hastily swallows, “. . . follow me? Did I lead them here? Is everyone . . .”

He’s struggling to rise but I easily hold him down.

“No, Freddy,” comes the Master’s voice. “No, lad. They didn’t follow you. No one . . .” He pauses and I know why. “No one has been hurt . . . unless . . .”

Freddy’s eyes widen. “No! No, sir, they’re gone. Gone. Several days now. Gone.” He falls back to the sofa, covering his face with his hands.

“Gone?” My father and his brother ask together.

“Gone,” Freddy mumbles from behind his hands. “Gone. Gone from the house. Gone from Buckland and the Shire. Into the Old Forest through the private entrance. Gone through the Hedge and into the Old Forest and . . . just gone.”

I’m suddenly chilled as though the door or a window had blown open. The room seems darker. Gone? Into the Old Forest? I didn’t miss that it sounded as though Freddy started to say more and had stopped himself. I feel cold to my heart. Gone?

I hear a scuffling behind me. My father barely catches his brother as he falls to the floor. I look at them, sitting on the floor, heaped together. They look as bloodless and cold as I feel. Son. Nephew. Cousins. Friend.

Gone.

##########################################################

Someone is shaking me. Let them. I’m tired.

“Mister Berilac. You’re needed.”

“G’way,” I mumble. I don’t even want to open my mouth to answer, let alone open my eyes. I was out all last night, and most of this day, sneaking two more families into the Hall. Two more families and four loads of goods from caches some of the farmers had managed to keep hidden. I’m tired. I’ve done my share.

“Berilac. It’s the Master’s request.”

Drat! I’ll have to open my eyes. I’ll have to actually get up. These days a request from the Master is an order, even when it is given to his nephew. Poor Uncle Saradoc, he hates that dealing with these Ruffians has driven our lives to that point.

“Thank you, Madoc. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

“You’re to be there now.”

I raise my head and open my eyes. “Now?”

“Now, Berilac.” Madoc knows he doesn’t need to be overly concerned with propriety if the matter is important. Apparently this is. “I was told to bring you naked if you were fool enough to be sleeping that way. Your uncle means right now.”

I throw off the covers, grab my dressing gown off its hook and put it on while heading for the office of the Master of Buckland.

“What’s this . . .”

“No idea, Mister Berilac. So there’s no need to ask.” Madoc is back to propriety now that we’re in the hallways and tunnels. He is escorting me as though I haven’t lived in the Hall my whole life and have never been to my uncle’s office. We walk hurriedly along in silence. All sorts of horrible thoughts are swirling about in my head. So many things that may have been discovered by the Ruffians and the punishments they may be doling out upon the hobbits of Buckland. Arriving at the office door, Madoc opens it for me then shuts it behind me.

My Uncle Saradoc sits behind his desk nearly glowing, my father sits in the secretary’s chair looking very much the same. In a chair before the desk, turned round to see me enter, is Theobald Bolger, one of the few from Freddy’s band of rebels who escaped the Ruffians. The thought of my dear Freddy away in the Lockholes clenches my heart, but even Theo has a look about him as though he’s a new father. I’ve not seen such happy faces for over a year.

“Your news, Theo. Tell Beri your news,” Uncle Saradoc says, his voice like a child’s at Yule.

“They came riding up after dark, dressed in armor and with swords. They climbed the gate and Merry chased off the Chief’s Big Man and . . .”

“Merry!”

I must have swooned as I am now sitting in the other chair before the Master’s desk and I’ve no recollection of sitting down. I can feel it, I’ve the same sappy smile on my face as the others do.

“Pippin?” I manage to whisper.

They all nod.

“Frodo? Sam?”

"I saw it with my own eyes." Even Theo’s voice is smiling, his hair bobbing with his nodding. “Yes. Yes, all four of them. It is the first time I've been glad to be the Master's eyes and ears at the Bridge as I've finally something good to report." He drew a deep breath and continued his tale. "The four of them were all done up in clothes like in the storybooks, with armor and swords and Merry and Pippin have shields as well. They were put out at how things are. Merry seemed to be in charge and tore up the no admittance notice then called to Pippin and they climbed the gate first. Merry ordered the Chief’s Big Man to leave. Threatened to run him through if he didn’t. Then Pippin tore up the rules in the Shirriff’s building and broke Rule 4 by stoking up the fire. Frodo said his family, meaning himself, needed to be dealing with the Pimple. That he needed putting in his place. It was a bit later that I took Merry aside and told him I was there for the Master and he sent me straight off to the Hall to bring my report.”

I’ve stood. I’m trembling from toe to top. “Where are they headed?”

“Hobbiton, of course, in the morning, to deal with Lotho-Pimple,” says Theo.

I’m already heading for the door. I shall leave as soon as I'm dressed. I need to see them for myself. I need to hear my cousin's voices. I need to hug them close and feel that they're real, then I need to throttle Merry for not telling me about all this to begin with. “Send word that I’m headed for the ferry and to have one of the ponies hidden at Maggot’s ready.”

They don’t ask where I’m going as I open and shut the office door to run through the hallways to my room. They know where I’m going. I want to welcome them home and then be there when my cousins and Sam set Freddy free.

Reaping by Dreamflower

2006-02-03T09:24:53Z

Rated R for violence: Ted Sandyman discovers too late that you reap what you sow...

CHALLENGE 25

AUTHOR: Dreamflower

RATING: R for violence

CATEGORY: General

SUMMARY: You reap what you sow.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This story takes place after Chapter 12 of “When the King Comes Back (Brandy Hall)” and references some events mentioned in “The Road to Edoras”

WARNING!!: Character Death (minor canon character)

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

REAPING

Ted Sandyman looked at the bottle in front of him. Empty. His pockets were empty as well, and not a coin to be had. There’d be no credit, not for ale, though he knew he’d not be allowed to starve, for all that no one had a word for him.

Things were still in a bit of confusion now. But for all that no one would speak *to* him, he’d overheard enough to know that the Thain and the Master had come to terms, and the Baggins was acting as Mayor, and soon they’d be looking out to punish those hobbits who had helped Lotho.

And he knew, as well as he knew his own name, what the result would be--banishment from the Shire. Already people were acting as though he had been sentenced: no one would speak to him, no one would use his name, no one would look him in the eye.

Except for one person.

Frodo Baggins.

Just the other day, he had gone over to the site where the hobbits of Bywater and Hobbiton were at work restoring The Green Dragon. Nobody would look at him, they all turned their backs.

But not Frodo Baggins. He’d looked him right in the eye, with so much pity on his face that it was like being punched in the gut. What right did Frodo Baggins have to feel sorry for him? That Brandybuck orphan, that misfit--everyone knew what dark rumors had followed him from Buckland. Missus Lobelia had seen to that. She made sure old Mad Baggins couldn’t keep his heir’s checkered past a secret--that upstart come to do Mr. Lotho out of what was his by right.

And now he had come back from foreign parts, after everyone thinking him dead--just like crazy old Bilbo. And giving pitying looks, that made Ted remember things he didn’t want to think on.

How had it come to this? He’d had a powerful friend in Mr. Lotho, with Big Men at his beck and call--and then them four came back from the Outlands, and started running the Big Men out of the Shire.

He’d been admiring the new mill, so much bigger, so much more powerful than the old one when here they came. He’d watched them walk up, in fine fancy clothes, even Sam Gamgee, that jumped-up gardener. He’d grinned at the look of horror on their faces at the sight of Hobbiton.

Sam had wept at the sight of that tree cut down. Ted smirked; he’d the oversight of that particular bit of mischief, and hoped to soon stoke the fires at his new mill with wood from that tree.

“Don’t ‘ee like it, Sam? But you always was soft. I thought you’d gone off in one o’ them ships you used to prattle about, sailing, sailing. What d’you want to come back for? We’ve work to do in the Shire now.”

“So I see,” said Sam, “No time for washing, but time for wall-propping. But see here Master Sandyman, I’ve a score to pay in this village, and don’t make it any longer with your jeering, or you’ll foot a bill too big for your purse.” There had been a dangerous glitter in Sam’s eyes, and his fists had clenched.

But Ted’d not backed down, as he once would have, in front of them. That Baggins weren’t the Master of Bag End no more. “Garn! You can’t touch me. I’m a friend o’ the Boss’s. But he’ll touch you all right, if I have any more of your mouth.” Ted grinned to himself at the thought of getting to pay them back, as he’d seen to the paying back of that fool Boffin, or that Bolger lad, rotting in the Lockholes. All those years of backing up the Chief had finally paid off.

And then Frodo Baggins had said “Don’t waste any more words on that fool, Sam! I hope there are not many more hobbits that have become like this. It would be a worse trouble than all the damage Men have done.”

Then the cousin from Buckland had opened his mouth, arrogance dripping from every word. “You are dirty and insolent, Sandyman,” he’d said, looking at Ted as though he were something nasty on the bottom of his foot. “And also very much out of your reckoning. We are just going up the Hill to remove your precious Boss. We have dealt with his Men.” *

And he’d gaped in shock at the hobbits coming up in a mob. Blowing the horn had done no good; the Brandybuck had blown his own--a silver horn like Ted had never seen before, and soon there was a great crowd of hobbits heading up towards Bag End.

Of course, after that everything else had gone wrong. He’d hung back, and been witness to Sharkey’s attempt to kill the Baggins, and to old Worm stabbing Sharkey, and a chill still ran through him at the memory of Sharkey’s corpse falling away into dust. It wasn’t until later that he found out why he’d not seen the poor old Chief for a few days--that Worm had murdered him, and some even said *eaten* him.

And that was when it started. The shunning. More than a body should have to take, he thought, not to have a polite word from anyone at all. Now, from what he could overhear when folk didn’t know he was around, there would be trials and there would be banishments. And though they did not say his name, “the miller” was at the top of everyone’s list.

Well, he was of no mind to wait around to be Marked and banished. He was of a mind to head for the Southfarthing. Nobody knew him there--he could give his mother’s maiden name, Clayhanger--and with none the wiser, he could start a new life…

_________________________________________

But he found he was sadly wrong--he’d only been a few days in Longbottom when one of the hands at Dago Bracegirdle’s pipeweed plantation had identified him. And the word had come that the Thain was offering a reward for his capture.

He managed to leave just in time. He made his miserable way through the less populated areas of the Shire, subsisting on the occasional squirrel, or if he were lucky enough to come across a cot-hold, theft. He dared not try to approach anyone to try and work, even under an assumed name, for news of the reward and his description had been posted far and wide.

Once, when he had been desperate, he had approached a small village--barely even a hamlet, and found several hobbits gathered to listen to their posthobbit read out the letter the Thain had circulated.

Twenty silver pennies if Ted Sandyman were captured and delivered to the Thain at Tuckborough. The list of his deeds shocked him: collaborating with enemies of the Shire--why, he’d only been helping Lotho, who wanted to bring some order to the Shire! Profiteering! As though making a profit was a bad thing!

Vandalism and wanton destruction! Why, they had just been knocking down a few old holes and cutting down a few trees to make room for something new!

Accessory to the murder of Folco Boffin.

That made his blood run cold. Why, he’d not laid a single hand on that hobbit! All he’d done was point out who he was to Lotho’s Men. And he had not known they would beat the Boffin lad to death--he thought perhaps they would just rough him up a bit, teach him a lesson--of course he had not believed they would actually kill him!

Didn’t you? said a little voice in the back of his mind.

No. Of course not! Certainly not!

But he could not get out of his memory that feeling of warm satisfaction at knowing that the one who had once mocked him would never do so again--he had watched, he had even laughed, as the battered hobbit had been kicked and brutalized. It had been his own idea to dump the injured hobbit at his friend Fatty Bolger’s doorstep. He could just imagine the dismay on the Bolger’s fat face.

Now there were the angry mutters of the crowd, and he had backed away, for all that he had his hood pulled up, for the posthobbit was reading his description. He had slowly edged himself away, and left the small settlement behind.

There was only one thing he could do: leave the Shire. If he left without being banished, he’d have no Mark on him. Maybe in a few years, after things had died down, he could slip back into the Shire then.

And if he could get out of the Shire, he had allies. Why, those Big Men of Lotho’s had done as he told them, as long as he had said the orders were from the Chief. He’d find them, and get in with them again. They wouldn’t let any of the angry hobbits lay hands on him, and even if they were greedy, they could not turn him in for the reward without being stuck full of arrows by the Tooks. He’d be safe with them. They’d remember him.

Sarn Ford. That’s where he’d head.

That was the way the Men had come in. That’s where he would go--that was possibly where he could find them. Then he’d have protection from all these angry hobbits. He’d throw in his lot with those Men--they might be big and stupid and greedy, but they’d not let him be taken. Why, now that Lotho and Sharkey were both gone, he was as good as their Boss anyway!

Of course! Why, he was much brighter than any of them! He’d soon be the leader of their group!

Feeling far more cheerful than he had for a long time, he went on his way with a bit more confidence, now he had a plan.

That night he approached an isolated farm. A well-thrown stone put a stop to the barking of the watch-dog, and moving quietly, he made off with a plump chicken. He hastened into the small nearby wooded area, and dined on roast chicken that night. He ate every last morsel, and sucked off the bones--it was the most he’d had to eat in days.

The river crossing had nearly proved too much for him. He had stood for a long time, eyeing the icy water. It was almost Yule. The water would come up to his waist, and like most hobbits, he couldn’t swim.

But this was the only way out of the Shire. He couldn’t risk the Bridge--there were too many looking for him, too many who would be more than happy to collect twenty pence for a chance to pay him out. He’d no illusions on that score. He’d been a bit too sharp, a bit too warm, in business to be liked.

For a long time he’d stood at the riverbank, plucking up his courage before he finally stepped into the water. It was a long way across, it seemed, and more than once, he’d feared losing his footing, being swept away.

Finally, soaked and shivering, he stood on the other side. It was cold--so cold. He had to find shelter and food somewhere. He stumbled away from the River, and then collapsed in a shivering heap.

_______________________________________

When he awakened, it was to the smell of something warm and savory. Was that rabbit stew? And he seemed to be indoors.

“Well, well, look who’s awake.”

Ted squinted. That voice was slightly familiar. “Mallo? Mallo Bracegirdle?”

The hobbit in question moved into his line of sight. “The very same, Sandyman.”

The miller looked at him as he squatted next to the pallet on which he lay. He looked about. He appeared to be in a roughly dug smial. He could see there were others. “Ruffo?”

“Yes,” said Mallo. “My brother is here, and my wife.”

“But--what are you doing here?”

The other hobbit thrust his fist beneath Ted’s nose. There, tattooed on the back of his hand: Traitor.

“You were banished?”

“What else, after Lotho’s grand plans fell apart? The question is, why aren’t *you* Marked?” In spite of the undeniable fact that Mallo Bracegirdle seemed to have taken him in, Ted could see a glitter of resentment in his eyes.

Just then the lass--Ted couldn’t remember her name--came over and gave him a mug of the stew--it was rather thin, but tasty, and the most he’d had to eat since the night he stole the chicken. He took a few cautious sips, and then replied “I didn’t want to wait to be Marked. I left when I knew which way the wind was blowing.”

“I wish we had the sense to have done that. And I wish we’d slipped out over the Bridge and headed for Bree. It’s not safe here.”

“What do you mean, not safe?” asked Ted.

“Why, because there are a lot of Lotho’s Men lurking about. The Tooks ran ‘em out of the Southfarthing, and I suppose there are a few from further afield, and they’ve not gone far.”

“Well, why are you worried about Lotho’s Men? You weren’t one as was doing the running off.”

Mallo shook his head. “You don’t understand. There’s no Chief here nor Boss, to make them leave us alone!”
He gave a look at his wife, who was now huddled on the floor next to the makeshift hearth. “I wish my Clover had not chosen to follow me when I was banished.”

But Ted’s spirits had risen at the news that some of Lotho’s Men were nearby. Almost all of them knew him--he’d been Lotho’s right hand for much of the time, and had often taken the orders from the Chief to the Men. They’d listen to him.

He began to regain his strength after a few days. Mallo’s wife Clover was a clever cook, but even the flavor she was able to add was unable to disguise the fact that there was more water in the stew than meat or vegetables, and for the last couple of days, there’d been no meat either.

Ted wasn’t ready to move on yet, but he was tired of the dark little smial, not much better than a dirt tunnel, for there were no windows, and the roughly constructed hearth smoked. He decided he’d get outdoors for a while--maybe snare a rabbit or get a squirrel with a stone, to add to the cookpot.

He went towards a marshy copse to the southwest of the little smial, following along the line of the Brandywine. Mallo had warned him against the other direction--that way led to the Old Forest--and Ted was of no mind to go in *that* dark place. Though sometimes he wondered if it could be as bad as tales had made it--obviously the Baggins and his friends had survived it. But he wasn’t about to put it to the test.

The sun was at its zenith by the time he started back, rather pleased with himself. He’d no rabbit or squirrel, but he’d brought down a plump waterfowl with a rock, and he was certain that Mallo’s wife could roast it up nice and tasty.

As he approached, he heard a scream and a yell coming from the direction of the smial. He stepped out of the copse, to see four large figures menacing the hobbits. Mallo and Ruffo were standing defiantly in front of the round door, and Clover’s frightened face was behind her husband.

At first, Ted thought he’d slip away. But then he recognized the four Men. They were some of those he had worked with, carrying out Lotho’s orders. It was what he had been looking for, and he was sure they would go away and leave the Bracegirdles alone, if he ordered them to.

What were their names? One of them was called “Harry” he remembered--came from Bree, he thought. Another had been one of the Men Sharkey had sent up from the South--he was a short and ugly fellow, with a swart face--called “Gash” or some such. He couldn’t remember the names of the other two.

Confidently, he called out. “Hoy! Gash! Harry! Leave them be! They’re friends.”

Startled, the four turned in his direction. Mallo and Ruffo took the opportunity to shove Clover back, and to back inside the smial and slam the door.

“Garn!” Gash turned back with a curse. “Now we’ve lost our chance for sport with the little rat-wench!” He turned a menacing eye on Ted.

Suddenly Ted began to doubt the wisdom of his intervention. He drew in a deep breath, stepped backwards, and then tossing aside the duck, he turned to run. But he’d gone only a few steps when he tripped on a root, and fell flat. Terrified, he tried to get to his feet, when he felt both his arms gripped hard, and he was hauled up.

He found himself dangling in the air, in front of Gash’s ugly face, foul hot breath assaulting his senses. “Look what we have here!” the Man exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction.

Harry had turned aside, and picked up the bird. “And look what he brought us!”

Gash grinned. “Supper.” Ted had thought he was afraid before, but the look in Gash’s eyes, now made him realize that he had yet to learn just how terrified he could get.

The other two Men had been kicking at the door of the little smial in frustration.

“Leave off! I’ve an idea--” Gash called. “Bart, you and Krag--get some heavy stones and some kindling, and we’ll have a bit of sport anyway!”

The others looked at him for a moment, and then laughing raucously, turned to do as he said.

Then Gash turned his attention to Ted once more. “Well, well. If this isn’t one of the little ratlings that thought he could tell us what to do?”

Ted couldn’t help it. He squeaked, and then swallowed.

“You didn’t really think you had the right to boss us around, did you, you little maggot?”

The hobbit was too paralyzed with terror now to even squeak.

Gash laughed hatefully. “You and that ‘Chief’ of yours--you really thought we were obeying you! Well, we were--but not on your account. Sharkey’s orders was to let some of you *think* you was in charge--worked just fine, didn’t it?” He thrust Ted at Harry, who was standing nearby chuckling into his stubbly beard. “Here, tie ‘im up and we’ll have our sport with ‘im later!”

A few moments later, Ted found himself cruelly bound, lying in the dirt where he had a good view of what the Men were doing--they barricaded the door to the little burrow with heavy stones, and then, pushing kindling into the crevices, they used a torch to set light to it.

Ted heard the screams of the hobbits within mingle with his own before he fell into a swoon.

______________________________________________

He fought his way up from a dark and terrifying dream, only to find the reality was just as bad if not worse. With a choked cry, he tried to sit up, only to find that he couldn’t, for he truly was bound still.

There was a harsh laugh from the one called Krag. “Look! Our little rat’s awake! Hear him squeak!”

“Time for a little sport, lads!” Gash came over and gave him a kick in the side, and then bent over him with a knife. He cut Ted’s shirt off, and then poised the knife over the hobbit’s exposed chest. Ted scarcely noticed the freezing cold of the air, for his breath was caught in his throat. Gash brought the knife down suddenly, as if he were going to plunge it into Ted’s heart. Instead, he made a cut, shallow and painful. Ted screamed.

There was another cut--Ted writhed and screamed until he could no more, sobbing and pleading.

And all that accomplished was to bring his tormentors to laugh even louder.

They finally gave over torturing him when the one called Bart called out that the duck was ready. Ted had not even noticed the smell of it cooking.

The offered him none, and for once he was glad, for he was sure he would not have been able to keep it down. He finally fell into an exhausted sleep, haunted by a dream: it was the scene when the Men--and he knew that Gash had been one of them--had beaten Folco Boffin to death. But now he was the victim. And Folco was standing at the side, watching, the way he had watched.

Only instead of laughing and jeering, Folco was watching with his eyes filled with tears and sympathy on his face.

It was the first time he had this dream, but it was not the last.

For several days it was the same. If they were in the mood for sport they had any number of ways to torment him. He had cuts all over his upper body as well as bruises. When the cuts had failed to produce enough screams, they had spent an evening breaking his fingers one by one.

Sometimes he would faint from the pain or the terror. If they’d had enough amusement for the evening, they would leave him be, and he would fall into dark dreams, but always ending with the dream of Folco Boffin.

If they had not had enough sport, they would slap him awake, and pour a foul-tasting draught down his throat that burned like fire. It would give him energy, and wake him, and it seemed to sustain him in some horrid way--for they never offered him any food at all.

He had no idea of how long his ordeal had lasted. But there had been a day of respite--freezing cold and rainy weather had led them to find an abandoned cot to lie up in. The torment that night had been severe, but the next day, the weather had dried up, and leaving him alone and tied up, the four of them had gone out to forage for food.

Ted lay there falling in and out of a hazy drowse, roused from time to time by pain, and thinking the same anguished thoughts over and over again. The look of pity on Frodo Baggins’ face kept coming to his mind. Why should Frodo have felt sorry for him? Obviously he must have known what was coming to him. He was feverish, and finally he dropped off into a profound, yet uncomfortable sleep.

He was wakened once more by a slap, and some of the horrible draught was poured down his throat. He was too weak to struggle against it as he had been, and merely gagged as the burning liquid scalded its way down his throat.

Gash took out his knife, and Ted watched dully as the ruffian played with it in front of his eyes. Then he flinched as the knife was repeatedly prodded in his upper arm. A few days earlier, this would have brought him to screams; now he barely whimpered.

“Looks like our little rat is not so much sport as he was,” said Gash with a sneer. “Maybe we should do something a little different.” He approached the fire they had built in the hearth, and lay the end of his knife in the fire. Ted watched apprehensively, a knot of fear as he wondered what new deviltry his tormentor had come up with. He could hear the other three chuckling in anticipation.

Gash turned and picked Ted up by the ropes which were wound about his torso, and then quite deliberately lay the hot knife against the hobbit’s cheek. Ted’s shriek of pain seemed quite satisfying.

He held him very close to his face, and brought the knife up again. “Maybe an eye, this time,” he chuckled.

Ted’s terror was suddenly rekindled. In a panic, and with an energy he thought had long abandoned him, he began to struggle as he had not since the beginning. The knife drew closer. With a move borne more out of instinct than anything else, Ted threw his own face forward, and clamped his teeth on Gash’s nose, biting so hard that he drew blood.

Two things happened.

Gash with a horrible yowl, threw Ted from him. Ted flew across the room, landing so hard against the wall of the decaying house that he actually broke through it. Ted spat--the hot acid taste in his mouth nothing like the salty taste of blood. He looked up in surprise at Gash’s face staring down, and noticed with a shock that the blood was black.

The second thing was his realization that he no longer felt any pain. He couldn’t move at all, but the pain was gone. His eyes widened in surprise.

Gash grabbed his left arm and snapped it like a twig. Ted looked at it in wonder.

The brute looked surprised at his lack of reaction.

Krag came over, and stepped on his other arm. Ted didn’t feel that either. Harry looked for a moment, and then dispassionately lifted one of his legs and let go. It landed like a log.

“You’ve gone and broken its back, Gash,” he said. “It’s not going to be feeling any more pain. Won’t be anymore sport from that one.”

Gash rubbed his nose, and looked at the black blood on his hand. He reached down and cleaned it off on Ted’s breeches.

“Oh well,” he said, “it was fun while it lasted.”

The four turned away, and began to prepare their meal, ignoring Ted.

Ted lay like a broken doll, tears rolling down his cheeks. He tried to swallow, but couldn‘t, and then he looked up.

Folco Boffin stood there, smiling at him sweetly. “ ‘M sorry,” Ted mumbled, “ ‘m sorry.”

Folco reached a hand down, and Ted reached up and grasped it, found himself standing next to the hobbit he had watched being murdered. And yet he saw, there was a hobbit lying there, battered and worn, who looked remarkably like himself.

“Come along,” said Folco. “It’s all over now.”

_______________________________________________

“That’s not a very deep hole, Bart,” said Harry.

“Who cares?” replied the Man. “Gash said bury him. He didn’t say how deep.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s dead. I’m not so much for the kind of sport that Gash and Krag like, and he was slowing us down.”

Bart nodded, and they tipped the little body in, and scraped a shallow covering of dirt over it.

“Well, I hope we get out of here soon. Krag said he spotted one of them Rangers this morning. And where there’s one there’s more.”

“Aye,” replied Harry. “I think we should move on now.” He kicked a bit more dirt over the grave, and they walked off.
______________________________________________

*Quotations in italics from The Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter VIII, “The Scouring of the Shire”

Cold by Slightly Tookish

2006-02-03T08:58:14Z

Esmeralda pays a visit to Crickhollow and gets a hard surprise...

Title: Cold
Author: Slightly Tookish
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing!
Rating: G
A/N: Written for Marigold’s Challenge 25. Thank you to azur_infinie for the beta.

It was a cold and blustery day in the middle of March when Esmeralda bundled herself in a cloak and scarf and set out just after breakfast for Crickhollow, clutching a basket packed with fresh milk and eggs. She had not seen nor heard from her lads in two days now, which was not all that uncommon, but when she had seen them last Pippin had been battling a terrible cold. He had sneezed and coughed his way through supper, hardly eating a thing, and Esmeralda had watched with a sad little smile, thinking of days long gone as Merry fussed over his cousin, trying to coax him to eat something, anything, even if it was just dessert. And though Pippin had insisted that he was fine, he had excused himself before the meal was over and they found him later in the sitting room, fast asleep in a chair. He had not protested when Merry cut their visit short and brought him home.

Esmeralda was certain that if Pippin had taken a turn for the worse Merry would have found some way to notify the Hall, but a feeling that something was not right had gnawed at her a little more each day, and so she decided to look in on them herself this morning. Patting her pocket, Esmeralda felt for the bottle of tonic she had thought to bring, and shook her head. Never mind that they had spent over a year abroad, and had seen and done more than she could ever imagine – how could she not worry about them?

It was not long before the little house came into view. Esmeralda slipped through the narrow gate in the hedge and made her way up the path, taking a moment to peer into the dark windows before she let herself in.

Hanging her cloak and scarf on a peg by the door, Esmeralda made her way through the hallway, peeking into the dark, empty sitting room before entering the kitchen. A fire burned low in the hearth, and on the table were the remnants of a hurried meal – the end of a crusty loaf, smeared with butter, and a bit of meat and cheese on a plate, forgotten.

Esmeralda set the bread aside and washed and dried the plate. It felt good to keep her hands busy; she was strangely reluctant to continue her search with the house so eerily silent. She was reminded of those horrible days just after they had vanished – her three lads, Merry and Pippin and Frodo – and everything had seemed too quiet and still, with too many pieces that had been left behind. Her memories were more disturbing now that she was in this quiet house; if it had happened once, it could happen again, and ever since Merry and Pippin had come back she had seen a strange restlessness in their eyes that had not been there before.

A soft noise sounded in another room, breaking the silence, and Esmeralda was more relieved than she thought she should be. She walked toward the sound, and had not gone halfway down the hall when she heard the noise again, louder this time.

The door to Merry's room opened and Pippin stepped out, a handkerchief pressed firmly to his nose as he sneezed again. "Hullo, Aunt Esmie," he said, shutting the door behind him before noisily blowing his nose. "What are you doing here?" he asked when he was finished.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked, clucking her tongue as she peered closely at her nephew’s face. Along with a red nose and dark circles under his eyes, Pippin was terribly pale and looked exhausted. Esmeralda reached up to check for a fever, and was relieved to find there was none.

"Oh, it's just a cold, nothing serious. I don't need to stay in bed," Pippin replied. With a glance back at the closed door he took his aunt by the arm and led her toward the kitchen. "I would have sent for you but you know how Merry hates it when people fuss over him – he always wants to be the one doing the fussing. But you're here now and I… I'd like to tell you more about it."

Esmeralda frowned but held her tongue as she walked with Pippin to the kitchen, allowing him to put another log on the fire but ordering him to sit down at the table as she made tea.

"Now," she said, when they each had a steaming cup in hand, "what is wrong with Merry?"

"It's nothing too terrible," Pippin said, noting Esmeralda's worried expression. "One of his old injuries from the war is acting up. It happens sometimes, and he always gets better in a few days."

"Is it his arm?" Esmeralda asked. She knew what had happened but did not understand it, not like her son and nephew did, these things they spoke of. Kings and goblins and trolls and wraiths – these were characters out of campfire tales come to life, but the scars they bore were there to see, and she had seen those, both the physical hurts and the emotional ones, as much as Merry and Pippin allowed, which Esmeralda suspected was not much at all.

Pippin nodded and took a long sip of his tea before blowing his nose again, and if Esmeralda did not know her nephew so well she would have assumed he was stalling. But Pippin was never one to mince his words, and as soon as the handkerchief was tucked away in his pocket once more he spoke again.

"Every so often his arm goes numb and icy cold from his shoulder to his fingers," he said. "But that's easy enough to bear, and Merry does it well. But sometimes it puts him in a strange and gloomy mood, and he starts thinking too much. That's where the trouble lies."

"That doesn’t sound like Merry," Esmeralda said quietly. "Isn't there any way to stop it?"

"Not that I or anyone else knows of," Pippin replied. His heavy sigh turned into a cough. "The only thing we may do for Merry is to help him through it when it happens. I know the signs now, and I might have spoken to Merry about it if I hadn't been so sick the other night – well, that was part of the problem. It might have happened anyway – it was one year ago yesterday that he hurt his arm, you see."

"Ah," Esmeralda said. Memories were something she could understand.

Pippin nodded again, then sneezed loudly. "Merry didn't say so, but I think that since he was already remembering what had happened last year, he got to thinking about when I had been so hurt. So it made matters worse that I was feeling so wretched when we came back from the Hall the other night. I told Merry it was just a cold, but he was so worried I would fall terribly ill that he insisted that we sit up together.

"That's when I should have guessed that something was bothering him too, but I was so drowsy that I fell asleep. Merry must have too, because he had the worst nightmare. It shook me out of my sleep quickly enough, and it was all I could do calm him down. I thought it would be best to bring Merry to his own bed, and to sit up with him. And I have, since it happened."

Esmeralda smiled. She did not understand everything, and she knew that she never would, but she did understand what was most important. "I'm glad you were there to look after Merry," she said, gathering Pippin close and ignoring his surprised squeak and his warnings that she would catch his cold.

Finally he quieted and wrapped his arms around his aunt, patting her shoulders gently. "Merry will be all right," he said quietly. "He's already resting easier today."

"And so will you," Esmeralda said firmly. "Into bed and under the covers with you, Peregrin. You are to do nothing but rest until that cold is gone."

"But Merry-" Pippin protested.

"It's my turn to look after him now," Esmeralda replied, "and after you. I am going to prepare a nice stew for supper, and then I'll sit with my Merry for the rest of the afternoon. You, my dear, are wearing yourself out with looking after your cousin and neglecting yourself in the process. And you know that Merry would not be happy about that if he were in any shape to realize it. Sleep now, while your Aunt Esmie is here to look after her two best lads."

Pippin grinned; he knew better than to argue with his aunt when she took that tone of voice. "All right," he said, yawning as he crossed the room. Pausing by the door, he added, "You're my favorite aunt, you know."

"On, go on," Esmeralda said, scolding him lightly as she bustled around the kitchen, setting out carrots and potatoes for their meal. In hardly any time at all the stew was bubbling over the fire, and Esmeralda was walking down the hallway again. She looked in on Pippin and was glad to see him asleep at last before she crept into Merry's room and sat beside his bed.

Esmeralda watched her son, his brow furrowed with some unseen worry, and took the hand that troubled him with her own. His skin was chilled, but not with the icy cold that Pippin had described. She stroked his hand, trying to bring it warmth, and Merry finally stirred from his deep sleep.

"Mum?" he mumbled, his eyes fluttering open. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing so terrible, my dear. I want you to rest now," Esmeralda replied with a gentle smile. For a moment Merry looked uncertain, his brow furrowed deeply in thought, but at last he smiled and allowed his eyes to slip shut once more.

Esmeralda smiled again. "Rest now, and let me take care of you."

What Goes Around Comes Around by Cathleen

2006-02-03T08:48:29Z

Mischief and storytelling while the Fellowship camps in Hollin...

What Goes Around Comes Around
By Cathleen
Beta by Marigold

The stream was very near the campsite, that’s what was so great about it. It was easy to get a drink of water, to wash, to wade around in its crystal clear ripples. Fish were abundant. There were also some large boulders nearby which created the perfect hiding place for a little hobbit to remain concealed and take in the goings-on about him. Not that he would spy on anyone of course. Pippin just had to be Pippin, wherever he was, whatever the outcome. He also surely wouldn’t mean to make trouble for himself either, if he were to saunter down here alone, just to see whatever he might. Then, there was that shiny thing he’d glimpsed just to the other side of the largest boulder. He wanted to get closer to it and find out just what it was. For some reason Pippin could not quite fathom, he decided he needed to do it alone. That notion just tickled away at the back of his inventive and mischievous little mind and he simply could not escape its grasp. Ah yes, the stream was a marvelous place to play, and Pippin had plans.

The Fellowship had been forced to take an extra day’s respite. While struggling across the rocky ground the pony had stepped badly, placing a strain on his leg. In order to prevent poor Bill from becoming lame they had made the difficult decision to stop for an additional day, and were taking advantage of a cavern’s shelter. Its proximity to the stream made the location more than ideal for an extra day’s camping and the weary travellers were grateful for even a brief reprieve. Evening was falling fast.

“Aragorn,” shouted Gimli from the clearing, “I’m going to scout a wee bit on this side of the stream, just to see what’s about.”

Aragorn waved him on. “Do not lose your way back, Master Dwarf. The night will be dark, with little moonlight.”

Gimli scoffed at this, “What, me lose my way? Next you’ll be suggesting that my mother was an elf!” he chuckled as he disappeared from their sight.

Grinning at Legolas, Aragorn shook his head and squatted to stir the fire Sam had built.

“Bit of a chill to the air tonight, wouldn’t you agree, Strider?” Sam looked up from the pot he was stirring and reached for some herbs to add to the stew.

Aragorn nodded in agreement. “Certainly a night to stick close to a warm fire Sam. Speaking of which, where are the others?”

“Mr Frodo and his cousins? I believe they went on down to the stream for various reasons, before it gets dark you know.”

“I see. Well I hope they won’t be too long. As I told Gimli, this night will be dark indeed. I wouldn’t want anyone to get lost in the woods.”

“Aye,” agreed Sam. “Don’t worry Strider, they’ll be back soon. Supper is nearly ready.”

Boromir had taken up a spot near the fire and was mending his pack. Gandalf removed the long-stemmed pipe from his mouth and gazed at him thoughtfully. Boromir sensed the wizard’s eyes upon him and looked up questioningly.

Gandalf smiled. “I was merely admiring your skill with a sewing needle.”

Boromir chuckled at Gandalf’s comment. “I have many skills that will serve us well on this journey.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

Their quiet conversation continued as Aragorn stood at the cavern entrance, keeping watch on their surroundings.

******

Frodo was leaning over the rocks watching the small waterfall created by the boulders in the stream with interest. Where the water ran off the outcroppings a slippery and rather treacherous area had been created.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to take this log and just float down the stream on it!” Pippin was already pushing a large limb out into the water.

“Pip, it’s far too cold tonight to be playing around in the water. Just leave it be,” Merry offered reasonably.

“Oh, come now! Just one little trip down the stream. It isn’t deep here….”

“No Pip!” Merry was not feeling particularly patient with his cousin’s antics and fastened a look of severe disapproval upon him that Pippin chose to ignore. He continued pushing the log down the rocks and into the water, chattering away as he went. Merry and Frodo shared a meaningful look and then reached out and hauled their little cousin back onto solid ground.

Pippin sputtered at them. “Hey! What’d you do that for? I just want to have a wee bit of fun. There’s plenty of time before it gets dark you know!”

“I said no, Pip. It’s too cold and you’d fall in anyway and then we’d wind up getting wet coming in after you.”

“Oh, Merry. You’re being far too cautious and no fun at all. Why I’ll bet…..”

“Stop this now, or I’ll tell Aragorn what you are up to!” Frodo interrupted firmly. His voice softened and he placed an arm around Pippin’s shoulder. “Have a little sense Pip – that water is ice cold and night is coming on fast.”

Pippin glanced about uncertainly. “Well, maybe I’ll try it in the daylight then.” He was not to be put off easily.

Frodo and Merry both shook their heads. “No, you will not try it in the morning or we will still tell Aragorn,” Merry asserted.

Pippin sighed. “Oh, all right then, I’ll let it alone for now. You two are being no fun at all.” I’m still coming back later and have a closer look at that shiny spot in the little pool, he thought. Keep your plans to yourself now lad! Pippin contented himself by climbing back onto the rocks near the little waterfall and planning his strategy for later.

Gimli came wandering out of the woods at that point. “Lads,” he called to them, “Come! It’s getting late and the evening meal is about ready.”

“All right, Gimli, we’re coming.” Frodo gestured at the others to follow as he hurried after the dwarf, Merry following closely behind.

Pippin watched them go, a twinkle of amusement in his green eyes. Good! Maybe I can have a little look-see right now then. He lay down on his stomach and contemplated the water, edging ever closer to his goal over the slippery rocks and began using his hand to root around in the shallow water. One thing Merry and Frodo were right about, he mused. This water is freezing!

Merry was trudging along with the others. “Now Pip, won’t it be much nicer to get back to a warm fire and a good supper instead of getting all wet in that stream? Aren’t you glad we kept you out of the water?”

Merry looked over his shoulder when his cousin failed to answer him and realized that Pippin was not with them. Letting loose a sigh of the long-suffering he whirled around and stomped back to the stream where he encountered the unwelcome but not unexpected sight of Pippin splayed across the boulder, his bum up in the air and his head down, fingers waving through the cold water as if in search of something. Merry paused for only a moment and then crept up on his wayward cousin with a gleam in his eye. He pounced, collaring Pippin and hauling him down.

“What are you doing? You were supposed to be right behind us!”

“Merry, I was coming you know. I just wanted to have another look--”

“Enough looking, Pip. Comeon!” Merry began to walk faster until they caught up to the others. Frodo glanced at them in amusement when he noticed that Merry had a firm hold on Pippin’s shirt collar. He rolled his eyes at Gimli, who grinned.

The fire glowed invitingly as the Fellowship gathered around for the evening meal. Frodo studied the glowing embers, becoming lost in his own thoughts. Sam watched Frodo, concerned that his mood seemed somewhat somber. Aragorn studied both of them, also deep in thought. They remained unaware of the Ranger’s close scrutiny.So much depends on this little one, he mused.How can we make his path a bit less burdened? Frodo grows more restless and serious with each passing day. The Ring weighs heavily upon him. We must do all we are able to help lighten his burden.

Aragorn turned slightly to where Boromir crouched near the fire speaking quietly with Gandalf, and then looked about the campsite and studied the faces of his companions one by one.Much that lies ahead is unknown. One thing is certain. It will not be an easy road. His eyes wandered and finally met with Legolas’s, who smiled in understanding. Aragorn wearily returned the smile.

“Well then, how about some of those stories we were promised earlier?” Sam attempted to lighten the mood and favored Frodo with a crooked grin. “You always have some interesting tales to tell, Mr Frodo.”

Frodo looked up from the fire as all eyes fell upon him. He smiled, perfectly aware of what Sam was doing. A twinkle lit up his blue eyes and he glanced around the circle at the expectant faces. “Hmm. I don’t know if I can recall any just now.” His gaze settled on his young cousin. “But Pip, surely you are able to regale us with an interesting tale or two?”

Pippin looked thoughtfully at Frodo for a moment and then glanced mischievously at Merry. “Well now, I don’t know. Hmm… let’s see.” Pippin rubbed his chin and looked up at the cavern ceiling as though deep in thought. “There are so many good stories it’s hard to narrow them down.” His expression brightened. “I know! There was the time that Merry made a bet with the other lads that if we offered Fatty Bolger enough money he’d do just about anything--”

Merry groaned loudly. “Pip…”

“Like put a fly in his mouth.”

A round of chuckling began from the group.

Boromir laughed. “Oh, I have to hear this one!”

“No you don’t,” Merry’s voice was cross. “Pippin, tell something on yourself for a change why don’t you?”

Pippin ignored him and warmed to his tale immediately. “Well, you’ve got to understand how Fredegar Bolger feels about the value of coin in his hand. It’s really something he sets a great deal of store by.” Pippin grinned at his red-faced cousin. “So, Merry was wondering just how much old Fatty would consider it worthwhile to earn himself a bit of coin by accepting an outrageous dare. You see, the more outlandish the dare, the more money it was worth!”

Frodo was grinning ear to ear by now. “Oh yes! It didn’t end so well for poor Fatty. Or for poor Merry, for that matter.” Frodo turned to his cousin, “And how long was it before you could sit down again, poor lad?” More laughter from the circle of companions and Merry scowled at his cousin.

“I definitely feel we should instead be hearing more young Frodo stories. Oh! I have a good one! This is really funny! Remember when--”

“Oh no!” Frodo chuckled and held up a hand to forestall Merry’s argument. “We’ve heard enough about me over the last few days. Come Pippin! Tell your story.”

Pippin looked smug as he began again. “The rest of us bet he wouldn’t do it for anything but Merry just knew that he would. So he and Cousin Berilac started to take up a collection. All the lads and even a few of the lasses from all around Budgeford threw in some coins. Pippin glanced at his embarrassed cousin before turning back to the group once more. “Of course, you couldn’t blame Merry that much for instigating the whole thing. After all, he was just an immature tween when he did it.”

Merry frowned. “I did have a bit of help, you know! Besides, it really was all that foolish Berilac’s idea in the first place--”

“Oh, I am sure that it was, Merry! Then why were you the only one who got in trouble?”

Pippin ignored the glare Merry shot his way and resumed his tale. “Anyway, after they’d got what they thought to be a sufficient amount of money collected, the lot of us who’d contributed--”

“You gave Merry money too, Pippin?” Boromir was grinning widely.

Pip looked over at the big man, eyes twinkling merrily. “Oh, aye! I most certainly wanted to see if Fatty would go through with the dare! By then we all were very curious to find out how far he would go. A rather large group of us gathered in the meadow behind his smial and Merry had caught a fly already, but it got away.” Pippin glanced at Merry again and then leaned over to Boromir and whispered loudly, “Confidentially, I think he let it go on purpose because it was part of his plan.”

Merry grunted in disgust.

Pippin turned back to the others. “Sooo…he was pressed into finding a substitute bug. We didna realize it was actually a honeybee that Merry trapped and stuck in Fatty’s mouth. Of course, neither did Fatty!” Pippin fell back on the ground, his whole body shaking in a fit of laughter.

Frodo and Sam were also howling at the story. Even Merry was grinning now.

Pip sat up, struggling to get his mirth under control. Tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Oh! You should have seen Fatty! When he opened his mouth to let the ‘fly’ go, the bee stung him on his tongue! Did he shriek! And run! Oh, I’ve never seen Fatty run so fast! And for a big lad like him who never did move very quickly, why I think he must’ve set a record!” Pippin fell back on the ground once more, laughter quite out of control.

Aragorn was delighted to witness Frodo’s enjoyment of the tale. It was so good to see him smiling and laughing. Indeed, the entire Fellowship was appreciative of the merriment. Pippin was a master of storytelling.

When the revelry died down Boromir leaned over with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and asked in a serious voice, “Pippin tell me, did the honeybee survive?”

“Well, of course not Boromir! Do you not know that bees die when they lose their stinger?” The exclamation caused them to collapse in hilarity once again.

Pippin looked about the circle, a huge grin on his impish face, obviously enjoying being at the center of attention.

“What happened then?” Boromir wanted to know.

Pippin giggled but before he could answer Frodo spoke up. “Fatty’s father heard all the uproar and came to see what was going on. It didn’t take him long to get the story out of us.” His eyes flickered to Merry in sympathy. “It turned out that Fatty was allergic to bees. Fortunately, he did not have a severe allergy. Merry however was not so lucky.”

“Aye, the foolish tween! He got marched to Uncle Saradoc and Auntie Esme right after Mr Bolger attended to poor Fatty.” Pippin teased his cousin unmercifully. “What was it again your da used on you? A switch?”

“As if you didn’t know. All right, Pip. You’ve had your fun at my expense. Tomorrow night it’s going to be your turn!” He looked over at Frodo. “And we have the perfect story in mind.” Frodo nodded slightly.

“Hmmph! We’ll see.”

“Oh, but I want to hear about it Pip! We all do!” Boromir grinned shamelessly at his little friend.

“I think it’s time to go to sleep now,” Pippin pouted.

Merry leaned over to his cousin with an evil grin and whispered one word in his ear.
Pippin jumped up, aghast. “Merry, you wouldn’t!”

“No? Well we’ll see, won’t we?” He was still chuckling as he settled down into his blankets next to the fire.

Pippin turned his back but couldn’t resist snuggling up for the warmth. He crossed his arms and muttered to himself unaware that his cousin still wore a huge smile of anticipation.

“What goes around comes around, Pip!” Merry whispered.

*****
Morning came early, as was the norm. The travellers rose at dawn. Before long the fire was going and breakfast would be ready. Merry got up from his blankets with sleep-filled eyes and stumbled about for a few minutes, seeing to his usual early morning needs. Coming back from the tree-lined edge of their camp he yawned widely and looked around. Something wasn’t quite right. His eyes were drawn to the bedrolls inside the cavern and the realization hit him that Pippin was missing.Was he there when I got up? Merry’s head was still foggy with sleep, and he shook it to clear away the cobwebs. Frodo started over to Merry and out of habit began looking around for Pippin. Before he could speak they both looked around in surprise as the hobbit in question streaked past them and headed straight for the campfire.

“What the--” Merry’s eyes followed and he looked at Frodo, askance.

“Hoi! What’s wrong Pip?” Frodo and Merry trotted over to the shivering, unhappy hobbit and noted quickly that he was soaking wet.

“Oh, you didn’t!” Merry shook his head in disgust.

“Here, we’ve got to help him get dry!” Sam, always the sensible one, had appeared with another blanket. “You have to get those wet clothes off now, Mr Pippin, or you’ll get sick.”

Pippin complied, all the while glancing sheepishly at them before Sam wrapped him in the warm blanket and pushed him closer to the fire. He then set about tending to the wet clothing. Curious about the commotion, Aragorn wandered their way.

“Uh, oh…” Pippin kept his eyes down until he heard his name spoken sternly and looked up at the Ranger.

“What happened?” Aragorn folded his arms over his chest and regarded the errant hobbit. A smile threatened to overcome his strict countenance but he managed to keep it at bay.

“I’ll tell you what happened!” Merry was obviously peeved. “We told him to stay out of that stream and he sneaked off anyway to look at some shiny thing he saw in the water last night!”

“I fell in. The rocks are slippery.”

“Indeed. It appears that you did, young hobbit.”

Pippin looked up to find the wizard watching him now. “I’m sorry Gandalf! I just had to look.”

“Someday, Peregrin Took, that habit is going to get you into great trouble.”

Pippin grinned sheepishly. He raised his hand and opened it. There in the center of his palm lay a shiny silver coin. Gandalf quirked an eyebrow curiously and plucked the coin from Pippin’s hand.

“Hmm. This appears to be very old.”

The others gathered around to see what the wizard held.

Gandalf smiled at Pippin and held the coin up, squinting his eyes as he gave it a closer inspection. “Well! This is indeed a rare find, young hobbit. Perhaps it was worth the dunking you got, after all!”

Pippin’s grin widened until he saw Merry’s frown. “Well, perhaps not. That water is icy cold…”

Merry’s frown slowly became a smile and he patted his young cousin’s shoulder. “Just don’t do anything that foolish again, Pip. You could’ve been hurt.”

Pippin nodded in agreement and fixed his attention on the wizard again.

“Unfortunately, I am unable to make out the inscription. It must have been in the stream for a very long time as the water has worn the surface nearly smooth. Most likely it originates from old Eregion, which of course is the ancient name by which Hollin was known.” He dropped the coin back into Pippin’s hand. “Yes indeed, my lad. I would hold onto that. It is quite the unusual find!”

Pippin regarded Merry and Frodo with a smug expression, as if to say ‘I told you so!’

Merry simply shook his head in wonder and rolled his eyes at Frodo, who grinned back at him.

Aragorn turned to them. “Well, we must get Pippin and his clothing dry. Come, help me build up the fire and it will go more quickly. We want to make sure everything is in order before tonight when it is time to set out on our journey once again.”

Everyone moved to help and Sam continued with the breakfast preparations. It wasn’t long before they were all seated around the fire enjoying Sam’s culinary talent.

Merry and Frodo exchanged a look and then Merry cleared his throat dramatically before he spoke.

“Ahem! Well, here we are again! And since we have some extra time while Pippin dries out, I think now would be the perfect time to share another story.”

Pippin looked at Merry in alarm. “No! Merry!” He turned to Frodo and pleaded, “Frodo, make him stop!”

Frodo grinned at his young cousin. “Make him stop? Why, Pip, I’m going to help him tell it!”

Pippin moaned and curled himself into a ball underneath the blanket, pulling it over his head and muttering to himself about the unfairness of older cousins.

“What’s that?” Merry leaned closer. “I didn’t quite catch that comment, Pip.”

A loud snort was his only reply.

The rest of the group watched the scene with interest. Boromir, always ready to hear a good tale, raised his gaze to Merry and Frodo. Aragorn simply arched a brow and settled back against a rock next to the elf to enjoy the story.

Merry began. “Well, first of all you’ve got to understand how Pippin feels about being made to look foolish, even if he does it to himself. When he was a wee hobbit lad he was even better at it than he is now, if that’s even possible.”

Another moan from beneath the blanket.

Merry grinned.

Frodo began, “When Pip was little he often became the responsibility of Merry and myself during visits to Bag End.”

“You mean you spent a great deal of time playing nursemaid.” Boromir snickered.

“I take extreme exception to that term!” The petulant voice was muffled by the blanket.

“Aye Boromir! That’s it exactly.” Merry laughed and continued. “During this particular visit Pippin was left alone with Frodo and me for the entire day. Bilbo was off to Hobbiton for some reason or other and well, the two of us had grown weary of keeping up with the little imp’s antics—Oww!” Merry received a sharp kick in the shin from the huddled form under the blanket. He reached down to rub his leg and scowled in Pippin’s direction when he heard the muted giggle. Frodo took up the story.

“If you think keeping up with Pippin’s exploits is difficult now, you wouldn’t believe what it was like when he was such a small lad.”

“How old was he?” Boromir wanted to know.

Frodo had just learned at Rivendell about the differences in physical aging that there were between men and hobbits and had found it quite interesting. He did a quick calculation in his head, then said, “In hobbit years he was eight. The human equivalent would be about five, I believe.”

“Ah, a mere sprout then!” Gimli chuckled.

A grunt of disdain emanated from the blanket.

Merry began again. “Pippin was supposed to be having his nap. He had to take one every day. As you may imagine, he didn’t like having one but his mum insisted. We thought he was asleep and that it was safe to go outside, not far mind you, but out by ourselves. Our friend Folco showed up and wanted us to go about with him. Of course, we had to explain that we couldn’t, and the reason why.”

“Pippin awoke while we were talking and overheard us.” Frodo glanced at the blanketed form that was his cousin. “He apparently wasn’t happy with what we said about feeling weary of chasing after him. Unknown to us of course, he decided to take off and show us a thing or two about what a grownup lad he really was, and that he didn’t need tending to by anyone. So, after a time we went inside to prepare lunch. I set Folco and Merry to setting the table while I went to check on Pippin. Imagine my dismay to find him missing!”

Merry laughed, “You should have seen Frodo! He came out of the bedroom in such a state, shouting for us to come help him find Pip! His distress was almost funny! He wore such an expression of horror.”

“Good.” The muffled voice sounded satisfied.

“I didn’t think it was funny, Merry. Pippin had frightened me out of my wits. As the eldest I was supposed to be the most responsible. Aunt Eglantine would have had my head if something had happened to him.”

“I suppose so.” Merry looked around at the attentive listeners. “We searched high and low for him and Folco helped us. We even enlisted Sam and the Gaffer. As the day wore on we became increasingly dismayed. Bilbo returned and found out what had happened and we knew we were in for a real scolding later, but we still had to locate Pippin.”

“You were very good at causing havoc and mayhem even then, weren’t you little one?” Boromir patted the blanket affectionately.

“Hmphh!”

Boromir chuckled. He could see the scowl in his mind’s eye.

“And where did you find him Frodo?” Gandalf’s eyes were twinkling. He had heard this tale before.

“Well, we continued our search for another hour or so after Bilbo arrived. Finally we decided to head further out because we had looked everywhere closer to home. As we wandered into a wooded area across the meadow we began hearing a high pitched keening wail.” Frodo shrugged and glanced about with a grin. “Of course, we knew that wail very well--”

“I do not wail!” Pippin flipped the blanket off his head and glared at his cousins.

Frodo sniffed. “You most certainly do. Particularly when you are in some kind of trouble.”

“We approached one of the great trees and looked up. Sure enough, there was Pippin, trapped in the highest branches of the tree.”

“But, Pip is so good at climbing trees!” Boromir rubbed his hand over his face. “I suppose getting down was harder at that age though.”

“Aye! Especially when you’re hung up by your braces!” Merry collapsed in laughter that was joined in by all except Pippin.

“There he was, the little rascal, all hung up in the tree and his braces the only barrier to him getting down on his own! Actually, he was swaying around a bit, his feet not even firmly on the branch below him. It’s a very good thing his braces held tight or he could have fallen.” Frodo’s expression sobered. “It really was quite a fright for all of us. And it took a coordinated effort to get him down but we finally managed.”

“You looked so ridiculous Pip! Trying to teach us a lesson when you’re the one who ended up learning one. Besides, it was a very dangerous thing to do and you disobeyed us.”

“Hmph, I seem to recall that I was not the only one who learned a lesson, Merry!”

“Quite true. But you were the one everyone wanted to have a turn at paddling!”

“Bilbo was beside himself, just as I was. He couldn’t imagine having to explain to Pippin’s parents that their youngest had not been watched over closely enough and had fallen out of a tree.” Frodo chuckled and squeezed Pippin’s shoulder. “It took all of his self-control to keep from spanking your deserving little behind, but in the end he decided to leave that to your folks and instead sent you to bed without supper.” Frodo laid his arm about Pippin’s shoulders and his cousin grinned up at him.

“Being sent to bed without supper is even worse! I remember crying myself to sleep that night.”

“You did. And the rest of us had to suffer for your punishment by listening to you wail.” Frodo laughed again. We couldn’t even enjoy our own meal, we felt so sorry for you.”

“Good then. Served you right!”

“Oh, but we made the sacrifice Pip, for the sake of you learning a valuable lesson.”

“How very thoughtful of you, Merry.”

“Are you dry yet Pip?” Frodo rose and checked the clothing laid out on the rocks near the fire “Yes, it would seem these are quite ready for you to redress yourself. Go on then before you catch your death in this dampness and cold.”

Pippin stood reluctantly and gathered his things, pulling on his shirt and britches as the others set about tending to their tasks. There was much to do before they bedded down again for some rest before the nightfall and the start of another long trek in the darkness.

“I believe I will go check on Bill once more.” Aragorn rose from his seat on the large rock just inside the cave’s entrance. “He was looking much better this morning and I think he will be ready to travel by tonight.”

Pippin appeared thoughtful as he finished dressing.

“You know, this reminds me of another interesting story involving the three of you,” he pointed at his cousins and Sam, “in which I was the one responsible for the outcome being a happy one. Of course, it did include the necessity of telling on you, but at least you came out of it safely, though a bit humiliated…”

Three groans erupted simultaneously.

“Pippin! Don’t you dare!” Frodo admonished him.

Pippin’s huge grin and twinkling eyes “Let’s see now. A boat, a lass, some missing clothing--” Pippin turned and ran, laughing loudly as three embarrassed hobbits took off in hot pursuit. Pippin shouted over his shoulder as he ran, “You couldn’t figure out who stole your clothes when you were swimming! That lass sure got an eyeful, didn’t she?”

Pippin sprinted faster, barely managing to reach a tree and start climbing it as the others pursued him.

“Wait until I get my hands on you! You’ve told enough stories involving me, Pip!” Merry was scrambling up the tree after his cousin, closely followed by Frodo and Sam as Pippin climbed higher.

Gandalf and Boromir watched the commotion with interest.

“I believe that is one story I really must hear, Gandalf.” Boromir grinned at the wizard.

“Indeed.”

There’s Always Hope by Pippinfan

2006-02-03T08:42:36Z

7 Blotmath, 1419. Pimpernel Took considers how her life has been affected by the occupation of the Shire and subsequent battles.

Write a story including Pimpernel Took during The Scouring.

Disclaimer: I don’t own hobbits or Middle-earth; they belong to Professor Tolkien. I like to imagine that they belong to me. :-)

Summary: 7 Blotmath, 1419. Pimpernel Took considers how her life has been affected by the occupation of the Shire and subsequent battles.

There’s Always Hope
By Pippinfan
Beta by Marigold

Pimpernel slowly paced about the room, wandering from bed to bed with her basin of herbal water while the morning waxed in late autumn of the Tooklands. As the sun rose higher into the sky, her cool light emitted a pale yellow glow inside one of the bedchambers formerly used for guests inside Great Smials. Pimpernel drifted from hobbit to hobbit offering solace to those in pain or suffering from septic injuries…or to the dying. She was not a healer by trade…no, she was a farmer’s daughter, raised to manage a farm and its labourers. However, during these dark days the Smials’ healer was in dire need of assistants, having only two apprentices to help care for all the wounded and administer healing medicine to the patients. And not only to them. Due to the proximity of refugees and residents in the Smials, common illnesses had become detrimental to the health and welfare of everyone over the past six months while living and breathing the same air within. Many children were still feeling the ramifications of being exposed to illnesses they would not have otherwise encountered. Hence, Pimpernel and a dozen other ladies volunteered to alleviate the strain on the healers.

Dipping yet another clean flannel into the bowl of healing water, Pim wrung the cloth out and then wearily swept away wispy bits of hair from her face with her forearm before applying it to young Finley Northwood of Tuckborough. Finley--or, Fin, as most knew him--had been fighting infection from a knife wound to his arm obtained four days ago from the first skirmish in front of Great Smials with the Ruffians. Pim sighed; that small battle happened after--now a slight grin twitched at the corners of her mouth--after Pippin, her beloved brother, came back from the dead. Her brother, cousins, and dear friend were all thought to be dead for the past year, having perished in the Old Forest.

In spite of that belief, very early in the morning on 3 Blotmath, Pippin nearly stormed through the Great Door with a half a dozen lads behind him calling for aid in Bywater. This was the account Pimpernel received from one of her cousins, as Pim herself had not been present for the initial reunion between father and son. Nevertheless, she could tell by the tears and smiles all around that it indeed was a strange, albeit sweet one. Having been roused by that same cousin, Pim stood in the main tunnel in her dressing gown beside her mother listening to the exchange between Pippin and their father. Amid their speaking, Pim noticed her brother gave her a wink; a gesture that he’d greet her and their mother more properly when more pressing matters were settled. Clad in outlandish livery, Pim observed that her now taller brother wore a scabbard on his belt, which held a sword inside. That was the first time in her life Pimpernel had seen a weapon of war worn by a hobbit, and it initially stunned her. She stared for a long while at the object capable of taking a life until Pippin stirred, following their father down the passageway to the Thain’s study. Maybe it was the way her brother moved or perhaps it was his bearing, walking with self-assurance as he trailed their father that demanded Pimpernel’s attention. Either way, she had a gut feeling that Pippin did not wear his sword for show. She noticed that Pippin was mindful of keeping his sheath away from expensive vases or letting it knock into things. Pim stood there gazing as her brother walked away; indeed, he had grown in more ways than one.

That meeting had taken place days ago now. Pim would have thought Pippin’s reunion nothing more than a fanciful dream if she had not heard the tidings of victory of the Battle of Bywater. Pimpernel felt great pride for her little brother.

Pimpernel got up to refill the basin with water, then mixed in the healing herbs Donnabelle had left for the patients. Pim gave a great yawn as she passed in front of the wall mirror set above the chest of drawers. She stopped to reflect upon the dark circles under her hazel eyes, in addition to the fragments of unruly light-brown curls that hadn’t seen a comb or brush since yesterday morn. She hadn’t slept since then, either.

The lass who was to relieve Pimpernel yesterday evening was expecting her first child and the smell of blood nearly made her swoon. Pimpernel sent the lass to bed and then offered to take her shift, lest the mother-to-be become a patient herself. The other volunteers were stretched to their limit; half were resting before taking their next turn while the remaining worked the current shift Pimpernel had taken. Lina, the younger apprentice, was new and still in her study phase, however, during these times, Donna would assign her easy tasks to accomplish on her own, such as bandaging a superficial wound or checking on the progress of a sick child. Hilda, having apprenticed with Donnabelle for close to six years, was able to work without constant supervision. Thus, Hilda slept during the day and then assumed the duties at night while her mistress slept the few hours allotted to her.

Pim’s eyes felt swollen and numb underneath her heavy eyelids from her lack of sleep. The baby will be hungry soon, she said to herself in response to the fullness of her bosom. Knowing she would soon have to nurse her infant son helped to keep the young mother alert, though before long her thoughts meandered from her wee babe…to her late husband.

Having returned to Fin’s bedside, Pim laid another cool cloth upon his glistening brow, letting her mind wander back to that ill-fated month of Thrimidge…when mayhem broke loose.

Hilfred, her husband of seven years, had been standing watch along with three other lads from Great Smials at an outcrop of rocks near to the lane that led in from Tuckborough. There were many bands of hobbit-lads, armed with many arrows and whatever other weapons they could fashion, posted along the perimeter of the meadows within view of Great Smials. Families were still coming in from villages all around seeking refuge within the fortress.

One young family seeking refuge at Great Smials had managed to slip past a small gang of Ruffians who stood whispering amongst themselves behind a cluster of shrubs, as if lying in wait to waylay hobbits travelling over the lane. The tall grasses and deep ditches that ran parallel to the road abetted the couple and their three small children as they crept past the Ruffians. Once out of the cover of undergrowth, the young family bolted up the road toward the Smials. One particularly tall Ruffian holding a cudgel spied them out of the corner of his eye, and then ran after them. It was slow-going for the family, as the elder child lagged, yet each parent already held a younger child in their arms, so all they could do was wait until the lad caught up before running further. Two hobbit-archers from behind the rocks shot the other three Ruffians in pursuit of the family while the tall one gained on them.

With no other thought than to run out and scoop up the small lad to aid the family, her brave Hilfred left his post--and his scythe. By the time he reached the family, the tall Ruffian was already outstretching his arms to take the child himself. With no other weapon besides that of his own body, Hilfred ran headlong and rammed into the Ruffian, knocking the wind out of the big man…and leaving Hilfred dazed upon the ground. In the end, the tall Ruffian ran off empty-handed with an arrow stuck through an arm, and leaving his friends lying dead upon the grass. Hilfred also lay upon the ground, unmoving. He never woke up; he died the following day from internal injuries that the healer couldn’t mend.

Pimpernel remembered going into hysterics the moment she laid eyes on her beloved Hilfred. It took four hobbit lads to hold her down…and she was also expecting their third child, with two months left before delivery. Little Hilfred was almost born that night if it wasn’t for Donnabelle forcing a very foul-tasting substance down her throat. Sleeping draughts kept her abed for the next two weeks.

Pimpernel startled, being jolted back into the present when the patient asked a question.

“Ye all right, Miss?” Fin repeated his question in a weak voice.

Pim wiped away tears of grief and exhaustion filling her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she apologised, “I let my mind to wander too far.” She gave the lad a gallant smile, then dipped the cloth into the water again, repeating her task.

“At least I’m not in the next room over,” he said, returning her smile, taking her tears for those of sympathy. He winced when a wave of pain passed through him.

The ‘next room over’ Fin referred to was the makeshift mortuary that at one time had held those hobbits who perished in the recent skirmish until their bodies had been properly prepared for burial. Those four hobbits were now buried in the south garden nearest to the green meadows. Two more hobbits arrived this morning from another scuffle at Pincup. It was apparent that some Ruffians were not as easily intimidated as others, yet Pim knew her father and brother were determined, and Merry no less so. They would prevail. Nevertheless, just one hour ago, a couple of messenger-lads from the Thain’s army carried another certain young lad into that other room, and it made Pim shiver from head to toe.

She knew that young hobbit. She’d known him for most of her life.

“Don’t you worry about the other room, Fin,” answered Pimpernel, concern in her voice. “We plan to keep you in here until you’re completely hale again.”

Fin eyed the gangrenous wound on his forearm then looked to the pretty lass. He spoke with doubt, “Well, I’m not there yet, anyway--fate might have other plans.”

“Not today,” Pim answered softly, “You’ll be back with your family before you know it. There’s always hope.” However, as her words fell off her tongue, Pimpernel wished desperately that there would be some hope for her…and for the young lad in the ‘next room over’.

Looking at the clock upon the wall, Pim knew that Donnabelle would return soon from seeing to her other patients throughout the Smials and want her to help with the newest arrival in the mortuary. Pimpernel didn’t know if she was up to that task, although she felt that this was the least she could do for the courageous young hobbit. There has been so much upheaval in her own life of late. So much battle; far too many hobbits dying at the hands of vicious Men. Evenone hobbit wasone too many.

Well, Pim thought, at least Pippin came back.. She was well aware that her brother’s return was a marvel--an exception, rather than the rule. The other lads that had passed through the room next door, they would never come back. The young hobbit who currently lay in the room of the deceased would never wake up. Pimpernel felt overwhelming sorrow for that poor unfortunate lad, whom she had come to love as a dear friend.

Pim worked through the grief in her heart, busying herself with tending to the rest of wounded in the </>room of the living</i>, until finally, she heard a whisper from the doorway.

“Are you ready?” asked Donnabelle in a soft voice. Pimpernel was only to assist with simple tasks--Donnabelle would clean the wounds and suture them, together making the lad presentable for those who knew and loved him to bid him farewell before burial.

Pimpernel did not reply to her older cousin, but resignedly laid aside her water basin, leaving it for later.

“Pimmie…,” Donnabelle whispered as Pim walked up, using her affectionate childhood name, “If you don’t think you can do this, I can find another. I know this must be difficult for you. My apprentice will be free to help in another hour or so.”

“No…no,” Pim replied with sorrow, “This is something I want to do.”

Upon entering the other room, Pimpernel immediately began wiping away the hot tears that sprang to her eyes, seeing again the still form of the young lad lying upon the pallet. While Donnabelle laid out her supplies, Pim stood at the lad’s bedside, gaping at his bruised and swollen face…the blood splattered upon his neck. Pim wondered if the blood was his…or if it belonged to another. Pim did not look forward to the hour when they had to give the news to his sister, who lived in Michel Delving. She stood there remembering better times with this familiar hobbit; long walks in the garden, or his incessant questions about how to help his plants grow bigger. He and Pim respected one another as gardener and farmer. That is where he ought to be right now, Pim said to herself, tenderly caressing his cheek with the back of her hand, in the garden tending his flowers and shrubs. She ran her fingers through his deep, brown curls where it wasn’t matted in blood. “Oh, Degger,” she wept.

Pim gasped, then quickly withdrew her hand as if the corpse had bit her. She cautiously placed her hand upon his brow…his forehead felt ever so slightly…warm. Pim gaped in wonder at his ashen face then looked at Donnabelle, who had her back turned toward them. Pim leaned in toward the lad’s ear, “Degger!” she whispered as loud as she dared, hoping to wake him.

Donnabelle heard her cousin and turned round, giving the younger lass an odd look. “Pim, love, what are you doing? He isn’t going to answer you,” she said, speaking gently to Pim. Donna had also had the pleasure of knowing Degger, watching him grow up into a fine young gentlehobbit.

Pim shook her head in disbelief, wiping away the tears that mere seconds ago filled her eyes. “No…he…he’s warm.”

“Warm?” Donna asked, confused as to what Pim was trying to tell her. “How so..?” The healer placed her hand upon Degger’s forehead, and then his neck. She gave Pim a startled look. The healer’s next move was to listen for a heartbeat. Placing her ear against the lad’s chest, Donna’s eyes went wide in shock. “How did this happen?” she asked with astonishment. “Did you not go through the steps that I instructed?”

“I…I did…but…,” Pim answered haltingly, anxious wonder in her voice, “I didn’t hear anything.”

Donnabelle didn’t know if she should be elated or upset--what if Degger had ultimately died from lack of care? She set those feelings aside to deal with them later. “Perhaps being so distraught prevented you from hearing it,” she reasoned aloud.

Donna immediately gave instruction for her newest patient. “We must get him warm quickly! Here,” she promptly went to the wardrobe and found an old blanket inside, “wrap this round him as best you can while I go get help to move him into the other room where I can properly examine him.” In saying this, Donna was referring to ‘the room of the living’--where a fire blazed in the hearth and the healer’s medicine and equipment were kept. Pim paid special attention to her cousin’s orders as she took the offered blanket. “Once we get him in there,” Donnabelle continued, “he’ll need to be kept warm. Heated bricks from the grate should do the trick to help him get his body heat back.”

After the healer rushed out of the room, Pimpernel kept watch over Degger. At length his eyelashes fluttered, and then his eyes opened to mere slits. Pim guessed all the clamour must have awakened him. Pim caught the lad’s dulled gaze; she could tell he recognised her. Degger slowly blinked a couple times, but he kept his eyes upon her.

Pim gave the plucky lad a most sincere smile. “You’re home, Degger--and you’re safe. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Degger said nothing, gradually letting his eyelids close before allowing merciful slumber to take him away. Pim could now detect a very slight movement in Degger’s chest when he breathed and so wasn’t worried when his eyes closed again.

A couple of minutes later, Molena, nursemaid to Pimpernel’s young children stood in the entryway. In her arms Molena held Pimpernel’s youngest son Hilfred, not quite four months old, and named for his father. He seemed quite agitated that his mummy was late with feeding him. The moist feeling underneath Pim’s smock let her know that Little Hilfred was well overdue for his meal.

Pimpernel finished tucking the blanket round Degger, being careful of his wounds, and then went to her baby son, taking him, cradling him in her own arms. “Hullo, little fellow!” she cooed with a smile and a kiss to his chubby jowl. Pim carried her infant son toward the sleeping form upon the pallet. “Come and see your Uncle Degger. He’s back with us again--just like your Uncle Pippin and Uncle Merry--and not to forget Cousin Frodo.”

The young mother sat down in a chair nearby, and using part of the baby’s blanket for modesty, she fed her infant son. Pim sat there considering her brother, cousins, and dear friends; all who at one time or another were believed to be dead…but now lived. Pim would always grieve over the loss of her beloved husband, however, in the wake of his passing, a new life was born for him, and she presently held that wee life in her arms. Pim sighed happily, “You see, Hilfred? There is always hope--and of late, there has been quite a bit for your old mum.”

TBC (in a future tale)

A Very Special Birthday by Gryffinjack

2006-02-03T08:40:16Z

Pimpernel is worried that the new baby will be born on her birthday and ruin her party...

AUTHOR: Gryffinjack
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
Marigold’s Challenge #25 requirements: The story must include Pearl and must be written around the time of Pippin’s birth.

DISCLAIMER: The characters all belong to the amazing world of Middle-earth created by the genius of J.R.R. Tolkien. I just borrowed them for a little while.

Synopsis: Pimpernel is worried that the new baby will be born on her birthday and ruin her party.

Thanks once again to Dreamflower for another splendid beta-read.

A/N: Bilbo is 99, Paladin is 56, Eglantine is 51, Frodo is 21, Pearl is 15, Pimpernel is turning 11, and Pervinca is 4 (Ages 62, 36, 33, 13 ½, 9, 7, and 2 ½ in Man-years).

A Very Special Birthday

Bilbo and Frodo Baggins had joined the Tooks at the Whitwell farm on Mersday, the day before Pimpernel’s birthday, so Bilbo could get the apple seedlings that Paladin had set aside for him to plant at Bag End. It was well known in the Shire that the tastiest apples were grown on Paladin Took’s farm in Whitwell. As agreed, Bilbo had traded one of the sought-after purebred kittens from Bag End’s latest litter for the seedlings. The kitten was to be a birthday gift to Pimpernel from Paladin and Eglantine.

Bilbo and Frodo had not only brought the kitten for Pimpernel’s present from her parents, but they had brought a present of their own for her as well, for they were not twelve-mile cousins.* Pimpernel had been very pleased with the new large wooden hoop and long smooth hoop-rolling stick they had given her. Pearl was quite pleased to show her little sister not only how to roll the hoop, but also how to make it roll faster and control its direction with the stick. Pimpernel was thoroughly delighted.

Paladin’s sister, Esmeralda, and her husband, Saradoc had sent their gift for Pimpernel by post. It really was too far to travel from Buckland all the way to Whitwell now for Pimpernel’s party when they would have to make the journey again in a month when Paladin and Eglantine’s new baby was born.

As things turned out, it was fortunate that Paladin and Eglantine had already given the little lass the smoky dark grey kitten right after dinner yesterday. Pimpernel had taken one look at the tiny kitten with its big, blue eyes and instantly fallen in love.

“Her name is ‘Buttons,” she immediately proclaimed as she nuzzled the soft grey ball of fur to her cheek. Pimpernel spent the remainder of the evening petting Buttons and barely remembered to give Pearl, Frodo, and Pervinca-lass a chance to pet the kitten. It seemed as though it was going to be a wonderful birthday.

But everything changed in the morning shortly after Pimpernel had given the family their presents and Mother had begun helping their maidservant, Aster Goodchild, to prepare the feast for the party that afternoon. That is when Eglantine’s pains came unexpectedly. The baby wasn’t supposed to come for another month yet, but here it was, only the thirtieth of Rethe, and now the pains had come early. Paladin immediately became worried and asked Bilbo to fetch the Healer while he and Aster went to Mother’s aid.

“And have Hildibold tell the others that the party is cancelled for today. You’ll find him in the far pasture. The party will have to be another day.”

“Don’t spare it another thought, Paladin!” exclaimed Bilbo in an encouraging voice before leaving to find Hildibold.

Father left Frodo and Pearl in charge of Pimpernel and Pervinca while he went to tend to Mother as best he could until Bilbo came back with the Healer. Pimpernel’s bottom lip quivered and her pale green eyes glistened with unshed tears. Frodo and Pearl exchanged panicked looks.

Frodo had done his best to take the lass’ mind off her birthday by asking Pearl and Pimpernel whether they wanted a brother or a sister.

“I don’t really care,” Pimpernel declared in an aloof voice. “I just want my kitten.” And she snatched Buttons up from where the poor kitten had been crouched, contentedly lapping up a bowl of cream.

“Well, I care,” snapped Pearl as she handed little Pervinca her letter book. She turned to look at Frodo and replied decisively, “While I prefer a brother, right now, I just want it to fare well, whether it be a brother or sister.”

“That is what we all wish, Pearl, of course. But don’t worry, Echinacea Boffin is an excellent Healer.” Frodo was always such a comfort when he was around. It must be a Baggins trait, for Bilbo was the same way. But then Frodo’s expression turned from one of comfort to one of curiosity. “Why a brother?”

“Why, I already have two sisters!” she exclaimed. “That one,” Pearl said, pulling a face as she indicated Pimpernel, “is already pestering me to borrow my best hair ribbons and even my foothair comb since she’s lost hers again. And it will only get worse once Pervinca is old enough and wants to borrow my belongings, too.” Pearl glanced at the faunt who was still looking at her letter book. When Pervinca heard her name and looked up at her older sister, Pearl rewarded her by sticking her tongue out at her little sister. Pervinca ran over to Pearl and hugged her, giggling with delight.

”Besides, mayhap it will be fun to see the mischief a Took lad could get into with a lad’s sense of curiosity.” Pearl’s face serious as she turned again toward Frodo and addressed him pointedly. “But most of all, because there are already far too many lasses in this Took family…and no lads.”

“Ah, I see your point,” said Frodo, dawning comprehension clearly in evident in his blue eyes. “Of course. When Lalia dies, Thain Ferumbras III will not only be the Thain, but he will also become the head of the Tooks. Since Cousin Ferumbras seems unlikely to marry as long as old Lalia’s alive, both titles pass to your father one day since he is next in the line of succession according to the rules of the Tooks.”

“Yes,” Pearl frowned. “And since the Thainship follows a male line of succession, that means that unless Mother and Father have a son, the Thainship would pass to Cousin Isemgar, and he would be the head of the entire Took clan once Mother and Father are gone.” Talking about what would happen when her parents were gone reminded Pearl briefly that her mother, who was having her pains early, might be in danger right now.

“So you see, we were really hoping for a lad, though you will be hard pressed to get Mother or Father to admit it,” she concluded.

Of all of the Tooks, Isemgar was well regarded to be the most foolish of them even by Took standards, and not in a good way. And while the position of Thain in the Shire was not nearly as important as it once had been, it was still a position that Pearl and the rest of the Tooks had great pride in and wanted to see remain in responsible hands.

“When you put it like that, so do I,” agreed Frodo, wincing at the thought of that particular hobbit ever becoming Thain.

Like most young gentlehobbits, Frodo and Pearl knew every detail of their family trees and were old enough now to understand the implications and the added importance of this child. Pearl could still remember the slight look of disappointment etched on her father’s face for an instant when Mistress Echinacea announced that Pervinca was a lass. It faded almost immediately into a proud grin once he held his new daughter, but Pearl had seen that look and understood. Now the new baby was coming weeks earlier than it should.

Pearl glanced at the closed door leading to the family’s bedchambers and frowned once more. “It’s a whole month early,” she continued. “Oh, Frodo! It’s far too early for the baby to come! Whether it be a lad or a lass, we just need it to live and be healthy. We’ll give it all the love any babe could ever wish for.”

Frodo nodded and put an arm around his cousin. “I know that you will, Pearl. One thing is certain; this babe is definitely a Took, as impatient as it is to come into the world,” he said with an encouraging grin.

From over in the corner where she was petting Buttons, Pimpernel scowled at Frodo and Pearl and began to cry. “This is the worst birthday that ever was! It’s not fair!”

“There, now, dear. It’s not as bad as all that!” Pearl tried to soothe her. Seeing that little Pervinca was becoming upset at Pimpernel’s outburst, Pearl handed her the small wooden toy that Cousin Bilbo had given to her on his last birthday. It was a very clever toy, a brightly painted wooden hobbit between two wooden posts that jumped up and down and over a string held in his hands when the bottoms of the posts were squeezed together. The toy had the desired effect – Pervinca immediately forgot all about her sister’s woes as all of her attentions were on the wooden toy.

Pearl went over and put an arm around Pimpernel, pulling her into a hug. “Your birthday will be grand. We’ll find a way, you’ll see,” she tried to reassure her.

“No, it won’t!” Pimpernel sobbed through her tears. “Mother’s going to be abed all day and Father’s going to be too busy tending to Mother. They won’t have any time to pay any attention to my birthday. There’s not going to be a party! I hate this baby – it’s ruining everything!” she wailed, storming out of the smial and slamming the door behind her as she ran into the newly sown field of oats. Even though Pimpernel had just turned eleven years old this day, she still knew how to throw a fine tantrum.

Pearl gasped in horror. Pimpernel could be thoughtless of others at times, thinking only of herself, but not like this.

“You stay here. I’ll go talk to her,” volunteered Frodo. “I’m sure she does not really mean it.”

Pearl stared forlornly out the window at her sister’s small form as Frodo ran after her. Frodo had always had a talent for calming her sometimes-moody sister. Actually, she recalled, he had calmed her down a few times, too, though he was just a few years older than her.

Less than half an hour later, Frodo led Pimpernel back into the smial, Pimpernel looking a bit shamed.

“I’m sorry, Pearl,” she said sheepishly through a tear-stained face, finding her furry feet to suddenly be of interest. “I do care about the baby and want it to be well … although I’d still rather have my kitten,” she added stubbornly.

Pearl’s heart immediately went out to her poor little sister. It couldn’t be easy for such a young lass to have her birthday party cancelled at the last minute. And she was too young to really understand about the danger the unborn baby was in.

“It is all right, dearest!” She reached for Pimpernel and hugged her tenderly. “We’re all worried. And Mother and Father are certain to have your party just as soon as possible. You heard Father.” Pimpernel smiled through her tears and hugged Pearl tightly in return.

Frodo and Pearl exchanged smiles as Pearl mouthed a silent “thank you” to Frodo. Just then, Pearl heard the sounds of people coming up the path. The door opened and Echinacea Boffin strode into the room with her medical satchel, followed by Bilbo.

“Miss Pearl, boil some water and make sure there are plenty of cloths available for when I need them. I’ll send Aster out to help you. Master Frodo, please keep the other two lasses quiet – perhaps you can take them outside for some fresh air,” ordered Mistress Echinacea. “Mr. Baggins, I trust you can see to starting afternoon tea?”

Bilbo’s eyes grew wide in surprise at such a question.

“Yes, of course I can. I’ll start on it just as soon as I make certain that word has been sent to the rest of the Tooks and the other friends and kin that Pimpernel’s party has been cancelled due to this unexpected development.”

After Pearl had finished helping Aster with the boiling water and cloths Mistress Echinacea needed, she went outside to help Frodo with Pimpernel and Pervinca. She soon caught them up and they all went over to where the sheep were pastured. Although spring was just beginning, the weather was quite fair and the afternoon sun shone above. They sat on one of the wooden fences gazing at the big, woolly sheep and idled away the time by picking out which of the sheep were the prettiest, the nicest, the largest, and the smallest.

By the time Bilbo called them in for afternoon tea, they were very hungry indeed, since nobody had really eaten much at lunch. Bilbo was as good a cook as Pearl recalled from her last visit to Bag End. There was sliced ham, two types of cheeses, a lovely mushroom pie, apples, and a delicious cinnamon and ginger bread that Aster had made from the old Took family receipt. Father did not come to the dining room to eat with everyone else, preferring to stay by Mother’s bedside. Instead, Aster brought a tray to him as well as to Mistress Echinacea, though poor Mother was allowed to have naught but the ice chips Aster brought her from the cold cellar.

The wait seemed interminable. Even with Bilbo telling them stories of his long ago journey with the Dwarves, Pearl chewed her bottom lip as she worried about Mother or the new baby. She even caught Pimpernel looking over a few times in the direction of Mother and Father’s bedchamber.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Bilbo cheerily with a twinkle in his eye. “Why don’t I teach you a new walking song? We’ll have to sing quietly though. We mustn’t disturb your mother. Let me see…” He looked around the room in thought with his index finger tapping against his lips. Suddenly, his face brightened as his eyes lit upon Buttons, sitting in Pimpernel’s lap purring in her sleep.

“I know! I don’t think I’ve taught any of you this one yet!” Bilbo proceeded to teach them a very humorous song about a cat that soon had Pimpernel giggling and little Pervinca-lass clapping her tiny hands by the end.

They spent the rest of the evening similarly occupied. Although Pearl would have liked to play her harp, the only music they could have was the singing, which they did very softly so as not to disturb Mother. Pearl had put first Pervinca and then Pimpernel to bed long before Bilbo stopped telling stories or singing songs with Frodo and her.

She had to laugh at Pimpernel’s last comment to her as she tucked her little sister into her bed. “At least it looks like the baby won’t be born on my birthday,” Pimpernel said, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile as she looked at Pearl with large green eyes full of hope. “Not that I’d mind, really,” she hastened to add, “It’s just that, well, I’d prefer to have my own separate birthday. That way, the baby and I would each have our own special days.”

“Well, mayhap you will get your wish, dearest.” Pearl brushed Pimpernel’s light brown locks off her forehead. It was getting late and she was reasonably certain that based upon Mistress Echinacea’s latest news, the babe would not come until the morrow. “After all, this is still your birthday and the byrding should be granted her special wish. Good night.”

After her sisters were asleep, Pearl crept back out to the sitting room where Frodo and Bilbo still waited. She listened intently as Bilbo told stories of when they were born. First, he told of when Frodo was born on a blustery autumn evening in Buckland. She watched Frodo as Bilbo told of his birth; he had that strange, faraway look on his face that he often got when thinking of his parents. But even as he looked to be far off, Frodo smiled gently, his blue eyes moist as he listened.

Then Cousin Bilbo told of Pearl’s own birth here in Whitwell on the tenth of Afterlithe. Pearl could feel herself smiling from ear to ear as Bilbo told how her father had been helping some of the workers dig a new well even though it was raining when Aster had come running over to fetch him. Bilbo described how her father was covered in mud from the top of his curly head to the bottoms of his furry feet. It always amazed Pearl to hear of how her mother had been having her pains for two days before Pearl was born.

Mother was slender for a hobbit and each of their births had taken a long time. It had already been the greater part of a day with this baby. Hopefully, it would not take much longer if the baby was determined to come so early as Frodo had said.

Pearl tried to stay awake so she could be there to welcome her new brother or sister when it arrived, but could not keep her eyes open any longer. She was startled when Cousin Bilbo woke her up. Blinking her bleary eyes a few times, Pearl bid Frodo and him good night and groggily went to her bedchamber.

It was early morning before she knew it. The sun was shining dimly over the bright yellow coverlet on her bed, but she heard noises in the hallway. Could it be? She didn’t know what it meant and took it in turns to first smile hopefully and then bite her bottom lip in fear of the possibilities.

Creeping out of her room as silently as she could so as not to disturb Pimpernel and Pervinca in the next room, Pearl made her way back to the sitting room and blinked a few times as her eyes adjusted to the light coming from the lamps. Her heart stilled as she saw her father standing with his back toward her, talking seriously to Bilbo and Frodo.

“Father! Is all well?” she asked in a voice that sounded too loud to her ears.

Paladin turned around to face her and grinned. “Yes, my child. Everything is indeed well!”

Pearl exhaled a large breath in relief and her heart resumed beating. She rushed over to her father and put her arms around him in a tight hug.

“Oh, Father! I’ve been so worried!”

“Would you like to meet your new baby brother?”

It took a moment for Pearl to realise what he had said. Turning her face up to look at his, she caught the glint of his green eyes and the broad grin that threatened to split his face in twain. Her heart began to race with excitement as she stepped back to get a better look at him.

“A brother?”

Paladin chuckled gently and rested a hand softly on the top of her messy chestnut curls.

“Aye, lass. A brother. It is a fine little lad this time,” he said proudly.

Her eyes widened as she thought of how much earlier than expected he had arrived. “And he’s …” she started.

”He’s as hale as old Bilbo here! He and your mother are both well.” Paladin exclaimed before sobering. “He’s a wee little thing, and Mistress Echinacea said we will have to keep our eye on him. Being so small, she is concerned about his lungs. She plans on staying here for the first few days just to be certain he is doing well. But by the way he was screaming, I’d say his lungs are just fine!”

Pearl laughed aloud along with her father and cousins.

“Mistress Echinacea said he is the most vocal newborn she has seen in all her years of healing!” Paladin laughed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Father… may I really go see him?” Pearl gulped.

“Aye. For a few minutes. But you must be very quiet – your mother is sleeping and needs as much rest as the babe will allow.”

Pearl nodded solemnly. Of course she would be quiet; she was old enough to know not to disturb Mother. She followed Paladin down the hall and into her parents’ bedchamber. It was dimly lit with a lone candle standing on the dresser, but enough light shone so Pearl could see how pale and tired Mother was. She glanced around the room and saw Mistress Echinacea holding a swaddled bundle.

“Father said I might hold him … for a few minutes,” she whispered tentatively, knowing that no matter what her father had said, it was Mistress Echinacea who was in charge.

“Hmmm…” The Healer looked sceptically at her for a moment before nodding her approval. “But just a few minutes and no longer,” she said in her strictest voice. Pearl walked around the bed and over to Mistress Echinacea, who carefully placed the baby in Pearl’s arms and made certain that his tiny head was supported by her arm.

Pearl brushed the cloth out of the way and looked down at her new baby brother for the first time. He was smaller than Pervinca had been, but she supposed that was to be expected. After all, he was born so much earlier than he should have that it was no wonder he was so tiny.

“Have you and Mother named him yet, Father?” she whispered, looking up at him.

“We have. His name is Peregrin. Peregrin Took,” Paladin beamed. “It means ‘traveller in strange countries’. Not an ordinary name for a hobbit, to be certain. Don’t ask me how, but I feel that the pull of the Took blood is very strong in this babe. His path will include adventure beyond anything my eyes have seen.”

Pearl smiled down at the pink newborn in her arms. He was so warm and tiny that she loved him already. “Then it is a very good name for a Took. Hullo, little Peregrin-lad! I’m your sister, Pearl. I expect we will be getting much better acquainted.”

Peregrin opened his eyes briefly as he yawned and stretched out his little limbs.

“Why, his eyes are as blue as Frodo’s!” she exclaimed in surprise.

“More than likely, they will turn, Miss Pearl. Most hobbit lads and lasses are born with blue eyes. It takes several months before they turn their true colour, if they turn at all,” explained Mistress Echinacea. “But in all probability, they will turn Tookish green.”

“Yes, dear,” added her father. “They are the same shade of blue as yours were when you were born, though a bit darker than your sisters’.”

“I believe that is enough for now, Miss Pearl,” said Mistress Echinacea. She came over to Pearl and took little Peregrin back into her own arms. “The little lad needs his rest.”

Reluctantly, Pearl left the room and returned to the sitting room where Bilbo and Frodo waited patiently.

“Well?” asked Frodo. “I have yet to see him. How is my new Took cousin?”

Pearl beamed at them as she thought a moment. “He is beautiful! His hair is almost golden, but it has a ginger cast to it. And his eyes! Frodo, he has your eyes! They are so blue, though Mistress Echinacea says they are likely to turn Tookish green when he gets a bit older. And he has the sweetest bow shaped mouth, too!”

Frodo laughed heartily at her. “So I see you are quite taken with the lad already! I’ll not tell Merry. No doubt he would be jealous of the competition for your affections.”

The tips of Pearl’s ears burned, but she didn’t mind. It was true. Her little brother already had won a special place in her heart. After a moment, she recovered herself sufficiently to make a retort.

“Be careful, cousin. We shall see what happens when you get your first look at him,” she warned impertinently with a wide grin. “He’s a special baby and I daresay he will charm you as well. Perhaps it is you who should be worried about Merry’s reaction once he sees how taken you are with your newest lad cousin.”

“Oh, come now, Pearl! Surely you exaggerate; all babies are endearing. He can’t be as charming as all that, can he?” Frodo looked over to Bilbo for his answer. For Bilbo had been allowed to see the baby for a moment out of respect.

Bilbo took his time clearing his throat before replying. “I’m no expert on babies, but little Peregrin looks more like a Took than any babe I’ve ever seen.”

“I see,” said Frodo, the grin on his face and in his eyes threatening to spill over into more hearty laughter. “Then he will be rather special after all. I guess Merry-lad will have to get used to sharing our affections. Who knows? Perhaps this babe will work his magic on Merry, too, and he will find a special place in his heart for little Peregrin as well.”

*In Tolkien’s Letter #214 of The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Tolkien explains that “In the Shire etiquette, at the date of the Party, ‘expectation of receiving’ was limited to second cousins or nearer kin, and to residence within 12 miles. … Hence the Hobbit expression ‘a twelve-mile cousin’ for a person who stickled for the law, and recognized no obligations beyond its precise interpretation: one who would give you no present if the distance from his doorstep to yours was not under 12 miles (according to his own measurement).”

At The Foot Of The Hill by Pendora

2006-02-03T08:38:19Z

Young Sam has a question for the Gaffer...

At The Foot Of The Hill

Author: Pendora
Disclaimer: I wish I could say I own these Hobbits, but I don’t. Instead, I am left to dream about them all day long.
Rating: G
Author’s Notes: I give you my first attempt at writing Sam and Hamfast. Also my first attempt at a drabble.

“Dad?”

“What is it, Sammie?”

Sam fingered his buttons and fidgeted. “There’s a lad up at Bag End.”

“A lad? Oh aye, that’d be Master Bilbo’s nephew.” Hamfast furrowed his brow. “Or mayhap it was his cousin. Either way, he’s a guest up at Bag End and he’s not to be bothered. You hear?”

Sam nodded solemnly and threw a cautious glance over his shoulder. The wild-looking Baggins lad with the dark curls and mischievous grin was sitting atop the Hill and Sam gazed at him keenly. As he watched him, an answering smile shone in Sam’s soft, brown eyes.

Ponderings by Pearl Took

2006-02-03T08:35:46Z

The Gaffer sits by the fire and thinks about his son's return...

Ponderings

”Come away from the window now, Gaffer,” Rosie said as she took hold of the old hobbit’s shoulders. “They’ll be back soon enough.” She looked out the window
herself at the group of hobbits leaving the yard and marching down the road. Sam looked so wonderful
riding at the head of the group with Mr. Frodo and his cousins. She brought her thoughts back to the Gaffer.

“Least we know where ‘tis they’re heading this time. Lotho won’t be able to trick them. They’ll be settin’
him ta rights.”

Ham shrugged her hands off his shoulders. “I can turn m’self about, lass. I’m no faunt needin’ ta be took hold of and placed where ya wish it.” But he let her hand, now gently placed in the middle of his back, guide him to the rocker by the fire. He sighed as he lowered his aching bones into the chair. No denying that it was more comfortable beside the fire, nor that he was feeling his after-luncheon-nap starting to creep over him.

How strange it all seemed. He had said he was no faunt, needing to be watched over . . . and yet. He
chuckled softly. Wasn’t that the way of it? Isn’t that how life goes?

“First ya be needin’ watched o’re nigh all the time and takin’ lots o’ naps.” his voice said in his
thoughts. “Then ya be the one doing the watchin’ and never nappin’. Then yer back to bein’ the one they be keeping an eye on whilst yer nappin’.”

Then there was this having your hearing start to go amiss. He chuckled again. He knew full well he was
the one with a problem, but it was just so much fun riling up the younger folk by telling them to stop
their mumbling. Ham smiled as he sighed. He often heard more than he chose to show. Again, as though he
were a child, his grown children seemed to think there were things he shouldn’t know. He learned a great
deal letting them think his hearing was worse than it was.

The Gaffer squinted a bit to see as far out the window as he could. It didn’t help that he was now all the
way across the room from the window.

No. His eyes weren’t what they used to be either. But that hadn’t been the reason he’d needed a moment
to recognize Sam last night. How was he supposed to know his son, with Sam all dressed up so oddly and
with only the light from a candle in that shack they’d put him into?

Sam, all dressed like folks in those story books Mr. Bilbo would let the lad borrow.

Sam, in an iron weskit and cloth as fine as that on young Mr. Frodo and his cousins.

He continued to stare out the window, though his eyes were slowly closing. They had just come back from
fighting a battle. A battle in the Shire. Hamfast shivered at that thought. But pride quickly warmed
him. His son was leading hobbits of Bywater to gain back Bag End. To gain back Mr. Frodo’s home. And his home. And the Shire.

A Diabolical Scheme by Aranel and Kalel

2006-02-03T08:29:40Z

Marigold Cotton and Frodo Baggins decide that it’s high time for Sam to be settling down, so they endeavor (rather fruitlessly) to “help” him along in this task...

Authors: Aranel & Kalel
Marigold Cotton and Frodo Baggins decide that it’s high time for Sam to be settling down, so they endeavor (rather fruitlessly) to “help” him along in this task.
Rating: G
Humor
Main characters involved: Marigold, Frodo, Sam

A Diabolical Scheme
Aranel & Kalel

"Off we go then, Sam!" laughed Frodo, pulling his dear friend out the door.

"To the Green Dragon!" said Marigold, urging Sam forward playfully. "You're as slow as a snail!"

"And you're as pushy as a badger, Sis!" parried Sam. "Anyway, what's the rush?"

"We just wa—" Frodo said before he was cut off by a familiar, but unwanted, voice.

"Sam!" they heard. "Oh, Sam! I need to talk to you!" The three turned to see a hobbit-lass with ebony eyes, auburn hair, and freckles racing up the road towards them.

"Oh no, not Dandelion Proudfoot!" mumbled Sam under his breath. "Not again!"

"Sam," came the shrill, but plaintive voice of Dandelion, "it's important!"

"All right, if you insist," said Sam mournfully. "Come inside, Dandelion."

"Oh, thank-you, Sam!" exulted the bothersome girl.

"Frodo, Sis," murmured Sam regretfully, "you go on, and I’ll meet you there."

Sam turned and reentered his house, followed by Dandelion, and then shut the door behind him. But Marigold and Frodo would not be cowed so easily. Determined to overhear what went on inside, Frodo put his ear squarely against a crack in the wooden door. But that was something Marigold wouldn't stand for. She elbowed Frodo out of the way and put her own ear to the door, sitting down at once to listen. Frodo gave her a questioning look, but she ignored it. The older hobbit let her be. He couldn't afford a row, or Sam might hear.

And this is what Marigold made out:

"What's the matter, Dandelion?"

"Oh, nothing. Well, that's not entirely true. Uh…weren't you going to offer me some tea?"

"Well, I would but—"

"Oh, please do!"

"I—uh—I s'pose—"

"Good."

Marigold heard movement; the telling noise of a teakettle put over the fire to boil and porcelain teacups clinking softly as they were carried.

Presently—

"How lovely, Sam!"

"Thank-you—"

You know, you'd make some lucky girl a good husband someday. So—well, I'll get to the point."

"I was hopin' you would."

Marigold could scarcely contain a giggle. She knew where this was going.

"Well?" whispered Frodo expectantly.

"We need to go to Farmer Hal's and 'borrow' something," she replied slyly.

"Farmer Hal's? Whatever for?"

Marigold got to her feet.

"Just come with me and you'll find out." She grabbed Frodo by the hand and pulled him forward.

They went right, passed an old oak tree, and took a shortcut through a farmers’ field. To their surprise, they ran into Billy Bolger, a boy who lived near Dandelion, who appeared to be looking for something.

“Have you seen Sancho Proudfoot?” he asked concernedly. “He took some of my firecrackers!”

“I haven’t,” answered Marigold. “I’ve seen Dandelion though.”

“We’ll help you look for him, if you’d like,” offered Frodo, finally grasping Marigold’s plan. “We’ll help you find him in exchange for two of your firecrackers.”
“Sure, thanks!” said Billy happily.

“Where was the last place you saw him?” asked Marigold.

“Um… Well, I saw him over by the bridge at Ted Sandyman’s,” Billy answered. “He was throwing rocks at the fish! When I went over to show him my new firecrackers, he pushed me down and stole them! By the time I had picked myself up, he was gone.”

“Did you look in the tree house near Bag End?” Marigold asked. “He likes to play there.”

“Maybe that’s where he ran off to!” exclaimed Billy.

“Well, let’s go—before Sam and Dandelion are done talking!” exclaimed Frodo.

~*~

Soon, they arrived at the tree house.

“There!” announced Billy. “There he is!”

“Shhh…” Marigold commanded. But it was too late. Sancho had already seen them.

“Hi, Billy!” he said mockingly. “Those were some great firecrackers. Too bad they’re all gone! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“Yeah right!” yelled Billy. “You’re lying! Give them back!”

“No!”

“Give them here!”

“Not on your life! If you want ‘em, come and get ‘em!”

“I just might!”

“Go ahead and try! You’ll never get me!”

“I just did!” proclaimed Marigold triumphantly, grabbing Sancho securely. She had sneakily climbed up behind him while Billy and Sancho were arguing.

“Hey, no fair!” howled Sancho. “Let go! Let go! Ok, the firecrackers are over there! I only set off one! Now leave me alone!”

~*~

Marigold and Frodo took their two firecrackers and were on their way.
“Now to Farmer Hal’s!” laughed Marigold. They turned right on the path and cautiously went past a clump of trees, hopped the fence, proceeded along the river, and in time came to Hal’s farm. Farmer Hal was tending his chickens. Frodo and Marigold hid behind some trees and a bench.

“You need to distract him long enough for me to get some eggs,” whispered Marigold. “Throw a rock at his weathervane.”

“All right.” Frodo selected a smooth stone and aimed carefully. “Whoosh!” went the rock. “Clunk!” it struck the weathervane, causing it to spin wildly in circles.

“Hey, who’s there? What’s goin’ on?” shouted Farmer Hal, running toward where the noise had come from.

Quickly and efficiently, Marigold stole out of her cover and to the chicken house. She scrambled in and picked up three eggs, then ran back to join Frodo. Smiling brightly in satisfaction, Marigold and Frodo turned and ran back to the path with their firecrackers and eggs.

As soon as they arrived at Sam’s house, they quickly prepared to put their evil plan into effect. Frodo held the two firecrackers and listened at the door, while Marigold climbed atop the roof, directly over Frodo, ready to drop the eggs.

Frodo heard footsteps approaching.

“Get ready, Marigold! Dandelion is coming,” he whispered hastily, getting into position.

The door opened slowly and…

Frodo threw the firecrackers as Marigold dropped the eggs. Pop! Pop! Crack! Crack! Crack!

“AHHHHHHHHH!”

It happened so fast that they didn’t realize that it was Sam—not Dandelion—that had emerged first. As the three cracked eggs cascaded messily through his hair and down his face, he stood motionless—frozen with mingled shock, horror, confusion, and anger.

“Whoops! Sorry, Sam!” apologized Frodo remorsefully.

“Ah—ah—er—AHHHHHHHHH!” yelled Sam.

“Oh, Sam!” cried Dandelion, grasping Sam’s arm. “You—you saved me! If I had gone out first, I would have been hit.” She kissed him on the cheek and then (after a little wave) skipped away.

After Sam was given a chance to cool down (and get cleaned up a bit), he finally questioned, “What was THAT about?”

“We were trying to get rid of Dandelion for good,” replied Marigold. “She’s not good enough for my big brother.”

“Thanks, sis,” said Sam, “but it only made her like me more. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Well, let’s just head for the Green Dragon,” suggested Frodo. “We’ll allow answers to offer themselves over a drink.”

“Good idea,” agreed Sam.

~*~

Later, at the Green Dragon, Sam was staring forlornly at his ale, pondering the impossibilities of life.

Meanwhile, Frodo and Marigold, who had excused themselves for a moment, were discussing important matters.

“We need to get them together,” said Marigold urgently. “Rosie’s perfect. She’s one of my best friends. They just need the ‘perfect meeting’. First impressions are everything.”

“Leave it to me!” Frodo assured her. “You go get Rosie.”

~*~

“Hey, Sam!” called Frodo. “What are you up to?”

“Not much. Just thinkin’.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothin’ important.”

“Oh. Well, there’s something I need to—”

“Hullo, Frodo!” came a familiar voice. Frodo turned and saw two Hobbits nearby looking a little tipsy.

“Uh, hello, Pippin, Merry. What are you two up to?”

“Same as you!” called Merry. “We’re here for the brew!”

“Oh.”

“Oi, Frodo! We were just about to start a drinking contest. Would you and Sam like to join?”

“Oh, yes!” said Sam. “That’ll be just the thing to keep my mind off my troubles.” Frodo gulped in hesitation, but realized he had no choice.

“I’m in,” he said regretfully.

Merry and Pippin laughed merrily and pulled out a brace of extra flagons, the gargantuan size. Frodo and Sam’s eyes widened.

“If you’re gonna drink with the best of the best,” said Pippin, “you’re going to need these.”

“Uh…” said Frodo uncertainly, taking the mug from Merry. “All right.”

Soon, their mugs were filled to overflowing and the contest began.

“Go… go… go… go… go!” cheered the eager crowd of Hobbits that had gathered to witness the joyous event. Merry and Pippin were gulping away… Sam wasn’t far behind… Frodo was on his second sip and not gaining fast…

It was Pippin that won in the end. Unfortunately, however, he wasn’t conscious to observe his victory. Merry and Sam weren’t doing so well either. While Frodo was barely shaken, Sam lay on the floor moaning. He had spilled ale all down his shirt and his face was a pale green. After a few minutes, he had recovered somewhat—enough to begin waving Merry’s smelly socks in front of Frodo’s face while singing a horrible tune. Rosie, who had just arrived, stared in horror.

“First impressions are everything…” said Marigold quietly to herself, shaking her head sadly.

In closing, it may be proper to say that Rosie was actually rather understanding and quite got over Sam’s drunken bout of insanity. In fact, they went on to become very good friends indeed!

Finis