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Dwarvish Delight
It had been four days now, and that, decided Pippin grumpily, was
three days entirely too many. An occasional rain-bound day or two had its
charms, especially with the proper sort of companionship, but four solid days of
the stuff was distinctly wearing out its welcome. Mid-September was, after all,
meant to be warm days, perhaps even still hot, and chill nights. It was bright
blue skies, without even the faintest wisp of cloud, and the first golden leaves
beginning to drift down onto the dusty roads. It was a surprising nip in the
air, felt first thing in the morning, and forgotten in the long amber
afternoons. It was pink asters in the borders and brown-eyed Susans along the
lanes and the first taste of a crisp sweet apple. It was Frodo’s birthday.
That was, of course, the primary excuse for his and Merry’s visit, not that they
ever really needed that formal a reason to show up. Not for the first time, he
was grateful for Frodo’s immensely tolerant good nature, and the fact that he
and Merry had never been bunged out on their ears, so to speak, despite some
admittedly compelling provocations from time to time. But he was beginning to
feel fidgety, and rather pent up in a smial that was so very much smaller than
his own, and knew that Merry was feeling the same.
The stubborn mizzle seemed to make no difference to the smial’s other
inhabitants, for Sam came and went as if it was the loveliest of summer days
outside; tending to the gardening chores, the exact nature of which was an
absolute mystery to Pippin. However, there were fresh flowers in a jar on the
kitchen table next to a luscious pile of carrots, and quite a colorful bouquet
in the study on Frodo’s desk with the rain still glinting on the petals by the
light of the study fire. He obviously was not neglecting his indoor tasks
either, for the aroma of freshly baked seed-cake cooling on the kitchen counter
was beginning to cause Pippin to feel quite famished, difficult as that would
have been for any impartial observer to credit, given his performance at
luncheon.
And Frodo, of course, was happily occupied in his study with some musty tome or
other, parchment before him on the desk, fingers already ink-stained, nibbling
absent-mindedly on the end of a quill and contentedly humming something tuneless
to himself. Merry had gone out for a walk, rain or no, and while Pippin wasn’t
quite that desperate, he was beginning to feel rather put out about being
cheerily neglected by his host.
Hands stuffed well down into his trouser pockets, he moodily surveyed the book
spines, hoping vainly for something that appeared to be a bit on the light and
entertaining side. Of course, the fact that at least half of the volumes were in
languages that he could not speak at all, let alone read, did not bode well for
finding such an item. Some of the upper volumes, indeed, looked to be so worn
and dusty that they undoubtedly dated from Bilbo’s time, and seeing nearly
completely obliterated gilt letters of a sort he was quite sure that he had
never seen before, he stretched up on his toes, and tugged the heavy book down,
dislodging a generous quantity of dust as he did so. The book dropped into his
hands and then through them onto his foot, as he gave a yelp combined with an
especially hearty sneeze.
Frodo mildly glanced up at that startling combination of sounds. “Possibly time
to be dusting those,” he commented, with a bemused smile. “Entirely my fault,
you know. I keep telling Sam that I’m going to be getting around to that, but no
sooner than I go at them with the duster than one catches my eye, and well,
there you are,” he added, airily waving the goose quill about. “Dust everywhere,
I’m afraid.”
Perched on one foot, and rubbing the other against his calf, Pippin gave his
nose a strenuous rub, and glared down at the offending volume. “Well, I don’t
think you’ve perused this one for ages,” he muttered. “Not with that load of
dust still on it.” But the letters, also still dimly visible on the front of the
leather-bound book, continued to intrigue him, and he picked it back up
carefully.
“See here, Frodo,” he gave it an energetic swipe with his sleeve. “What sort of
odd letters are these? Not that I can read anything but common speech, mind you,
but this doesn’t look at all like elvish writing to me. Not nearly enough of the
squiggles and loops, you know.”
“Well, that’s because it isn’t.” Getting up from the desk, Frodo walked over to
Pippin and gave the writing a critical frown. “Dwarvish runes, without a doubt.
There are a few of those up on the top shelves, I believe. Some of Bilbo’s
visitors must have brought them for him, for I’ve never found the like in the
Hobbiton shops. Actually, I don’t believe I’ve ever looked through most of them.
Let me fetch a rag, and give it a wipe first though, or you’ll set us both to
sneezing this time.”
Pippin patiently waited while the rag was found, and Frodo had just finished
wiping the book off when Merry appeared in the study, rain-darkened curls still
plastered about his face, decidedly soggy about all the bits that a cape did not
cover, and rubbing his hands smartly together. “What’s that, a book?” he asked
perfunctorily. “What on earth are you doing with that, Pip? Stand aside, there’s
a pair of good lads, and let me at that fire. September has absolutely no
business being this brisk, that’s all I can say.”
“Get off, Merry, you are watering me quite thoroughly, and I am not a prize
peony, you know,” Pippin grumbled good-naturedly, but allowed Merry to usurp the
position of greatest warmth before the crackling log. “Look here though, see
what I’ve found. Some sort of mysterious gift to Cousin Bilbo from the dwarves
seemingly.”
“Not all that mysterious,” Merry snorted, standing before the fire and warming
his backside with relish. “Appears to be a book. I’ve seen those before.”
Pippin paid him no mind however, but placed the heavy volume on a table,
carefully opened it up, with Frodo peering over his shoulder with interest. “You
don’t happen to read this stuff, do you, Frodo?” he glanced over to his cousin
hopefully, but Frodo shook his head.
“Not a word, I’m afraid,” he replied merrily. “Unless there are pictures, it is
quite beyond me, more’s the pity.” But with the turn of another page, Pippin
discovered that there were, indeed, illustrations. The engraving showed a group
of dwarves engaged in what was, by their relaxed attitudes as well as what could
very nearly be described as smiles on their faces, an enjoyable pastime. But the
exact nature of this pastime was absolutely unfamiliar to those who carefully
scrutinized the illustration.
“That’s a ball,” Pippin pointed, after careful inspection, with an air of
finality.
“Unmistakably so,” Frodo chuckled. “I think you’re on to something, Pip.”
The arrival of Sam with a tray containing a seductively steaming teapot as well
as a plate piled high, Pippin quickly noted with approval, of warm seed-cake,
caused Merry’s attention to immediately disengage from the dusty book, and he
instantly sprang over to Sam’s side to lend assistance.
“Oh, Sam dear, have a look at this,” Frodo looked up with a warm smile at the
new arrival.
“Frodo, you might at least let the lad get out the cups,” Merry looked up with a
frown from where he had brushed aside papers on Frodo’s desk to make room for
the tray. “That book has obviously been there for ages, and I don’t believe it
plans on leaving anytime soon.”
“Tut, Merry, you know where the cups are. How much can you expect Sam to carry
at one time? Make yourself useful, then,” Frodo retorted, laughing, and drew Sam
over to the book that lay open on the table by the expedient stratagem of
slipping a hand around Sam’s waist.
Sam quickly abandoned the tea tray to Merry, but he had only had a chance to
glance at the page, and confirm Pippin’s theory that yes, that was indeed a
ball, than a brisk tattoo was pounded on the front door of Bag End. The four
occupants of the study looked at each other, and to a hobbit, breathed the name,
“Fatty.”
&&&&&
Fatty, indeed, it was. And what was more, there was another hobbit standing
diffidently at his side. Fatty had been expected, ostensibly to attend Frodo’s
birthday festivities, although his plans tended to frequently be vague and
mysterious when he visited Bag End, and he quite often disappeared for nights,
or even days, on end. However, the other hobbit was a bit of a surprise. But
Frodo, who had been followed down the hall by Sam, immediately rose to the
occasion and waved in both decidedly damp newcomers without question.
“Perfectly wonderfully to see you,” he pronounced, beaming at both of them, and
reached for their hats and cloaks. “I don’t know how you do it, Fatty, but you
have managed to arrive just in time for tea.”
“Frodo, old thing, that is positively the most glorious news I’ve heard all
day,” Fatty radiated approval in his direction. “See, now, didn’t I tell you
what a splendid fellow he is?” he turned to his companion with a satisfied nod.
“None of this questioning nonsense, regarding the stranger at the door, but just
takes our things and offers us sustenance.” The other hobbit, somewhat short and
slight of build, and possibly about Fatty’s age, gave a rather meek bow to the
assembled company, and offered a vague, uncertain smile. He opened his mouth to
make some comment, but what it was to have been was never known, for Fatty was
having none of that.
“See here, lads,” he declared, turning back to the others and drawing himself up
rather severely. “Sam’s seed-cake is pining for us somewhere nearby, for that
ambrosial scent is quite unmistakable, my dear fellow,” he added with a quick
wink at Sam, “and here we are nattering about in the hall.”
“Quite right,” Frodo laughed. “You have always had your priorities in proper
order, Fatty. Well then, lead on, Sam, and I’ll pop by the kitchen for a couple
of extra cups.”
Frodo returned to the study, a couple of extra cups in hand, just to see his
cousins greet Fatty with a silent but welcoming wave, their mouths being
otherwise occupied, and then give the newcomer a puzzled stare. It didn’t take
Merry very long though before his eyes lit up, and the somewhat muffled
exclamation of “Foffo!” was heard. The stranger stood rather shyly near the
door, hands in his pockets, but gave a baffled smile at this greeting.
“Folco!” was now heard more distinctly, as Merry gave a good swallow, and
repeated himself. “Stars above, it’s Folco Boffin!” Turning to a still rather
mystified Frodo, he quickly explained. “Fatty’s cousin, do you remember? Mine
too, for that matter. He would have just been a fauntling when you left Brandy
Hall, I suppose.”
“Quite so,” Fatty was heard to add, and as the others turned to him, was found
to be collecting seed-cake crumbs with a moistened fingertip. The plate was, of
course, absolutely barren.
“Oh, see here!” Pippin exclaimed in disappointment at that discovery, since he
had only had the one piece, before making the mistake of attending to his tea.
But Frodo laughed, and held out a hand to Folco in welcome. “Very glad to meet
you, my dear hobbit, and I suppose that makes us cousins, in some sort of
indirect way, as well. Don’t fret, Pippin, there’s some apple cake that Sam was
planning to feed us for afters, but I suppose it will do as well for now.”
“Pippin Took, probably a cousin of yours also, and if you’ve known Fatty here
for long, you’ll understand my concern,” the younger hobbit added with a grin,
holding out his hand in welcome as well. “Food positively vanishes in his
presence, and I must confess to a fairly healthy appetite of my own.”
“And this,” added Frodo, indicating Sam with a smile, as Sam showed no
inclination to say anything, “is the inestimable Samwise Gamgee, my dearest
companion and the other resident of Bag End as well as, I suppose, the only
person here who is not related in some way to you.” Sam shook the stranger’s
hand as well, with only the slightest reddening of his cheeks, but glanced over
at Pippin in relief when the subject of apple cake was raised again.
The second cake was therefore fetched, as well as another pot of tea and, after
a hurried search by both Sam and Pippin in the larder, a bowl of grapes and a
small wheel of cheese. It was only after all the company settled down to a more
leisurely repast, Pippin prudently placing the apple cake far from Fatty’s
reach, that conversation continued.
“Folco, here,” Fatty began, obviously sensing that it was up to him to account
for the additional guest, “happened to be visiting when I broke the news to Mama
that I was off to see you, Frodo. Now, apparently my dear mother has received
word that visiting you is not my only motive in making my way to this quaint
little village of yours, and she hasn’t been handling this rumor particularly
well, I must say.”
“Rumor?” questioned Merry with a sly grin. “Surely you are not referring to the
fair widow Sackville-Baggins as but a rumor?”
“Well, I would rather think that that would be our own particular affair,” Fatty
gave a blithe wave of his hand, which incidentally contained a wedge of cheese
one minute, and nothing at all the next. “But apparently, dearest Mama is in an
absolute frenzy to ensure that the noble lineage of Bolger does not fade away,
and astutely enough, she perceives that this particular relationship will not
prove productive along those lines. Thus, my esteemed cousin Folco Boffin has
been dispatched as my companion on this visit, and both of our own dear mothers
send their best wishes, along with their expressed hope that Mr. Frodo Baggins
might be so good as to introduce both Mr. Boffin and myself to the young ladies
of his acquaintance.”
There was a short, rather stunned silence, during which Fatty managed to keep a
straight face, and Folco beamed happily at having his mission so easily
explained by Fatty, before Pippin could hold out no longer, and dissolved into a
gale of giggles.
Merry, however, gave him a swift, hardly noticeable kick, and Frodo shook his
head with a tolerant smile. “My dear Folco, you are really most welcome here,”
he reassured the somewhat baffled Folco, “but actually we do have a rather, erm,
bachelor establishment here, as your cousin knows quite well. But since he has
at least one connection with the fair ladies of Hobbiton, I will leave that
matter up to his discretion. I do hope, however, that your mother does not have
her heart set on an instant match, or she may be disappointed.”
“Oh, no, not in the least,” the newcomer hastily assured him, shaking his head
quickly. “No hurry, you know. None at all.”
“Quite,” Fatty smiled beneficently, with an air of having matters satisfactorily
settled. “And he can have my room, needless to say. I’m afraid it won’t be put
to much use otherwise. Should auld acquaintance and all that sort of thing. Oh,
no, don’t you think of getting up, Frodo, my good lad, and Sam, if you’d be so
kind, another plate out for second breakfast tomorrow would not go amiss.” And
with very nearly a shimmer, he was gone, and there were but five hobbits left in
the study of Bag End.
&&&&&
It wasn’t until after dinner that the dwarves’ gift was remembered. Dinner had
been a definite success, with Merry doing his best to draw out his unmistakably
shy erstwhile relative, and by the end of the meal, Folco was obviously starting
to feel more comfortable in this rather unusual household. After a bit of
thought, Merry had finally placed him, among his innumerable relatives, and was
gleefully recollecting some of the escapades in which Folco, although very
peripherally, had been involved. But the young hobbit seemed pleased, and
possibly even a little startled, to have been remembered, and beamed at, and
supported from time to time, Merry’s remembrances. Pippin had been, of course,
watching the animated Merry with delight and possibly, Sam suspected, a bit of
jealousy to have been left out of such marvelous exploits due to his youth at
the time, and Sam felt once more a sympathetic connection with Frodo’s younger
cousin on the dilemma of having been considered too juvenile for the sort of
thing that really mattered. However, those days were past, indeed, for both of
them, even though Sam was quite sure that Merry would be taken severely to task
later that night. He was also quite sure that Merry wouldn’t, in the least bit,
be put out by this plight.
Dinner had been taken in the kitchen, with both Frodo and Sam in attendance on
their guests, and not even Pippin could manage to stuff the last cream tart down
his gullet, when they finally ceased eating. Merry was, by now, swirling what
remained of his beer round in his mug in a particularly thoughtful manner, and
Pippin was eying the remaining tart in a mournful way, thoroughly regretting his
lack of capacity. Frodo had dexterously tipped his chair back against the wall
and had drawn it quite close to Sam’s. He had, in fact, actually managed to get
Sam to stop clearing off dishes, and generally fussing about the kitchen, and
had a firm arm around his shoulder. Indeed, the combination of Frodo’s alluring
proximity, and the amount of beer that he had consumed in companionship with his
guests, had acted upon Sam to the extent that he had his head resting quite
comfortably on Frodo’s shoulder and one of his hands entwined with Frodo’s free
hand, and did not particularly care who noticed. Merry and Pippin were, of
course, entirely used to this sort of thing, but the other guest, Folco, sat
quietly in his chair with a bemused smile on his face and a rather glassy look
about the eye. If there was any unusual activity in the room to his mind, he
certainly gave no indication of it.
It was this peaceful sense of camaraderie that emboldened Sam enough to quietly
remind Frodo about the dwarves’ book that had been abandoned so abruptly in the
study. “Of course,” Frodo laughed, rising to his feet without managing to let go
of Sam’s hand. “To the study with us, again, and let us see if we can make any
more sense of that illustration this time.”
Interestingly enough, it was Folco, when they had all gathered around the volume
once more, who finally interpreted it. “Skittles,” he exclaimed in surprise,
giving the engraving a careful scrutiny. “I never knew that it was a dwarvish
game.”
“Ah, skittles,” Merry glanced towards him curiously. “Isn’t that played down
Longbottom way?”
“Quite so,” agreed Folco, continuing to stare at the picture with interest. “My
father was involved with Longbottom leaf, and took me on many occasions to
Stamford. A rather largish town. Part of it lies outside the wall, you know,” he
glanced up at the others with a slightly owlish expression.
“Ah, indeed,” commented Merry, rather vaguely. “But this skittles, now. Have you
seen it played?”
“Oh, yes, but I was only a young fellow at the time, so I don’t quite remember
all the details,” he replied, looking apologetically at the others.
“But see here, it can’t be all that complicated,” Merry responded, somewhat
impatiently. “There appear to be some sort of sticks. One rolls the ball at
them. It doesn’t seem wildly complex, or even moderately amusing, to my mind.
Surely there is more to it than that?”
“Well, I believe the weight of the, erm, pin, as I believe they are called, is
such that you really have to give it a rather good whack with the ball in order
to knock it down,” Folco explained mildly, appearing to warm to the subject.
“And then there is the matter of the distance. One cannot stand too close, or
there would not be much of a challenge to it, you see. And then the
configuration of the pins must be such that one pin can knock down another, if
hit just so, but only if hit just so. The ball, needless to say, must be
perfectly round, and heavy enough to gain a certain momentum, so to speak.
Indeed, there quite a few factors to be considered. But I really have no idea as
to the details, you know.”
There were a few moments of thoughtful silence after the longest speech Folco
had yet made since arriving at Bag End, but Folco appeared not to notice as he
gazed at the illustration again with placid curiosity.
“It certainly does sound interesting,” Frodo began to say tactfully, but Pippin
had been studying the illustration as carefully as Folco and now looked
hopefully up toward his host.
“It would be a lark, wouldn’t it, Frodo?” he piped up unexpectedly. “Now that
long hall of yours, I’d think that that would be just the thing, to roll a ball
down. What do you think, Folco?”
“I did not notice it specifically with that purpose in mind as I entered,” Folco
looked up thoughtfully, “but as long as it is reasonably smooth and straight, I
should think it would serve the purpose.”
“Excellent,” Pippin nodded his head with satisfaction, and then turned
cheerfully to Sam. “You’d be able to whittle a few pins, wouldn’t you, Sam?
You’re such a marvel with that sort of thing. And I suppose we could find a ball
somewhere about. What a glorious new entertainment for your birthday dinner,
only think, Frodo!”
Frodo had just begun to open his mouth to protest the concept of hurling heavy
objects down his halls, not to mention coercing Sam into some sort of frenzied
woodcraftery, when he caught Sam’s eye. Sam was standing behind the others, but
he could see his amused and fond smile at Pippin’s excitement, and he gave Frodo
an almost imperceptible nod. “Very well,” he found himself saying much to his,
as well as Merry’s, surprise, “perhaps we can have a go at it tomorrow, if Sam
doesn’t mind.”
“Still three days ‘til your birthday and we’d all be feelin’ a mite cooped up in
all this rain,” Sam gave a chuckle. “If Mm, er, Folco,” he amended himself
hastily, seeing Frodo’s expression, “wouldn’t mind giving me a bit of advice,
I’ll see what I can do.” Folco blinked happily at the thought of being useful,
and thus the matter was settled.
&&&&&
Only later, as they were getting ready for bed, did Frodo have a chance to ask
Sam about it. Merry and Pippin had, as usual, the room next to theirs, and
Pippin could be heard chattering away for quite a few minutes, until he was
rather abruptly silenced. Frodo had shown Folco to the back bedroom, which Sam
had turned out quite nicely, with a warm blanket and freshly plumped pillows, a
cozy fire just beginning to settle down, and a cheerful handful of sunflowers in
a glass on the chest next to the bed to brighten it all up a bit. If Folco had
noticed that all the other guests seemed to be paired off, excepting only
himself, he gave no indication of it, and to be sure, Frodo wasn’t entirely
certain that he had noticed that fact.
But now they were together in their own haven, and Sam was laying both his and
Frodo’s clothes for the morrow carefully over the back of the chair as Frodo lay
in bed, well-wrapped in the blankets, and waiting for him. Sam would insist on
this task, and Frodo had long since given up on trying to do it himself, if it
gave Sam pleasure to do for the both of them. So he watched Sam instead, in the
combined light of the banked fire and the lone candle still flickering by the
side of their bed, and once more cherished the play of light on Sam’s golden
hair and skin. “That was kind of you, Sam,” he murmured suddenly, and Sam
glanced over to him in surprise.
“Indulging Pippin in that way,” he clarified, and was rewarded with Sam’s sudden
smile.
“Ah, well, you must admit that rainy days can drag a mite when you’ve naught
t’be doin’,” he chuckled softly, walking over to the window and drawing the
curtains open. Frodo had also learned that Sam needed the first morning light to
be up and about as he thought he should, and had become quite adept at drawing
the bedclothes over his own head when he felt the need to sleep in of a morning.
The rain was still stubbornly assaulting the window, and there was no light to
be seen from moon nor star this night, but Frodo snuffed out the candle by the
bed. The light of the dying fire was all Sam needed to find his way to him.
“Seems like Pippin’s always goin’ along with the rest of us,” Sam said softly,
pausing with one knee on the bed as he started to pull the bedclothes back next
to Frodo. “The rest of us now, why, we’d alus be that busy, with plenty as needs
doin’. Mayhap Pippin’d be better off to have folks dependin’ on him, too. So if
he wants t’be doin’ this, why, I’d be glad t’lend him a hand. But that’s all
I’ll be doin’, mind, just lendin’ him a hand. And it’ll be up to him. And this
Folco too. Odd sort of lad, now, isn’t he? But very kindly, I’d say.”
“Sam, you’re such a dear,” Frodo said tenderly, reaching one hand from out of
the blankets for him. “Come here, love, and let me properly appreciate every bit
of you.”
And since Sam was not at all adverse to this, there was a considerable amount of
caressing, and kissing, and soft breathless laughs, and tender words being
exchanged, and quiet sighing and moaning and delicious exchanges of love, before
the two hobbits fell asleep curled closely together in the rainy night.
&&&&&
Frodo poked a head out from under the nest of bedclothes he had somehow created
during the night and, glancing at the round window, confirmed the truth of what
his ears had informed him. Yes, it was still raining. Sam was, of course, gone,
and the subsequent delicious aroma of bacon and frying taters was becoming quite
impossible to ignore. He had, after all, a full smial of guests, in addition to
one more than likely to be returning at any moment. Fatty had quite an uncanny
sense regarding when a meal was to be served, and was absolutely infallible
about being there to meet it. Certain sounds issuing from the adjoining room
indicated that Merry and Pippin were greeting the day in their customary manner
as well, but he had no doubt as to their expected promptness at the breakfast
table. That left Folco, as the resident mystery.
He did rather vaguely remember him now as appearing from time to time at the
Brandy Hall Yule festivities, but there was a singular lack of anything
distinctive about him. However, he seemed amiable enough, and Frodo didn’t
really mind the way Fatty had unexpectedly brought him along as spare baggage,
as it were. Wildly eccentric relatives, he had plenty of. The occasional
mild-mannered one was rather a relief. Dressing quickly, he gave the room a
perfunctory tidying, and hurried to the kitchen to help Sam out.
Fatty was indeed there, still a bit on the soggy side, but comfortably draped
over a chair, and idly stirring honey into a mug of steaming tea. There had been
something on a plate before him, but what it had been was a mystery, since there
was not a crumb left. Sam, glancing up, gave him a meaningful look, and Frodo
hurried to his side with a chuckle. “I’m here, my dear, just tell me what you
need done. You really should have given me a good shake before you left, you
know; you know how lazy I can be on a rainy morning.”
Sam’s expression softened and he leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the
cheek. “An’ if I had my way, me dear, you’d be there still, and I’d be bringin’
you your first breakfast this very moment. But there’s guests t’be fed, and I’ve
but two hands, seemingly,” he shook his head in mock distress, with at least one
hand still busy stirring the taters.
“Mmm,” purred Frodo, his eyes brightening at Sam’s affectionate greeting. “With
so many to feed, I’m sure there are a good many things that we might need in the
larder,” he added, one hand slipping around Sam’s waist, “so perhaps we should…”
“”I say, my dear impetuous host,” came a wry voice from the side, “I’m all for a
pre-breakfast nuzzle or two, but do have pity on a humble guest, and let Sam
finish the frying before you drag him out to the back pantry.”
Frodo gave a rather annoyed glance over his shoulder at his guest at this
interruption, and was just ready to tartly argue that it had to be at least
Fatty’s third breakfast of the morning, and he might have at least give the
others a fighting chance to see some breakfast too, when the others, in the form
of a cheerful Merry and a rather bouncy Pippin, were heard making their way down
the hall, closely followed by Folco.
“We had to show him where to go,” Pippin explained helpfully, as he and Merry
dragged the appropriate number of chairs up to the table. “Plus, we need to
start on our project as soon as we can.”
Of course, an explanation was now in order as far as Fatty was concerned,
although the newcomer did not seem quite as charmed by the project as Pippin and
Folco had been. “How very entertaining,” he yawned languorously, as Sam placed
the plate of bacon and fried potatoes very close to Frodo, and as far as
possible from Fatty. Frodo pounced upon it with alacrity and, quickly serving
both himself and Sam while Sam was distracting Fatty with another platter of
fried bread, insured that the other guests had at least a portion of the dish
before it disappeared in Fatty’s general vicinity. It wasn’t until Sam deposited
on the table, in quick succession, dishes of fat purple grapes, neatly sliced
buttered brown bread, fluffy scrambled eggs, and chilled plum compote, that he
felt it safe to slip into his seat next to Frodo. Conversation languished for a
bit after that, but soon enough, the subject of the dwarves’ pastime once again
arose.
“I’d not mind having another look a’that picture again, and seeing if I can make
a few of those, er, pins, is it now?” Sam offered, tentatively, and Folco
immediately brightened up at the thought.
“I’d love to help, if you don’t mind,” he offered, with a slight flush. “I’m
really not terribly good at any type of handcraft, but if there’s anything I can
do…” and his voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty,” assured Pippin, confidently. “We need to examine
Frodo’s hall, after all, and then hunt up some sort of ball.”
Fatty gave a nearly disguised shudder at the thought of such activities. “Quite
amusing, I’m sure,” he murmured, giving a last quick scan of the dishes on the
table which were, needless to mention, extremely empty. “Well, Frodo, old thing,
do give me an update this evening. I have an errand of mercy to run for the
moment, but I shall return this evening henceforth.” And once again there were
but five hobbits in the dining room.
“Well, Merry, it looks as if you’ll be lending me a hand,” Frodo laughed, rising
from the table. “No, Sam, don’t even consider it. Your talents are wasted on the
dishes. Merry and I can handle them quite nicely, I believe.”
&&&&&&
Sam scratched his head and stared at the pin again. It appeared to be the right
shape, heaviest just before the bottom, with a narrow neck and a rounded top.
But it seemed to topple right over with very little encouragement, often totally
of its own accord. Knocking them down certainly required barely any effort at
all, and he couldn’t help thinking that the dwarves must be most easily amused,
for this hardly seemed much of a sport, to his mind. It wasn’t until Folco and
Pippin ventured out through the rain to the garden shed, where he had been
whittling, that a second opinion was weighed in.
Both the younger hobbits shook the rain from their cloaks, and then stared
curiously at Sam’s creation. “I really wouldn’t be the best hobbit to ask,”
Folco ventured timorously, “but I’d wonder if there perhaps should be a bit more
weight to them.”
Sam nodded his head with a certain amount of exasperation. “Aye, true enough.
But I tried a bit of hickory, and it was a’that heavy that a good-sized stone
chucked a’it would do naught but spin it around a bit. And now this pine’d be
too light.”
“I’m very sure you are quite right,” Folco hastened to assure him, “but if I
remember correctly, and no doubt I am rather confused, but I thought I noticed a
ring just around the widest point.”
“Where was that again?” Sam asked curiously, and when Folco indicated the place,
his eyes lit up. “Ah, t’be sure. There’d be two types of wood joined there.
An’here I was, just thinkin’ it a bit of decoration. That’d make it bobble
proper, no mistake.”
“So you think you could fix it, Sam?” Pippin, who had only been understanding
the general gist of this, chimed in hopefully.
“Well, aye, but it would naught be a simple thing t’do,” Sam shook his head. “It
take more than a bit o’time, t‘be sure.”
“I’m certainly no craftsman,” Folco offered tentatively, “but I could certainly
try to rough them out a bit for you, Sam, if you wouldn’t mind such an untrained
hand.”
Sam gave him a shrewd look. “I’d be willing t’think that it might not be as
untrained as you say. But that would be most helpful, and I’d thank you kindly.
An’ mayhap the gaffer might be sittin’ down the Row now w’naught as needs doin’,
and be willing to lend a hand likewise.”
“Oh, that would be splendid,” Pippin’s eyes lit up at the thought. “Your father
tells the most wonderful stories, Sam.”
Sam had to chuckle at Pippin’s remark. “Aye, he’s a gift for it, no doubt. But
you know we’ll have t’be headin’ for Number Three if we’re lookin’ for his help.
He’ll never be easy sittin’ about Bag End with the likes of you gentlehobbits.”
“Even after all these years, Sam?” Pippin couldn’t help asking quietly, and
detected a quick flash of pain before Sam managed to hide it.
“Old habits die that hard, seemingly,” Sam replied softly, and the others said
no more.
&&&&&&
The gaffer was, fortunately enough, rather at a loose end this rainy morning.
What with at least four days of rain, all the odd jobs that had been saved up
had been completed, and Daisy, up to her elbows in dough, was more than glad to
see Sam and company arrive. The gaffer had greeted them at the door with a
quickly disguised bit of surprise, and had immediately escorted all three, with
only the hint of a split moment of indecision that Sam alone saw, into the warm
kitchen to dry themselves off. The front room was marginally grander, to be
sure, but cold and drafty, and completely unused, especially since the death of
his goodwife Belle. The kitchen was the heart of the small and previously
crowded Gamgee smial, and the only reasonable room in which to receive a guest;
cramped, cluttered, and humble though it might be.
Pippin gave a surprised Daisy a warm smile and polite bow as they entered, and
she cheerily returned the favor. It was no secret that Daisy Gamgee was a great
favorite at the Great Smials, and life seemed to run so much more smoothly on
her frequent visits there. Both Gamgees gave the stranger a politely curious
glance, and Sam introduced the newcomer as a cousin of Fredegar Bolger, and a
relative of Frodo’s, which only heightened interest in the newly arrived guest,
since any cousin of Fatty’s promised to be interesting, to say the least. But
after Folco smiled shyly, shoving his hands far into his pockets and saying
nothing, general interest was quickly lost, and conversation turned to the
purpose of their visit.
Once that had been explained by Sam though, the gaffer’s interest was
immediately piqued, and he carefully examined the illustration in the book that
Pippin had cautiously kept dry under his cloak. “Aye, two kinds of wood t’be
sure,” he confirmed, staring at the illustration with great interest. “I’d be
thinking’ cherry wood on the bottom, Sam-lad, and I do have a cord of that, sure
enow. But the top, now, that’d be the thing. Softer than cherry, mind, but not
a’that light.” And he fell into silent musing, continuing to scrutinize the
picture.
It was then that Folco spoke his first words since their arrival. “I’m nowhere
near the expert you are, Master Gamgee,” he cleared his throat hesitantly, “but
might not another fruit wood, such as pear or apple, be a possibility?”
The gaffer broke his reverie and, glancing up, gave Folco an appraising glance.
“You’d be knowin’ your wood, Master Boffin, if I’m not mistaken. That’s a right
fine notion. I’ve a bit o’applewood, and we might just be givin’ that a try.”
Turning to Sam, he continued, “Old Tolman has a gluepot, Sam-lad, so if we’d be
trying it this way, we’d be needin’ him likewise.”
“No trouble, Da, I’ll just go see if he wouldn’t mind lendin’ a hand,” Sam
offered quickly, glad to see the interest that his father was taking in this
unusual project. And with only the least of misgivings, he left the two
gentlehobbits behind at Number Three. He and Daisy exchanged a quick glance as
he left, however, and he took, as always, a great deal of comfort in her calm
assured presence.
&&&&&
Upon his return, though, he found he needn’t have worried. The gaffer and Folco
Boffin were deep into a highly technical consideration of the merits of the
apple wood as opposed to the pearwood as a balancing factor to the heavier
cherry, and Sam was heartened to see his father taking long thoughtful draws on
his pipe, always a signal of his intense interest in a subject. Pippin, on the
other hand, having no claim at all to any knowledge on this topic, was happily
chatting with Daisy, updating her on the latest doings and scandals of the Great
Smials, as he gleefully pounded the dough under her amused direction. Indeed,
Sam was more than half glad that his father was obviously paying the both of
them no mind, since the tail end of the story he heard upon entering was quite
startling. But his and Tolman Cotton’s arrival immediately caused a pause in
both conversations. Tolman was drawn at once into the debate as to the
appropriate wood, and once the glue pot was produced, and placed upon the hearth
to warm, Daisy gratefully accepted Pippin’s offer to escort her back to Bag End.
There was laundry that she needed to be picking up, she quickly informed Sam,
and he acknowledged her statement with an understanding smile. The gluepot,
after all, could be quite pungent.
As they walked back to Bag End, with Daisy, no longer under her father’s
watchful eye, tucking a sisterly hand under Pippin’s arm, he told her of the
true purpose of Folco’s visit. “Ah, now,” she laughed, her other hand drawing
the hood of her cape up against the rain as she turned to Pippin. “T’would be a
fruitless errand there, I’m thinkin’. ‘Tis rare t’see a lass about Bag End,
excepting meself, and I’d naught be the lass Master Boffin’d be lookin’ for, no
ways.”
“And my sister would be no end distressed if you were,” Pippin gallantly agreed,
with a saucy smile. “But you’ve seen the poor lad, now. You must admit that for
all he seems like a decent enough sort, he’s not exactly the hobbit to set the
hearts of lasses afire.”
“Oh, now, like you would be, then,” Daisy gaily chided him. “The lasses of
Hobbiton’d not be forgetting you, Master Pippin. You set more than one heart
ablaze at the Summer Fest a few years back, no mistake. Just you ask Pansy
Burrows and see if you didn’t.”
Pippin ducked his head a bit at the memory, and even in the dim light of the
grey morning, Daisy could see his face flush. “I was definitely not myself that
time; I have no idea what came over me,” he muttered with distinct
embarrassment.
“Be that as it may,” Daisy tightened her grasp on his arm just a bit, “you have
been the talk of many a long night in the Burrows’ smial.” They walked in
silence a little further, until Daisy suddenly stopped short. “If you’d really
be wantin’ to help him out,” she mentioned, rather tentatively, “Pansy Burrows
and my sister May are still great friends. I could go along with May to visit
Pansy in Hobbiton, and if you and Master Boffin should be in town as well…”
“That’s brilliant, Daisy!” Pippin exclaimed, thrilled at the thought of romantic
intrigue. “You think May would go along with it?”
Daisy broke into a broad grin. “Oh, I rather think she would enjoy it
immensely,” she affirmed, with a chuckle. “Matchmaking has always been that much
of a specialty of hers. It’s the least I can do for her, being such a
disappointment to her on that matter, meself.”
&&&&&
It was only when a brisk knock was heard on the door of Number Three, Bagshot
Row that Sam looked up with a start, and realized the afternoon was darkening
outside the round kitchen window. It had to be nearly dinnertime, and he and the
rest of the party, namely the gaffer, Tolman Cotton, and Folco Boffin, had been
so engrossed in their work that not only second breakfast, but elevenses,
luncheon, and teatime had passed them by unnoticed as well. He gave a guilty
thought as to Frodo alone with his voracious cousins, but since Daisy had not
returned, he had to assume that she was available to give Frodo a bit of a hand
if necessary. The other three had given a brief glance towards the door at the
interruption but, allowing Sam to take care of the matter, returned to the more
interesting topic of the advisability of hide glue as opposed to fish glue and
left the door to Sam.
Sam had lost interest in that topic nearly an hour ago, but had been gamely
keeping up his end of the production. Nevertheless, he wholeheartedly welcomed a
chance to get up and stretch out his cramped limbs. The company that jovially
greeted him in the Row, however, was somewhat of a surprise. Frodo was there,
with a warm smile for him, and Merry and Pippin were, of course, present as
well. However his sisters Daisy and May were also standing at the door, not to
mention a surprisingly somber-appearing Fatty. The rain had stopped, more or
less, and there was only an intermittent drizzle to contend with, and most of
the assembled company greeted his appearance with enthusiasm.
“Sam, my good hobbit, you have been working far too hard,” Merry exclaimed with
a grin. “But that’s nothing that a mug at the Green Dragon wouldn’t cure, and
that’s just where we’re heading. Go fetch cousin Folco, won’t you, and your
father and whoever else would like to join us. You’ve worked long enough for
today, I should think.”
Sam had no objections whatsoever to this invitation, but when he checked with
the other three, to a hobbit, they quickly declined. Frodo’s birthday dinner
was, after all, tomorrow night, and there were still but six pins finished, and
four left to be done. Sam, realizing that Folco had been far more at his ease in
this company than he had thus far seen him this visit, acquiesced to this plan,
and promised to pick him up on their way back home to Bag End. Folco nodded
happily, and immediately began to question the gaffer regarding the angle at
which the bottom of the pin should be sanded.
Sam let the rest of the company go ahead, as they headed merrily down the muddy
lane to Hobbiton, and fell to the rear with Frodo. “Fatty’d be lookin’ a mite
off,” he observed softly, as he walked, arms linked, at Frodo‘s side.
“He came back earlier from the Widow’s than expected,” Frodo said in a low
voice. “It wasn’t even time for a meal. And he’s said very little, and that’s
decidedly unlike Fatty. I have no idea where we’ll put him tonight, should he
decide to stay, however. That’s a narrow bed for him to be sharing with Folco,
and I doubt if either one would appreciate each other’s company.”
The Green Dragon was crowded this evening, with many a hobbit taking advantage
of the lull in the rain to stretch their legs, and escape from the tedious walls
of their smials. Ned Proudfoot and Old Sandyman were engaged in a rather heated
discussion as to the extent to which the unusual rains might have harmed the
last summer crop of wheat, but both took the time to greet the newly arrived
party, one more graciously than the other, truth be said, and stand the visitors
mugs all round. The gift was accepted, only under the firm understanding that
the next round was on Frodo, and after a bit of conversation, the Bag End
contingent made their way to a more secluded table at the back of the great
room.
The lasses had left them at the door, full of barely stifled excitement, and
telling their brother that they were planning to pay a visit to the Burrows
sisters, and might not be home until the morrow, leaving him to ponder once more
on the fortuitousness that Lar Hoarfoot had turned out to be an exceptionally
easy-going and tolerant hobbit. So it was but the five of them who settled in a
back corner, froth-frosted mugs in their hands, and stretched their legs out
under the worn but highly polished table.
“Tell, Fatty,” began Merry, obviously feeling curious regarding Fatty’s
unexpected presence in their midst. “You and the widow on the outs? It must be
serious if you haven’t managed your normal double dinner.”
But for once, there was no glib reply from Fatty. Instead, he stared moodily
into his mug and said nothing. It wasn’t until several awkward moments had
passed that he looked up into the concerned faces of his friends, and gave a wry
smile. “I know you’ll hardly credit this, lads, but the fair lady has cast me
aside.”
“Now, that’s really too bad,” Pippin exclaimed sympathetically, “but you know
there is many a lass that would be delighted to take her place, should you
wish.”
“Quite likely,” Fatty responded with a matter-of-fact acknowledgement of this
truth, “but I would rather they didn’t, you see.”
“Did she really mean that much to you, Fatty?” Merry couldn’t help asking,
unable to totally conceal the disbelief in his voice. “I suppose I always
assumed it was more the challenge of it, if you know what I mean. Certainly that
was my father’s opinion.”
Fatty morosely stared into his mug for several moments, before slowly replying,
“You know, I rather thought that was it, as well. At least at first, that is.
But perhaps it was I who was the challenge, and one that was too easily
surmounted.”
“But what did she say to you, Fatty?” Pippin prompted, finding Fatty’s version
of the situation difficult to fathom. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, she has been devilishly difficult ever since I arrived,” Fatty explained
with a frown, still gazing at the amber liquid in his mug. “Prickly, even beyond
her norm. Rather as if inviting me to storm off in a high temper. And when I
apparently wouldn’t, she brought the matter to a head herself, and informed me
that she no longer wished to keep company with me on such a close basis, as she
had found that I persistently bored her beyond all measure.”
“You? Boring?” Merry exclaimed incredulously. “That’s nonsense. And an
incredibly poor excuse. The good folk of Hobbiton, begging your pardon, my dear
Frodo, are hardly a scintillating lot. I can’t imagine that your visits don’t
give her at least a bit of amusement. She’s covering up some other reason,
Fatty, I’m sure of it. Very much like my mother would, if you don’t mind the
comparison, but not to say that I would take it ill if you did.”
Fatty couldn’t help a bit of a smile at that sentiment. “Yes, I rather see your
point. And you know, I had thought of that. It’s almost as if she had picked up
on my own mother’s concerns, if that wasn’t absolutely absurd. My mother is
quite the stay-at-home, and I know they have no mutual acquaintances.” But then
he shook his head and briskly added, “But enough of my tawdry affairs. What’s
this nonsense with which cousin Folco has managed to amuse himself? Knowing the
poor lad, it has to do with a great many details and little practical purpose. I
just hope, Frodo, he hasn’t decided to redesign your wine cellar or some such
twaddle. A dear boy, really, but not one for the greater scheme of things, I
have found.”
&&&&&
Pippin’s prediction, regarding the entertainment value of the dwarvish pastime,
had proved to be absolutely correct. Not only was the game of skittles a huge
success, it actually caused a flurry of last minute adjustments to Frodo’s
birthday dinner itself, much to Sam’s mingled consternation and delight. For
surely it wasn’t right that those who had contributed to the initial venture
into these sporty depths were not to be invited, and so of course their families
must be invited as well. As a consequence, the list of attendees immediately
burgeoned from the original five plus one unexpected guest, to considerably more
than that. The gaffer, and Tolman Cotton and his goodwife were in attendance, as
well as all three of Sam’s sisters, not to mention Tom and Lar. And somehow,
although Sam never quite determined how, Pansy and Iris Burrows managed to be
included as well. Thus it was a full smial and then some who lit into the
birthday dinner that Sam, Daisy and Marigold had hastily created, and aglow with
festive cheer, only partially due to the full barrel of beer and several open
bottles of good wine, were prepared to meet this dwarvish challenge with gusto.
There was an initial mopping up of the hall, for the rains had returned that
evening with a vengeance, and a considerable amount of mud and water had been
tracked in by the guests. But both Pippin and Merry gleefully fell to the task
with several towels (and Frodo spared a quick thought as to the effect that the
sight of the future Master of Buckland on his hands and knees in Bag End’s stone
hall would have had on Mistress Brandybuck, doubtlessly pitching her into no
ends of fits, a thought he cherished quite deeply) and in no time the hall was
prepared for sport. The sleek, newly created pins were aligned at the entrance
end of the hall in accordance with the diagram in the dwarves’ book, and the
players eagerly formed a rather ragged line at the other end. Mother Cotton,
whose bursitis in her shoulder would not allow her to pitch the ball properly,
was designated as scorekeeper, a role that she immediately took to. Frodo
graciously lent her a piece of paper and a pen, and although she was not
normally particularly keen on the skill of writing, she quickly began scratching
down squiggles to stand for each of the players, with her tongue unconsciously
stuck just the tiniest bit out, and with quite a determined air. She was seated
at the pin end of the hall, with Daisy to assist her in the reckoning, and to
defend her from any errant balls, and the play began.
It was assumed that the birthday celebrant should have the first turn, but Frodo
immediately turned that privilege over to Pippin, as the instigator of the
entertainment. It was a proud Pippin who rolled the first ball (gratefully
borrowed from the proprietor of the Green Dragon, being generally used for
bowls), and a rather embarrassed Pippin when the ball ground to a gradual halt
about half-way down the hall. It was quickly agreed, however, that everyone was
entitled to a practice throw, if they liked, so as to get a general feel for it.
So Pippin’s next throw was more energetic, indeed, exceedingly so, and Daisy, at
the other end, found that Mistress Cotton was amazingly spry for her years, as
she leapt from her chair and danced away from the hurtling ball just in time.
Most of the participants soon found the proper mixture of direction and force,
however, and the contest quickly settled into a four way battle between Frodo,
Merry, Folco, and Iris Burrows. Pansy had given a few erratic throws and then
had gaily given it up as a loss, content to abandon the sport and settle into a
sustained debate with May and Marigold concerning the most effective number of
tucks on the upcoming winter’s coats. The gaffer and Tolman Cotton had attempted
the throw as well, but quickly decided that it was a young person’s game, at
least in this rainy weather, when one’s joints tended to ache unmercifully under
stress. Watching the younger folk, not to mention the keg, proved consolation
enough, however. Pippin was enjoying himself no end, but his attempts continued
to be erratic, and Mistress Cotton soon developed the habit of inching warily to
the edge of her seat when it was young Master Took’s turn, ready for any
unexpected onslaught. Fatty had disappeared at some point, no one could quite
remember when, and Sam had quietly given up his turn, standing unnoticed to the
side and enjoying the animated look on Frodo’s face, as well as the gusto with
which he was competing in the new amusement.
It was Iris, for once out of the shadow of her sister, who found that she had a
real talent for this new game, and if her throws were not as hearty as some,
they were quite nicely aimed. Folco, too, seemed to take to the diversion with a
good deal of enthusiasm, and spent a rather considerable amount of time, when it
was his turn, calculating the precise angle. If not for a slight tendency to
wobble in his throw, there would have been no contest at all. The decided upon
number of rounds was ten, but at somewhat past half of that, Frodo and Merry
exchanged a quick glance over the heads of the two remaining players, and bowed
out of the game; Frodo pleading the demands of being host, and Merry complaining
about a trick knee, a comment that caused Pippin to give him a surprised glance,
which rapidly changed to a knowing smile.
In the end, it was Iris victorious; flushed and beaming with pride as she
received congratulations from all, and the hastily contrived prize, given by a
quick thinking Frodo, of a rather shiny and quite possibly silver cup that had
been collecting dust in the study from Bilbo’s time. (There had been just enough
time for Sam to give it a hasty rinse in the kitchen, and a quick dry.) It was
immediately christened the winner’s cup, and the delighted Iris was to hold on
to it in triumph until the next contest. Indeed, being such a hit, the gaffer
and Tolman Cotton had already drawn Folco into conversation on the best way to
adapt it to an outdoor sport, for surely they could not abuse Frodo’s
hospitality forever. It was noticed, by several, if not her sister, that Iris
Burrows was part of this conversation as well, and none could remember her ever
looking quite so animated and sparkling.
&&&&&
Sam looked over the tangle of limbs, as best he could over his shoulder, and
gave a quiet sigh. None the less, it was heard by Frodo, who quickly stopped,
and asked with the barest note of anxiety, “What’s wrong, Sam?”
There was a swift debate in Sam’s mind, between diplomacy and truthfulness and,
as usual, the latter was the winner. “It’s just that I’d be thinkin’ ”, he
replied softly, both of them frozen in place, “that mayhap dwarves might be a
bit more limber than one might think. You know there’s nothing I’d not do for
you, Frodo-love, but I’d be guessin’ that this might not be coming to a very
satisfactory ending, no ways.”
Frodo was silent for just long enough to give Sam an uneasy moment, and then he
could feel Frodo begin to shake. Sure enough, Frodo started to laugh, and
although he tried his best to be quiet (for the smial was still quite full of
visitors), in no time it reached a stage where, prying himself from Sam, he had
to bury his face in the pillow. Sam had to laugh as well, as he always did in
the face of Frodo’s infectious giggle, and before long the both of them were
wiping the tears from their eyes and not even daring to glance at each other for
fear of setting each other off again.
“All right, Sam,” Frodo finally conceded, with a gasp, rolling onto his back and
looking up at Sam. “The ways of the dwarves would not be ours.”
“Not likely,” Sam shook his head with a grin as he knelt beside Frodo in bed.
“Not that I mind giving it a go, me dear, but it seemed like a lot of bother for
little purpose, if you catch my meaning.”
“I certainly do, my darling,” Frodo chuckled, raising a hand to Sam’s face,
gilded by the one candle still burning by their bed. “It just seemed like it
might be something a bit different. I can’t have you getting bored, now, can I?”
“Ah, Frodo,” Sam sighed fondly, with an understanding smile. “ ‘Tis your
birthday speaking, I’ll warrant.” Leaning over Frodo, he gave him a long,
lingering, and thorough kiss. “It’s not what we do, dearie,” he whispered
quietly, as he straightened back up again. “ ‘Tis that we do it with each other
as really matters. I still get that tingly every time you smile at me, me dear,
and any way you want to love me makes me more happy than I can tell you.”
“Oh, Sam, you’ll always tell me when I’m being an old fool, won’t you, dear?”
Frodo murmured, running an open palm slowly up Sam’s chest. “As long as you love
me like you do, I won’t care at all.”
“Well, if that should ever happen, I’ll mention it to you,” Sam leaned over him
and found, with great accuracy, the base of Frodo’s throat. He broke off only
long enough, as Frodo moaned and stretched out under his caress, to softly add,
“An’ if the sun falls out of the sky, why, I’d mention that to you, likewise.
But I’d not be worrying about any of that nonsense, no ways.”
One of Frodo’s legs curled up and around Sam’s side, and then any other verbal
discussion was quickly abandoned. And between the hungry kisses, and the slow
hands gliding over heated skin, and the deliberately ravenous slide of body
tightly over body, until glorious habit swept the both of them away, matters
soon came to the desired end, and they were left spent and drowsy and content in
each other’s arms.
&&&&&
The small red leather book that had been hidden by Bilbo unnoticed among the
other dwarven volumes until that evening somehow had slipped under the bed in
the master bedroom of Bag End. Certainly, Frodo and Sam quickly forgot it and
never once wondered where it had gotten to. Sam left for the garden the next
morning, a wonderfully clear and sunny one, to tend to some sorely neglected
chores with a song on his lips, his new dibbler in hand (a happily received
birthday present from Frodo), and a joyful heart. Frodo surveyed the flotsam and
jetsam strewn about the study and front parlor, not to mention the rather
alarming skid marks and dents along the hard-packed hall walls, with a
forbearing smile. Bag End had managed to survive the festivities more or less
intact after all, and it really had been a wonderfully entertaining evening, in
so many ways. The dwarves’ gift was hoisted back up on the shelves where it
belonged, and its companion volume was never missed.
The means by which it ended up in Pippin’s pack, however, as he left the next
day, and the use to which it was put, are matters for another time.
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