So sorry it's taken me so long! I have been mind-numbingly busy! (As well as focused on More Crazy Things, my other story.) Note: Deagol's song is a real song from the Middle Ages that I looked up. Of course, I added the parts about the Valar, but the rest is authentic. Enjoy!

Chapter 3:

Deagol leaned against the tree, his pip stuck in his mouth, singing as loudly as possible.

He was keeping an eye out on the road, looking for Mirlon.

The Harvest Festival was only in two days, after all, and he'd promised that he'd help Sméagol.

It's the least I can do. Deagol thought. Leaving him all the time to be with Lena. Smeag needs a girl of his own. Then, he won't be so cross with me.

A brown leaf fell down and landed on his shoulder, and he brushed it off, idly.

He was bored, waiting on Mirlon to come around, and soon his eyes focused on the ruts and potholes that had been cut into the hard packed dirt of the roads leading away from their village.

Mirlon went every Thursday to Riverside, the village next to theirs, to help the librarian, Old Gerta, with her books.

What a nance. Deagol thought contemptuously, when he heard the pad of Mirlon's chubby feet coming over the hill, onto his section of the road.

He raised to volume of his singing.

"The mirth if all this land maketh the good husband! With use of his plow, we are blessed be! Good Valar has sent their mirth and joy now!"

Mirlon looked over, curiously, peering over his spectacles at Deagol, who grinned and kept singing, the pipe in his mouth slurring his words a little.

"Ah, the plow has opened many a gate, both early and late! Barley and wheat, gourds and melons sweet; these maketh mortals sweat! Valar love the plow all day!"

Mirlon walked closer, his leather bag tossed over one shoulder, his plaid scarf tied tightly around his neck.

"Hail, Mirlon!" Deagol greeted him with a grin. "Excellent day for a song, eh? Oh, there was a maiden fair with hair of gold! She liked sweet ale and tales of old! Her husband made o' the mire and earth, O, dear farmer's wife spreads mirth!"

"Good-morning, Deagol." Mirlon greeted, stiffly. His mother warned him about getting involved with rough boys in the village; particularly Sméagol and Deagol.

"Won't you join me in a tune?" Deagol asked, belting out, "Brown, morel, and sore! Draweth the plow full score! All in the morning! All in the morning! Reward us therefore, with a sheath or more! All in the evening! Cold ale in the evening!"

Mirlon scowled.

"What do you want from me?"

"I hear you go to Riverside on Thursdays. I have business with the candle-maker."

"The candle maker?"

"Aye. The candle-maker."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Do about it? Well, I thought we could go together. Bandits are less likely to attack the two of us, right?"

Nervous beads of sweat broke out on Mirlon's forehead.

Bandits? He was afraid of bandits.

Maybe it was a good idea to go with Deagol, after all.

"Alright, Deagol. But no funny business." Mirlon said.

"None intended." Deagol affirmed, and the two started walking toward Riverside.

Part One of The Plan was in motion, and it took much effort on Deagol's part to keep from smirking.

"So, what are you going to do about Lucretia Tull?" Deagol asked, casually.

"What do you mean?" Mirlon asked, genuinely confused.

"You mean you haven't heard? The whole village is buzzing about it!"

"What?"

"She's madly in love you, Mirlon. Haven't you noticed?"

Mirlon looked shocked, his eyes even more fishlike than usual.

"No! I think you're lying, Deagol." Mirlon said, with so little inflection in his voice that Deagol briefly wondered if Mirlon had a soul or not.

"I'm not lying."

"Oh, really? I saw her just yesterday and she didn't even speak to me."

"Well, haven't you ever heard of playing hard to get? That's what she's doing. But your head has been so high up in the clouds…"

"You really think that Lucretia Tull is in love with me?" Mirlon asked, his resolve melting a little.

Lucretia Tull was by far the prettiest girl in Riverton, and on top of that, her father was the mayor! To almost anyone, Lucretia was unattainable.

If Mirlon had a chance with Lucretia Tull, there was no way that he'd let it go.

"Of course I know it. Lucretia told Goldenrod, who told Lily, who told my Aunt Marigold, who told my sister, who told Lena, who told me. It's all very legit." Deagol said.

"Hmmm. I suppose it's true. I did see her eyeing me a few times at the May Day Picnic."

"See? What'd I tell you?" Deagol asked, trying not to snicker. Their plan was working perfectly.

"If only I hadn't asked Belladore to the Harvest Festival, I could ask Lucretia!" Mirlon lamented aloud.

"Well, maybe you could get someone else to ask her. That way, you can go with Lucretia and not have to feel guilty about giving Belladore the slip."

Mirlon smiled. Maybe Deagol wasn't so bad, after all.

"Who could we get to take her on such short notice? And anyway, won't she be crushed?"

Deagol sighed theatrically.

"I can't say. Probably. You are quite a catch, Mirlon. But she'll get over it, with time."

Mirlon nodded, thinking of Lucretia's blonde curls and her father's money.

"Yes. I'm sure she'll be fine." He said. "But who would take her?"

"Perhaps your cousin Horace?" Deagol suggested.

"That won't do at all. He's taking Chrysanthemum Flockbuckle." Mirlon shook his head.

"Marley Leadfinger?" Deagol asked.

"No. He's going with my sister."

"Pity. What about Nildegren Locket?"

"No, no, no! He's taking your cousin Isabeth."

"Hmm. Hey, what about my cousin Sméagol? He doesn't have a date. Matter of fact, he's probably the only hobbit in Riverton without a date."

"Do you think he'll do it?" Mirlon asked, desperate by now.

"I don't know. He's more of a loner. But if you asked nicely, I'm sure he'd take her off your hands for you."

"I hope so, Deagol! Lucretia Tull, can you believe it?"

"Oh, please, Mirlon, off course I can believe it. A smart hobbit like you?" he scoffed. "All the girls want you."

"That is true." Mirlon said, and Deagol felt ill.

What a nance. He thought again.

"Just one thing. Talk to Sméagol before you speak with Lucretia. It wouldn't do for you to still have a date when you go talk to her, would it?"

"I suppose not." Mirlon said, frowning. Poor Belladore! He felt like such a cad!

Well, Deagol thought, not able to stop his smile. That was easy.

~Break~

Belladore could not believe it. Mirlon had canceled on her one day before the festival? Who did he think he was, anyway?

She looked over at her dress, which she had been embroidering just for the occasion.

It was a lovely piece; a russet-colored party dress with intricate golden leaves embroidered around the neck and sleeves.

She had sewn silky brown ribbons around the bottom hem and along the waistline, and her mother had knitted a pair of cream-colored stockings darned with gold thread along the edges.

"The perfect dress for autumn." Her mother had declared, clasping her hands together with pride in her daughter's looks and skill with a needle.

It was all for no reason, now. Who cared if she looked pretty?

Who cared if she were the prettiest girl in all of Riverton, if she had no one to go to the festival with?

She folded the dress and put it into her chest-of-drawers; she wouldn't be needing it, now.

What had possessed Mirlon to break their date? Had it been something she'd said?

She laid down onto her bed, her hair splaying behind her, tears creeping behind her eyelids and stinging, but she blinked them away. There was no use crying, after all.

There was a knock at the front door, but she ignored it when she heard the trod of her mother's feet, and she knew that she was answering it.

She stared up at the ceiling, hurt and bored and tired, her eyes tracing every flaw and water spot that resided above her bedroom.

A few minutes later, there was a soft rap at her door.

"Who is it?" she asked, expecting one of her parents.

"It's me." a familiar voice said.

"Sméagol?" she asked, and got up and opened the door.

There was Sméagol, dressed in his Sunday clothes, a sunflower in his left hand, and he presented it to her.

"I heard that you're free tomorrow. I'm sorry, Belly."

"Oh, Sméagol, don't start with me. I know that you hate Mirlon."

"Hate is a very strong word, Belly." he said, gently, and she scoffed.

"What did you come for, anyway?" she asked, sniffing the sunflower.

How could a flower smell so different from the others? There was certainly nothing floral about the smell, but rather an earthy, sweet smell, almost like newly dried straw.

She laid it on top of her bedside table.

"Well, seeing as how the Harvest Festival is the best day of the year, other than Yule, of course, I was wondering if you'd like to go with me?"

"What?" Belladore asked.

"You know…you're not going with anyone, I'm not going with anyone…what do you think?"

"I think…" Belladore said, biting her lip, pondering. "I think that you're very sweet, Sméagol."

"So…" he said, nervously. "Is that a yes?"

Belladore nodded.

"I suppose so." she said. "We would have ended up spending time together, anyway, after all."

"Great! I'll pick you up at eleven?"

"The festival doesn't begin until noon!"

"Yes. But the fun begins at eleven." Sméagol grinned, and, feeling bold, kissed her hand.

"Until tomorrow, lady."

"See ya later, Sméagol." Belladore rolled her eyes as he bowed, smirking, and with a mocking lilt to his posture as he made his exit.

Belladore sat back down on her bed, befuddled.

At least I have a date tomorrow. She thought. And there are worse dates than Sméagol.

She slid under her quilt, running her lithe fingers over the taut stitching, comforted by the warmth and familiarity of the old blanket.

What was wrong with Sméagol in the first place? She wondered.

He isn't a bad fellow, and he's not bad-looking, either. We get along very well; nothing is awkward between us, and he makes me laugh.

Her mind began to drift, and though she hadn't intended to, she began comparing Sméagol and Mirlon.

Sméagol spoke to her, teased her, made her laugh. She couldn't recall one time that Mirlon had made her laugh, or even tried to make a joke.

Sméagol, though infuriating at times, was a gentleman underneath. Hadn't he given up his jacket to her last winter when she'd forgotten her own?

And shared his lunch with her at school when ants had invaded her lunch pail?

When had Mirlon ever done anything for her?

Where were his flowers, his sweet teasing, his lilting smile?

Come to think of it, Belladore surmised, Have I ever seen Mirlon smile?

She realized that she hadn't.

There was a knock at the door, and her mother came in.

Belladore thought that she looked lovely, even though she was wearing her apron, and her hair had little touches of grey at her temples.

"What did Sméagol want, darling?" she asked, smoothing the hair on Belladore's forehead.

"He wanted to take me to the Harvest Festival." she said, blushing, though she wasn't quite sure why.

Her mother smiled, warmly, and knowingly; she went over to the drawers, her soft eyes crinkled at the edges, love evident in every movement.

Belladore wanted to be a lady like her mother one day.

She pulled out Belladore's dress and smoothed the wrinkles out with her work-worn hand, and laid it at the foot of the bed, on Belladore's hope chest.

"No sense in having to iron this tomorrow, right dear?"

"I suppose not." Belladore said. "I'd better get some sleep, Mother. Tomorrow is a long day."

"Of course." her mother said, kissing her daughter's cheek and snuffing out the candle.

"Good-night, Belladore."

"Good-night, Mother."

Okay, sorry for the wait! I promise that I won't take so long for the next update! What was your favorite part of this chapter? Mine was coming up with all the 'pre-historic' hobbit names. ;) Review, please!