I do not own any of the original characters used in this story. I do not own Lord of the Rings. I don't own Roscoe, Herefara, Dolly, or even Hebrilith. I do, however, own Ivy -- and that's good enough for me.

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Chapter One: Merry Meet

Roscoe wiped his mouth and set down his empty mug. He paid Barliman the innkeeper for his services, thanked him, and hopped off of his hobbit-sized stool. As he shuffled toward the door, some of his friends -- the Underhills -- noticed him leaving and invited him to stay and do some singing, but Roscoe wasn't in the mood; it had been a long day, and besides, there was so much on his mind that day.

He exited the tavern and found himself on the street. As he began to walk toward his home, he sunk into a melancholy that had been haunting him lately -- though he knew not why. Perhaps it was boredom, or just futility... he didn't know, but in those times he found himself thinking back on his travels -- about how he wished he could visit the Forest, or see an Elf.

Roscoe didn't know it, but he was getting ready for an adventure -- one that had already begun, and that was already on the way. In the meantime, though, Roscoe sighed and continued to meander down the deserted street.

Ivy padded quickly down the cobblestone streets of Bree, hugging her cloak tight around her to ward off the nighttime chill. She was visiting some cousins for the week in Bree, but one could only take so much of reliving embarrassing family histories. At the first opportunity she had slipped out in search of a good pub...there really was nothing like a good pint and merry conversation with complete strangers. Caution warned her against approaching the unhappy-looking hobbit (she had quickly learnt that strangers in foul moods were not to be trifled with), but her want for a warm fire overpowered that in no time flat.

"Hullo!" She called, hoping to sound friendly. "Could you direct me to the...ah..." The hobbit searched her mind for the name she'd heard. "The Prancing Pony, I believe? I'm not very familiar with the area." Her gray eyes were wide, hoping for an equally friendly answer.

Roscoe, though crestfallen, would not let his mood get in the way of the perpetual friendliness indigenous to his race. He bowed to the stranger in hobbit-fashion and said, "Why, good evening, my new friend. Many blessings to you and your house!"

Roscoe pointed down the street from whence he came. "The Prancing Pony is the best pub in the land; it's not a furlong down the road there."

There was an awkward silence. Roscoe's manners told him that he should walk with the newcomer to make sure she arrived safely to her destination; yet he was a rather stubborn hobbit, and deep down inside perhaps he knew that the conversation might lift his spirits, which would seem rather wishy-washy of him to go about just changing his mind about what mood he is to be in. Few things were quite so unbecoming, in Roscoe's opinion, as a fickle hobbit.

The silence continued as this inner struggle ensued within Roscoe's head.

"And to you and yours." Ivy replied with a small bow, glad that she had not irked him further. "Thank you very much...." She paused, all too aware of the awkward silence. It took a great deal of thought and courage (and perhaps foolishness as well) for her to ask the question that simply would not leave her alone.

"Are you feeling unwell?" She ventured, hoping again that her boldness would be tolerated.

Roscoe recoiled a bit at the question, and realized how selfish he has been: There was a stranger in need of assistance, and there he was feeling sorry for himself! Though Roscoe was stubborn and tended to be moody, he also prided himself in being an honorable hobbit, and at Ivy's question the honorable side of Roscoe Longbottom surfaced and conquered all else in his will.

"Goodness me!" he exclaimed, perhaps purposefully leaving Ivy's question unanswered. "Where are my manners? I should have offered to walk you to the inn! You know, they have the best corned beef and hash from here to the Far Downs. Come, let's walk together."

Roscoe and Ivy began their trek down the street. "Gracious me, I didn't even have the sense to ask your name! I would most certainly love to know that, as well as what brings you to Bree?"

Ivy smiled at Roscoe's abrupt change in mannerism, wondering if she had actually asked the right question for once...although it had gone unanswered, she noticed. Deciding rather wisely (in her opinion) not to press the matter, she followed Roscoe down the road.

"Name's Ivy Greenhand, good sir. I've come to Bree to visit my cousins...I fear that I wasn't quite prepared for all the embarassing memories they would bring up." She said somewhat self-consciously. "Just need a bit of air, and some fine ale...corned beef, you say? Excellent." She could almost taste it...

Roscoe laughed; his subconscious premonition that conversation would lift his spirits had begun to fulfill itself. In fact, any thoughts of depression or longing had made way almost instantly to the good-manners and mirth that usually governed the normal state of his demeanor. Roscoe jumped playfully ahead -- directly in front of Ivy, stopping her in her tracks -- and took a grand bow once again. "Roscoe Longbottom at your service and your family's!"

He again resumed his position beside his new friend as they continued to walk down the street. "And I know exactly what you mean about family embarrassment! Who are your cousins? I might know them, if they do indeed live here in Bree."

Ivy stopped abruptly as Roscoe leapt in front of her, feigning shock as her merry laughter escaped quite unchecked. Finally able to calm herself away from hysterics, she fanned her flushed face.

"You might know Drake or Leif Deephallow...they're the ones that are most likely to be out and about at all hours. I'm afraid that the rest of them prefer quiet teatimes and roundabout talks. They're not bad, honestly, but one can only be expected to take so much." She said carefully, trying not to be disrespectful. Ivy did love her family, although the terms on which she got along with most were not very good. Family was family, after all.

Roscoe's face darkened a bit: he was indeed acquainted with the Deephallow brothers, and though his manners kept him from conveying his thoughts, he understood all the more why Ivy was seeking refuge that evening. Obviously family is not the best conversation piece considering what he perceived to be Ivy's state of mind, so he decided to change the subject.

"So, where are you from then, Ivy Greenhand?" Roscoe asked, "and what do you do? I suppose I could guess from your name that you're a gardener...?" He cracked a grin.

"I come from Hobbiton, Roscoe Longbottom, just across the Brandywine and barely far enough away to be outside of Buckland." Ivy looked down at her hands, picking at the dirt under her fingernails. "Yes, I am a gardener...it is what I enjoy. Not so much the plants themselves as the work you have to put into it; the work that eventually pays off at the end of a season." She squinted her eyes to see into the distance, wondering if the Inn was nearby. "And you, living here in Bree...what work do you find?"

"Ah, from the Shire!" Roscoe interjected. "And a gardener at that -- you must have much honor with your neighbors, having so prestigious a position. Would I could be a gardener myself, but I don't have the patience for that sort of work..."

All of a sudden, Roscoe looked around, stopped walking, and began to laugh heartily.

"Neighbors, yes, but I'm not quite certain how much honor is gotten..." Ivy walked a few steps more before noticing that Roscoe had stopped. Turning around, she looked at him puzzledly. "What's so funny?"

Roscoe, amid an occasional uncontrolled outburst of giggling, managed to say: "Bless the hair on my feet! I've been so caught up in our conversation, we've passed the inn! Come now, it's but a few yards back this direction! I'd say it's time for a stoop of ale -- that'd correct my lack of direction, for sure!"

Roscoe and Ivy turned around and began walking again; very soon they were at the door.

"After you, m'lady," Roscoe said with a bow and a half-teasing aire of dignity, as though he were ushering a member of royalty into the smoky tavern. "If you don't mind, I suppose I could keep you company for awhile. Perhaps I'll be able to introduce you around to some folks; all is not well in the world when there is a hobbit anywhere without a hefty collection of friends! That's what I say, anyway."

Upon arriving at the inn and looking inside, though, Roscoe stopped cold.