1. Just For Tonight

Bag End, Solmath, 1420 SR

It's not enough to know that you are somewhere nearby.  I need to feel that closeness, that tangible feel of companionship.  Alone in this room I feel the shadows hemming me in, taunting me:  shadows I thought I had drowned in the sunlight and starlight of triumph and glory.  But it comes back to me, viciously, vividly, the long trek south and west from Parth Galen.  I remember the sickening reek of decay that emanated from the uruk who carried me on his shoulder.  I remember his coarse, leathery clothes grating and biting into my skin.  His grip threatened to break my arms, his grunt echoed in my nightmare. 

And I remember Grisnakh: his long, crooked fingers feeling me, searing me with loathing and anger where they touched my skin; his breath, foul and suffocating, close to my face; the glitter in his eyes stabbing me with pure terror, the likes of which I had never felt.  It was the first time I met evil so close and real, the first time I was reminded of my vulnerability, my mortality.  Escape seemed improbable and help unlikely and death loomed dark and sinister over me.

A tremor runs through me and I whimper, looking at the walls painted with swaying shadows of the rowan tree outside my window.  I am safe, within familiar rounded walls once more.  But all I see are the grassy plains of Rohan, where I lay shivering on the ground, looking into the leering promise of unspeakable torment in Grisnakh's eyes, and weeping in silence for the Shire I thought I would see no more. 

Yet the Shire had been saved, hadn't it?  And I have come home.  Then why do I feel so lost tonight?  Lost, and alone. 

It still feels odd to be inside a smial again, after long months of sleeping under trees, under stars; after the dream-like weeks spent within rooms too angular, too high-ceilinged for my taste.  The bed, all fluff and warmth and my size, feels peculiar.  Everything feels funny.  The only familiar things are you, Merry and Sam.  Do you feel this way too, Frodo, as though you have come home to a different smial, not the one you left behind?  As though the long, devastating journey--the journey that is now over but lingers still with us--is the only thing that is real, and the rest: home, family, friends, are nothing but dreams; fleeting, though sweet and pleasant.

I need to be with you, Frodo, and feel anchored by your presence.  I need to feel at home, truly home, so I can sleep and rest.  I gather my pillow and blanket and trot to your room.  I don't even need a candle to light the way.  I know all the turns I have to take to find your room at the eastern corner of the smial.  I know what table, what cupboard and what shelves I have to watch out for so I won't stub my toes and bump my head and raise the entire smial by my unearthly howl.  I know the exact way to turn the door handle so it won't squeak loud enough to wake you up. 

Or I thought I knew...

It's as if you weren't asleep when I came in.  You jerk and sit with a gasp, staring with large, panic-stricken eyes at the door, when I push it open.  In the pale light of the fire you look so small, like a child jolted awake by a violent nightmare.  I freeze by the door, uncertain. 

I know your sleeping habit is...different now, Frodo.  Hadn't I heard enough of your incoherent mumbling that rapidly crested to a desperate scream, in Gondor, in Rivendell, all the way home?  Didn't I notice the dark circles around your eyes that spoke of nights spent in frightened vigil against apparitions that to you seemed even more palpably real than the down covers and cloud-like pillows that surrounded you?

But I thought coming home could cure you of them.  I thought returning to your own bed would finally allow you the sleep, the deep, restful sleep, that you've been deprived of.  I was wrong.  It breaks my heart to see you so scared and helpless against the demons that haunt you.  But what can I do?  And here I am by your door, hoping I can lean on you the way I did in days long past, wishing to re-discover the secure haven that I always found in your room, in your arms, in your calm, steady voice.

"Pippin!" you sigh with obvious exasperation.  "What are you doing here?"

I wither and melt under your gaze.  I can't be Peregrin the lordly of the Battle of Bywater.  I can't be Peregrin the grim who rode to the battle in Morannon.  I can't be Peregrin the bold who escaped the uruks to drop the leaf-shaped brooch for Aragorn to find.  I am but Pippin, your much younger cousin, shivering and frightened in the shadowy doorway; your mischievous little Pippin, running scared, chased by the night.  It's the only role I can remember with any clarity now, stripped bare of all pretense of courage and daring. 

"Are you with someone, Frodo?" I ask solicitously.  "I do not wish to intrude."

You laugh; a hollow, bitter laugh.  "Very considerate of you, Pippin, to inquire about that after bursting in without so much as a knock.  Fortunately I'm alone.  What's the matter?"

I step closer, and sit on your bedside.  I wish could be witty; I wish I could be jolly.  But I tremble with a concealed sob and it is all I can do to keep my voice level as I ask, "Can I sleep here tonight?"

You lift an eyebrow and tilt your head, a concerned little smile teasing the corners of your mouth. "What is it, Pip?" you ask.  "Your room not good enough for a Knight of Gondor?"

Oh, Frodo!  I take your hand and look into your eyes, begging you to stop the present: the Knight of Gondor and the gap between your fingers that make it painfully impossible for you to answer my grip.  Stop it now.  Let us be cousin Frodo and little Pippin of old.  Just for tonight.  Just for now maybe we can pretend the quest has never been.

The exasperated yet teasing sparkle drains from your eyes and they glow now with warm concern and love. 

I shake my head slowly.  "Please," I beg hoarsely.

You quietly nod and squeeze my hand, then shift to make room for me.  I put my pillow beside yours and lie down, and only then realize that I am shaking.  I turn away from you so you will not see the tears of shame and pain running down my cheeks.  You pull a blanket around me and gently, awkwardly, almost hesitantly, run your hand through my hair. 

I close my eyes, but sleep escapes me.   It used to be easy, falling asleep.  When we were together---what with the long march and the knowledge that sleep was a precious thing: rare and easily broken by guard duty---it was the easiest thing.  As was being brave, being strong.  There were Gandalf, and Aragorn, and Boromir, and Legolas, and Gimli.  And there were Merry and Sam, and you.  I couldn't let all of you think that I was still Mummy's little puppy; I couldn't let on how scared and depressed I was; I couldn't let you all see how young and vulnerable I felt.  But you know me, Frodo, don't you?  None of those fancy mail-shirts and swords could ever hide the real Pippin from you.  You know me.

2. Leaks Happen

Bag End, Yule, 1399 SR

Oh, horrors.

Pippin bent his knees and once again felt the mattress with his toes.  His face, already bleak and tense, was twisted into an expression of near-tears agony.

What would cousin Frodo say?

His mother had warned him about the amount of tea he imbibed that afternoon.  And it was such a thrilling day: the last leg of the ride to Bag End, with the ponies running like tempests after a rabbit jumped beside the road and spooked them; the utterly satisfying shriek uttered by Pearl when she found a lizard among her underthings; his own first encounter with the dwarves and their fascinating beards...  It was always the worst, his problem, after a day full of excitement.  But why did it have to happen here?  On cousin Frodo's bed?

If Pearl found out...

Pippin moaned and shut his eyes, gripping his curls in frustrated fists. 

If only I had been a bit more careful and visited the privy before going to bed...  If only I hadn't insisted on being a big boy and refused to sleep with Mummy and Papa...  Mummy would've understood.  Papa would've scowled, but then he always did.  But Pearl...  And after the lizard, she would certainly go for blood...  If this leaked out and the entirety of Tuckborough found out...

He flew out of bed.  I must do something, he frantically thought as he stripped the covers off the bed.  And soon.  Before...

He jumped and screamed when the door swung open.  Music, laughter, talk and a song sung off-key blared in from the party that still went on in the main hall, four doors down the corridor, before Frodo closed the heavy round door behind him and turned to face Pippin.

"Pippin." A mild surprise in his voice, Frodo stared at his cousin, who was standing by the bed, clutching the corners of the white cotton bed sheets.  "I thought you're..."  He stopped and frowned, his eyes fixed on the large, damp patch on the sheets.

Pippin trembled.  He bit his lip and blinked against the tears that threatened to drown his eyes. 

Just kill me now, thought Pippin morosely.  Laugh now, cousin Frodo, and kill me right out.

He gazed in desperate defiance at Frodo.  "Sorry," he muttered.

Frodo raised his eyebrows.  "Well," he said, before moving closer to Pippin, inspecting the catastrophe with inscrutable eyes.  He shrugged.  "Leaks happen."

He looked innocently and in all seriousness at the sloping ceiling.  Pippin could not help but smile, gratefully, at his older cousin's outrageous remark. 

Frodo returned his smile and ruffled Pippin's hair.  "But I, my dear young Took," he said, bending so that his eyes were almost on the same level as Pippin's, "am above sleeping with a pool in my feather bed.  So let's do something about this mess because I'm just about plumb tired with this party and I long for sleep."

Pippin nodded eagerly, his cheeks burning tomato red.  He watched as Frodo dragged the feather bed outside and along the corridor to an unoccupied spare bedroom.

"Can I help?" said Pippin as he watched Frodo roll the mattress off the unused bed. 

"No," grunted Frodo, as he made ready for another march down the corridor, back to his room, with an unsoiled mattress this time.  "You will want to go to the privy and get into some clean clothes.  I can't abide ... well ... this kind of fragrance."

Pippin laughed shamefacedly and trotted back to Frodo's room to fetch a clean night garb.  When he returned from the bathroom, clad in a clean nightshirt, Frodo had already made the bed.  He smiled at Pippin, who stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed.

"Do you think we need to push the bed a bit further to the corner?" said Frodo, his eyes dancing. 

Pippin gaped.  Frodo gave the ceiling a quick glance and Pippin gasped in embarrassment.  "No," he blurted, blushing profusely.  "Never happens twice in one night."

Frodo laughed.  "Good," he said lightly, smiling as he unbuttoned his waistcoat.

Pippin felt a strange constriction in his throat.  "If you..." he murmured, then swallowed before finally continued, "want me to, I can sleep in the other room, with Mummy and Papa."

"Do you want to?" asked Frodo, putting on his nightshirt. 

Pippin shook his head slowly.  "Papa snores," he muttered, and Frodo laughed. 

"Go to sleep, Pip," he said, pushing Pippin into bed.  He was about to crawl under the covers when there was an urgent knock on the door.

"Frodo?  Lad, are you asleep yet?" called a slurred voice reminiscent of Bilbo's.  "Frodo?"

With a comic sigh and an exaggerated roll of his blue eyes, Frodo went to the door and opened it.  "What is it, Bilbo?" he asked. 

"It's Lotho, lad," Bilbo answered, the hostility in his voice was starkly obvious even when his speech testified to the liberal dose of wine he had consumed during the feasting.  "He's out cold.  Lobelia said Otho's too drunk to drive them back, and with Lotho knocked out, they have no other choice but to spend the night here.  Otho and Lobelia I can put in one of the bigger guestrooms, but Lotho..."

"He's not sleeping with me!" hissed Frodo vehemently.  "Pippin's here."  Pippin could sense the fierce relief behind the last statement.

"I know, lad, I know," said Bilbo.  "The smial's that full you have to give up your own bed...  No, what I meant to say was, do you know if we have any spare bedroom left?"

Frodo was quiet for a moment.  "Yes," he said finally.  "The one at the back corner, the one without a window."  Pippin frowned.  He recognized that room as the place where they stashed the evidence of his crime.

Bilbo giggled mischievously.  "That should be just fine for our dear Lotho, don't you think?" he said.  "Maybe if he is thankful enough because we keep the morning sun from his wine-pickled eyes, he will let slip where his mother buried my silver spoons."

"Bilbo!" Frodo remonstrated, but his mock sternness soon dissolved into chuckles.  Pippin grinned in the semi-darkness of Frodo's room, watching his two older cousins giggling by the door. 

"Maybe I shouldn't even leave Lobelia too long in the dining room.  She's tipsy enough, but I saw the way she looked at our chandelier," mused Bilbo, followed by another burst of laughter.  "Did you notice the size of her handbag?  She does come prepared, doesn't she?"

Frodo let out an unholy shriek and Pippin had to bury his face in the pillow lest his own mirth betray him. 

"Really, Bilbo," gasped Frodo.  "That's no way for a burglar like you to talk about another..."

This time it was Bilbo who howled with uninhibited glee and Pippin rolled on the bed laughing, pounding the mattress.

"But you're right.  We shouldn't let her off our guard," said Frodo, wiping his eyes.  "I'll see to the room then, and I'll even escort Lotho there myself.  You take care of Lobelia and Otho."

"Thank you, lad, thank you," gushed Bilbo, patting Frodo's back vigorously.   "I'll leave you to it then, and resume my vigil."

"Keep a sharp lookout on the handbag," whispered Frodo none too softly, and once again the two hobbits laughed uproariously, and Pippin wondered how long they could go on guffawing before rousing the suspicion of the other partying hobbits, and also, how long he could laugh the way he did before another episode of leaking ceiling happen.  The thought sobered him, and his face was straight when Frodo came over to the bed.

"I'm sorry if we kept you from sleeping, Pip," said Frodo a trifle guiltily.  Then his face assumed a more serious look.  "And now I'm not sure you should be listening to what Bilbo and I were talking about."

"I won't tell anyone, Frodo," said Pippin as solemnly as he could.  "Besides, I already know about the spoons."

"What?" exclaimed Frodo.  "How..."

"I'm maybe only nine, but I'm really quite sharp," said Pippin complacently.  "I'm rather good at pretending not to listen at teas.  And teas with Mummy and her friends are very ..." he paused, licking his lip as he fumbled for the right word, "educational."

Frodo laughed so hard he collapsed on the bed, gripping his stomach.  "Oh my, you are really sharp," he gasped after a while.  He reached out and mussed Pippin's hair.  "And, Pip, I can never thank you enough for keeping Lotho out of my room.  If you think your papa snores, try sleeping anywhere in the vicinity of Lotho's bedroom."

Pippin smiled, feeling pleased with himself.  But then a look of worry streaked across his face.  He propped himself on his elbow and looked down at his cousin who was still sprawled helpless on the bed.  "Frodo... um ..." he said anxiously, "you won't tell anyone about...my secret, will you?  Promise?"

Frodo nodded gravely.  "Not a soul.  As I said, leaks happen.  To anyone."

Pippin's eyes grew wide.  "To...to you too?" he inquired, hardly daring to expect an affirmative reply.

Frodo shrugged.   

"You?" whispered Pippin.  "Leaked?"

A solemn nod.  "I had it worse.  I did it on my Gramma's bed," he said bitterly.

Pippin's mouth fell open.  A look of utter disbelief and shock crossed his face.  "Then what happened?" he whispered thickly.  "Did anyone find out?"

Frodo laughed sheepishly. "I was lucky.  She thought she did it."

Pippin threw back his head and laughed long and hard.

3. Fear of Losing

Bag End, Solmath, 1420 SR

The memory of Lobelia's scandalized look when she hurried home with Lotho, who miraculously managed to look dazed, shamefaced and nauseated all at the same time, can still make me laugh afresh.  I remember our stolen glances and the way your face turned red as you tried to hold back another gale of laughter.  I chuckle again, even though the cold tracks of my tears are still wet on my face.   

I turn and look at you.  You still sit with your back to the headboard, staring down at me, your eyebrows raised quizzically.  "What's so funny?" you ask. 

"Oh, nothing," I say, grinning.  My eyes veer to the ceiling and once again I chortle uncontrollably.  I laugh so loud and so fiercely, until tears fall anew from my eyes.  And suddenly I am no longer laughing, but weeping. 

Poor Lobelia had died, only months after she was rescued from Sharkey's Lockholes.  Wormtongue had murdered Lotho, under order from Saruman.  The filthy, greedy fingers of evil had reached as far as the Shire---the home I thought safe and pristine, somewhere to return to.  We could not keep it out. 

Everyone says I've changed.  People say I look more the Thain now than I used to, more grand and lordly, and mature.  My sisters even look with fond respect at me, something I never dreamed they would do; but now that they do, I'm not sure I like the way they treat me.  I wish they would still look at me with annoyed disdain verging on hopeless contempt, like they used to.  I wish they would wave my tales as ale-induced bragging.  But I can't very well hide my size now, can I?  And when I took off my mail-shirt with its splendid crest of Gondor, so they could measure me for a new set of wardrobe, they saw my scars.  They became silent, before Vinny started to weep and the others followed suit.  They held me close afterward, and I found that I love them more fiercely than ever because I had come so near to losing them.  There are still nights, Frodo, when I walk the entire length of Great Smials, before tiptoeing into my parents' bedroom, only to sit beside them as they sleep, watching my mother's face and listening to my father's snores.  I love them now in ways I never before experienced.  I never thought, never imagined, that love can hurt that much.

I have indeed changed, in the inside, more than the outside.  The tough, battle-hardened crust that people see, the loud and brave words, the incredible tales; they are but a frail façade for a heart rendered even more raw and vulnerable.  If I should lose those I love, and those who love me, my world will fall apart.

You have gathered me into your arms, stroking my head and back.  I look up at your face and see the silent tears shrouding your eyes.

"I'm sorry, Pip," you whisper.

And here I am, perversely wishing that, having no family, you are spared this painful sensation that is love, this ache that is gratitude, this heavy, penetrating fear of losing. 

4. Wedding-jitters

Bag End, Mid-year Day, 1404 SR

Oh, disaster.

Where could it be?

Pippin stood in the middle of the room, frantically looking around. 

No, no.  It can't be here.  I put it in my pocket before I went out.

He had emptied all of his pockets, the contents strewn on the floor: a ball of blue yarn, some dried and very dusty raisins, a few marbles, a few walnuts, a small wooden whistle, three dead crickets, a lump of candy---half-melted and caked with hair and dirt---and other oddments that usually occupied the pockets of a hobbit lad of fourteen.  But whatever it was Pippin was looking for was not in any of his pockets.  He started flinging pillows and blankets around, opening drawers and chests, and looking under the furniture.

Frodo will kill me.  He will kill me for certain.  If he couldn't, Iris would.  Either way, I'm a dead hobbit.

He stood up from the crouching position he assumed to peer under the drawers, blinking as he fought tears of panic and dread.

Calm down.  Calm down now. 

He sat forlornly on the bed, burying his face in his hands. 

I shouldn't have volunteered to be the ring-bearer.  I'm not cut out for it.  Why did Frodo let me be the ring-bearer?  He should've known I would lose it.  I'm no good...

He gasped and sat up straight, his eyes widening.

Merry.  Yes.  Merry will know what to do.  He'll skin me alive afterward, chop me and feed me to the pigs, but he'll know what to do. 

He stood up and rushed out of the room to find Merry.  He walked past round windows that offered glimpses of the hustle and bustle of the upcoming wedding: the huge tents where already some wooden tables were arranged, each laden with plates and bowls and pots of food; the stage where the musicians were rehearsing noisily; and the white, rose-bedecked bower, where Frodo Baggins was to marry Iris Foxbury that afternoon.  But Pippin had no time to observe the commotion.  The only thing on his mind was looking for Merry.

"Merry!" he called out in relief when he saw his cousin in one of the dining tent.  "Merry!"  Pippin ran toward him.

Merry did not seem to hear Pippin's high-pitched call, owing to the fact that the lass who was hand-feeding him creamy slices of cake was giggling in the most mesmerizing way.  Merry's eyes were in imminent danger of popping out of their sockets as he dared himself to lick the white cream off the girl's fingers.

"Merry, help!" gasped Pippin as he reached his cousin, grabbing Merry's arm most unceremoniously.  "I lost Frodo's ring!"

Merry, torn mercilessly from the dizzying sensations brought by strawberry shortcake and satiny fingers, chomped unwittingly on said fingers, eliciting an angry and pained yelp from the girl who only seconds before was laughing divinely. 

"Merry!" squealed the lass, waving her hand and throwing dark looks at Merry.  "I'd appreciate it if you told me beforehand that for you hungry also means bloodthirsty!"

"I'm sorry, Donna," pleaded Merry guiltily.  "I didn't mean to..."

The girl shoved the plate at Merry and whirled around, tossing her abundant mahogany hair.  "Get yourself a spoon!" she hissed as she stomped out of the tent.  Merry stared after her, mouth gaping, looking very pitiful with the plate of unfinished cake in his hand. 

Then he turned, and Pippin took a step back in alarm when he saw the furious look in Merry's eyes.  "Pippin!" growled Merry menacingly, advancing on his younger cousin.

"I'm sorry, Merry," stammered Pippin.  "But I was..."

"Do you know how long," muttered Merry, his fingers gripping the plate so tightly, nearly breaking it in two, "how long it took me before I could finally make her feed me that cake?"

"Merry, her fingers could be dirty," said Pippin in a weak voice.

"I'll show you dirty, you sorry little bugger!" yelled Merry, raising the plate of cake.

"It's Frodo's ring, Merry!" screamed Pippin.  "I lost it!  Help me find it, please!"

Merry's hand stopped in midair.  The cake lurched and dropped with a splat onto Pippin's foot.  But Pippin did not flinch.  He fixed his eyes on Merry's face, now turning from livid crimson to a more familiar shade, his brows knitting in concern.

"What?" Merry queried.  "What do you mean you lost it?"

"Well," Pippin began stumblingly.  "When I heard that the Mayor will be late, because of that other wedding down in Bywater, and Iris's wagon broke down and they had to fix it, so they would be late, I thought it would be alright if I played for a while."

"Play?" muttered Merry, his eyes widening in alarm.  "What sort of 'play?'"

"Well, nothing much," replied Pippin, avoiding Merry's eyes.  "First I went to the goat pen, you see.  I wanted to see those cuddly newborn kids.  Then I went to the kitchen...to...to check the preparation..."

Merry snorted.

"Then I climbed that cherry tree at the back, because they said there's a nest of fledgling robins up there and I wanted...."

Merry cleared his throat ominously, and Pippin choked back the urge to explain why he wanted to see a nest of baby birds.

"Then I waded in the stream.  I wanted to catch some tadpoles," Pippin went on innocently.  "Then Mummy caught me, and told me to change.  That's when I realized I've lost it."

"What did you do with the ring?" Merry asked.  "Before you lost it, I mean."

"I wrapped it in my handkerchief," said Pippin.  "And put it in my coat pocket."

Merry placed the plate back on the table and grabbed Pippin's arm.  "Come on!  We don't have much time!"

Together they ran to the goat pen out on the other side of the hill. 

"I stood there." Pippin pointed at a spot by the wooden fence.  "That she-goat over there came over and I gave her the apple I was eating.  Then the other goats started coming too."  He smiled in fond memory of the goats shoving each other to get a taste of his apple.

Merry looked sick.  "Was your handkerchief peeking out of your pocket, Pip?" he asked. 

"I don't know, Merry.  Maybe," said Pippin, looking up at his cousin.  "Why do you ask?"

"Goats eat anything," answered Merry darkly.  "Even clothes."

Pippin turned pale and looked again at the goats.  "What do we do now?" he whispered, close to tears.  "I can't bear the thought of them butchered just to find the ring.  Do you think Iris would agree to wait until...?"

"Don't be foolish, Pippin," said Merry sharply.  "It's just a possibility.  We'll get back to the goats if we can't find the ring in the kitchen."

They went to the kitchen, still bustling with the prospect of feeding the hundreds of guests invited to the wedding. 

"What did you do here?" asked Merry, dodging a harried-looking cook who rushed past with a steaming pot of dumplings. 

"Salad," replied Pippin weakly. 

They went to the table where rows of salad bowls were placed.

"We can't possibly eat them all, Mer," groaned Pippin. 

Frowning, Merry stared at Pippin.  "Who's talking about eating?  Was that why you were here?  Pilfering greens?"

Pippin blushed.  "They put the sweetest beet in it," he said. 

Merry shook his head in exasperation.  "We will need spoons," said Merry.  "Wooden ones!" he added when he saw Pippin darting to get a couple of tablespoons. 

Armed with spoons, they stood in front of the salad bowls, grim-faced.  "You start from that end," instructed Merry, "I'll take care of this end.  Listen carefully for clinking sounds."

Pippin nodded and soon the two young hobbits were busy tossing greens in the bowls.  Moving from bowl to bowl, they nearly met in the middle when suddenly Pippin paused and stared at Merry with horrified look. 

"Mer," he whispered.  "I just remembered something."

"What?" said Merry without taking his eyes off his bowl. 

"I helped Marina stir the beans," replied Pippin, ashen-faced. 

Looking nauseated, the two hobbits turned to gaze helplessly at the oven where the beans were being baked. 

"You're dead, Pip," muttered Merry. 

Pippin swallowed hard.  "Maybe someone would bite into the beans and find the ring and return it to Frodo," he said hopefully.

"We need the ring before that, Pip," said Merry sharply.  "In case you've forgotten, it's a wedding ring, which means that Frodo will need it before the feast.  And if anyone should find it in their pies, do you think they would be generous enough to just return it to Frodo?  It's a diamond ring, Pip.  A very expensive, dwarf-made ring, I might add.  The diamond alone costs more than your life."

Pippin gasped, turning pale, looking so close to tears that Merry could not help feeling sorry.

"Alright," he said briskly.  "We'll try the tree."

They ducked out of the kitchen tent and went round the back to the old cherry tree.  Pippin climbed up the tree, inspecting every inch of its bark, while Merry examined the ground on all four.  But they quickly concluded that neither the handkerchief nor the ring was anywhere near the tree. 

"Creek," said Merry grimly as he stood up, brushing dirt and grass from his knees.  Pippin mutely obeyed, tagging along like a mournful shadow.  The sun, gliding even lower in the sky did not help them in the least.  Soon, Iris and her huge cavalcade of family and relatives would arrive.  They had to find that ring sometime before tea, or they could never bring themselves to face Frodo again.

They scoured the muddy banks of the creek in silence.  Pippin bit his lip, valiantly trying not to cry.  He was beginning to believe that the ring had been lost past all hope of discovery.  But the thought of how Frodo would take the news made him grit his teeth and go on. 

He wouldn't scream and rant, Pippin thought.  He would only frown before questioning me with that calm, patient, unreadable look on his face, which always made me feel even worse.  Then what?  Would he try to explain to Iris and her family?  What would he say?  "I'm sorry, but it seems that my cousin has misplaced the wedding ring.  Perhaps we could go on without it?  Or would you prefer to wait until it's found?"

But what if Iris refused to marry him without that ring?  What would her proud and doubting family say?  Mummy said they were none too keen on Iris marrying Frodo, on account of his unusual company and his slightly colorful family history.  But Frodo had shown them, hadn't he?  There wasn't a steadier, more dignified hobbit in all of Hobbiton than Frodo Baggins, master of Bag End for the past three years after the disappearance of his "mad" cousin.  Iris could find no better husband in the entire Shire.  And Frodo would be happy with her, wouldn't he?  He would be well taken care of, as he richly deserved to be.  He would not be lonely anymore. 

He would not need his friends as much as before.  Certainly not little Pippin Took who wreaked havoc wherever he went.

"Pip," called Merry softly.  He sloshed toward Pippin who was sitting; hugging his legs, on a rock caked with drying mud.  The younger hobbit was weeping silently, his lean frame trembling.  Merry gathered him into his arms and awkwardly rumpled Pippin's straw-colored curls.  "Don't worry too much; Frodo will understand.  Stop crying.  It'll be alright."

Pippin shut his eyes and clenched his teeth.  How could he explain that he wasn't crying because of the lost ring, but because of the loss of Frodo?   Merry would only laugh at him; everybody did, or would.  Why, Pip, Frodo would still live in Bag End, they would say, he wasn't going anywhere.  You could always come and visit.  Nothing would change.  And Iris was such a sweet lass, she would certainly welcome any of Frodo's friends and relatives, wouldn't she?

But it would be different.  Frodo would be different.  He had changed much ever since he met Iris and confessed that he was in love.  He grew even more stranger after his engagement was announced in spring.  Oh, he was still nice and kind, in that determined, self-possessed way that was typical of Frodo Baggins.  But he took to staying at home more.  No more starlit jaunts to the woody hills, no more pony rides and camping trips and no more long, lonely walks to explore the lesser known spots around Hobbiton; Pippin hadn't even seen him swim once since Thrimidge, and it had been a pretty sweltering summer.

Maybe that was the reason why he deliberately "lost" the ring.  Maybe deep inside Pippin did not want to see Frodo married to Iris.  The horrible thought startled Pippin and he stood up with a jolt. 

"We have to keep on looking, Mer," he gasped, wiping tears and mud from his face with his sleeve.

"No." Merry shook his head.  "I think it's time we tell Frodo."

Pippin winced. 

"Come," said Merry.  "We have to get this thing straightened out before Iris's family arrives."

They trudged back, two disheveled young hobbits with muddied feet, to the smial that buzzed with an even more frantic pace as the appointed hour drew near.  Somehow they managed to escape their mothers and slipped into the quieter quarters at the back of the smial and made their way to Frodo's room.

"You can't do this, Frodo!"  A voice rang from the room as Merry and Pippin approached it.  The young hobbits paused, looking at each other.  "It would not be fair for Iris!"

"It's your Dad," mouthed Pippin to Merry.  Merry raised his eyebrows and gestured towards the door.  He and Pippin crept nearer and peered into Frodo's spacious bedroom. 

Frodo was sitting on his bed, his back to the door.  He was already dressed in his new suit, though the night-blue jacket was still draped neatly on the back of a chair by the bed.   Saradoc, Merry's father, stood by the bedside, looking furiously exasperated. 

"I'm not saying that I want the wedding canceled, Sara," said Frodo, and there was tiredness in his voice.  "All I said was that somehow I'm not sure about this marriage."

"This is no longer the time to be uncertain about so serious a decision as marriage," said Saradoc scathingly.  "Now how are you going to tell Iris about this?"

"She won't hear it from me, I can assure you of that," said Frodo.  "I hate to cause her any pain.  Don't worry."

He stood up and walked to the window, staring out with his hands on his pockets.  "Only I'm worried," he said quietly.  "This morning when I woke up I found myself thinking 'It's a nice day for a long walk.  I know the White-downs will be lovely this time of year.'  My first thought was not on this wedding, nor Iris.  And I know, I am certain, that someday I would feel that call again, a much stronger one, demanding and uncompromising, and I would thoughtlessly abandon Iris to succumb to it, and then what would happen to her?"

Saradoc laughed softly, a relieved laugh.  "If there is one thing I know about you, Frodo Baggins, it's this: you are not the kind who will forsake those you love."

"Thank you for the words of confidence," said Frodo, chuckling bitterly himself.  "Still, I can't help but think about how it must feel.  Somehow I know that even a life with Iris will not stay that fire and even if I refuse to yield to its call, it will gut me from the inside and make a bitter hobbit out of me.  I will regret the marriage; I will come to see it as a prison.  Iris deserves better."

Saradoc placed his hand on Frodo's shoulder.  "This is nothing but an acute attack of wedding-jitters, Frodo.  Believe me, it happened to me too.  But now, I simply can't imagine a life without Esmie."

Outside the door, Pippin pulled a face and Merry elbowed him in the ribs.

"I hope you're right, Sara," sighed Frodo.  "But...."

He turned to look at Saradoc.  "Last June I said that I wanted to go on a short trip, not more than a fortnight, along the East Road, to Bree."

"To Bree?" said Saradoc.  "Whatever for?"

"Just so I would get a taste of the outside world before it's rendered impossible for me," said Frodo.  "The dwarves would accompany me, so I need not fear for my safety, and we would be riding, so it really would not take that long."

He paused, considering.  "I told Iris about this," he went on quietly.  "And she said she couldn't allow me to go.  What if I got killed?  What if I decided to go farther, to the kingdom of the dwarves, or even beyond?  And...you will forgive me for saying this, but at the time, I hated her.  I hated her for shackling me to her side."

Pippin shuddered when he heard the bitterness in Frodo's voice.  This was wrong, he thought.  Frodo should've been excited, ecstatic about his wedding, not doubtful and resigned like this....

Frodo still stood, gazing out his window, which opened to the east.  "I still wonder, Saradoc, what lies beyond that hazy distance?  Surely there's something.  A great world is out there; so many unknown things, people and lands.  I wish I could reach out and bring them nearer so I can read and study them....  I wish...."

"Peregrin Took, look at you!" screeched a voice behind Merry and Pippin.  The two lads whirled around and met the stern gaze of Pearl Took, Pippin's redoubtable eldest sister.  "What are you doing here?  And Merry..."  She shook her head disdainfully.  "Clearly reaching the tweens changed very little of you."

Merry bristled but Pippin held his hand.  "We want to speak to Frodo," he said steadily.

"Correction," said Pearl, grabbing Pippin's arm.  "You want a bath--a quick one--and a change.  You too, Merry."

Merry snorted at the commanding tone in Pearl's voice. 

"Pearl, wait!" hissed Pippin, clutching Pearl's sleeve.  "Pearl, I lost the ring.  Frodo's wedding ring."

Pearl stopped mid-stride and glared at Pippin.  Then she lifted her eyes and met Merry's.  Merry nodded quietly.

"We've looked everywhere for it," furthered Pippin, still in whispers.  "But it was nowhere to be found.  What should I do?"

"Oh dear," muttered Pearl.  "Have you told anyone?"

Pippin shook his head.  "We were just going to tell Frodo, but he was talking to Merry's father."

"No, not to Frodo," said Pearl thoughtfully.  "He has a lot on his mind as it is.  We don't want to make him unduly alarmed.  Well, at least not now when we have no answer in our hands." 

"I think the two of you should wash first," Pearl said decisively.  "And get into some clean clothes--it's a good thing Mamma made you two suits for this occasion, Pip.  I will see what I can do.  Come out and see me when you're passably presentable."

Pippin looked up gratefully at his sister and made to embrace her but Pearl pushed him away, "Don't touch!  It took me ages to make these ruffles fluff like this.  And I can't have your muddy fingers print unwanted motifs on my new dress, thank you."

Pippin grinned and pulled Merry away.  "Thanks, Pearl," he said over his shoulder.  "You're the best."

"And you're the worst," said Pearl scowling, though her eyes glowed.

Pippin stuck out his tongue and, with Merry, rounded the corner to his quarters.

"I thought you said she's a venom-spitting dragon," said Merry when they were well out of Pearl's earshot.  "She's pretty nice for a dragon."

"Well, what can I say," said Pippin jovially.  The pinched, worried look had entirely left his face and his bubbly cheerfulness returned.  "The charms of the young Thain to be.  Even a dragoness is helpless before my beguiling appeal."

Merry snorted and scuffed Pippin on the head.

"But it is true, Merry," protested Pippin.  "Since you were very fluently silent back there, you can hardly lay any claim to Pearl's change of heart."

Merry grinned.  "I'm sorry I didn't help you, Pip," he said.  "Truth to tell, I was busy putting finishing touches on the hem of your sister's dress."

"What?" yelled Pippin. 

Merry pointed at his still muddy toes.  "It's dried a little," he said modestly. "But I dare say I've painted quite an interesting pattern on her dress.  She will ponder twice the next time she thinks she has the authority to tell me to wash."

Pippin laughed.  "Oh, Merry," he gasped adoringly.  They took the different turns to their rooms, still chortling.

5. Lingering Night

Bag End, Solmath 1420 SR

I wonder if Merry sometimes feels like this, trapped in the dark past that had cunningly, jeeringly, stolen into the present.  If he does, though, he is doing a good job at concealing it.  There are never any clouds of gloom in Crickhollow; Merry, with my earnest help, sees to that.  The parties we have there would put yours and Bilbo's to shame.  And there is the work all around Buckland and Tuckborough, undoing the hideous fingerprints of Sharkey and his men.  Merry is always at the front line, strong and in charge; and the people adore him.  But there are times when the glint in his eyes--cold and dangerous--makes me shiver.  I often wonder what lies beneath his easy laugh and flowing talks. 

We were young when we walked with you into nameless perils, Frodo.  It had seemed like ages, but we have returned to the Shire in little more than a year.  We are all not much older than the day we set out.  But everything has changed, our lives and the lives of the people we left behind.  Nothing is the way I remember it.  There will be no more innocent mirth, ignorant bliss and careless curiosity.  We have left them along the journey, and carried back the memories of fear, of despair and of pain.

I'm not blaming you at all for what happened, Frodo.  It was our choice to go with you, it was your choice to leave and do what was assigned to you.  Although none of us were prepared for the horrors each of us must battle, I don't regret it in the least, the decision to follow you.

Only I wish that once the quest had finally been fulfilled, there would be peace at last.  Sleep that comes easily without shadows of grunting uruks and battles without hope.  Laughter that gushes readily without visions of brave knights of Gondor lying in pools of their own blood, orc spears and arrows piercing their mauled armors. 

But maybe, Frodo, just maybe, someday we will be able to look back on these nightmares and laugh about them.  Even the most bitter days, they say, end when the sun sets.  There is always tomorrow, and by then, the darkness is powerless, and the pain nothing but a dream.  Would that night doesn't linger so. 

6. A Vow of Love

Bag End, Mid-year Day, 1404 SR

"My dearest hobbits of Hobbiton and honored guests from Northfarthing," began Will Whitfoot, the new mayor of Hobbiton (newly appointed following the untimely demise of the previous mayor, Ben Goodfield, during a particularly vigorous Yule dance.)  "It is always a pleasure for me to bear witness to the solemn occasion when two hobbits--driven by love to unite in that holiest of calling, matrimony--wish to share their joy in vowing their undying devotion to each other."

It was one of the reasons why Will was the only obvious candidate for the mayoral post in the hurried election last winter.  He did seem to have a flair for language.

"Iris Foxbury," Will Whitfoot gravely addressed the blushing bride, pretty in her dress of pale lilac.  "Please bear in mind that marriage means more than this merry gathering, and all the dancing and the feasting.  There will be years and years that you shall pass together with this hobbit you have chosen to be your husband; and if you cannot keep the love between the two of you evergreen and blossoming, those years will be like deserts unbearable.  It is easy to make a vow of love everlasting, but wait until his petty faults begin to try your patience and his mind begins to stray from thinking only of you.  The strength of your love will be put to the test in such a moment."

"She's scared enough as it is, Will, no need to spook her anymore!" hooted a voice from the assembled hobbits.

Will Whitfoot glowered nearsightedly at the crowd, cleared his throat, and went on, softening his voice.  "But trust me on this.  When you can survive the little bumps in the road, you will come to know the bliss of marriage, a happiness that feels whole and right.  More than mere bodily enjoyment...."

"Ahem," remarked Saradoc, his eyes darting in Pippin's direction before glaring at the mayor.

But Will missed the cue and continued, "...which alone is reward enough, but also that certainty of companionship and affection.  Also there is the joy of parenting hobbit children, delightful little creatures that never cease to enchant you."

He nodded in satisfaction and turned to Frodo.  "Now, Frodo Baggins," he began sternly.  "I hope you need no reminder of how fortunate you are to have this lovely lass consenting to marry you.  Cherish her in love and high-esteem for the rest of your life, for she fully deserves it.  Never drift from her side, no matter how great and inviting the temptation is..."

There was a muted wave of tittering from the audience, and Pippin wondered what had been so funny, because Frodo looked grave and almost wistful when Will said the last sentence.  

Pippin turned to look at the crowd and saw a small boy of about five or six playing with a cat far behind.  The cat leapt, trying to grab a piece of cloth that the boy waved playfully in the air.  Pippin tried not to chuckle.  His father glared at him from his seat and Pippin returned his gaze to the polished buttons of his wine-red waistcoat.

"...will be blessed with joy, plenty and an abundance of beautiful babies..."

"Not that abundant," quipped Iris, and everybody laughed.  Even Frodo smiled.  Pippin scowled.  What was so funny about that?

He looked again at the boy and the cat at the end of the alley.  His eyes widened.

"...I, Iris Foxbury, hereby truly and sincerely pledge my heart, my soul, my mind and my body to you Frodo Baggins, and as your wife shall love and honor you for as long..."

"Hoy!" Pippin squealed, flitting from his spot next to Frodo.  "That's mine!"

Curls turned in comic unison as all eyes followed the burgundy streak that flashed through the aisle. 

Pippin skidded to a stop beside the boy, who was crouching and holding his cat laughingly.  "That's my handkerchief!" said Pippin.  "Give it back to me!"

The little lad looked up, pouting.  "It's mine.  I found it."

"Where?" shot Pippin.

The boy frowned and started looking around for his mother.  "I told you it's mine," he said with quivering lips.  "You can't have it!"

Pippin snatched the handkerchief impatiently and shook it.  "Where's the ring?" he asked.  "Did you find the ring?"

"I don't know anything about rings!" squealed the boy, leaping to grab the handkerchief.  "Give it back!  It's mine!"

Some annoyed shushing noises rippled from the other hobbits, but Pippin would not relent.  "Tell me where you found this," he said, waving the blue handkerchief.

"Under the tree!  Give it back!" screamed the boy. 

Some hobbits began to rise from their seats.  Pippin's mother and father had moved uncertainly to the back of the rows of benches.  Under the flower-festooned bower, the rite had practically been brought to a standstill as everyone's attention was riveted to the one-sided duel over a handkerchief.  Not many of the spectators were aware of what was afoot.  Only a handful of hobbits: both Iris and Frodo and their immediate families, knew that instead of the beautifully crafted diamond ring that Frodo had purchased from the dwarves, Iris would be wearing a simple silver ring that used to belong to Frodo's mother.  But Pippin clearly could not let pass the problem caused by his carelessness.  He was intent on clearing up his name, even if it meant depriving a small hobbit of his toy.

"Granny!" wailed the little boy finally, when Pippin kept denying him his handkerchief. 

"You have to show me where you found this," said Pippin, somewhat confused now that the boy was practically bawling.  "It's very important."

"GRANNY!" shrieked the boy. 

"I see no reason why you should make such a scene, Pip!" hissed Merry suddenly in Pippin's ears.  "Stop it!  Get back to the bower.  You're disrupting the procession.  Come!"

"But if he will only tell where he keeps the ring," protested Pippin, ignoring Merry's tugging hand and his father's disapproving eyes among the crowd of hobbits. 

"GRA...NNY!" howled the little hobbit.

Suddenly there was a vast hobbit making her way ponderously through the crowd.  "Enough!" she said, brushing Pippin aside.  "Stop assaulting him, you brute!  Can't you see he's frightened?"

Pippin stared, open-mouthed, at the enormous hobbit wearing a voluminous buttercup-yellow dress and an outrageously tiny plumed hat.  She frowned at Pippin and her dark brown eyes narrowed.  "You!"

The hobbit scooped the bawling child into her ample bosom and stood glaring at Pippin.  "Is it not enough that you lost my Iris's diamond ring that you have to harass my little Phil?  What did you do that for?"

Pippin swallowed hard before attempting to speak, "I thought he might've known where the ring is, Mistress Foxbury.  He had found my handkerchief under the tree where I must have dropped it.  I just want to get the ring for Fr...Iris."

The sternness melted somewhat in Mistress Foxbury's eyes and she looked at her little Phil and her voice turned into a mellow, syrupy tone as she cooed, "Is that true, Philly?  Did you find Auntie Iris's ring?"

"He took my handkerchief, Granny!" blurted the boy sulkily, pointing at Pippin. 

"Yes," remarked his grandmother sweetly.  "He's a bad, nasty hobbit.  But did you find any ring, darling, a shiny, sparkly ring?"

Pippin gave Merry a sidelong glance and they exchanged sickened looks. 

"Can I have the handkerchief back if I tell you where it is?" asked the little boy innocently.

Pippin groaned inwardly and handed him the handkerchief.  The boy snatched it with a triumphant laugh.  "A bird took it," he said gleefully.  "A black bird that goes 'kraa' and flies high."

Pippin felt weak with relief.  "At least it didn't go into the river," he whispered to Merry.  Meanwhile, all around him, hobbits started to argue whether to launch another search for the ring or proceed with the wedding without it. 

"There are hundreds of magpie's nests around here!  We could be searching till midnight and found nothing." 

"It's a diamond ring!  And it's Iris's!"

"The food'll spoil by the time we find the ring!"

"It's Iris's diamond ring!"

"If anyone should be searching for that blasted ring, it's that Took lad who ought to do it!"

"Ten gold coins for whoever finds the ring!"

"I know some trees around here with magpies nesting on them.  Get a hobbit up each one of them and we can be back and get on with the wedding in no time."

"It's nearly tea time!"

Pippin slipped out of the ring of bickering hobbits and all at once saw the deserted benches.  He looked guiltily at the bower and was making his way there to apologize, when what he saw made him hesitate. 

Frodo still stood under the bower, holding Iris's hand to his lips.  There were a few pinkish-white rose petals on his hair, and sadness, grief, in his eyes as he gazed at Iris's downcast face.

"I am sorry," said Frodo softly.

"Don't do this, Frodo," Iris said in a voice that tried to be steady but was betrayed by the shaking of her body.  "Can't we talk about this?"

"I'm afraid not, dearheart.  I am really sorry," said Frodo, his voice threatening to break.  "I wish I didn't have to hurt you this way.  But this is easier, less painful, than if I have to leave you after we're married."

"But why do you have to leave?" asked Iris, looking up, tears glistening on her pale cheeks.  "Where?"

Frodo shook his head but said nothing. 

"Why, Frodo?" whispered Iris plaintively.  "What did I do?"

"Not you, dearheart," said Frodo, unfurling Iris's fisted hands with his fingers and kissing her upturned palms, one by one.  "Never you."

He let go of her hands and they hung at her sides, trembling.  Frodo framed Iris's white face in his hands and gently kissed both of her closed, tear-pearled eyes.  "Forgive me," he whispered against her quivering lips, before releasing her and stepping back.  He turned and plodded heavily away, not looking back.  Iris watched him in silence, standing very still as though she had turned into marble.  The wind softly swirled the loose curls around her face; rose petals floated down lazily around her. 

Pippin stood motionless by the rows of benches.  He never thought that anyone could look so sad.

7. Shapes of Sorrow

Bag End, Solmath 1420 SR

And even after the journey, I don't think that I am inured to sorrow yet.  And that's after I witnessed Boromir's valiant sacrifice.  After Treebeard, Quickbeam and their dying race.  After seeing Denethor, driven to insanity by so much grief and despair, leap to his funeral pyre.  After that dark, choking fear of losing Merry to the cold death of the Ringwraith's touch.  After Morannon, when death had been but a heartbeat away.  After seeing you and Sam, looking sadly out-of-place on that huge bed under the beeches of Ithilien.  There are many shades and shapes of sorrow and I think I have tasted most of them.  Yet it can still stun me, strip me bare of any defenses, weaken me.

And your sadness, Frodo, is the one that troubles me the most.  It doesn't come in fits and starts, but runs in your blood, pulsing behind that thin veil of make-believe normalcy you put on for us.  It's so deep, I drown in it, helpless.  I watch you staring silently at the sputtering ember in the fire, and wonder what is rushing through your mind.  Are you thinking of Weathertop, Frodo, or that flame-red chamber in Minas Morgul?  Is it the memory of the spider, or of the columns of fire in Sammath Naur, that makes your face twitch in pain?  Tell me what I can do.  What I should do.  I used to make you laugh; tell me I still do.

8. A Lone Hobbit

Bag End, Halimath 1, 1404 SR

Of the mounds of food, almost nothing was left.  Disgruntled though they were about the sudden cancellation of the wedding, the guests apparently saw no reason to waste the excellent food prepared for the occasion.  The flowers now lay trampled on the grass.  The stage had been dismantled.  The tents pulled down and rolled, their stakes laid in neat bundles; they were ready to be packed away in the morning.  Nothing remained of the party that took months to plan and hundreds of hands to arrange. 

Inside Bag End, the atmosphere was redolent with gloom and resentment.  The various families who--due to the long journey it would take them to go home--had no other choice but to stay another night in the huge burrow, grumbled about their lot, holding "that no good, hopeless Baggins" responsible for their wasted time and effort.  They had come anticipating nightlong festivities, an endless stream of victuals and nonstop dancing.  Instead, they had to contend with a horde of irate Foxburies and various relations, with nothing better in the way of argument but a feeble apology from the missing groom.  The Foxburies had departed, still fuming, after dinner, leaving the temporary residents of Bag End to nurse their wounded pride and dignity.  It did not help in any way that when Frodo returned from wherever it was he stashed himself in all the afternoon, he obstinately ignored the questions hurled at him by the assorted Brandybucks, Tooks, Boffins and Goodbodies.  He locked himself in his study, letting only Sam Gamgee to enter with dinner.   

It was now nearly three hours past midnight but Pippin had not slept a wink since his father dismissed him to bed.  That was almost six hours ago, when, in the middle of a heated discussion about Frodo's dubious character, Pippin had suddenly piped up, saying, "Has it occurred to you that he also feels miserable about this?" 

And there was no one with him, thought Pippin sadly.  He bore his wretchedness alone.  It wasn't fair.  Even if he was at fault--and Pippin personally rejected that idea--it didn't mean that he wasn't hurt by what happened.  Everybody talked about how horrible his actions were in regard to Iris.  But no one saw the deep anguish in his eyes before he walked away from the bower.  No one did but Pippin. 

Pippin got out of the bed he shared with a younger cousin, and tiptoed out the room.  He strode resolutely to Frodo's study, and was surprised to see the door slightly ajar, a thin band of light stretched out on the darkened corridor outside it.  There were voices inside.  Pippin crept to the door and peeked in. 

Two hobbits were sitting in front of the fireplace, wine bottles on the table between them, a cloud of smoke around them.  One was unmistakably Frodo; he still wore the beautiful suit made especially for the wedding.  The other, judging by his deep-throated grumbling voice, was Rory Brandybuck, a longstanding Master of the Halls only very recently replaced by his son.  His health was failing, but he would not be gainsaid when he announced his wish to be present at his sister-son's wedding.  The short trip to Bag End had been hard on his rusty joints and constantly wheezing lungs.  He had stayed in his room the entire afternoon following the disastrous wedding.  Pippin wondered why the old hobbit was wide-awake this time of night, guzzling wine and chatting amiably with Frodo.  Pippin tiptoed nearer, hiding behind the sofa in the middle of the room. 

"Oh, yes, my lad," cackled Rory raspingly.  "Not even Bilbo could do it better.  And I thought that business with Prim was the sloppiest job I've ever seen."

"With Pr...  Do you mean my mother, uncle?" asked Frodo, leaning closer.  "What business are you talking about?"

"Well, what else?  All these love and marriage stuffs," said Rory with exaggerated airiness.  "Didn't know your mother and Bilbo went a long way, did you?"

"No," admitted Frodo, sounding surprised.  "No one..."

"Aye.  Not something we talk about openly in the halls, especially since she married your father, and seemed to settle down quite happily," said Rory.  He took a sip from his glass and stared at the fire.  "But there was a time, Frodo, when it seemed that Prim had set her heart on another Baggins."

"My mother and Bilbo," whistled Frodo.  "Who would've believed it?"

"No one did, at the beginning," laughed Rory.  "You know Bilbo, never seemed to live in the here and now, always babbling about the strange creatures he met in the woods..."

Frodo stiffened, and Rory chuckled, patting his hand.  "Nothing wrong in that, lad, nothing wrong.  We all have our ways.  And even though every now and then we have a bit of fun with Bilbo's antics, we love him nevertheless.  He was that good with songs, he was always a welcome guest in the Halls."

Rory drew deeply on his pipe.  "He was visiting that time, on Mid-year Day.  We were having a feast.  Now Prim, she had this idea for a play and had been rehearsing it all through the best part of summer.  A grand one, it was: warriors and dames, dragons and such like.  We had a stage built and she saw to the decorations.  You should have seen her then, draped in the black cloth they used as background, shouting instructions, running here and there arranging wooden trees and castles and bridges."

"Mother did that?" asked Frodo with a grin.

"Wouldn't believe it, would you, your calm, dignified mother pottering with props?" chuckled Rory.  He signaled for Frodo to top up his glass, and Frodo complied, smiling as he did.  "Now Bilbo liked his parties, but he much preferred smaller, private ones with only those he knew well.  The Hall's Mid-year feasts, with guests coming from as far as Rushey, rattled him.  He told me himself that he was considering an escape with a good book, maybe in the Old Forest.  But I told him that he would miss the food, and he yielded a little, saying that he would disappear just after dinner.  He was thoroughly indifferent about Prim's play and thought the musicians were mediocre."

"That sounds like Bilbo, alright," said Frodo.  "Then what happened?"

"Well, with dinner more or less over, the stage was lit up, and the play began," said Rory, a smile wreathing his parched, wrinkled face.  "It didn't go very well, let's be fair about that.  Prim meant it to be dramatic, but we all doubled over from the very first minute it began.  I suppose we hobbits are not accustomed to heroic things.  Especially when the villain toppled behind the stage while ducking the hero's sword.  And the lady he was trying to save from the wizard's tower was so heavy, she fell from the balcony, bringing the tower down with her...."

Rory started to chuckle and Frodo followed suit.  Pippin had to stuff his knuckles into his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

"The noble white horse split into two because the forefeet were swifter than the hind ones.  The crescent moon fell from the night sky.  The wizard burned his beard stirring his cauldron, his black cat spooked by the fire and climbed the black curtain at the back, and it fell in a heap, revealing half-changed actors behind it."

The two hobbits by the fire shrieked with laughter while Pippin bit his tongue and buried his face at the back of the sofa. 

"Oh, it was the best entertainment we had in years, save for the time when Saradoc decided he could mount his pony on his own and decided to take a ride round the orchards facing backwards...."

Frodo and Rory laughed so hard they nearly slid off their chairs.  Pippin tried very hard to concentrate on his least favorite food, boiled cabbage. 

"But your mother..." gasped Rory after a while, "Prim was...superb.  She played both the young hero and the ghost of the poet who roused the villagers to help in ousting the wizard.  She was remarkable, brilliant.  Maybe that was the reason Bilbo fell for her.  After the show, they started talking.  Long into the night they chatted, ignoring all invitations to dance and almost all of the food.  Bilbo stayed longer that time, we even celebrated his birthday in the Halls, and Prim made another play in honor of the occasion.  It was a romantic one, but no less catastrophic.  The hero sprained his ankle when carrying his beloved and the plume fell off the peacocks' tails so many times that in the end the chickens were whisked off the stage and...."

His drone was cut off unceremoniously by Frodo's howling laugh.  Pippin shut his ears and counted backwards from fifty.

"Bilbo had to leave before Yule, but they wrote everyday to each other so the distance mattered little.  They were wildly in love, those two, and it made our parents concerned."

"Why?"

"Well, Bilbo was thirty years older than your mother.  She was only eighteen at the time," said Rory, before pausing to take a long pull on his wine.  "No doubt Bilbo was more than eligible.  But by the time your mother came of age, he would be sixty-three; not a very good age to commit oneself to a young wife with prospects of children ahead.  But to their credits, they were persistent.  Until the next year, shortly before her nineteenth birthday, Bilbo told me that he was going to formally propose to her.  He was willing to wait until she was of the legal age to marry, but he confessed that he couldn't bear thinking that other hobbits may fancy her, not knowing she was spoken for."

Rory handed his pipe to Frodo, who dutifully emptied it on into the ashtray before filling it with a generous supply of leaf.  After the pipe was lit, Rory sat back, gazing at the dancing blue smoke he had exhaled.  "We talked shortly after tea," he said slowly.  "Then he went for a walk before dinner.  He didn't return until the next morning.  Prim was nearly frantic.  It was fine, she said, gallivanting in Hobbiton and its surrounding hills.  But Buckland bordered on the unknown wild, and wolves were oft seen after dark.  When he came back, he was strange and distant.  He said he was leaving soon.  To me he said that he had changed his mind about asking Prim's hand in marriage.  To Prim he said that he feared he would fail to make her happy.  That one day he would go somewhere to have some adventures in foreign lands, and wish to have no ties that might burden his mind.  Much as he loved her, he wanted to remain free in case opportunity presented itself."

Frodo stared with wide, horrified eyes at Rory.  At the last sentence he winced and emitted a small distressed sound. 

Rory shrugged.  "I know," he said.  "It was terrible of him, and poor Prim was well nigh inconsolable.  But he did the right thing.  The next year he left with the dwarves and the wizard, to his death, people said; and in the autumn Prim met Drogo at a music festival in Bywater.  She consented to his courtship merely to spite Bilbo at first, but Drogo had this 'quietly determined sort of sweetness' as Prim put it, and she slowly learned to love him.  When news got out that Bilbo was probably dead, she had quite forgiven him."

Frodo sat back and sighed heavily.  "Poor Iris," he murmured softly.  "I hope she will soon find another love.  I can't bear the thought of what suffering and humiliation I have caused her.  She's too sweet to be hurt so cruelly."

"It's crueler to leave her when the two of you've tied the knot," muttered Rory. 

Frodo chuckled wryly. 

"What's so funny?" croaked Rory.

"I let her go," said Frodo bitterly, "in favor of an opportunity to leave the Shire and venture into the outside world.  What if such possibility exists only in my imagination?  What if I am destined to never leave Hobbiton, let alone the Shire?"

Rory gave Frodo a sidelong glance.  "We'll see, Frodo.  We'll see."

Frodo heaved a sigh and stared at the fire with his chin resting on his knuckles.  "I love her, Rory," he said quietly, the flames dancing scarlet in his eyes.

"I know, lad," said Rory, patting Frodo on the shoulder.  "I know."

He finished his last glass of wine and rose with difficulty.  "Ah, I'd best be along now.  Time to pay homage to the privy, then bed.  I'd be lucky if I could get up tomorrow.  Excellent wine, though, Frodo.  Many thanks."

"Do you need me to come with you?" asked Frodo, rising.

"No, no, no," waved Rory dismissively.  "I can still find my way around this tiny smial."

Frodo laughed and strode to open the door for Rory.  Pippin moved surreptitiously behind the sofa to avoid exposure.

Alone, or so he thought, in the study, Frodo sat with his eyes closed.  Once, not very long after he met Iris, he had sat in that chair and dreamed about what his life would be like with her: sitting on the sofa with her head on his lap, reading to her, while his hand ran through her chestnut hair; listening to her sing as she sat painting in the corner of the study; dancing to the soft hum of her voice while snow drifted outside the window.  There would be children, too, someday, and he imagined sitting on the floor playing with them, stealing an occasional kiss from their mother as they romped and laughed merrily.

But the visions were gone now.  Frodo stared at his reflection on the swirling claret in his glass.  He saw a lone hobbit, in an empty room.  Angrily he made to place the glass on the table, but he misjudged the distance, and the glass wobbled on the edge of the table before tumbling down and breaking to pieces as it hit the stone floor.  Frodo swore softly as he bent to pick up the shards.  He looked up, when suddenly a shadow loomed before him, blocking the light of the fire.

"Here," said Pippin, crouching next to Frodo.  "Let me do it."

 Frodo frowned at the young hobbit.  "Shouldn't you be in bed now, Pip?" he asked, swatting Pippin's well-meaning hand. 

"I ... I wanted to see if you're alright," said Pippin lamely. 

"I'm fine, Pip," said Frodo stiffly, gathering the broken glass into a neat, little pile while avoiding his cousin's eyes.  "If you want to help, get the broom and mop from the broom closet, first door on your right from the kitchen."

"Frodo," said Pippin slowly, reaching out to touch Frodo's arm.  "It's alright.  Don't be sad."

Frodo froze and gazed at Pippin.

"She wouldn't be a good wife for you anyway," furthered Pippin seriously.

Frodo choked back a chuckle and raised his eyebrows.  "What makes you think so?"

"I think she will be ... big, like her mother, when she's older," Pippin replied earnestly.

Frodo's eyes grew large, his mouth twitching as he fought the mounting urge to laugh.  "Pip," he said, trying to sound severe and lecturing, "it's not polite to make such comments on people's figure and I'll not have you speak of Mistress Foxbury like that."

"I was only thinking, Frodo, that the wedding ring won't fit anymore on her finger when she gets that big, so why make such a fuss about it?"

That did it.  Frodo collapsed on the floor, laughing, while Pippin stared at him in bemused satisfaction.  After a while, wiping his eyes, Frodo reached for Pippin's collar, and pulled the young hobbit closer.  Pippin was about to wrap his hands around Frodo when Frodo pushed him to the floor and started to tickle him.

"This, Peregrin Took," he said with a sternness bordering on laughter, "should teach you not to say nasty things about other people's bodies."

9. A Beautiful Night

Bag End, Solmath 1420 SR

I look at your hand lying on the covers.  Can you tickle as viciously as you used to with nine fingers?  Can I help you remember how?

"Do you know why I came here?" I ask timidly.

"Nightmare, what else," you reply half-heartedly. 

I shake my head.

"Why then?"

"There is a beast under my bed."

You pull a face.  "Pip, you're too old for this!"

"Humor me."

You sigh and roll your eyes.  "All right. Does it have two feet?"

"Yes."

"Two hands?"

"Yes."

"Wings?"

"Yes."

"Beak?"

"No."

"Tail?"

"I'm not sure. Never looked at its behind."

"Cheeky.  Horns?"

"Yes."

"You can't have a beast with both wings and horns!"

"Oh yes, I can.  Go on.  Fourteen questions to go."

"Is it green?"

"No."

"Blue?"

"No."

"Yellow?"

"No."

"White?"

"No."

"Black?"

"No.  You're being lazy."

"Red?"

"Almost."

"Pink?"

"Exactly."

"What?"

"I count that as a question."

"Pippin, that's not fair!"

"Six to go."

"Does it roar?"

"Usually."

"A pink winged-cow?"

"Cows don't roar.  They moo."

"Does it eat hobbits?"

"Raw or cooked?"

"Raw."

"No."

"A pink winged troll?"

"Trolls have no horns."

"A pink dragon?"

"No.  You lose.  It's a blushing Balrog."

You groan and, as I predicted, turn to tickle me ruthlessly.  I let you.  I could've run,  I could've wrestled you easily, but I choose not to.   I am thirty and you're nearly fifty-two, but we roll on the bed, screaming and shouting, like a couple of toddlers.

"No more beasts under the bed!"

"No!  No!  Stop!" I beg.

"Especially not lame, blushing beasts!"

"I promise!  Stop, Frodo, please!"

You pull your hands off me, leaving me panting and weak from laughing. 

"How's this ... there is a vegetable under my bed!" I gasp.

With a yell you dive and attack me again.

"It's ... curly ... and ... white ... and wr ... wrinkled ...!"

"I said stop!  Stop!" you order between peals of laughter.

"It's an aging broccoli!" I shriek, giggling hard.  "You're ... you're ... you're no good at losing, are you?"

You stop suddenly, staring down at me with eyes dripping pain and horror, your hands poised above me.  Nine fingers, twitching, trembling.

You move back and lie down, pulling your blanket around you. 

"I'm tired of games, Pip.  Go to sleep."  You turn to face the wall.

No.  Don't.  Don't turn away from me.  I've pulled you from those grisly memories; stay here.  Stay with me.  I need you.

I stretch out beside you, staring at your back, defiance rising in my heart.

Don't think I can be that easily thrashed, cousin dear.

"I don't think you're tired, Frodo," I mutter, with as much scorn as I can muster.  "You're just lazy."

"Shut up, Pip, or I'll feed you to your blushing Balrog in the morning."

I grin in the semi-dark.

"He really prefers aging broccoli."

You groan and pull the pillow from under your head and pile it on top of your ear.

I peel the corners of the fluffy pillow and whisper in your ear, "Good night, cousin mine.  Sweet dreams."

You mumble something under the pillow. 

"What's that, Frodo?"

You lift the pillow a bit so it won't muffle your speech.  "If the ceiling leaks, you get to move the feather bed."

"What?"

You chuckle lightly under the pillow.

It's a beautiful sound, your laugh.  Maybe there is still hope for you.  For us.

Epilogue

I am still smiling.  It's an odd feel, a smile.  Not the practiced twist of the corners of my mouth that is born out of sheer politeness and necessity.  A genuine smile, one that travels through my veins like warm ripples.  It feels ... nice.  Normal.  And for a while it pushes back the shadows, eases the hurt.  Silences the hateful yearning. 

Do you remember years ago, when your Mummy was so ill that they thought she would not last another month?  You were ten then and everybody was either ignoring you or trying to protect you by not telling you anything.  Bilbo and I came to the Great Smials to try to give some comfort to your father. I saw you first at tea and almost did not recognize you.  You were so quiet and withdrawn; you hardly said anything the whole time; your face pale and pinched and your eyes bleak.  Your father had his hand around your shoulder and mentioned something about how his Peregrin was a steady rock he could lean on in that time of trouble.  I looked around the room and saw your sisters ensconced in the loving arms of a multitude of concerned aunts.  And it struck me how lonely you were.  How you tried to be strong even though deep inside you were shattering to pieces.

That night you came into my room.  I was glad that I was not asleep yet at the time.  I was at the window, gazing at the stars, when you suddenly emerged from the shadows and stood beside me.

"Do you miss your mother, cousin, since she died?" you asked quietly, reasonably, your eyes impenetrable. 

I turned and stared at you.  "Yes, of course," I said.  "I miss her very much.  Why do you ask?"

"They say Mummy's dying," you said flatly.  "They think I don't know.  They wouldn't answer my questions.  They wouldn't let me see her..."

Suddenly you began to cry.  It was a pitiful sight: you stood there by the window, bathed by the pale moonlight, your fists twisting into your eyes, your body shaking with each sob, a far cry from the little Pippin I thought I knew, who seemed to live within a sunny, merry fortress that sheltered him from hurt and sadness. 

I held you.  Long into the night, until the stars glimmered pale and low in the sky, I held you.  You wept into my nightshirt, mumbling something about being scared, as I quietly ran my hand through your hair.  Finally you stopped crying and looked up at me with your red, swollen eyes. 

You did not say anything.  You did not need to.  The dark weight that I saw in your eyes had been lifted.  There was a look of near content gladness in your face.  You could smile again.  A rather shy smile, at that, but I was grateful for it. 

I see the same look in your face tonight.  When you came, looking stricken and bewildered, with pleas for help roiling wordlessly in the golden brown of your eyes, I wondered what you could possibly expect me to offer.  I have nothing, less than nothing.  I cannot even pretend that I know how to drive out my own nightmares.   But you nestled into my arms as though it was unthinkable not to; you burrowed into the empty shell that was my embrace and laid yourself, your heart, trustingly in it, letting my disfigured hand caress you in a mockery of the comfort it used to promise. 

Long moments passed before you finally shifted and gazed at me.  There was the selfsame grateful calm in your eyes, the identical candid love gushing into my heart before I could shutter it with the belief that for someone who had dragged you into this remnant of madness, I do not deserve such devoted tenderness.  But there it was in your eyes, that look of comfort and relief.  Somehow, I can still hold you and you still find respite in my arms.  Somehow I am still the cousin Frodo you used to turn to when you were in trouble, not the ruined Frodo of the Nine Fingers who has nothing, who is nothing. 

I brush the curls from your brows, feeling a gratitude and love so profound that they hurt.  You shift, your lips quirking in a smile, mumbling, "No....  No more blushing Balrog...." 

I smile again, taking your hand that lies limp on your pillow, closing my eyes, listening to you breathing, feeling you soft and warm next to me. 

Maybe the blushing Balrog can watch over us tonight.  Maybe it can keep the darkness at bay.  Just for tonight, maybe I can find peace in a long, untroubled sleep.  And who knows ... maybe even ... sweet dreams.

~fin~