Disclaimer: Hey, everybody! Please, let me remind you of just a few things
. . . The exits are *point* here, here, here, here, here, and here, and
none of this is mine, except for unfamiliar characters (e.g., Draugwen,
Gwathwen, etc.) and unfamiliar plot lines (e.g., this one). The rest
belongs to the great and blessed Tolkien—or, in one extremely embarrassing
case (read to discover), New Line Cinema. *whimper* I'm /sowwy/, Mommy . .
.
A/N: Yo, beauteous children! Not much to say now . . . just read, review, and, while you're at it, read my other stories! And join my OFU! Please! ***Just as a footnote, thanks to evilgenius92389 and Miste, as well as the little people who live in their heads—Miss Eville and Miss Tae, respectively. *sob* You're wonderful people!
***
Let the Fireworks Commence!
The sun rose high above the Shire.
The mill-wheel turned slowly, creaking softly and adding the music of the spilling water to the singing of the newly-awoken birds. The hobbit-holes, doors open to let in the breeze, were clean and tidy as always, children playing in the front yards, mothers shouting orders to their children to help with cleaning. The trees swayed slightly, bending just enough to be noticeable, but not so much that the hobbits resting underneath them lost their shade.
It was the fourth year after the Scouring of the Shire. The scars of the land had healed and everything was beginning to look normal again.
Gandalf opened his eyes and smiled. He stared up at the clouds floating past, shaping themselves at will. Breathing in deeply the scent of grass and wool blanket, he thought, /Sleeping outside works wonders on the sinuses./ He paused and inhaled again; but then he paused for a moment.
/Wait . . . it's quiet . . . too—/
"BANZAI!"
"Oof!"
/Well, at least the sinuses benefit when Sam's offspring aren't around./
"Get off!" he complained. "You're breaking a poor old man's bones..."
"It's Frodo's fifty-fifth, Gandalf!" Goldilocks shrieked excitedly. "Don't you have fireworks?"
He sighed. /What a thing . . . an Istari being ambushed by small, annoying Halflinglets . . ./
She stared imploringly at him, using her infamous weapons of shining brown eyes and curly, Sam-hair-colored hair. It had worked on many lesser than the Wizard, but it would not fail on him either. He squirmed . . . and Goldilocks' siblings stared at her in glee and wonder. The same thought was in each of their minds: /It's working again!/
Meanwhile, Gandalf was thinking in a muddle, /I shouldn't let them have any fi/—he twitched—/I shouldn't be too hard on them; they're so adorable . . ./
He smiled. "Of course I have fireworks, Goldilocks. In fact, if you'd like me to, I'll design one just for you little ones. Then I'll give it to you, and perhaps help you set it off!"
The little hobbits grinned and opened their mouths.
The sound was deafening.
"Make it purple!"
"No, green!"
"Silver!"
"Make it shaped like a tree!"
"No, a fountain!"
"A house!"
"Make it really loud!"
"LOUD!"
"With mushrooms!"
"Lots!"
"And very heavy rocks!"
"That'll fall on little children's heads! Good idea!"
"Yes, children, mushrooms and ro—MERRY!" Gandalf suddenly roared. "PIPPIN! Get out!"
"Who's Merry?" asked an innocent-looking, very large young hobbit. "My name's Ferry."
"Get out . . ."
"Fine, fine, get angry with us for wantin' a bit of fun," grumbled the other over-large child, shaking his tousled head. "Last time you wouldn't let us into any fireworks either."
"And can you tell me /why/ I didn't? Children?"
"Because," the young hobbits chorused, "Merry and Pippin with fireworks is like Isildur with jewelry chopped off someone's hand."
"Precisely. And also because when you /did/ get your hands on the fireworks, you nearly blew the whole Shire to smithereens."
"And got washing duty for /days/," grumbled Merry. "How many times did we set off Gandalf's fireworks, Pippin? Once a year for twenty-two years, that's . . ." He thought.
"Twenty-two," Pippin said dreamily. "Ahh, fireworks . . ."
"Be off!" Gandalf cried, silently mourning his lost explosives. "Or there'll be /no/ fireworks at all!"
Suddenly, many small hobbits were giving Merry and Pippin the evil eye.
"Go," hissed Goldilocks, as ominously as she could. "Go /now/."
Merry and Pippin backed up very slowly.
Then they ran.
"Gee, Merry!" Pippin gasped as they ran. "Sam's brood can be nasty, can't they?"
"'Course they can, Pip," Merry panted, "as there's so many of them. They /outnumber/ us, Pip. Our Sam's been," he grinned mischievously, "/busy/."
"Hmm? How so?" Pippin stopped by a young ash tree and looked at Merry questioningly. "You mean with gathering in the crops, and gardening for Mr. Frodo and such?"
"/No/, Pippin," Merry groaned. "With /Rosie/." At Pippin's still-blank look, he sighed and said, "You know, /producing/."
"Ohhh . . ." The light dawned. Pippin started running again, thinking to himself. Then he said, "You know, that wasn't very nice, Merry. A bit inappropriate, too. What would Sam say if he could hear you?"
"Well—"Merry said hotly, a bit embarrassed that Pippin was berating him. He stuttered for a moment, then said, "Well—well, it was funny, so—so, I don't know! Sam's not here, so I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?"
Pippin rolled his eyes and dropped the subject. They ran in silence for a few moments. Then he asked Merry, looking straight ahead, "Have you been worried about Mr. Frodo lately?"
Merry's face went from red to taut and strained. "Of course I have, Pippin," he said quietly. "Everyone has."
Pippin was silent. The hobbits both looked at the ground as they ran.
Consequently, they ran smack into the obstacles standing on the road before them.
"Ow!" Pippin yelped. He fell down, after impacting with something very, /very/ hard. He looked up blearily.
There were two hobbit-maidens on the road before them. One was normal hobbit-size, but one was quite tall—even a bit taller than Merry and Pippin, though just by a centimeter. The tall one was auburn-haired and fair-skinned; the other was fair-haired and deeply tanned, and wore a thin elf-mail shirt and small sword over her tattered traveling-cloak. The tall one, in contrast, wore a thick, stiff-looking cloak, tunic and pants, sable and green, with guards of the same material but darker color on her elbows, shoulders, knees and chest.
/That's why my head hurts/, Pippin thought, rubbing his ears to get circulation back. /I ran into that armor . . . erm . . . stuff./
The girls looked to be fairly close in age, the taller one slightly the younger. They were, by hobbit standards, rather impressive, both in stature (even the shorter one was quite tall for a normal hobbit) and appearance (the ragged look was not common in Hobbiton).
Merry and Pippin were certainly impressed.
"You know, that was an awfully crude joke, Mr. Brandybuck," said the fair one reproachfully.
"Who are you?" asked Merry, slightly astonished.
"Draugwen," said the tall one.
"Gwathwen," said the fair one.
"We're Bolgers," they completed together.
"Bolgers?" Merry startled. /Bolger . . . Estella! Estella Bolger! My wife . . ./
"Ah, yes," said the fair one, blushing slightly, "Estella was our cousin, Meriadoc. Most unfortunate, that boating accident."
/Wait . . . how did she know—/ but his thoughts were interrupted suddenly.
"Well, Merry ought to have known that most Bolgers don't swim!" said the tall one hotly. "/Others/," she continued dreamily, "would've /known/ better." Here she gazed hungrily at Pippin.
"Draugwen! How rude!" cried the fair one, glancing worriedly at Merry as he looked around at Pippin, slightly dazed. "I am appalled."
"Oh, you're just upset because Merry's not as—"
"Um! Isn't Draugwen an Elvish name?" Pippin interjected hurriedly, blushing deeply. /Please, please, /please/ don't finish that sentence. I do not want to know./
"Yes, it /is/, Pippin!" The tall one turned and began staring at Pippin's feet again.
"But we're Bolgers." This was the fair one.
"Yes, we know," Merry said. This was getting old. /He/ wanted some attention now!
/Later, Merry, later./ A voice in his head! How odd. /More attention later. There are plans. Right now, it would be most appreciated if you could hush./ It was a forceful, beautiful voice.
/Okay,/ he said meekly. For the moment he disregarded the fact that he was talking to a voice in his head and that another hobbit had just read his mind.
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Pippin stared at his toes; the tall hobbit also stared at Pippin's toes; Merry looked everywhere except at the hobbit who had known what he was thinking; and she, in her turn, simply stared off at the closest hobbit holes, furrowing her brow slightly.
Suddenly, the tall hobbit stood up very straight and sniffed the air. "Pippin!" she shrieked after a moment. "It's mushrooms!" She dashed off in an easterly direction.
Pippin, ignoring for the moment his confusion, ran off after her. Mushrooms trump all.
***
He found her in a clearing, stuffing her face. "Move over!" he cried, and started eating voraciously.
After a while, Pippin realized that the other hobbit was no longer eating, but instead staring at him (again). He paused, looked at her, and sat up straight.
"What is it?" he wondered aloud.
"/You/," was the reply.
Pippin was startled. "Me?!" Then he understood.
/Oh. Ohhh . . . Yes. All right./
No one in the history of everything had ever done it this obviously.
/She's certainly not subtle./
Pippin realized something else, as he looked around the clearing, his eyes finally coming to rest on the now-slightly-pink face of the other hobbit.
/I don't especially mind it . . ./
"Pippin?"
"Hmm?" She was asking him something. He shook himself, and paid attention.
"It's Frodo's birthday, right?" she asked, with a gleeful, mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"Right . . ."
She grinned. "What say we go steal some fireworks?"
Pippin stared, then grinned back. Without a word, he yanked up as many mushrooms as he could and handed half to the girl, then ran off in the direction of Gandalf's cart.
***
"Get the big one!" whispered Draugwen fiercely. "No, not that one, Pippin! The other—no—yes! Yes! That one! Come on, then." She yanked him around a corner into a small tent.
"Ouch!" Pippin winced. /She's got more of a grip than I'd expect!/ "Did you, by any chance, ever partake of Entdraught?" he asked, once she'd let go of his shoulder and he'd commenced rubbing it to recover feeling.
"Ha!" she hissed victoriously, punching the air and making him jump. "I always told Gwathwen that you were quick on the uptake. Yes, in large quantities," she told Pippin. "Now light it, quick!"
"Listen—I've done this before," Pippin said hesitantly, "and I don't think—"
"Just light it, Took!" she growled dangerously. Pippin, needless to say, did what he was told, lighting it with a smooth, much-practiced sweep.
There was a bright flash of light and a very loud bang, and they both blacked out.
***
The first sensation Pippin felt was pain. The next sensation was . . . more pain.
"Peregrin Took, and an unknown hobbit. I'd never have guessed!" Gandalf exclaimed, dragging them along by their ears.
"Ow!" Draugwen writhed in pain, spitting and screaming at Gandalf. Pippin just let himself be dragged in a sitting position, occasionally wincing as he was dragged over a bump. He was used to this by now. "Come /on/, Pippin!" Draugwen screamed. "Do something! Fight! Kick! Scream!"
"Oh! Are we acquainted, then?" Gandalf asked the two hobbits. "And what might your name be, madam?" he directed at Draugwen.
"Draugwen. I'm a Bolger," she said stoutly. "And," she added, glaring evilly, "I don't hold with wizards who disappear when they're needed and pretend to die." She stuck her tongue out at Gandalf, ignoring Pippin's vigorous head-shakings and mouthed pleadings.
Gandalf raised one very bushy eyebrow, but said nothing to her. To Pippin he said, "Whatever happened to Merry, then? Isn't he the sort of fiend to be your accomplice?"
"I don't know," Pippin said, shrugging. "There was another Bolger—her sister—"(here he gestured at Draugwen) "—and I'd expect he's somewhere off with her."
Suddenly Draugwen laughed. It was a somewhat maniacal laugh. Pippin and Gandalf both looked at her, startled.
"What's so funny, then, Draugwen?" Pippin asked, puzzled. Then he had a thought. "Oh—is it the producing thing?" He frowned. "Why is Merry being produced?"
Draugwen frowned too, but her frown was deeper and darker than Pippin's frown. "For your information, Peregrin Took," she stated coldly, "we Bolgers, or at least the children of /my/ parents, do not hold with crude jokes! And Merry is /not/," she shuddered, "being /produced/."
"I was just—"Pippin stammered, mortified (and confused (again)).
"Silence!" Gandalf shouted, shaking his head and concealing a smile (those simple Shire-folk!). "You shan't be laughing much longer in any case, Hobbits; there are hundreds of dishes to be washed, you know!" And with a sweep of his arm, he opened the flap of a smallish tent, revealing the most disgusting kitchen space ever seen (which shall not be described here, unless, of course, you /like/ old, cold, rotting food, swarms of cockroaches, and small colonies of bacteria). "In you go!" the wizard chuckled, and prodded them with one large, magical finger.
Draugwen looked, then concealed a smile of her own. "No, Gandalf," she said smugly. "I don't think we will." She nodded at the tent and at Gandalf, turned away from the dishes (which were suddenly clean and driving the bacteria in a line out of the tent, whipping them with little riding crops and slashing at them with tiny china daggers), and added, "You know, Gandalf, I oughtn't think we Shire-folk are simple, if I was you. The walls of your mind have ears." She took Pippin's hand, wriggling slightly with pleasure, and they both disappeared without any sort of flash or noise.
Gandalf nodded. "I'm satisfied," he said quietly, smiling a little.
***
They reappeared in Frodo's entrance hallway. Pippin was sweating a bit.
"Thank goodness!" he panted. "For a moment there, I thought it was the Ring again!" He breathed deeply. Then he looked down at his hand. Draugwen's own was still clasping it tightly. "Umm . . ." He tried to pull his hand free, but couldn't. /This is why hobbits shouldn't drink Entdraught!/ "Do you suppose, Draugwen," he asked, "that you could let go my hand for a bit?"
Draugwen just coughed and stared at the ceiling. She looked very well pleased with herself.
"Draugwen!" came a sudden shout. They both jumped.
"Frodo!" Draugwen exclaimed delightedly, and ran to give him a slap on the back (almost knocking him out in the process). "Sorry we're late! Fireworks, you know!" She winked.
"Yes, I do know, lady," he said, smiling and winking back. "But Pippin!" he cried to Pippin, who was looking rather dejected and out of the loop, "come in, join the party! Sam's here, and Rosie, and the little ones—which reminds me, I ought to be watching them—"he shrugged, earning a look of disapproval from Draugwen "—and Merry and Gwath are in there as well, which is convenient, as you and Merry probably want to trade war stories . . ." He winked again. "I'll be off, then!" He trooped back into the other room, and was immediately attacked by the Gamgee brood.
Draugwen raced off to mingle, and Pippin, feeling quite shell-shocked, went and found Merry.
Merry was sitting in the darkest corner of Frodo's best dining room, smoking a pipe with a slightly glazed look on his face. The room was actually quite cozy, with a low ceiling and a candelabrum in each corner, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was very clean; there were no spiders in the vertices of the walls. /Of course, there wouldn't be/, Pippin thought, /not after what Frodo's been through./ The tables had been pushed into one corner to make room for the guests to dance or stand around talking. There weren't many guests; just the Gamgees, Merry, Gandalf (his head was sticking through the window, and he was staring intently at Merry, while at the same time trying to hide from the children, which was quite frankly impossible), Folco Boffin, Fredegar "Fatty" Bolger, and, inevitably, Gwathwen.
The first thing Pippin asked was, "Did Frodo wink at you?"
Merry made a face. "Only about seventy times! I did wish he would stop. And there he goes again!" Frodo winked at them from across the room. "It's so annoying."
"Isn't it, though?" Sam said glumly, appearing at Pippin's elbow. "He was always on me about Rosie, and the winkin'! He says, if he'd not been there, Rosie an' I'd still be single. Thinks he knows everythin' about everythin' about women," he muttered gloomily. "Well, seein' as how he's still got no wife . . ." Sam sat down, grumbling and nursing the tankard of beer he cradled carefully in his arms.
A/N: Yo, beauteous children! Not much to say now . . . just read, review, and, while you're at it, read my other stories! And join my OFU! Please! ***Just as a footnote, thanks to evilgenius92389 and Miste, as well as the little people who live in their heads—Miss Eville and Miss Tae, respectively. *sob* You're wonderful people!
***
Let the Fireworks Commence!
The sun rose high above the Shire.
The mill-wheel turned slowly, creaking softly and adding the music of the spilling water to the singing of the newly-awoken birds. The hobbit-holes, doors open to let in the breeze, were clean and tidy as always, children playing in the front yards, mothers shouting orders to their children to help with cleaning. The trees swayed slightly, bending just enough to be noticeable, but not so much that the hobbits resting underneath them lost their shade.
It was the fourth year after the Scouring of the Shire. The scars of the land had healed and everything was beginning to look normal again.
Gandalf opened his eyes and smiled. He stared up at the clouds floating past, shaping themselves at will. Breathing in deeply the scent of grass and wool blanket, he thought, /Sleeping outside works wonders on the sinuses./ He paused and inhaled again; but then he paused for a moment.
/Wait . . . it's quiet . . . too—/
"BANZAI!"
"Oof!"
/Well, at least the sinuses benefit when Sam's offspring aren't around./
"Get off!" he complained. "You're breaking a poor old man's bones..."
"It's Frodo's fifty-fifth, Gandalf!" Goldilocks shrieked excitedly. "Don't you have fireworks?"
He sighed. /What a thing . . . an Istari being ambushed by small, annoying Halflinglets . . ./
She stared imploringly at him, using her infamous weapons of shining brown eyes and curly, Sam-hair-colored hair. It had worked on many lesser than the Wizard, but it would not fail on him either. He squirmed . . . and Goldilocks' siblings stared at her in glee and wonder. The same thought was in each of their minds: /It's working again!/
Meanwhile, Gandalf was thinking in a muddle, /I shouldn't let them have any fi/—he twitched—/I shouldn't be too hard on them; they're so adorable . . ./
He smiled. "Of course I have fireworks, Goldilocks. In fact, if you'd like me to, I'll design one just for you little ones. Then I'll give it to you, and perhaps help you set it off!"
The little hobbits grinned and opened their mouths.
The sound was deafening.
"Make it purple!"
"No, green!"
"Silver!"
"Make it shaped like a tree!"
"No, a fountain!"
"A house!"
"Make it really loud!"
"LOUD!"
"With mushrooms!"
"Lots!"
"And very heavy rocks!"
"That'll fall on little children's heads! Good idea!"
"Yes, children, mushrooms and ro—MERRY!" Gandalf suddenly roared. "PIPPIN! Get out!"
"Who's Merry?" asked an innocent-looking, very large young hobbit. "My name's Ferry."
"Get out . . ."
"Fine, fine, get angry with us for wantin' a bit of fun," grumbled the other over-large child, shaking his tousled head. "Last time you wouldn't let us into any fireworks either."
"And can you tell me /why/ I didn't? Children?"
"Because," the young hobbits chorused, "Merry and Pippin with fireworks is like Isildur with jewelry chopped off someone's hand."
"Precisely. And also because when you /did/ get your hands on the fireworks, you nearly blew the whole Shire to smithereens."
"And got washing duty for /days/," grumbled Merry. "How many times did we set off Gandalf's fireworks, Pippin? Once a year for twenty-two years, that's . . ." He thought.
"Twenty-two," Pippin said dreamily. "Ahh, fireworks . . ."
"Be off!" Gandalf cried, silently mourning his lost explosives. "Or there'll be /no/ fireworks at all!"
Suddenly, many small hobbits were giving Merry and Pippin the evil eye.
"Go," hissed Goldilocks, as ominously as she could. "Go /now/."
Merry and Pippin backed up very slowly.
Then they ran.
"Gee, Merry!" Pippin gasped as they ran. "Sam's brood can be nasty, can't they?"
"'Course they can, Pip," Merry panted, "as there's so many of them. They /outnumber/ us, Pip. Our Sam's been," he grinned mischievously, "/busy/."
"Hmm? How so?" Pippin stopped by a young ash tree and looked at Merry questioningly. "You mean with gathering in the crops, and gardening for Mr. Frodo and such?"
"/No/, Pippin," Merry groaned. "With /Rosie/." At Pippin's still-blank look, he sighed and said, "You know, /producing/."
"Ohhh . . ." The light dawned. Pippin started running again, thinking to himself. Then he said, "You know, that wasn't very nice, Merry. A bit inappropriate, too. What would Sam say if he could hear you?"
"Well—"Merry said hotly, a bit embarrassed that Pippin was berating him. He stuttered for a moment, then said, "Well—well, it was funny, so—so, I don't know! Sam's not here, so I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?"
Pippin rolled his eyes and dropped the subject. They ran in silence for a few moments. Then he asked Merry, looking straight ahead, "Have you been worried about Mr. Frodo lately?"
Merry's face went from red to taut and strained. "Of course I have, Pippin," he said quietly. "Everyone has."
Pippin was silent. The hobbits both looked at the ground as they ran.
Consequently, they ran smack into the obstacles standing on the road before them.
"Ow!" Pippin yelped. He fell down, after impacting with something very, /very/ hard. He looked up blearily.
There were two hobbit-maidens on the road before them. One was normal hobbit-size, but one was quite tall—even a bit taller than Merry and Pippin, though just by a centimeter. The tall one was auburn-haired and fair-skinned; the other was fair-haired and deeply tanned, and wore a thin elf-mail shirt and small sword over her tattered traveling-cloak. The tall one, in contrast, wore a thick, stiff-looking cloak, tunic and pants, sable and green, with guards of the same material but darker color on her elbows, shoulders, knees and chest.
/That's why my head hurts/, Pippin thought, rubbing his ears to get circulation back. /I ran into that armor . . . erm . . . stuff./
The girls looked to be fairly close in age, the taller one slightly the younger. They were, by hobbit standards, rather impressive, both in stature (even the shorter one was quite tall for a normal hobbit) and appearance (the ragged look was not common in Hobbiton).
Merry and Pippin were certainly impressed.
"You know, that was an awfully crude joke, Mr. Brandybuck," said the fair one reproachfully.
"Who are you?" asked Merry, slightly astonished.
"Draugwen," said the tall one.
"Gwathwen," said the fair one.
"We're Bolgers," they completed together.
"Bolgers?" Merry startled. /Bolger . . . Estella! Estella Bolger! My wife . . ./
"Ah, yes," said the fair one, blushing slightly, "Estella was our cousin, Meriadoc. Most unfortunate, that boating accident."
/Wait . . . how did she know—/ but his thoughts were interrupted suddenly.
"Well, Merry ought to have known that most Bolgers don't swim!" said the tall one hotly. "/Others/," she continued dreamily, "would've /known/ better." Here she gazed hungrily at Pippin.
"Draugwen! How rude!" cried the fair one, glancing worriedly at Merry as he looked around at Pippin, slightly dazed. "I am appalled."
"Oh, you're just upset because Merry's not as—"
"Um! Isn't Draugwen an Elvish name?" Pippin interjected hurriedly, blushing deeply. /Please, please, /please/ don't finish that sentence. I do not want to know./
"Yes, it /is/, Pippin!" The tall one turned and began staring at Pippin's feet again.
"But we're Bolgers." This was the fair one.
"Yes, we know," Merry said. This was getting old. /He/ wanted some attention now!
/Later, Merry, later./ A voice in his head! How odd. /More attention later. There are plans. Right now, it would be most appreciated if you could hush./ It was a forceful, beautiful voice.
/Okay,/ he said meekly. For the moment he disregarded the fact that he was talking to a voice in his head and that another hobbit had just read his mind.
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Pippin stared at his toes; the tall hobbit also stared at Pippin's toes; Merry looked everywhere except at the hobbit who had known what he was thinking; and she, in her turn, simply stared off at the closest hobbit holes, furrowing her brow slightly.
Suddenly, the tall hobbit stood up very straight and sniffed the air. "Pippin!" she shrieked after a moment. "It's mushrooms!" She dashed off in an easterly direction.
Pippin, ignoring for the moment his confusion, ran off after her. Mushrooms trump all.
***
He found her in a clearing, stuffing her face. "Move over!" he cried, and started eating voraciously.
After a while, Pippin realized that the other hobbit was no longer eating, but instead staring at him (again). He paused, looked at her, and sat up straight.
"What is it?" he wondered aloud.
"/You/," was the reply.
Pippin was startled. "Me?!" Then he understood.
/Oh. Ohhh . . . Yes. All right./
No one in the history of everything had ever done it this obviously.
/She's certainly not subtle./
Pippin realized something else, as he looked around the clearing, his eyes finally coming to rest on the now-slightly-pink face of the other hobbit.
/I don't especially mind it . . ./
"Pippin?"
"Hmm?" She was asking him something. He shook himself, and paid attention.
"It's Frodo's birthday, right?" she asked, with a gleeful, mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"Right . . ."
She grinned. "What say we go steal some fireworks?"
Pippin stared, then grinned back. Without a word, he yanked up as many mushrooms as he could and handed half to the girl, then ran off in the direction of Gandalf's cart.
***
"Get the big one!" whispered Draugwen fiercely. "No, not that one, Pippin! The other—no—yes! Yes! That one! Come on, then." She yanked him around a corner into a small tent.
"Ouch!" Pippin winced. /She's got more of a grip than I'd expect!/ "Did you, by any chance, ever partake of Entdraught?" he asked, once she'd let go of his shoulder and he'd commenced rubbing it to recover feeling.
"Ha!" she hissed victoriously, punching the air and making him jump. "I always told Gwathwen that you were quick on the uptake. Yes, in large quantities," she told Pippin. "Now light it, quick!"
"Listen—I've done this before," Pippin said hesitantly, "and I don't think—"
"Just light it, Took!" she growled dangerously. Pippin, needless to say, did what he was told, lighting it with a smooth, much-practiced sweep.
There was a bright flash of light and a very loud bang, and they both blacked out.
***
The first sensation Pippin felt was pain. The next sensation was . . . more pain.
"Peregrin Took, and an unknown hobbit. I'd never have guessed!" Gandalf exclaimed, dragging them along by their ears.
"Ow!" Draugwen writhed in pain, spitting and screaming at Gandalf. Pippin just let himself be dragged in a sitting position, occasionally wincing as he was dragged over a bump. He was used to this by now. "Come /on/, Pippin!" Draugwen screamed. "Do something! Fight! Kick! Scream!"
"Oh! Are we acquainted, then?" Gandalf asked the two hobbits. "And what might your name be, madam?" he directed at Draugwen.
"Draugwen. I'm a Bolger," she said stoutly. "And," she added, glaring evilly, "I don't hold with wizards who disappear when they're needed and pretend to die." She stuck her tongue out at Gandalf, ignoring Pippin's vigorous head-shakings and mouthed pleadings.
Gandalf raised one very bushy eyebrow, but said nothing to her. To Pippin he said, "Whatever happened to Merry, then? Isn't he the sort of fiend to be your accomplice?"
"I don't know," Pippin said, shrugging. "There was another Bolger—her sister—"(here he gestured at Draugwen) "—and I'd expect he's somewhere off with her."
Suddenly Draugwen laughed. It was a somewhat maniacal laugh. Pippin and Gandalf both looked at her, startled.
"What's so funny, then, Draugwen?" Pippin asked, puzzled. Then he had a thought. "Oh—is it the producing thing?" He frowned. "Why is Merry being produced?"
Draugwen frowned too, but her frown was deeper and darker than Pippin's frown. "For your information, Peregrin Took," she stated coldly, "we Bolgers, or at least the children of /my/ parents, do not hold with crude jokes! And Merry is /not/," she shuddered, "being /produced/."
"I was just—"Pippin stammered, mortified (and confused (again)).
"Silence!" Gandalf shouted, shaking his head and concealing a smile (those simple Shire-folk!). "You shan't be laughing much longer in any case, Hobbits; there are hundreds of dishes to be washed, you know!" And with a sweep of his arm, he opened the flap of a smallish tent, revealing the most disgusting kitchen space ever seen (which shall not be described here, unless, of course, you /like/ old, cold, rotting food, swarms of cockroaches, and small colonies of bacteria). "In you go!" the wizard chuckled, and prodded them with one large, magical finger.
Draugwen looked, then concealed a smile of her own. "No, Gandalf," she said smugly. "I don't think we will." She nodded at the tent and at Gandalf, turned away from the dishes (which were suddenly clean and driving the bacteria in a line out of the tent, whipping them with little riding crops and slashing at them with tiny china daggers), and added, "You know, Gandalf, I oughtn't think we Shire-folk are simple, if I was you. The walls of your mind have ears." She took Pippin's hand, wriggling slightly with pleasure, and they both disappeared without any sort of flash or noise.
Gandalf nodded. "I'm satisfied," he said quietly, smiling a little.
***
They reappeared in Frodo's entrance hallway. Pippin was sweating a bit.
"Thank goodness!" he panted. "For a moment there, I thought it was the Ring again!" He breathed deeply. Then he looked down at his hand. Draugwen's own was still clasping it tightly. "Umm . . ." He tried to pull his hand free, but couldn't. /This is why hobbits shouldn't drink Entdraught!/ "Do you suppose, Draugwen," he asked, "that you could let go my hand for a bit?"
Draugwen just coughed and stared at the ceiling. She looked very well pleased with herself.
"Draugwen!" came a sudden shout. They both jumped.
"Frodo!" Draugwen exclaimed delightedly, and ran to give him a slap on the back (almost knocking him out in the process). "Sorry we're late! Fireworks, you know!" She winked.
"Yes, I do know, lady," he said, smiling and winking back. "But Pippin!" he cried to Pippin, who was looking rather dejected and out of the loop, "come in, join the party! Sam's here, and Rosie, and the little ones—which reminds me, I ought to be watching them—"he shrugged, earning a look of disapproval from Draugwen "—and Merry and Gwath are in there as well, which is convenient, as you and Merry probably want to trade war stories . . ." He winked again. "I'll be off, then!" He trooped back into the other room, and was immediately attacked by the Gamgee brood.
Draugwen raced off to mingle, and Pippin, feeling quite shell-shocked, went and found Merry.
Merry was sitting in the darkest corner of Frodo's best dining room, smoking a pipe with a slightly glazed look on his face. The room was actually quite cozy, with a low ceiling and a candelabrum in each corner, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was very clean; there were no spiders in the vertices of the walls. /Of course, there wouldn't be/, Pippin thought, /not after what Frodo's been through./ The tables had been pushed into one corner to make room for the guests to dance or stand around talking. There weren't many guests; just the Gamgees, Merry, Gandalf (his head was sticking through the window, and he was staring intently at Merry, while at the same time trying to hide from the children, which was quite frankly impossible), Folco Boffin, Fredegar "Fatty" Bolger, and, inevitably, Gwathwen.
The first thing Pippin asked was, "Did Frodo wink at you?"
Merry made a face. "Only about seventy times! I did wish he would stop. And there he goes again!" Frodo winked at them from across the room. "It's so annoying."
"Isn't it, though?" Sam said glumly, appearing at Pippin's elbow. "He was always on me about Rosie, and the winkin'! He says, if he'd not been there, Rosie an' I'd still be single. Thinks he knows everythin' about everythin' about women," he muttered gloomily. "Well, seein' as how he's still got no wife . . ." Sam sat down, grumbling and nursing the tankard of beer he cradled carefully in his arms.